scatterdad

The modern version of a "mixed tape"...

2011-11-16T20:26:00.000-08:00

Theoretically, by choice and vocation, I am a musician. I am also a bit nerdy and folky, as my choices below will bear out. I pretend to fight the man (hence my mostly indie choices). Here is some new(ish) music that some of you may not have encountered before (except for the Mumfords, who seem to be everywhere). I found most of it on emusic over the past couple of years, which I recommend for inexpensive indie downloads. It is cheaper than the apple conglomerate and has plenty of oddities. I have had fun finding video examples of these groups, some live, some from the albums. I like to think of this as the 2011 equivalent of a mixed tape I might have made back in middle school for my friends... only on the computer, with info links and videos.

Stornoway are a few annoyingly talented young men from the UK. I resent the songwriting ability and clear tenor voice of the lead lad. I also regret missing them when they played the Biltmore here last year. I think Fuel Up is a very true song.

Fuel Up

Zorbing

I'm in love with Little Miss Higgins, but she likely doesn't know I am alive. I wonder if she needs a harmonica player.... A wonderful bluesy Canadian woman who writes songs about the Metis? Too late... I'm already married.

Me and My Gin

Bargain Shop Panties

Pearl and the Beard are a trio from Brooklyn. I first discovered them because of their Will Smith Medley on youtube... but they are so much more than that. The shape of their sound; the sparse depth of their arrangements, their diverse writing, (not to mention the deliciousness of Jocelyn and Emily)... Well, I just love Pearl and the Beard.

Douglas Douglas

Prodigal Daughter

Voice in My Throat

I know almost nothing about Beast except that they thump and rock in an old and new way. I think they're from Quebec. There is nothing about the Mr Hurricane video that I don't love.

Mr. Hurricane

Out of Control

Okay... Dan Mangan is a local boy who is now pretty famous. He just sold out the Orpheum. He's so local that the video for Sold was shot in my grocery store down Kingsway. If you have ever tried to write a song, listen to his stuff and feel humbled.

Robots

Sold

I first heard Timbre Timbre on Rue Morgue Radio (wonderful horror culture, for those who love such things). The eerie minimalism is delightful. Try listening to Demon Host while driving at night on a lonely country road... I dares ya.

Demon Host

We'll Find Out

I know nothing about Karine Polwart. I stumbled across her on emusic. She is so Scottish, so lilting, so accomplished. Wow. Time to find a family tartan. Is there such a thing as "MacEverett"? I couldn't find any great videos online, so just launch the link below and listen, and close your eyes, and smell the heather.

Dowie Dens of Yarrow

Blossom Dearie was a magnificent jazz vocalist and pianist. Those my age might remember her singing some of the Schoolhouse Rock songs. She died a couple of years ago and I finally got a few of her tracks. I love this one because it uses words like "bummier" in the lyrics.

A Fine Spring Morning

I thought I was edgy when I downloaded Mumford & Sons... then I realized that these guys are everywhere. Even mainstream radio (eek!). They are getting a ton of play chez Everett this winter as well.

Winter Winds

The Cave

Bellowhead brings a cast of thousands to it's historically- tinged, folk - jazz assault. I prefer to turn it up and let the prickly, loud, British madness wash over me.

Jordan

Rigs of the Times

Laura Marling probably wins the prize for most annoyingly talented ridiculously young musician on this list. I think she's 20, or something similarly zygotic. I've been told she sounds like Joni Mitchell, which is fine, but I mostly just hear Laura Marling, and suspect that I'll hear a lot more in the future.

The Muse

A Creature I Don't Know

Oh... and don't forget... these guys have made more money this year that all of the above artists on this list will make, combined, in their entire careers. Sorry for the downer.

Making a Start...

2011-11-10T14:11:00.000-08:00

Where to begin?

If you follow this space you’ll find it obvious that I have neglected it. The reason is simple. Lately words have failed me. I have been heard to say, half jokingly, that “nothing is constant in life except change”. Over the past year or so, there's been fundamental change in our lives.

Last December my Mom got very sick. She died two months later. She wasn't quite 67.

Blinding, unanticipated shifts and adjustments have taken place. It's dizzying, really. People outside of the nuclear family note how we are all doing the right things to move forward. I agree, but sometimes I still feel like we are all just jumping around like frogs in a frying pan, trying to be hurt as little as possible, and to land in a better place.

The reminders come in waves and ripples. They often prompt other memories, subconscious or otherwise. They can evoke smiles and tears; priceless anecdotes and honest, deep grief.

Last month I found myself in the preposterous position of having to cross off my Mom's name.

There are pages on file at my son's school for all the family information: addresses, phone numbers, doctors and all that. The handout had come home in the backpack, as it does every September, to be updated. I scanned this page that had been tossed on my desk without really reading it or thinking about it... until my gaze tripped across her name. Aprille Everett: 2^nd Emergency Contact.

So I had to update it. I clicked into “less emotional mode”, picked up a pen and crossed off her name. It wasn't until I had done it and replaced my pen that the reality of what I had done hit me. The ninja grief snuck up behind me, as it occasionally does. It was a tangible metaphor for what had happened when she died; the universe had taken a pen and crossed her off, and out, of our lives. This was just one of many blinding, unanticipated shifts and adjustments. I find they serve as launching pads into free association and related recollections.

Thinking about Mom and my son in a school situation led to memories of her picking him up at kindergarten and taking him back to her place every Wednesday for 10 months so I could work extra hours. It was a wonderful time for them. Mom and Dex formed a powerful relationship that year. She spoiled him once a week and just spent time with him. He was so little then. This serves as a launching pad to my own memories of myself, as a little guy, and Mom after school....

I was terrified of bullies in the first grade. Talented bullies can (and do) smell it on you. There was the wintry day in 1970 when I ran home, teary-eyed, snow dripping down my face from having just received what was called a “face-washing” at the hands of some thuggish, mouth-breathing classmate. Mom hurried me inside, worried, and then angered by my tears. She cleaned me up, dried me off, gave me some love and instant cocoa and then demanded the name of the kid who had roughed me up. Then she settled me in to watch Zoom on TV. I could hear her on the phone in the next room talking to the kid's mother. She tore them a new one. Later the boy apologized to me. Thanks, Mom.

Words have failed me in writing about Mom because the topic is so vast and the feelings so deep. I will try to do it, from time to time, now that I have begun.

The Secret Back Rooms of the Comicshop

2010-06-09T17:23:00.000-07:00

It is happening. My shrine to nerdiness and part-time place of employment, (on and off) for roughly twenty years is moving. The Comicshop is a Vancouver institution. We were there first, and according to reader polls in the Georgia Straight, we do it best. My intention here is not to go on and on about the place, nor to tell it's history. Instead I thought I might "pull back the four-colour curtain" for you all. We have been at 4th and Arbutus for over thirty years. Crap accumulates. It is a big, barn-like retail slot with lots of backrooms and hidden nooks. I took these pictures about a month ago, just before all the hubbub began. By now, all this stuff has been "cleaned" out of existence or left behind. Here I will try to share some of the day to day pop-culture oddness and coolness that lurked behind the scenes at the old place. If you click on the pictures you can zoom in pretty close.

The door to the office is framed by an deflated mylar Spider-Man balloon, and two signed t-shirts, one from Todd McFarlane and the other from Sergio Aragones.

There are decades worth of sticky things and hangers affixed to the office door. The motorbike stuff ties in with my boss's last name, which he shares with Norton motorbikes.

Slurpee cups, novelty bubble-bath containers, and miscellaneous brick-a-brack have been sitting on the windowsill for years.

This is part of an old pinball machine that the boss found in an alley at 24th and Main St. back in 1974. He has had it since he opened the first Comicshop that year. It sat on the office windowsill for 31 years. It is now mine. :)

Here is some oddness from the (somewhat home-made) office wall. There is a fantasy pinup by Frank Brunner . I'm not sure who did the Daffy Duck cell, but it has a Tex Avery / Bob Clampett look to it.

Various certificates and a cool plastic Uncle Scrooge, festooned with some god's-eye charm.

I love this patently unsafe-looking Mickey Mouse crib toy. I suspect lead paint, applied in a 1968 Chinese sweat shop. It also has the look of a toy that was designed long before anyone thought of the term "choking hazard".

The coffee counter has a huge poster of Michelle Pfeiffer as Catwoman. It is a bus shelter transparency from "Batman Returns", which was kinda crappy except for Michelle Pfeiffer. I guess it's been there since 1992.

Over the years; cool old comics have fallen apart and left wonderful, detached covers in their wake. There are several spots behind the scenes where the old things were just tacked up with the staple gun, for colour.

This Holly Hobby wall plaque has been collecting dust on the circuit box for as long and anyone can remember. It reads:
"He doesn't find contentment who seeks the wealth of kings, for the greatest happiness of all is found in little things." Sweet...

Bart has been guarding the receiving door for about twenty years.

The furnace had a dire warning affixed to it. I am proud to say that I never touched.

The other side of the furnace is adorned with groovy 1970's comics industry stickers and an armadillo fridge magnet from San Antonio, Texas.

Old magazines and antique fruit boxes were stuck in a corner.

Old Disney records, a "pose-able" Batman wall hanging, and sexy go-go girl paperbacks clutter up the overstock area.

This isn't in a hidden area, but I include it because it is so cool. I risked my life a decade ago to hang these cut-outs up on the wall. Anyone who can name all the characters gets an authentic Stan Lee no-prize. Note the unique and precious Uncle Scrooge stained glass window. No, it is not for sale. Ever.

This is also not hidden. This hand-made car display, with unlikely characters mix, used to be in the window at the old (long closed) Comicshop branch in Neslon, BC. I first saw it there in 1982, while on a school band trip. It found it's way home and has been on the wall ever since. I will never understand why Batman would let Goofy drive...

Please forgive the quality of this picture. It was a hard one to get. If you stand on the (tippy and spinny) chair and look down from above the fluorescent light fixture above the upstairs till, you will find dusty old airplane models and a Gundam action figure. Perhaps they were left there by ghosts.

A framed Vancouver Province page from 1983, when the boss made the cover.

So long, 2089 W. 4th Ave. The neighbourhood outgrew the Comicshop, so I guess we'll just have to start piling up interesting things at the new location down the street, at 3518 West 4th. Excelsior.

Instead of a Christmas Card

2010-01-01T14:48:00.000-08:00

I must admit that I suck at Christmas cards. Twenty or so years ago I actually bought Christmas cards and sent them out. With photos. And a xeroxed “letter” and personal greetings included therein. Yeah, I used to do that. Then I got lazy and stopped. I felt guilty after a few years and finally started sending a blanket Christmas email “news and greetings” bulletin. This was impersonal, but it was an attempt to connect, at any rate. Then I got lazy and stopped. Now we have facebook, and blogspot, and I have been feeling guilty for a few years, so it has come to this. It seems inevitable that at some point I will get lazy and stop. You see the pattern?

At "Holiday Season" 2009 I feel that we three Everetts really are standing on the edge of a decade. Things are shifting in our lives. It all seems so quaint, thinking back to the big 1999 party we had ten years ago, with little toddlers and glowy aspirations for a new millennium. That time has spun past in the blink of an eye and now my sweet and precious little baby boy is a hairy knuckley pre-teen. He would hate me for telling you that if you look closely enough you can still see the precious on him even though he is now taller than his mom.

Dexter is pensive and funny, shy yet firm. He got the music gene, progresses well in piano and has just begun his guitar lessons as well. If you wonder if I love him, I offer the news that we got him an electric guitar for Christmas. This makes me the world's coolest dad, just in case you are wondering. I think I should get some kind of I.D. badge that says so. I am proud of his diligent work and accomplishments, but mostly I am proud of what a nice and honest person he is. He has just taken a break after 5 years of Karate training. He has a few good mates and they amuse me immensely with their goofy ways and fart and boner senses of humour. They still squeal like little girls when they play x-box together, but I expect that testicles will be dropping like late-fall apples around here pretty soon. Next year he will enter High School. This blows me away, and that is as it should be, I expect.

Susan and I find ourselves older (and, I hope, wiser) this year. We both recently turned 45, which I refer to as “halfaninety”. I am kinda digging it. It seems to me that my forties have been some of my most fun and fulfilling years so far. I have pondered the concept of being a late bloomer. I am thinner and fitter than I was through my thirties for sure. My silly fascination with tattoos culminated in my second upper sleeve, this time on the right arm. I love my ink and would like more…. But Sue and I agree that it is her turn. I have enjoyed life as a hands-on parent to a precocious post-toddler. The elementary school years, which have been so wonderful, will end abruptly in a few months, and change will inevitably follow for the three of us. I try not to focus too much on how great my life is for fear of jinxing myself.

I cannot speak for my wife (woe betide!) but I will dare to speak of her. She is the plum in my pudding and the electricity in my hair dryer. I cannot imagine how she puts up with my foibles and ways. She works like a Trojan to put food on the plate and wine in the belly, she mothers the boy with verve, gentleness and grace and manages to remain hot and saucy throughout. Lucky me! We have been married for more than 18 years now which means we have even begun chatting, in a cursory fashion, about some sort of 20th Wedding Anniversary Event. I suspect something with Burlesque Dancers and a Roast Pig would be fun. If a party has pork and dancing girls it can't help but be a success!

Life has found a nice rhythm here for us. We bought the house 13 years ago, had a kid, and stayed. On the surface, it seems like not so much has changed. Susan still works at VCC and I still work at the Comicshop. There are some differences here around the most excellent East-Van Homestead. Moderate landscaping and home improvements have occurred. It seems that we have been gardening for a few years now, and things besides ourselves have taken root. The place looks pretty good, but I notice I need to paint the house... AGAIN. When you are starting to re-do things like that to your house, it tells me that you've been there a while. I have developed a strange desire to raise bees and honey, and I am just crazy enough to try it this year, so if you come to visit and hear buzzing I suggest caution.

Susan and I still sing a cappella. We actually just celebrated that with a concert looking back at our 22 years of singing harmony together. It brought a few things into focus for us. I suspect we are much better musicians now than we were “back in the day” when we were gigging. It might have something to do with removing that pesky profit motive. I have noticed that, for me at least, some of my closest relationships have been forged in singing harmony. Most specifically I mean Doug and Katrina, who have been singing with us now for 12 and 18 years respectively. We laugh and sing together in a way that I deem most spectacular. In our fall concert we were able to pay tribute to past members and even had my sister-in-law (and founding member) Elske sit in for a tune. I am sad that Katrina will be moving up to the Sunshine Coast this spring, but we all resolve to continue our music together. There are plans for new repertoire, recordings and more frequent gigs. And more trips up to Madeira Park, which is an excellent thing and well overdue.

Over the past year we have done some fun things. We have managed to get the entire Everett Clan to cabins in Silver Lake, Washington for our third annual Victoria Day Weekend Wine and Bocce Festival. We must be getting smarter because this year we didn’t need to be “spoken to” by the park ranger. We also initiated the new tradition of fresh-caught frog racing, which I deeply and sincerely hope we can repeat each and every year, even when we are in wheelchairs and have to hire other people’s kids to catch the frogs.

Our sons and father activities soldier on. Unfortunately we were not able to compete in (and win) any cook-offs with the Circle E Chili Team this year. Dad and Pat did manage to join me on the roof of Dexter’s school to give a demonstration on the finer points of chili cookery, which is likely more important. Give a child chili, she eats for a day, teach her to make it, and she farts for the rest of her life.

Our annual Remembrance Day Pub-Crawls with Dad continue much to our delight. I think we’ve done six now, but I can’t be sure because memory is a bit sketchy on it all. We posed by the Steam Clock in Gastown, and we looked happy. I have the picture. I’m surprised they let us into the swanky hotel lounge for Harvey Wallbangers late in the process. Two was the right amount by the way, because they were so damn delicious.

Susan and I have honed a new maneuver called the “Dexie Ditch”. After his last birthday we realized that there was no conceivable reason why he couldn’t stay home and play his x-box while we snuck off to watch a Burlesque show. I think you could call it “Freedom 12”. Since then we have initiated the October Kelowna Weekend of Wine Tasting with the most excellent Erin. Don’t worry… when we ditch Dex for more than a few hours he is supervised.

Susan and Dex and I managed to brave the late July sun and spent some time on the Olympic peninsula and at Mount St. Helens for summer vacation. We got to see Volcanoes and Military submarines and I got to ride my bike in the countryside. There were ‘50’s diner burgers and walks on the beach. It was an extremely satisfying summer vacation.

There have been times when sadness and loss lead to happiness and love. Last September our dear family friend David Hill passed away. He was a mentor to my brothers and me and a close life-long friend to my parents. In the face of this sadness my three brothers and I drove to Calgary and stayed with My Grandma Betty (88 and still going strong!) to attend the service. I like to think that the Brothers Four can put the "fun" in funeral. The fraternal laughter and bonding was priceless, and leavened our grief. I would have felt a bit guilty about it, but I am certain that Dave would not have had it any other way. It all reminded me of that Calgary childhood I had, and the cherished relationships I still carry from those days. My cousins showed up to support us, and we were able, in some small way, to help support Dave’s daughters and widow, who are some of the best folks on earth. Mo, Amanda, Mavis and Nic: you are in our hearts and thoughts.

And so, as the cosmic wheel spins, there is a new baby, as well. My spunky cousin Lindsay just gave birth to a new Nault. She and Matt are the proud parents of little Holly, who joined us early in the morning on Boxing Day, before the sun came up. I had forgotten my deep mystical powers and joked that it was likely that Lindsay’s water would break at the Christmas Dinner table. I was not far off. Lindsay and Matt were able to open some presents, but before dinner and by 6 pm, they were off to have a baby. Sorry about that. Was it Stan Lee who said, “With great power comes great responsibility”?

Life is full, perhaps too much so. There are things we missed because life got in the way, like Nic and Steph’s most excellent P.E.I. Wedding. More and more I see my friends and family being out of reach, physically speaking. Some of you are off in Australia or Britain or even darkest Mission. Another year tips over and I haven’t seen you, or visited where you are, and that is a bit disappointing. But we are connected. These computer things help a lot, and you are in our thoughts. I hope that your lives are great, and that you get everything you want out of life in the coming year. If you are one of those who still resolutely sends us Christmas Cards, I humbly thank you for your generosity. If you used to send us cards, but stopped because I got lazy, that’s okay… I get that. Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, Yule, Festivus, Solstice, Hanukkah and any and all other dark days of winter ritual celebrations. Whatever you're up to, we send our best wishes for it. I hope that you’ll accept this facebook bloggy seasonal greeting instead of a Christmas card. I suck at Christmas Cards.

lazy. lazy. lazy.

2009-09-29T16:02:00.001-07:00

If you are a regular viewer and notice that scatterdad looks a bit tweaked, thanks for even bothering to come on by after I have neglected this blog for so long. I have spruced it up a bit and intend to post soon. No, really... I mean it... I hope. Also, how the hell did I end up getting over 1100 hits on this thing? Spooky.

It’s my party and I’ll pontificate if I want to.

2008-12-09T13:59:00.000-08:00

Today I turned 44, which makes me wise and venerable. Feel free to reap the benefits of my "100 Points to Ponder"...

1. Toasted sandwiches are always better.

2. Skinny may sell magazines but fleshy’ll bring you home.

3. Forty-three was a good year to finally pay attention to how my back feels.

4. We love, need, and use our cars way more than is healthy for us physically, economically and mentally.

5. My bike is cool.

6. The yummier the food is, the more likely it’ll kill you.

7. Good wine is really much better than just so-so wine.

8. Don’t underestimate the shallow self-esteem that comes with a decent set of pipes. It’s worth the effort.

9. Don’t underestimate the true benefits of decent cardiovascular health. It would be better to avoid the heart attack, methinks.

10. Toddlers are messy, tiresome and annoying. Any parent who tells you that it’s their favourite phase is really just lying and counting the days till they can send ‘em off to preschool or kindergarten.

11. Grandparents love toddlers because they have long forgotten the joys of trying to deal with a screaming 2 ½ -year-old with a messy, leaking, poopoo diaper in a public place.

12. Tattoos are sexy, when done well.

13. There really is very little worth watching on television.

14. Television, radio, and print commercials may drive our consumer society, but they are the enemy and should be avoided and subverted at every opportunity.

15. The alley is almost always more interesting than the front street.

16. The French are pretty fricking cool. Ooh la la...

17. Don’t buy the extra “customer protection package” they try to sell you at the cashier. It’s just a money grab.

18. Urban billboards steal my mindspace to fill the wallets of others.

19. Everyone masturbates. Well… everyone except for people who lack limbs or genitals, (or some combination thereof). Think about how shitty that would be.

20. If you don’t exercise you will generally get fat. If you are one of those people that is an exception to this rule: fuck you.

21. Life is too short for bad beer, cheap chocolate, or crappy coffee. We all deserve better.

22. Men love boobies. Even the gay ones started out that way…

23. Even though some vegetarian meals are delicious and nutritious, vegetarians are just plain wrong.

24. Almost any cut of meat can be rendered delicious with the proper preparation.

25. Most people don’t really know how to cook. In a side note: pizza pockets are not food.

26. Sometimes life gives you magnificent things. Sometimes life takes them away. That's life, I guess.

27. Forty-four is a good age for a guy to grow a retro-70’s porn ‘stache.

28. There is really only one proper way to chop an onion.

29. People in their early twenties would be really sexy if they weren’t so young. Maybe we could convince them not to talk?

30. When I was in my early twenties I really had something to say.

31. Otherwise lovely people can be rapidly reduced to asshole status though the use of a cell phone.

32. Otherwise lovely people can be rapidly reduced to asshole status though the use of a car.

33. If someone achieves asshole status through the combined use of a car and a cell phone, they were never lovely. You were mistaken in the first place.

34. Texting has become the great generational divide. Sure, I can do it, but why would I really want to?

35. One of life's most unpleasant and surreal sensations is the grasping of warm dog-poo through a plastic bag, but as a dog owner it is my obligation to endure it, and pray for no ruptures.

36. If you know how to make an omelet you can always have a decent meal.

37. Kids are great. Even toddlers are great so long as they belong to someone else.

38. Just because someone is a senior citizen, that does not make them nice. It also does not make them right.

39. War veterans are worthy of your respect regardless of pretty much anything they might say or do to rub you the wrong way.

40. Alcohol is great, but alcoholism is sad and destructive. I think it’s that way to keep us on our toes.

41. When drugs become the party, instead of something you enjoy at the party, the party sucks.

42. Some drugs are just plain nasty and poisonous and should never be used. Much misery is caused by them.

43. No one should go hungry in such a wealthy society as ours.

44. No one should work a full-time job and not be paid enough to feed and house themselves.

45. Welfare should include free bus passes.

46. The bus service around here should be so much better. It should also be free. Cutting the cost in half would be a good start.

47. Anyone who does not have a Vancouver address should have to pay a $5.00 toll for the privilege of driving their car into the city-limits. There should be a second $5.00 toll to enter the downtown core.

48. No one should be expected to accept being stolen from merely because someone else is in need.

49. No one really knows what someone else is going through. We all see life through our own windows.

50. If you don’t have a spare tire tube with you when you go on a bike trip sooner or later you’re going to need one.

51. Cars used to be cool. Now they are not. I don’t care how many TV ads I see telling me otherwise.

52. I own two cars. One of them is cool. It’s the same age as me.

53. Cigarettes used to be cool. Now they are not. So why do I see people in their early twenties smoking them?

54. Weed is really no big deal. Why the fuss?

55. Often it’s easier just to walk.

56. The brewing of beer is a noble pastime.

57. Gay people are people, too. Actually, they are some of the best people I know.

58. George Lucas really should just stop it.

59. You grow roots when you’re not looking.

60. Pornography is okay, really, so long as no one gets hurt.

61. Nerd may be the new cool, but the more nerds there are, the less cool we are. As an a cappella-singing comic book guy, I think I’ll be in the safe zone for a long time (likely until nerds are no longer cool).

62. No, really… How could anyone sit through the Phantom Menace and then say it was a good movie? I mean, unless they were either toddlers, or in their early twenties, or on drugs.

63. A few generations ago people used to sing together in their living rooms. The world was a better place back then.

64. Everyone enjoys a good fondle.

65. Never mind Citizen Kane. Faster Pussycat Kill Kill may be the world’s most perfect movie.

66. You might think that having dogs is a lot like having children until you’ve had both and know the difference.

67. One should not dress a dog.

68. Bernaise sauce is wonderful, especially when drizzled over bloody, rare beef. I’d like to kiss whoever invented it.

69. I’d like to kiss a lot of people, actually.

70. Nigella Lawson is “on the list”.

71. Yellow beer isn’t necessarily good beer. As a matter of fact, it often isn’t.

72. Those who ride their bikes without a helmet should be referred to as organ donors.

73. Extreme sports are stupid. Isn’t real life extreme enough without trying to find new, recreational ways to finance the funeral industry prematurely?

74. Three words: Bungie jumping? Why?!

75. Everyone should remember to register as an organ donor.

76. Sure. Clowns are scary. That’s why they are cool.

77. It’s staggering how the love of a good woman can save a guy’s life.

78. It’s a hassle to change your windshield wipers, but totally worth doing. If you pay someone to do it, you have to admit that you totally suck.

79. Very tall women are fascinating. It appears that amazons do walk among us.

80. Women are certainly smarter than men, but relative stupidity is underrated.

81. Only your grandma is allowed to overcook the roast beef and vegetables. Everyone else must be politely taught how to do it properly or encouraged to refrain from cooking for others.

82. You can’t live in Vancouver without coming to terms with the rain.

83. If you are one of those folks who only eats beef well-done, I’m afraid I can’t help you. If you visit my place for dinner I will be seating you at the kid’s table. Even then, the meat you get will be a little bit pink. Sorry.

84. On a bad day Vancouver is a culturally-bereft excuse for over-priced real estate between the mountains and the ocean. Even the bad days here are better than the best days in so many other places.

85. Re. skinny women vs. real women: If there ain’t no heft there’s nothing left.

86. Singing harmonies is a lifelong joy. There is something truly magical about nice, round, tuned-up tones or a nasty crunchy cluster.

87. I wish people still sang doo-wop.

88. It was a better world when men wore hats, but now that guys are wearing hats again I may need to re-think this. A 13-year-old with a Metrotown fedora isn’t cutting it for me, really. Would Bogey have approved?

89. As I get older I find myself slowly becoming more and more conservative. At this rate, I’ll still need to live to be 100 before I could support Stephen Harper.

90. Ouija boards freak me out because they absolutely do something.

91. I don’t believe in the Sasquatch or space aliens, but I used to and I wish that I still did.

92. Being a father is extremely fulfilling.

93. Chocolate is great because, not only is it delicious, most people will like you if you share it with them. Powerful chocolaty mojo, that.

94. When you make the right match it is a pretty good idea not to screw it up.

95. I've heard about "abs" and I’m pretty sure that I have some, but I’m also pretty sure that they are never gonna be seen though the fatty layer.

96. Men have nipples, too, you know.

97. Stage magic and ventriloquism are two extremely cool, dying, performance disciplines.

98. It’s not a good idea to confuse loud assertions with intelligent wisdom. Those who speak forcefully and in large amounts are often wrong.

99. I seem to speak forcefully and in large amounts from time to time. Oh, snap…

100. If a man can turn 44 and have friends and family read this far into a long list of personal yammerings, he is truly blessed. Perhaps entering your mid-forties is not so bad.

A (mostly) non-partisan take on the Federal Election…

2008-10-03T09:42:00.000-07:00

Federal politics annoy me. It is very seldom that I see an outcome I had hoped for. On the other hand, I am also aware of the adage: “Be careful of what you hope for”.

So…. I just have to ask:

Why are people actually supporting Steven Harper? I mean, I know that we all have our own partisan views and ideologies. At least we do if we stop to think about it. I’m going to try something here which may be impossible. I will attempt to look at this prickly thing while leaving out partisan, left vs. right rants whenever possible. I’ll be talking about character and integrity, not issues.

I’ll start by telling you why I will not support Steven Harper and why I hope that he is denied a majority government.

1) He’s a thief. No… wait… hear me out. This is the man who lured David Emerson (my MP until recently) to cross the floor, for a cherry cabinet post. And this just hours after election. It was deeply in his political interests to do so. There has been a chorus from Conservative supporters about how this was perfectly legal and is done all the time. That may be true, but it is still immoral. To ignore the wishes of the electorate and actively circumvent them is wrong. The Conservatives placed a distant third in Vancouver Kingsway and would never have won the seat. The people of my riding worked hard to deny Steven Harper representation from this constituency. So he stole it. He ignored the wishes of the voters and used our riding to bolster his fledgling minority government. Shame on him and shame on David Emerson for stealing our democracy.

2) He’s a liar. Again… wait. Harper brought in legislation for fixed date elections. I support this legislation because I feel that our democracy is manipulated and tampered with constantly, usually to the benefit of the incumbent governments, or the groups with the most money. So I thought, “Good on ya, Steve. I may not like you but I can support you on this one.” I should not have been surprised when he called an early election the moment he saw polls that suggested he could form a majority. He excused his dishonesty with some bafflegab about having an “unworkable parliament”. Come ON, people! Wake up and smell the bullshit. I guess it’s okay to have fixed date elections along as the PM can call an earlier one if it might offer him a political advantage. Liar, liar, pants of fire. Oh. And he also lied about the income trust thin g.

3) He is a muzzler. I worry when the highest elected official in the country sees fit to fire his best scientific minds when they have views that may be inconvenient or inconsistent with party lines. He did this when CNSC President Linda Keen proved to be a thorn in his side. It looks to me like she was doing her job perfectly well, so why was she dumped? I am also alarmed at the number of Conservative candidates being kept out of the public eye. I think there are some pretty compelling questions that Donna Cadman (from Surrey North) should answer to the Canadian public. Too bad Steven Harper thinks it would be best if she just kept quiet. The same is true of the Conservative who is running here in Vancouver Kingsway (Salomon Rayek). He won’t be bothered to appear at the all-candidates-meeting next week. I’ll assume that’s because the war-room sees that as an opportunity to lessen his votes in an unwinnable riding.

And actually… this war-room stuff is where I’m going with all this. All the major parties have them. They use science, history, polling and manipulation as best they can to “win a war”. It seems like content, integrity, honesty and issues have all taken a back seat to winning an election these days. I, personally, have become completely cynical about politicians. There is not a single party that I feel I cold support wholeheartedly. But there is one guy who I know I don’t want running our country and he is Steven Harper.

That’s why I was so pleased to discover http://www.voteforenvironment.ca/. Although it is based on the notion that all environmentalists would want to band together to deny the Conservatives a majority, it should appeal to anyone who hopes to see that smirk get wiped off Steven Harper’s face. Their approach on how to avoid vote splitting is sound and revolutionary, in my opinion. It’s like the voters of Canada have their very own war-room! Check out your riding to find out if it’s one that is actually “in play” because most of the outcomes are pre-ordained. If voters choose to vote strategically to manipulate an electoral system in which they themselves are being manipulated, they can get back a shred of democracy. As I said before… I’m a cynic. This is a breath of fresh air to me. I encourage you to pass the link along to friends and family in different regions of Canada. If nothing else, it’s fun to see what the site says about your riding.

I knew a kid like Steven Harper back when I was in middle school. He was the guy who stole someone’s lunch money, lied about it when he got caught, and used influence and pressure to make sure his friends (and rivals) kept their mouths shut. After the dust settled, he’d be punished with detention.

Nowadays, if we’re not careful, guys like Steven Harper don’t get sent to detention. They get the keys to our country.

Translink 101, or Taking the bus to T-Town:

2008-09-04T08:59:00.001-07:00

I grew up in Tsawwassen and, as such, my childhood and teen years were filled with many tedious hours of bus travel into, out of, and around, good old T-Town. Fleeing the Caucasian enclave with my pals to see a movie all the way out to Granville Mall was, in retrospect, one of the few interesting things for us to do “back in the day”. I have been eyeing up my son for similar freedoms because when he’s free, so am I. He just needed to learn how to do it. So we took the bus from East Van to Tsawwassen. So he could learn. So the next time I won’t have to go with him. Which is great, because I really, really (I mean, really) hate taking the bus. Those of you who follow this space may be tiring of my occasional rants about public transit. I intend to make this my last for the foreseeable future.

I looked online at the transit website for the best route. The HAL 9000 they have chugging away on their site wanted to send me through the Downtown Eastside to Robson and Granville, where I would transfer and then take the bus all the way back out of the downtown core and head to T-town. Trip time? I think motherboard was looking at about 2 and a half hours. I used my dim recollections of a sadder time in my life and plotted a less hideous and soul-crushing route. By the time we got there it still took us over 2 hours, (much of which was spent waiting on the street, breathing lovely, green, car exhaust.).

I don’t think I’ve had to take the bus to Tsawwassen for at least 15 years because I have actively avoided it. Startlingly, the only noticeable change between then and now seems to be the price. It now costs 5 bucks for me to have the honour of cramming my paunchy carcass into jostling public transit for the long meandering trek back to suburbia. Five bucks one way, that is…

When we first entered the bus I realized I’d made a fatal error. I knew it was gonna be a chunk of change the get Dad and Son on a three-zone trip, so I had brought a bunch of loonies and toonies, and some bills. I had suffered an old-man brain fart, mixed with unrealistic expectations. You see, I thought that, by now, they would have those fare machines that take paper money. You know, like at the skytrain station. Any of you who take the bus regularly may feel entitled to laugh my naivete. That’s okay, laugh it up. At least I don’t have to take the bus…

The big woman behind the big wheel said, “That’ll be $8.50, please”. I pulled forth my wallet and tried to feed a five-dollar bill into the machine that spits out the transfers. It didn’t fit. A hoard of unwashed humanity was lurching up behind me as I fumbled in confusion. Big Lady Driver sent me off to the side to sort things out while the people who actually knew how to ride the bus embarked. Then she kicked into a madcap, stop and go, bone-jarring extravaganza. I dug through my wallet and all the little pockets of my briefcase, hoping for coinage. It took a while to get this together because every time I let go of the railing and put my hand in my pocket, Driver Lady would slam on the brakes, and then gun it, sending me skittling about like a bowling pin on a string.

It is in my weak and vulnerable moments that my son smells the blood and goes in for the kill. He began peppering me with questions, non sequiturs, and requests as I frantically tried to make the right amount of exact change appear. “Dad?” (two bucks-fifty). “What time is it?” (three bucks –seventy five). “What is your least favourite Spider-man villain?” (four bucks and five cents), and so on. No matter how I put it together, or how many times I counted, I only had six bucks in change. We were nearing our transfer connection and I still hadn’t paid for the trip. I began to vibrate. My boy was happy because he seemed to think that I had agreed to buy him a cell-phone.

Sometimes, people show their quality. I mention this to show the diversity in the public servants I encountered on the trip. Big Lady Driver finally surveyed me with the pity one might offer a guilty, stammering child. She said, “It’s okay. Just put what you’ve got into the machine and I’ll print the transfers you need.” She gave me the indulgent, kind smile that she likely reserves for the mentally handicapped people she helps on and off her bus several times per day. Thank You Nice lady!

Then we waited 18 minutes for our next bus at a busy intersection. I wistfully watched cars, cyclists and pedestrians pass us by. They were on the way to wherever they were going. Many large buses came and went, shuttling other people to more popular destinations, but the suburban routes enjoy much more sporadic service. If you miss the 601 South Delta. You’ll be waiting either 30 minutes or an hour depending on the time of day. Oh… unless it’s after 11 pm, in which case you’ll be waiting until morning. I used our time to coach the kid on bus skills. I drilled him on which bus we were taking, what intersection we were at, where we were going, and I offered him the important bus-transferring skill: how to flag down your (oh-so-precious) connecting bus. If you miss it, you’re screwed.

So we watched and waited. As buses approached I had my son eyeball them to see if any were the coveted 601 South Delta. Gradually the other people were all picked up by the buses they needed and we were left alone at the stop. When my boy finally spotted the 601 he said, in a slightly bored tone, “This is it, Dad”. I strode to the edge of the sidewalk and waved my transfer at the driver while making eye contact with him, to make sure he didn’t forget to pick us up. I have been forgotten and left on the curb in the past.

The older man behind the wheel looked at me, affected a retarded demeanor, and waved back at me like I was an idiot. Then he stopped the bus.

Dick the Driver looked a bit like Wilford Brimley. He was a barrel-chested, white-mustached, union man. As we climbed aboard he corrected me. “Huh. You know. You don’t wave like that. We just stop when we see people.” Although he was totally rubbing me the wrong way (and full of shit), I chose to offer a good role model to my son. I smiled and nodded and tried to hand Driver Dick our ill-gotten transfers. He pointed at his fare machine and intoned slowly, “Those go in there.” as if instructing a child. Still being polite I offered, “Oh, sorry. It’s just that I don’t take the bus very often.” He rolled his eyes in disdain and said. “Huh. It sure shows.”

I herded my son down the bus and into the hard seats we’d be enjoying for more than an hour. When we settled in for the main part of our junket I shared a couple simple truths with the boy: Firstly, when you are a kid, the bus driver is your friend. That was easy to understand with Big Lady Bus Driver before, but it was just as true with the motherfucker that was steering the chariot we had just entered. No matter how big a jerk he is, this is the guy who will get you where you need to go. Conversely, he’s exactly the kind of prick who’ll toss you off the bus if he feels like it. So make nice and rely on the loser. Nextly, never assume they’ll just pick you up. Divers will pass you by in the blink of an eye. I was pleased be able to point it out to my boy when Driver Dick actually left a bunch of frustrated folks behind just a few moments later. Guess he “didn’t see them”.

It’s not that long a trip from my place to my mom’s place, actually. Taking the best route by car it is 33 kilometers. On a Sunday night with no traffic I can drive it in less than half an hour. The bus does not take the best route, but that’s okay because it has taught me to appreciate Ladner, and all the silly side streets and loops required in the two hour version of the trip. Nothing gives you the sense you are going nowhere fast better than 10 minutes cooling your heels at the Ladner Loop before the 15 minute detour through Ladner. It’s actually quite nice if you have the time and abundant patience required. I hold the belief that’s it’s a lovelier place. Being forcefully reminded that there are actually farms doesn't suck either. Besides, you don’t generally have the choice to avoid the side trip. It was good enough for me when I was a boy…

We finally pulled into the terminus at the far edge of Tsawwassen about two and a quarter hours after we walked out of our front door in East Van. We were the only folks left on the 601 South Delta, which would then turn around and do it all over again. As we disembarked I shot Dick the Diver a sickly smile and thanked him for his courtesy. He looked distinctly like a chubby, bitter rat on a wheel.

The day was sunny and the suburban quiet was palpable. As we walked past my old Elementary School my son looked happy. A light had gone on for him. He hadn’t seen the trip as an Odyssey of Annoyance, like I had. He had been paying attention, understanding that, in the future, he’d actually be able to ditch me and head out to Gramma’s house by himself, where people tend to spoil him. This was a win for all concerned, so why did I feel just a little bit diminished?

The boy watched cable TV while I drank wine with my parents and waited for my wife to pick us up and ferry us back home. No way was I doing that trip again.

Colour me crotchety.

2008-08-06T09:03:00.000-07:00

Someone should have done me a favour and sent me an email letting me know that I was falling out of step. I have come to the conclusion that I am officially not keeping up with the tech that I’m “supposed to need”. The catalyst for this revelation lies in the fact that my cute little boy is about 15 minutes shy of hitting the puberty wall. As such, we decided it was high time to "cell phone up" the family. We own one pre-historic, refurbished, junk cell phone that my wife buys prepaid minutes for, you know… just in case she runs out of gas or something. We’ve decided to ditch the old clinker and expand our phone connections with one another, simply to allow my boy some freedom in the big bad city. This is okay with me. That part I get. It’s a useful thing.

I’m a grumpy old man when it comes to the effect that cell phones have had on our culture and society. I observe people using them and I think they are simply compulsively consuming technology for no good reason. When I ride my bike I notice people wandering the streets, yammering away on their freaking cells about absolutely nothing. It goes like this: “Yeah, yeah… I know… no, I’m on Broadway… oh I dunno, maybe… wait, I gotta put you on hold, my line is beeping. Hi? Yeah, yeah… I know… no, I’m at Granville…” (Ad infinitum, rinse and repeat.) It’s like they need to chatter with people about the most banal elements of their life just to justify their existence. The phone companies are more than happy to enable this pretentious, needy addiction. It’s how they get rich.

You can smell the steaming piles of cash that entrepreneurs are raking in now that everyone on this sweet green planet believes that they are supposed to be connected by a wireless umbilical to the their respective hives. Here I am, standing equidistant from diapers to deathmask, and I realize that the cell phone merchants are too cunning by half. I mean. I like to think I’m pretty savvy when it comes to gizmos and sales pitches, but the bewildering onslaught of marketing mumbo-jumbo involved in choosing home and wireless phones is mind numbing. I think those cell phone people must assume I’m an idiot, which doesn’t surprise me considering how most of their best customers behave.

All I want is to have simple, cheap cell phones so that my son can check in, and so I can find him in case someone’s trying to sell him crack at the skytrain station. No features beyond call display and a smallish amount of local calling minutes are required. This means that I’m not the kind of customer they want. Cheap and simple isn’t what they sell. Minimal, convenient use is my plan, but it doesn’t seem to be in any of the “plans” they offer.

Go ahead. Try to find it. I did. I spent two hours online looking at what Fido, Rogers, Shaw and Bell had to offer. I was confronted by a dizzying array of choices, conditions, premiums, and sweet deals. I could combine my high speed internet service with digital phone to save money. Or… I could ditch the landline and make my cell a wifi home line. Then I could then put the savings into awesome phones with cool features. Cheap phones, costly phones, some included in a “plan”, some not. More phones to choose from that grains of sand on the beach, all offering similar yet different features, plans, minute packages, long distance deals, text deals, email deals, roaming deals, web surfing deals, ring-tone deals, GPS deals, oh… and a fucking pony that’ll give you a blowjob. Look, look! Sparkly!!

You can get couples plans and family plans and pay as you go plans. Online most of the sites make you fill up the “shopping cart” in order to get an idea of what it will cost. Just one more click and they’d be sending you your sexy box of wireless tech and a fat monthly bill for the next 2 or 3 years.

Don’t misunderstand. I love tech toys. I’m like most guys that grew up with the first wave of video games. I love my computer and internet and hidef TV. They dangle that goddamn 3g iphone before my eyes like the Holy Grail and I feel a convulsive jerking desire to acquire. I try to think of any reason in the world that would justify the expense of such a neato and advanced trinket. Sadly, I can’t really spend thousands of dollars over three years so that I can wander the streets, and surf the web, and talk to friends, and remotely update facebook, and listen to the new Feist, and watch Spiderman 3 as I download porn, er … I mean classical music. That toy is for only the extremely rich, pretentious, or tech-addicted. It’s not part of my “cell phone for minimal, convenient use plan”. More’s the pity.

So what do I do? I have no choice. It’s time to gird my loins and actually try to talk to humans about these options. The kiosk at Costco appears reasonably benign. I’ve clawed my way through the first layer of bafflegab on the web, so at least I can see what’s coming. Let’s see if the sales guy will try to blind me with brilliance or baffle me with bullshit. Chances are he'll be half my age and find me hostile. Either way, I fear I’ll have a hard time finding one of their “plans” that will fulfill my plan.

I’m getting too old for this…

Sweet minerva! Why are we denied this...?

2008-08-04T19:17:00.000-07:00

What's that supposed to be?

2008-06-19T18:52:00.000-07:00

So I’m walking down Burrard Street in downtown Vancouver. Although I very seldom bare my chest, I am stalking purposefully and topless, with my provocative man-boobs bouncing and winking at the passers by. I’m wearing a pair of black track pants, which neatly bisect the pale chub around my waist, creating a lovely male muffintop. In my right hand I clutch several loonies, looking for my car so as to re-fill the parking meter. My left arm is wrapped in saran wrap to contain the blood and ink. It’s sunny and surreal. I stop to notice the moment and lock it in my memory. Never, would I ever, normally do this. It’s all because, as a silly middle-aged guy, I finally decided to get my tattoo.

Not just any tattoo, mind, you. Not some coy little toe-in-the-pool tat, no siree… This was a headlong leap into the world of ink and blood. I decided to go big or go home, and with over 10 hours in the chair and my upper arm completely covered in lovely design… I’d say this qualifies.

Why did I do it? Oh, probably the same reasons most guys like me do it. I chalk a lot of it up to mid-life crisis and vanity. All the other cool Dads are doing it. Still, there must be some deeper influences at play here for me to be willing to sit still and pay lots of money to have someone jab art into my flesh with those groovy needles. I’ve been thinking about this quite a bit lately and I think I know who is to blame. It’s Ray Bradbury.

I will be the first to admit that I was an awkward teen. Middle School was not kind, and I have no intention of detailing the anguish of those pubescent years in this particular account. I will say that I found solace in books. I read science fiction and fantasy voraciously in those days. The first Bradbury book I ever saw was The Illustrated Man and it helped to send me on my journey to today very nicely. Bradbury showed us an old guy wandering around with mysterious, twitching tattoos covering his body… tattoos that came to life and told kick-ass stories. This was very attractive to me. When you are 14 and trying to figure out how you’re going to run the gauntlet of that day’s particular string of frustrations and humiliations, imagining a world of dark and fetishistic magic is alluring indeed. After Bradbury I read a bunch of other books and didn’t think much about if for a long while, but the seed had been planted.

Years later I had a roommate named Bryan. He was audacious, confident, and charismatic. Although we were about the same age, (21 and 24, I think) he seemed so much older than me. He’d fearlessly done all sorts of shit in his life that I hadn’t, including getting tattoos. He has a black panther on one arm, and a nifty dragon on the other from when he was visiting China. To my growing young mind it just seemed so cool and unthinkable, yet think I did… for over 20 years.

As time went by I became more interested in counterculture and art, freak shows and devil girls, pagan mythos and space aliens, and a whole bunch of fun and freaky stuff that coalesced. Last year I got the feeling that I better just get on with it. After all, tattoos last a lifetime and at this point I’ll only have to look at it for the remaining, final half.

I had coffee with an old pal named Rick. He’d taken the plunge and had a bunch of ink done. He was jazzed and interested in becoming a tattoo artist himself. We talked about designs and he referred me to Justina at Liquid Amber Tattoo. Even though I was sure I was going to do it, I left the business card on my desk for weeks before I made the call. When I finally did it, I knew I wanted it. I even had the design in mind.

I’ve since discovered something Rick told me to be true. He warned me that folks would ask me to explain my tattoo and that I’d probably not like it. I find “What is it?” (or worse, “What’s that supposed to be?”) very personal questions. That’s a bit ironic considering I’m wearing a colourful prompt on my arm that begs explanation. Call me self-conscious, but it’s difficult for me to talk about my design choices without feeling stupid, pretentious, and a wee bit flaky. Here’s hoping that it all comes off better in prose.

My tattoo is a large upper sleeve on my left arm. The dominant image is the Green Man, looking out from my shoulder. Below him you’ll find a Celtic rooster, with his plumage entwined in the leaves of Green Man’s beard. Curving onto my shoulder from behind Green Man there are two inquisitive crows.

The Green Man is a mish-mash of pagan Father Nature deities. He’s the Man in the Wood who makes love to the earth goddess. He impregnates her with his future self and then dies at harvest time, only to be reborn in the spring and repeat the cycle for eternity. His death/sacrifice helps to ensure the health of the following years’ crops. Green Man is alive in the trees and carries a central life force that can’t be destroyed, and is always renewed. He’s all over northern Europe in art and architecture, peering out, leafy and strange. I believe that the early Christians co-opted him and put his image up in their cathedrals to help convert the pagans of the day. Their tactic may have worked, but Green Man lives on, as is his nature.

I love the look of the guy and I relate to him. To me he’s powerful, whimsical, balanced, and potent, which are qualities I aspire to. Having experienced a near death and re-birth of sorts myself, I believe there are parallels between us. All my life I’ve gotten the sense that when you’re alone in the woods you’re not really alone. Green Man is there, and I like him. He watches, bemused, and gets on with the never-ending cycle of which he’s a part. I’m not religious, or even overly spiritual, but Green Man is my kind of god. When I did the sketches for my tattoo artist, I did my best to make him resemble me. My wife and son both picked up on it immediately.

The Celtic Rooster represents a different me. As a teen I carried the unfortunate nickname “Chickenman”. My sibs and pals, justifiably, noticed I have some passing resemblance to poultry, so I heard it a lot over the years. Not surprisingly, I was never fond of the branding. Looking back I have to admit that they were on to something. Oh well… If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. I relate to the Rooster just fine. He’s horny and flighty and bossy. He’s prone to strutting and preening. If you believe that everyone has an animal totem, mine is definitely Rusty the Rooster. I’ve reclaimed him by accepting who I am and why he is me. He’s woven into my tattoo and my life. In this Celtic depiction he is stylish and scattered, silly and sincere. He’s very at home under Green Man.

Crows are neat. I could go on about the symbolism and mythology of crows and all that, but that’s not what these are about. The two on my back live around my house and get rid of pigeons, pick at garbage, caw at dawn and generally make a nuisance of themselves. I love these guys. They are the national bird of East Vancouver and are welcome in my yard. I was looking at them this morning when I started writing this. They are the “here and now” anchor of my tattoo, contrasting the eternity of Green Man and the personal history (nay, baggage?) of the Chicken.

Yesterday, today and forever: a semi-spiritual representation of me and mine. That’s my first tattoo. The next one will be utter nonsense. I can hardly wait. Chances are I’ll be wandering through Downtown semi-clad and sporting saran wrap again someday.

Who the hell thought up "yogalates"?

2008-06-19T18:51:00.000-07:00

My friend and fitness trainer is a very sweet man with a perfect physique and an evil glint in his eye. He's ten years older than I, and a perfect specimen. If I didn't like him so much I'd hate his guts. About five years ago I made a commitment to reasonable health and fitness. For the most part I've been pretty good, with better diet, cycling and some weight training. My trainer, who owns the gym, has helped me along the way, showing me how to work out safely, and responsibly, with acceptable results. He also has a mean streak. I can only believe he takes deep personal pleasure in my chubby, inept humiliation.

As I relish the sensation of my body aging and decaying, I notice little warning signs. Lately it's been my lower back. It's not really a problem, just an occasional twinge after I've shoveled a bunch of topsoil or something. But... I think back to the massive moose of a man who used to be our neighbour when I was a kid. This guy has such serious back problems that there are times when he is forced to spend days lying on a flat plank in his living room. No lie. All things being equal, this is an eventuality I choose to avoid for myself. So... I admitted to my small twinges with my friend and trainer at the gym.

"Oh, Tim... what you need is to take the Yogalates class. It starts in five minutes. It'll sort you right out." He watched my face fall as I remembered the time he talked me into attending a Boot Camp session, which was a near vomitous experience for me. I considered resisting, but then I saw the look on his face. It was clear that I'd just be a big fat pussy if I copped out.

Now, as you may guess, Yogalates is a sassy mix of yoga and pilates. I know nothing about such stuff, but in retrospect I think the class might be more appropriately named "Humiliation for Sweaty Old Bastards "or "Crow Eating 101".

To begin with, it's very popular among the female demographic aged 20-30. Doing the math, I realize that means I could easily be the father of a lot of the women in the class. These realizations make me feel a bit bad about my lustful thoughts, but only a bit. As the proud owner of a penis, I was half of what made up the 15% male portion of the class, (meaning there were two of us). The other 85% were lovely, fit, young women of varying degrees of curvaceousness. "Hell," I thought, "How hard could it be?"

It seems Yogalates is all the rage these days.The studio was packed by the time I convinced myself to follow the stream of yoga-panted women into the semi-dark chamber. New-age music chimed softly as I stumbled and tripped amongst the roses, looking for somewhere to learn all about it. My damn trainer pointed out that there was a single spot remaining in the front, right-hand corner of the room. I grabbed one of those paper-thin mats and headed off into the darkness, trying not to tread on anyone's little fingers, nor to ogle too obviously the curves and contours of my youthful classmates. I made eye contact with the only other male in the room. He was short and a bit hairy and had a slightly yogi-esque look to his lean and rippled physique. "So, what exactly is Yogalates?" I asked in a brotherly way. He smiled the honest smile of the converted and said, "Torture."

I found my little spot in the corner and grunted around, laying mat, removing shoes and socks, and realizing that even just sitting on my ass, legs forward and spine straight, felt like a pretty good workout to me. To my front I had a lurid view of my lovely self in the mirror, to my right, another view in another mirror, which helped me remember to cut back on the home-brew. To my left there was a tallish, clean-limbed specimen with brunette pigtails and distractingly wide hips. Behind, where I could not really see, was a willowy blond. My first problem (yet, alas, not my last) was clear even before we got started. In the dark, trapped in a corner, with a complete lack of knowledge, I could see sweet-fuck-all except for the writhing fineness of the woman to my left. "Oh well," I thought, "I guess I'll just have to copy the moves from her. Not such a hardship, actually."

And so it began. I broke a sweat just trying to imagine the mythical abdominal muscles I was supposed to visualize and move to the centre of my pelvis. Apparently my navel was supposed to migrate down, through my back and into the floor. I don't think it got there. As things moved along I found it more and more difficult to keep up. There were crab-walky stances and raised legs and bizarre pelvic-tilt roll-ups. I was sweating freely by the time we were 15 minutes in, doggedly trying to keep up while stealing glances at the young dear next to me. Sadly, she didn't seem to be too familiar with the moves, but her expansive pelvic girdle and generous breasts made it difficult to peer past her, and I wasn't sure that I wanted to anyways.

Then there was the move that actually required *magic*. Somehow we were supposed to lie on our backs, flat as a board with our arms limp at our sides. Using non-existent abdominal strength, and *magic* we were supposed to roll up to a sitting position without using our arms, like some crazy marionette being pulled up by a string. Let me tell you here and now that I am nobody's puppet. It didn't happen, but I made quite a spectacle of myself as I flapped my arms trying to get up.

Half way through the session I was toast, but I couldn't countenance the humiliation of thrashing my way out of my little corner. I was bathed in sweat and dripping on the yoga mat. The mat was too thin for my deformed tailbone, which felt like it was drilling a new route to China every time I was forced to lay on my back and put my legs up in the air. When I performed said maneuver my legs (which I think are very buff and sexy, due to cycling) trembled and jiggled like the limbs of a newborn foal. I had removed my glasses because they kept sliding off my rosy, sweat-drenched face. Thus I was also semi-blind in my dark, sequestered corner and could no longer see to my left effectively for instruction. There were moves that I ignored completely and laid on my back, trying to pretend I was invisible, and not the sad, fat, creepy old guy in the corner. I cursed my trainer three times in my mind and resolved to never return to godforsaken Yogalates.

Then I heard a guttural moaning to my left. Not a sexy sound, oh no. It was plaintive. Behind me the mystery blond began keening quietly to herself. It was the unmistakable sound of someone in pain, who is lost. I snatched my glasses and held them in place. Looking unashamedly around me, I saw that the lithe neighbours were flailing, bailing and failing, thank the stars above. I may have been old enough to have fathered them, but they were suffering, too. My self-loathing began to abate.

The rest of the class was a bit of a blur, but the hardest stuff was over. The final stretches and cool-down moves were something I was actually capable of doing. My new girlfriends floundered around, but we soldiered on together to finish the class. We didn't actually speak to one another, but I felt some telepathic commiseration going on. My trainer made sure to offer me a few quips about my lack of flexibility as I sopped my sweat off the yoga mat with handfuls of paper towels. Ha ha. Very funny.

The next day by lower back was perfect, with nary a twinge to be felt. My bastard trainer buddy was correct, as usual. I had been sorted right out. So had my ego. A little core strength never hurt anyone, as long as you don't kill yourself getting it. I have decided to continue going to Yogalates through the summer to see if I can learn the *magic*.

Oh, this makes me smile....

2008-06-16T16:34:00.001-07:00

Really. The Herculoids. Anyone else remember this Alex Toth Adventure weirdness from Hanna Barbera? I was very little and watched it on the old Black and White tv. I'm totally smiling right now.

I really think I need to do this...

2008-06-16T16:18:00.001-07:00

That's right. It's a white and red polka dot house. Looks like a yummy and cozy peppermint.I ride past it often and I finally thought to take a picture. It looks way better in person. I love that somebody got up one morning, looked at their house and thought, "Hmmm. Polka dots. That's what this place needs. There aren't enough polka dots in the world, or on this street."

I like to think I have the nards to do this to my place, but I fear I'd chicken out before I bought the paint. This is a thing that makes me smile.

The price of life... and fuel.

2008-06-11T09:37:00.000-07:00

I’ve been thinking a bit about people and their cars. I’ve decided that, chances are, if you have and use a car I might hate you. Last weekend when I filled up the gas tank on the way out to the suburbs I was startled to notice that gas was $1.50 per litre. Folks tend to be very self-centred about their car use. Many are unwilling to curtail driving in the face of skyrocketing gas costs, even if it means cutting back on life’s little pleasures like food and shelter. That may be too bad for you, but that’s not really going to be a problem for me. I don't drive much, you see.

Get ready because I’m gonna be all smug here. My wife and I made some choices over ten years ago that many folks are talking about these days. What is trendy and green now was just common sense to us back then. When we were house hunting, we looked around out in Surrey and considered some massive places that we could likely have afforded. They were usually about twice the square footage of similarly-priced homes in East Vancouver (where we were renting at the time). Every time we drove out to the 'burbs to look at places, we were caught in the soul-sapping, psyche-crushing, resource-slurping, time-gobbling vortex known as the "commute up the Fraser Valley". Holy snapping assholes, what a grind! Wifey and I tallied up the financial cost in fuel and vehicle maintenance, along with the lifestyle cost of three hours per day on the road. We decided a bigger house in the 'burbs was way too expensive, even though it was supposedly cheaper. We dismissed buying a mega-home far away from our real lives (ie. employment, friends and social activities) and "settled" for a smaller home, in an inner city neighbourhood, from which commuting was unnecessary. My wife walks to work. I use my bicycle. Our Volvo is used for shopping trips, visits to family (in the 'burbs), and kid and dog wrangling. The poor Volvo can go for days of sexual frustration where the key never slides into the ignition. It can go weeks without the lovely penetration of the gas nozzle into the receptive, eager and thirsty tank.

What's that, you say? "Oh Tim, don't be so self-centred. You have no idea what I'm up against. I can't afford a home in the city". I call bullshit. What you can’t afford is the same home in the city that you can in the suburbs... Or you are unwilling to move your work and social life to the suburbs where you want to have your house. I know it’s a cliché but sometimes you can’t have it both ways.

It's all about choices, and my wife and I made a decision 12 years ago that provided us with adequate living space, a tenant downstairs, a massive mortgage, and a positive, sustainable lifestyle. For many, especially today, the cost of a detached home in Vancouver is way too high to consider. But... there are still condos and townhomes and apartments that, while smaller, can accommodate modern, thoughtful families. Forgive me if I get all twitchy because it's this sprawling, consumer-driven desire for "more" that tosses folks Hell out and beyond, into what used to be agricultural land. (You know… where we used to grow food before we started trucking it in.) That would be okay with me if you were satisfied with the fact that you will be forced to deal with the isolation and traffic that is part of that decision. Your big new house in Surrey/Langley/Abbotsford has inadequate infrastructure and transit to support the burgeoning community. The developers are very happy to make money on new housing but the municipalities don’t seem to clue into the fact that people are going to actually live there. You'll have to get into the car and drive 5 klicks on the 6-lane highway just to go buy groceries "downtown" (which is really a massive, strip-mall built around runway-style road systems).

When you realize that you don't like the long, crowded commute from your sweet acre of home, you lobby the pinheads in Victoria. The right-wing, car oriented Government likes the colour of your vote, so they decide to double the highways and bridges from your ‘hood into mine. Now, because you believe that you couldn’t “afford” to live near your work, I get to enjoy increased highway-style commuter traffic blazing through my little historic Vancouver community. There are merry mountains of taxpayer dollars being spent to widen a road (mostly for the use of single-occupant vehicles) that will only fill up in no time anyway. Because you want a bigger home in the burbs, because you won't "settle" for something smaller, affordable, and kinder to the planet, we all pay for your private chariot ride through my community. The enabling of your car culture hurts the planet, the urban landscape, and your lifestyle, yet for some reason we allow it. Of course, if you moved to the suburbs to live and work there, I have no beef with you. That’s what people should be doing.

So, now you say… “Ow, the price of gas is killing me. I can’t afford to drive!!” My response can only be… What the Hell did you think would happen? In all your life have you ever seen the price of gas go down? Did your long-term plan of suburban life and daily commuting take into account the fact that UP was the only direction your costs could ever go?

The best bit is that now some of you are actually forced to look at transit as an option because otherwise you won’t be able to pay the mortgage on your big home in the country. Surprise! Now you’re finding out that transit sucks because the “Powers That Be” have only ever funded it to be acceptable to the bottom of the barrel. Up until now only the poor, the elderly, the immigrants, and the students were expected to take transit. You know... the folks with no money or political clout. The right kind of voters were always expected to supply their own ride. Transit in the GVRD is designed to keep people moving only to the point of avoiding unrest and anarchy… no more. I am very grateful for how badly the bus sucks in Vancouver because it turned me into the avid cyclist that I am today. I have good cardio and strong legs because you can’t pay me enough to take the bus.

Wait, wait... before you go getting all zappy with me, I will admit that I am in no way beyond reproach when it comes to my cars. Chances are you’ll find fault with me, too. Oh yeah… I need the Volvo station wagon and I see no reason to stop using it even though the price for fuel is, well... pretty freaking noticeable. Sometimes I feel guilty for the quick jaunts I make in the car, knowing I should just walk or bike. It’s that decadent, car-oriented lifestyle and I’m certainly a part of it. I even own a gas guzzling classic car that is currently parked because I can’t afford to put it on the road. See… choices.

People say that only the wealthy can afford to live in Vancouver these days. I disagree. I see young families in smaller apartments with no cars here. Comparatively, some of the lifestyles I see in the outlying areas look very opulent and excessive to me. There’s a certain kind of greed that fuels people to make strange choices so that they can have more house, more stuff, and more stress while they live in the ‘burbs and make the trek every freaking single day. I’ve had friends who did it for years. When one of them got off the treadmill he was absolutely amazed at the positive change in his life. I encourage you to do the same. It’ll leave more money in your bank account and more time to spend with friends and family. It’ll also be better for the planet.

Oh, and for any of you who think I'm all "Mr. Green", I will confess, for your pleasure, that I do not even compost.... yet.

Maybe I should be embarrased, but...

2008-06-08T12:30:00.001-07:00

Last night I watched my brand new copy of Faster Pussycat Kill Kill. I had ordered it special and I actually never buy DVDs to keep. "Why this one?" you may ask...

To begin with, it's hard to actually view this movie. The only time I've seen it before was when I went to a midnight showing years ago with some friends and my wife. We were all astonished at how stupidly, delightfully entertaining this shlocky boobfest was. I have noticed lately that I've always been drawn to this lowbrow, borderline fetish stuff. It's just that nowadays I'm more "out of the closet" about it, so to speak. Bring it on, I say!

These three angry Hellcats, heaving and roiling out of their clothes, quipping their groovy lingo, karate chopping the boys, racing their cars in the desert, running over old guys in wheelchairs, oooooh.... They are just so wonderful. This movie is unapologetically sexy, stupid, funny and violent. I'm not sure if politically incorrect is the proper term for this stuff, but if it is I think we should all learn to relax a little.

Also, just as a movie I think it holds together nicely. Sure it's an exploitation film, but the story is great, it's nicely filmed, and you couldn't ask for stranger and more confident portrayals as far as the actors are concerned. Oh... and Tura Satana's wacky Devil Woman eye makeup kept me awake last night.

Yet... I can't remember the last time I saw the any of movies that win for Best Picture at the Academy Awards. Does that make me shallow, stupid, or comlicated? Oh, probably, but I don't care. I do know that I love this kind of stuff .

If you enjoy it too, you are my kinda people. Maybe you've even been to the Jim Rose Circus and read the Fortean Times, too. Wanna have a Movie Party?

I'm so white.

2008-05-30T13:05:00.000-07:00

Click on the pic for a clearer glimpse of Grad '82 Airband Greatness...

I was raised in the suburbs of Western Canada until such time as I fledged. I was in Regina for Kindergarten. We coloured mimeographed pictures of the Virgin Mary. Elementary school was in Calgary, and then Middle and High School were in Tsawwassen. (I prefer the easier-to-spell "T-Town".) These places were pretty damn waspy and my childhood occurred during the "pre-politically correct" era. I enjoyed listening to the Carpenters and John Denver on the family hi-fi stereo unit.

We would visit my war-vet, ex-pat British grandparents and would be given 25 cents each and sent down the street to the Chink Store. We actually thought that was the last name of the elderly Asian couple who ran the place. Imagine their surprise when my kid brother entered the store to say, "Hello Mister Chink!" with his sunshiny 5-year-old smile. I guess they'd heard worse because they ignored our innocent racism and sold us candy. Maybe they were even thinking, "Oh, these must be the grandchildren of Old Gwailoh Everett."

Interestingly, my brothers and I, first in Elementary and later in High School, became friends with the only Black boys in each of our schools at the time. Each of these kids were the adoptive son of white couples (I recollect no actual Black families.) They were nice, and we had a lot of fun with them. The first boy was named Chris. And we would happily play Lego with him and fry ants with his dad's magnifying glass. I remember when there was a childhood dispute once and someone called him a "nigger". Fascinatingly, he didn't get angry, or contrite. He explained that he was actually a "mulatto", as if that were a relevant fact in the face of our ugly juvenile bigotry.

When we moved to the West Coast our Black friend's name was Andy. In high school we entered the Airband Contest with a group called the Crippled Reincarnated Experience. We all portrayed dead rock stars. I was John Lennon because I'm so deep... and a Beatles fan. Others were John Bonham and Jim Morrison. Obviously my Black friend ended up being Jimi Hendrix, who he more than peripherally resembled. We tore it up pretty good, but there was no hope of victory for us. The prettiest girls in school put on miniskirts and haltertops to recreate the Go-Gos. I mean... they were so sexy I think we even voted for them. I have no idea what happened to Andy, but I suspect he's done well for himself.

Back in the '70's and 80's there was a clear tone of racism in my young environment. It wasn't an angry, clan-style thing, but it was pervasive. My Grandparents might have felt very comfortable with Asian racial slurs, but words like "Paki" and "Punjab" were also used at the dinner table in my house when I was a kid. The suburbs I grew up in had very few non-white kids. They really stuck out in the pale crowd. I didn't like them more or less because they were Chinese, or East Indian, or Black, but I don't think they were on a level playing field either. Some of the cliches were true in T-town, where the Chinese girl was the daughter of the couple that ran the laundromat. This: in a town that was made up largely of cops, pilots, entrepreneurs and upper-management types. They were mostly white men with families, pulling down decent coin, and living in a suburb that is largely an isolated Caucasian enclave. I don't fault my folks for choosing to raise us there. It was comfortable for them and a nice place to be a kid. But hell yeah, I grew up pretty damn white.

Tsawwassen is less than an hour from Vancouver, and that is a horse of a completely different colour. As I got older, I spent more time in the city. My first days in college I took the bus in to take English 101 with a group that was about half East Indian. This shocked little, white me. It wasn't that I didn't like it. On the contrary, it really felt nice, and I was learning more about the real world. Also... some of those brown girls were really, very pretty.

At 20 I was a full-blown angsty acting student when I flew the nest from my folks' place and moved to East Vancouver. Although the area is now trendy (read affluent, gentrified and predominantly white), in 1985 my Main Street neighbourhood was full of First Nations and East Indian folks. It was economically depressed, but colourful, and exciting and not at all like where I was from. Jesus. In retrospect they must have seen me coming. I haven't really looked back since. After that I moved in with another guy who I went to acting school with. He was the son of a woman from Washington DC who once sang with the Duke Ellington Orchestra. She was absolutely not white. My friend's energy and awareness and rebelliousness blew me away, and I learned a thing or two from his mom as well. T-town just looked smaller and smaller.

Fast forward over twenty years, half a life, some travel, and now a family of my own. When the time came we could have bought a house in Tsawwassen and returned to the enclave. Many do, and I think that's fine for them. We just wanted to stay here. I live in a community where you look on the street and see real drug crime and damaged lives. Once in a while some of the Vietnamese gang members have been known to kill one another in restaurants two blocks away while I sleep at night. But...

When my son goes to his Elementary school, or his karate class, he shares his world with kids from many different races, religions and economic backgrounds. In spite of some of the ugliness, which is luridly played up in the media and in non-residents' imaginations, this is a safe, kind and nurturing place to live.

We've been honoured with an invitation to our nieghbour's daughter's wedding next week. I had to get briefed by the girls next door to learn what to expect because it'll be our first Indian Wedding. Sounds like a wonderful spiritual, food-laden and joyful event. These are folks who my son has known all his life because he was born here. The bride was just a kid when we moved into the house next to hers, and now she's moving onto the next phase of her life. We'll be among friends, so it'll be great, in spite of the fact that I'm so white.

Chili Champs 2008

2008-05-28T16:55:00.001-07:00

Nifty new app... sweet, fine chili... cool blog...

Kicking it Old School...

2008-05-14T14:36:00.001-07:00

Today I walked my son to school for the final day of regular classes at the original Charles Dickens Elementary School. The place is being torn down and replaced with a gorgeous new building which will begin classes after the Victoria Day Long Weekend. After opening in 1913 and seeing countless kids and educators walk the halls, this is actually "it" for the place.

My relationship with the school, and this neighbourhood, actually predates my son's attendance to the school. Back in the '80's I used to ride my bike through the immense green park on my way to rehearsing with a singer/songwriter. I remember just being amazed at the size of the old trees in the park, and how striking the big old red brick school house was. It was a hub of the community then, as it has been throughout its history, and remains to this day. Once I discovered the place I took my future wife and mother of our child on a picnic there. We ate chicken salad with baguette and white wine. We kissed passionately under a tree, fully in love and in the moment, unthinking of the future.

A few years later we were were hired to sing a concert for the kids in the school. It was a treat for us because it was actually close to our regular East Vancouver home, and not way off in Tumbler Ridge as was often the case. We usually had to travel hundreds of klicks to do a gig in those days. Dickens school was so interesting, and old, and welcoming, and positive that we never forgot it. That, coupled with our picnics there, made it a place we thought of when we bought a house. We live where we do today because of our pleasant associations with Dickens School from before we were married.

Our son was born shortly thereafter and has enjoyed spectacular education here, first at the Annex and for the past two years, at the big old Main School. His classroom is upstairs in the old wing of the place that was the original building in 1913. Although his classroom doesn't look much different from the rest of the them, I still like that for it's sense of history. I was walking past the school yesterday and some of my son's classmates waved at me though the high, tall windows. I imagined kids back in 1913, who have since lived full lives and passed away, doing the same thing back when this community was new, sparse and fresh. Honestly, the changes here over the past 95 years are astonishing.

There are politics about removing the historic building and replacing it. The reason is that it has been determined that the old building would not withstand a major earthquake and smart folks realize that one is probably coming. There was strife in the 'hood, and lots of politicking, and in the end I think the new plan for the new school has worked out well. There's an interesting synergy to the the fact that, during the final week of classes at Charles Dickens Elementary, there is dismaying news of an earthquake in China, with at least ten thousand dead, some of whom are kids who were in school that day.

The state-of-the-art eco-building that has been built looks to be beautiful, sustainable and just stunning. The history will be gone, though. Some parents are fighting to save the original school for other uses, and I really wish that could happen. Why is it that the powers that be are so reluctant to accommodate the past along with the future? The fight has been bitter, and looks to be lost, all because of "lack of money". Yet there seem to be plenty of money for the Olympics....

I feel privileged that my wife, my son and myself have been associated with the grand old place. We are part of its history, too, I guess... and will be part of the history of the new Charles Dickens Elementary. Maybe, in about a hundred years, some guy kinda like me will walk by and wave at the kids through the window, and stop to wonder who was there when the place was first opened, and pause to be astonished at how much the community has changed since then.

The pictures above are: the old school through the park, my boy on the steps, and a shot of the near-finished new school.

My mom and my wife...

2008-05-11T10:00:00.000-07:00

... are "the bomb" in my life! Aprille and Sue are the best. Try to appreciate your maternal figures today. I'll be doing it culinarily, for the most part. Sue had home-made BC Benedict this morning with the boy and I. We'll drop by Mom's and make fresh garlic prawns (the critters are currently alive in my fridge) and steamed mussels. Best wishes to all those smart and wonderful mothers I know! We'd be nowhere if not for our moms.

Bad behavior in public, part 3.

2008-05-09T18:34:00.000-07:00

If you need to catch up on the story, you'll find part 1 here...
You'll find part 2 here...

There was a great clamour and confusion surrounding us in the parking lot. I certainly wasn’t the only one who wanted to get away from the Steveston Tall Ship Festival. I realize that, while we are all unique in this world, similar folks will often find themselves placed together by circumstance. I was one of several hundred mildly smart people who had come to the conclusion that they’d been tricked into attending a huge, under-organized, painful non-event. We were the ones who knew that, if you wanted to get out, it would be best to flee before all those dorks down by the river tired of their crushing, banal experience and decided to migrate home. It would be best to be ahead of that horde of goofy, sun-stroked enthusiasts and leave them to the fate they richly deserved. As such, there was an “every man for himself” vibe on the scene. We were all abandoning ship and looking for lifeboats.

Tired seniors, parents with their meltdown toddlers, dissatisfied yuppies, and I all clutched the same leaflet with instructions as to which bus you needed to catch and where it might be found. We puzzled over these scraps of paper like they were papyrus inscribed with some ancient, cuneiform writing. The bus names were non-representational and numerical, their locations were obscure, and their destinations were cryptic to the non-resident. After much consideration I concluded that I needed bus # G473 to Meanderville, which might be found in the sector 12 quadrant of the lot. (Okay, I made that up because I can’t remember what it actually was. Mine is easier to remember. You get the idea.)

Armed with an ephemeral hunch as to what I needed to find, I doggedly dragged my boy around the never-ending rim of the lot and pushed through the rapidly growing crowds. I needed to inspect the cards stuck next to the entrance door of each bus. The few buses in attendance were either full, or their doors were closed with a rough, crowdesque queue bunching up within sprinting distance for when the doors actually opened. After fifteen minutes of hiking, shoving, inspecting, and eliminating I finally came across bus # G473 to Meanderville. We arrived just in time to see the last people implausibly wedge themselves into its door as the damn thing chugged away.

And then another one pulled up at my feet. Immediately! It was empty! I goggled at the card on the door. G473 fer Chissakes! The door opened with a hiss and a shudder. Angels sang and blew trumpets. My son and I strode in with pride and chose those cherry seats about a third of the way down, with the extra legroom. This was it! Our miracle conveyance to the real world had arrived and escape was imminent. It was at this precise moment that a certain woman, her husband and her dogs swept in.

Truth be told, I didn’t give much thought to this group when I saw them follow us on. The important thing to understand is that, besides the driver, we were the only ones to see them enter. Thinking back, it was as follows: A stout, barrel-bosomed woman in walking shorts and a tilly-endurable hat entered with her spindly and similarly-attired male partner. They had two small dust-mop dogs on leashes. The couple sat down about four rows in front of us, across the aisle, and immediately tucked the dogs under their seats. The woman glanced shiftily around the bus, caught my eye, and looked ahead. She seemed flustered.

Word must have escaped that a new bus had arrived because a flood of humanity immediately jammed every available inch of room inside the vehicle. It was all armpits in faces and sweaty thighs rubbing together as you try to politely ignore the stranger who is suddenly closer to you than the last person you had sex with. Strangely, when this happens to me it always seems to be the old Italian guy, and never the freckle-faced, tattooed girl from the local roller derby team. I guess that’s just my karma.

The murmuring realist in my head pointed out that it was growing mighty warm and crowded on the bus, yet we had not yet begun the journey. There was an upbeat hubbub. Riders were chatting about what a lame time they’d had, how they never saw a ship, how glad they were to be on the bus… that sort of thing. There was a tinny noise in the background, which tried to penetrate the general rhubarb. At first you couldn’t really hear what the driver was saying on the intercom. As the crowd fell quiet you could catch the end of the phrase, “…off the bus as required by Translink regulations.” Then the driver killed the ignition on the idling bus and our world took on that quiet, inert and lifeless feeling.

People started talking to one another. “What was that?” they asked. A little kid who still had good hearing said, “I don’t see any animals.” The chattering noise grew as people wondered what was going on. I was foolish enough to actually feel encouraged. Although no one else had seen them, it was obvious to me that the driver had made an announcement about the woman’s dogs. “Thank God it’s not a real problem,” I thought, “We can finally get moving.” Then I looked at her and the murmuring realist in my head laughed the giggle of the dismayed.

She sat with her shoulders forward, her feet firmly on the ground, and her jaw set. Her wrinkled face held a bullish obstinance that one feared from old ladies as a child, and learned to resent as an adult. Her flinty eyes glanced about her challengingly and matched her battleship-gray hair perfectly. She elbowed her partner, shot him a dirty look and did not budge. The general chatter on the packed bus continued as people wondered what the problem was.

It is important to understand that what happened next was only viewed by roughly the front third of the bus. It was so hot, busy and bewildering that, unless you were near the action, there could be no way that you would know what had occurred. After a few minutes (which felt exponentially longer) the driver got up and wormed his way back to where the woman was sitting. He steadied himself on the handrail and said, “Look, really, you’re not allowed to have your dogs on the bus. It’s against the rules.” Then I heard her speak and the murmuring realist in my head ground his teeth in antipathy.

She barked, more than spoke, in a drawling British accent that those of us descended from the English know very well. In tones soaked in defiance and condescension she stated, “We are taking the same bus that brought us here in the first place. There is no other way home. If you have a problem with it, perhaps you should take it up with the other driver. He certainly had no problem with our dogs when he brought them with us in the shuttle earlier in the day.” She glowered at him meaningfully and for good measure.

The weary and unintimidated civic employee tried again. He offered helpfully, “Translink rules clearly state that, other than assistants such as seeing-eye dogs, no animals are permitted on the bus.” The woman nearly vibrated out of her chair at him. She looked him in the eye and offered imperiously, “We came on these buses and we will be going home on these buses. We will not be getting off this bus under any circumstances, so you better go do your job, and drive… Now.” She made a brushing and dismissive motion with her hand. The driver shrugged his shoulders, made his way back to his seat and spoke to someone on his CB radio. Then he gathered his belongings and left the vehicle. My heart sank. The murmuring realist in my head knew when to keep his mouth shut.

There we were left to bake in the hot afternoon sun for approximately thirty minutes. We sardines in the can did as best we could. Many folks on the bus had no idea as to what their reality was, but we were all packed in tight and weren’t going anywhere. I understood with painful clarity what was happening. The driver was in the right and didn’t like the way that woman was dealing with him. He was not authorized nor required to physically eject her from the bus, but he was not permitted to operate the bus with the dogs on board. Another driver might have fudged it, but this guy, after dealing with such an unholy bitch as our dowager empress, did what any intelligent union employee with rights would do. He tossed the problem up the chain of command and fucked off for a coffee.

So we waited. My son had checked out and was drowsing the sleep of the heat-damaged, clammily draped over my damp shoulder. I peered out the window. It looked like a George Romero movie outside, with hundreds of shambling undead milling about, coming towards us, looking for anyway out of this Hell. I was astonished at the strangeness of human nature. Pretty much everyone on the bus was just sucking it up, making small talk and waiting. The mean lady sat rigid, looking for all the world like she had won some kind of battle. I began, for the first time that day, to lose my patience. Was there no one present who could get things moving?

As if on cue, some guy in a security windbreaker cautiously stuck his head into the door of the bus. He looked like he’d much rather be just about anywhere else, which means he only looked half as bad as we did. “Hello?” he said. “Apparently there are animals on the bus? They, uh, need to be removed, please?” he quavered. And it all began again, but this time most of the bus was catching onto what was destroying their hopes of life and freedom. Queen Victoria barked at the security guy and informed him that these buses brought them in and could bloody-well take them out. The loser husband weakly bobbed his head in agreement. Security guy shrugged his shoulders and left the building.

I heard someone from the back of the bus, who couldn’t perceive the activities at the front, ask, “What’s going on? Why isn’t the bus going anywhere?” My son blinked at me blearily and whimpered, “Daddy, when are we going to go hooooome?” The murmuring realist left the back of my mind, climbed into my mouth and took over.

I craned my head towards the back of the bus and said loudly and clearly, “There is a woman up here with two dogs under her seat. She’s been told several times to remove them, but she refuses. That’s why we are not moving.” Some nimrod offered, “Hey man… the dogs aren’t bothering anyone. Why can’t they just stay?” There was some support for this viewpoint offered down the line. I was getting all Henry Fonda on their asses. “It doesn’t matter,” I said. “This is not a committee or a democracy. Don’t you get it?! We don’t get to decide. The driver has left and no-one is going to operate this machine until that woman gets her dogs out of here.” I pointed at her angrily to punctuate the statement.

The woman turned to face me with malice in her eyes. “I think you should mind your own business, young man,” she clipped, “ This bus system brought us here with our dogs, and we have every right to expect this bus system to return us home in the same manner.” Her words dripped venom as she spoke.

I decided to up the ante and got all Jimmy Stewart on her. “Every right?! I proclaimed, “Do you have a right to imprison an entire bus load of people in this hot Hellish place because you couldn’t be bothered to obey the transit rules? It doesn’t matter what you think your rights are. The people who operate the vehicle will not do your bidding. In order for the rest of us to go home you gotta get those dogs out from under your chair and out of this bus…. you sack of shit!"

Yeah. I didn’t plan for that last bit, but it came out. It was inappropriate, and I meant it. Some politically correct asshat from the back of the bus mewled forth, “Hey! There are children on this bus.” I responded by saying, “I know there are kids on this bus. My five-year-old is passed out here next to me and none of us, or our kids, will ever get to go home because this person won’t get her damn dogs off this damn bus.” I pointed at her again, with a rigid arm, for emphasis.

This horrible harridan, this nemesis, this Lex Luthor of a woman drew herself up. Medusa-like, she turned her baleful gaze upon me. Somewhere livestock was casting forth it’s young prematurely. In a low, menacing voice she intoned, “Well… Aren’t you a revolting creature.” It wasn’t a question. It was a curse.

Occasionally in life you actually say the exact perfect thing in an argument at exactly the right moment (instead of realizing what you should have said later). This was such a time. I made myself big and began speaking softly, growing in volume and intensity, “Yes. I am revolting. But if you think I’m revolting now, you had better be careful because you have no idea how revolting I’m going to be in a few minutes if you don’t get those DAMN… DOGS… OFF… THIS… BUS!”

There was a ripple of assent in the crowd. I felt public opinion shifting to the side of the realist. She knew it too because she deflated by about a half an inch, gathered her husband and dogs, and scuttled towards the door. It was lovely because it was so awkward and hard for her to get out. She had to trip and push to escape with her brood, trying wordlessly not to look anyone in the eye. Then she was gone.

Shortly thereafter our driver returned. We cheered as he turned on the ignition and we were, at last, underway. A cool breeze wafted through the windows and helped dispel the oppressive atmosphere of conflict, body odor and excessive carbon dioxide. I tried to chat with my neighbours, but no one liked me much, even though I was their savior. I had broken several rules of public politeness and had done it unapologetically. I would do it again and I offer this: Against all expectations I learned that, under certain circumstances, it is acceptable and necessary to call a little old lady a sack of shit in a busy, public forum. That day it was cathartic and fun to boot.

As our blessed bus left the Steveston parking lot I heard cheering and brouhaha behind me. I looked out the window, past the swarming anthill of people and over the roofs of the shops and restaurants towards where I suspected the Fraser River might be. I’m almost certain I saw the tippy-top of a mainsail above it all in the distance. Damned if the ships hadn’t finally arrived.

Bad behavior in public. part 2

2008-05-03T15:50:00.000-07:00

For the earlier part of this story, click here...

Steveston is an historic area in Richmond at the mouth of the Fraser River. It’s famous for being a boomtown of salmon fishing and canning during the Victorian era. You should visit the museum if you want to understand how hard life was back then, and how First Nations and Asian people were exploited by the fishing industry. It’s amazing to glimpse the horrible lives people lived so that well-heeled whitey in the Commonwealth could enjoy lovely hand-packed tins of Canadian salmon. Hail Britannia.

Geographically, Steveston occupies a spit of riverfront land that ends with a park. The shuttlebuses were emptying people into a large, central parking area, and hundreds of us were excitedly making our way to where the best vantage points might be. Although it was still over an hour until the ships were to arrive, the place was packed. I held my boy’s hand tightly and followed the surging mass of humanity towards the paved path to the view spots at the waterfront park. It felt a bit like we were being sucked into a whirlpool or something. Folks were bottlenecking at the entrance to the walkway and foot-traffic became slower and more pressed.

As we were swept along the murmuring realist in my head pointed out a few things. No one was coming out. I mean no one. The tide of humanity (of which I was part) was occupying every square inch of available space. I conjured up a mental image of the map I’d seen and realized that this path led to a park that had only one entrance and was surrounded on all sides by the river. Logic dictated that there was a profoundly finite amount of space to occupy down at there. The outcome seemed clear. At some point, as more and more drones pushed in from behind, those already trapped in the park would be forced to impersonate the lemmings they so completely resembled. The other choice was to be packed together like sardines in a tin, which would nicely recreate the historic industry of a century ago that took place on that very spot.

I looked down the paved path, restricted on either side by a four-foot tall chain-link fence. The inexorable throng pulsed and pushed, a la peristalsis, towards an unknown, yet inescapable destination. In one of the few correct, spontaneous choices I made that day, I clutched my son under the armpit and threw all my weight arbitrarily to the left, dislodging us from the stream of hapless fools who likely were on their way to a watery tourist-packed hellhole. We were safe for the moment.

You should know that I hate crowds. I also hate the heat. I also hate being surrounded by rubes. Most importantly, I hate not being in control of a situation that I made for myself. I took the time to savour the hatred that permeated my being at that distinct moment. It was like a sweet fire, distilled in my centre, which flew forth from my eyes like flashing bolts from Hell. Where I had been forced into the crush, cheek by jowl with countless anonymous twits, I felt the tides of humanity part to give me space, so powerful were the emanations of hatred I was exuding. Then I remembered that I was clutching someone’s little 5-year-old hand, perhaps a bit too firmly. “Oh, son…” I smiled kindly if maniacally, “I don’t think we want to go down there. Maybe we should go get some fish and chips?”

I dragged the poor little bugger through the crowds and into the shopping areas, which were slightly less insane. A miracle occurred (no angels sang this time) and we managed to get a patio table for two at a place that faced the river. We might have even seen the river if not for the five thousand assholes milling about between us and the water, looking for the boats. Nonetheless, I counted us lucky. I figured we’d at least see the crowsnests and pennants pass by above the heads of all those people. I had a seat, a cup of coffee, and the company of my beautiful, patient and sweet young son. We dined on overpriced, mediocre fish and chips while waiting for the archaic pageantry to begin.

It didn’t. An hour later the boats were 30-minutes late and nowhere in sight. Our plates had been cleared, my coffee stopped being re-filled, and the bill was archly placed before me. There was a long line-up to get into the restaurant. The little space that had been left between the river and us had been packed to capacity while we ate. The sun beat down upon us mercilessly. My boy asked me, “Daddy… aren’t the big boats ever going to come?”

Deep in the recesses of my consciousness the murmuring realist wiped the chip oil off his lips and told me some true things. “Tim,” he offered, “ those ships are not coming. If they do come, the only way you’ll see them is to fight your way to the front of this crowd, perch on the edge of the Fraser River and struggle for a foothold, where you will absorb the heat radiation of the sun like a solar panel. If, by some act of God, you actually get a vantage point, that will be when your boy will decide he needs to defecate, urgently. You don’t really know where you are, where your car is, or how to get to it. This has been one Hellish misadventure since you were deluded enough to think it would be a good idea to come here. Oh… and did I mention that the ships are not coming? Hate to say I told you so.”

That’s when I told myself, “Fuck it.”

I paid the bill, grabbed my boy, and began shouldering through the throngs like a linebacker. On the way back I noticed with evil satisfaction that the entrance to the pathway to the waterfront park was finally topped up. It was packed with an unmoving mass of wriggling humanity. Perhaps not surprisingly, I noticed that the dumbest ten per cent of the gene pool was still trying to force their way down there. I imagined that I heard screams and splashes in the distance. After a long series of semi-impolite shoves and jostles, we found ourselves back at the gravel parking lot where we’d been dumped into this insidious trap about 90-minutes earlier. This was where, if we were lucky, we could catch a shuttle back to the relative pleasantness of that distant parking field, our car, and a chance at freedom.

We were not lucky. The Steveson Tall Ships Festival was not yet willing to release us from it’s cruel, sun blasted and salty embrace. Not by a long shot.

Okay, really this time… In the next post, I am provoked to rudeness beyond redemption. Stay tuned for part 3...

An even 10, and "homeburgers"

2008-04-30T13:24:00.001-07:00

I just noticed a few things. I began this blog on April 1st (appropriate, because I'm such a fool). Today is the final day of April, so I've been at it a month. If I make a post now it'll be a nice even 10 offerings since I began. Seeing as how I do most of my counting by using my fingers, this seems apt.

I wasn't sure how this blog would go when I began. It's hardly an illustrious accomplishment yet, but I like it enough to continue. Although you wouldn't know it by what I'm saying today, I'm trying to avoid postings about "what I'm doing today". Instead I'll try continue to share stories and ideas that are more like essays or anecdotes. I'll try to put something up about once a week.

Over the past month: I figured out how to do my own taxes with Quicktax and filed online, saving myself about $250.00. I re-landscaped the front yard, using the grease of my elbow, sweat of my brow, and a couple of large machines. I hosted a bunch of boys for a birthday party and fed them nachos. I expressed my lascivious love for my wife in a public forum and got away with it. I began to share info about my community. I got the first half of one on my best anecdotes down for you all. There will be more Kingsway bits, and I'll soon finish the story of "The Debacle of the Steveston Tall-ships".

In May I have lots to look forward to. There's an Everett full-pull Victoria Day Cabin Retreat (2 grandparents, 4 sons, 4 wives, 8 grand children, 2 chocolate labs, and a bit-o-food and booze). The Circle E Chili team will attend it's 3rd cookoff. I'll pour yet more money and ink into this arm of mine. I will host a community hot dog party for the 8th year in a row. I'll also continue to try and share with you whatever scattered dad musings I have, hopefully to the tune of about once per week. I've gotten some lovely and friendly comments from folks and strangers over the past month. Thanks so much for reading and don't feel shy about posting.

Tonight I'm making "homeburgers" for supper. They are like hamburgers only better. It's all about the beef. I take a big chunk of eye of round and trim off the excess fat and membrane (there usually isn't much). I make sure when I'm working with the beef that it is still just a bit frozen. I cut it down into manageable cubes and run it through the meat grinder, using the coarse grind plate, with a slice or two of stale bread and a couple cloves of garlic. Then I add salt, plenty of fresh-ground black pepper, and a good shot of dijon. Mix it up well (I use the paddle on the kitchen aid machine) until it just starts to look a bit sticky and is coming together. Make yourself some big-ass burger patties. Try not to make them too perfect and professional, but go for flatter and wider shape so they cook evenly. Mine usually check in at about a half a pound, but do as you will.

These are okay on the bbq, but I prefer to cook them on a oily, screaming-hot cast iron pan. Why? Well... it makes the house smell really yummy, for one. Also, that way you can get a nice crispy exterior and it's easier to control the done-ness. That's right folks, if you trust your butcher and your skills, (and I do) you don't have to cook these to the grey well-done death that's required for "food safety". Using excellent meat from a reliable source, keeping it cold, and trimming and grinding it yourself are all great ways to ensure that you won't get e-coli. I offer no guarantees for you and yours, and recommend that you never give pink hamburgers to kids. Still, I know that I'll have mine medium-well, please, just slightly pink and very juicy, yet relatively low in fat. For a big chunky burger that would be about 7-8 minutes per side in a med-hot skillet. It should start to feel firm (not hard) to the touch, yet no longer squishy. You can always cut it to check.

The rest is window dressing, because this is all about the beef, remember? I suggest you use really good buns, minimal condiments and a slice of good cheese. Actually, cutting the patties and half when they're done and ramming them into crusty, fresh baguette is a good way to go, too. I prefer to leave the lettuce and tomato out of the burger and have it right next door, as a salad.

Thanks a ton for reading my blog. More to come.

Bad behavior in public. part 1

2008-04-24T14:30:00.000-07:00

I'm a proponent of an unusual concept in public politeness. I think that one should always default to proper manners and consideration... but... one should always be prepared to eschew those niceties when it is necessary. There are situations when vulgarity, aggressiveness and rudeness can be excellent tools. Indeed, they may end up being your only friends.

I'd like to be able to say that I'm ashamed of my behavior that day in Richmond. I'd like to say that, but I would be lying and I intend to be honest in this forum. I'm proud of what I loudly and firmly said to that woman (a senior citizen no less) in a packed and very public space. It was offensive and inexcusable. Denied excuses, I'll try to explain.

It was a shiny, spring day about five years ago when I discovered that there would be a special appearance of tall ships in Richmond. The festival was unprecedented and would see many large sailing vessels from across the globe cruise past the crowds in Old Steveston at the mouth of the Fraser River. I was torn. The romantic in me imagined a lovely afternoon by the sea with my five-year-old son. We would have lunch and watch the grand old anachronisms float by, banners snapping in the breeze. The realist in me murmured a warning against crowds and lack of parking and organization. "Tut tut", I thought, "Stuff and nonsense, Pip pip and all that rot. The boy should see this." Thus I placed myself into one of the worst cluster-fucks I've ever seen in my entire life.

Time was tight if I wanted to beat the crowds, so I picked up my boy from his half-day of kindergarten and we headed out immediately, snacking en route. I had armed myself with information regarding supplemental parking and buses a few miles from the site. Oh, it was to be a grand, rural adventure in the sunshine! Just we two, in a new place, seeing new things. What a fantastic Dad I would prove to be that day, I thought. Traffic became more and more congested as I drove farther from the main roads.

By the time I approached the vast field full of cars where I was supposed to park, things were downright busy, even though it was still two and a half hours until the ships were were to appear. "No worries," I thought. "This'll be fine. My boy is lucky that his Dad is so organized." I drove into the access road. It was bumper to bumper. After navigating into a scenario that would make a Saturday Costco gauntlet look civilized, I was hailed by a grizzled and beleaguered-looking man wearing a traffic vest. "Five dollars," he said. The old gentleman held out his shaky hand in the blazing sun in the middle of a fallow field nowhere near civilization and said to me, "Cash only. C'mon. Lotsa people here." as he glanced anxiously at the growing line of traffic snaking up behind me.

Normally I have money. I told you that I'm organized. I just didn't have any cash at that moment because I was planning on using the ATM that was sure to be found at a massive special event in a popular tourist area. I was informed that, as I did not have any cash, I would not be entitled to a slice of this lovely farmland in which to park. Grinding my teeth, I inquired as to the quickest way out, thinking of the miles of free parking along the street I'd just left 50-feet behind me. Apparently the only way out was through. I won't bore you with a detailed account of the ups and downs and twists and turns that I explored over the next 15 minutes. Let me just say that it was a route that would have bewildered both Perseus and his bastard Minotaur. The best part was when I passed the kind gentleman on the way out and saw that he could have simply stood to one side and guided me back without sending me on my tour of fifty acres of minivans and subarus.

I used the free parking at the side of the road just next to the entrance of the pseudo-parking lot. "Just a glitch," I told myself as I tried to ignore the growing sense that I should have given it all a miss. I grabbed the day-pack and my boy and we followed the growing crowd to River Road. The information I had downloaded explained that there would be shuttle buses waiting to pick us up. The murmuring realist in me was not surprised when there were none. I stood blinking in the hot sun at the lack of buses, with my boy, who was beginning to wonder why I looked so upset. I swallowed the bile and annoyance and told him that all was well. We ate some fruit leathers and drank bottled water while we talked about how cool those big old sailing ships are. "Sometimes," I explained, "it is worth some hassle to do something fun and see something special."

Half an hour later we were walking along the road, having given up on those mythical buses. I wasn't sure where we were, or how far we had to go, but there were many many cars, bicycles and pedestrians and they were all heading the same direction. It didn't take long for the boy's little legs to get tired. We all know the "Daddy, how much faaaarther?" scenario. Sadly, I had no answer. A nice man on a bike stopped and eyed us both up and down. "You're not going to see the tall ships, are you?" he asked pointedly. "It's at least a half hour walk, you know." The man looked sympathetically at my son. "I mean... at least. Maybe you should take the shuttle-bus?"

The air was still and hot that day. There was no breeze, but I'm a guy who can see which way the wind blows. I will not swim against such a current. We thanked the man, turned around, and headed back to parking acres. I mean, I was done. We were going to go back to East Van where we belonged. I began to re-spin the afternoon for my boy. We'd have some Dairy Queen Lunch. Perhaps we'd go to the library and get some books about ships. By the time we were almost back where we started, God threw me a curveball. A large shuttle-bus called "Steveston Tall Ships" turned a corner, pulled up next to us, and opened it's doors. I could almost hear the angels singing.

Oh yeah, baby! It's nice when things work out. It was all meant to be. I grabbed the boy by the hand an we jumped on in. Standing room only was fine because we were on our way! Twenty sweaty, jostling minutes later we were disgorged into Steveston, just two minnows in an enormous school of foolish fish swimming blindly into a confounding net. That murmuring realist in my head yelled, "I told you so."

In the next post, I am provoked to rudeness beyond redemption. Stay tuned for part 2...

lucky little me

2008-04-16T09:03:00.000-07:00

I've just looked over the entries of this blog from since I began this exercise in vanity. I realize that I've spoken about a few aspects of my life (dog, kid, food and community), but not the most important one. Lest the reader suspect that I'm uncaring and cavalier about my life-partner, I think I should talk a bit about Wifey.

I'm not a religious guy and I'm sure not offering any guidance or advice here. I chalk my happy married life up to getting lucky at a pivotal moment, then sticking with something that works. What works for me may not work for you, but for the two of us it's the mix that makes the fix and gives us our kicks....

I've come to a few realizations about my marriage recently. This match is getting to a respectable and venerable age (17 years) and as such, it's beaten the odds. Also, in our case it just seems to have grown better along with us. I'll troop out two important professionals in my life who recently helped me focus on these revelations: my Family Doctor (who is a bit older than me) and my Tattoo Artist (who is younger).

As a man over 40 who (at one point) almost died from a car crash, I take my health seriously. I'm one of those guys who visits his G.P. religiously every year for that annual checkup. It's clear to me that, when you're at the Doctor, digital does not refer to a satellite tv signal. My Doc and I have known each other since before I was wed, and we have a good relationship. Last time I was in we were talking about some physical aspects of "marital relations" (couldn't be better, thanks!) and he kinda floored me. He asked, "Well, you've been married for a while now. What do you think it is that has made your marriage work out so well?" That is hard to answer because I'm kinda an "if it ain't broke don't fix it" kinda guy.

The easy answer is "LOVE". Specifically the love she offers me every day, and that we share in our home with our son and family and friends. There's a running gag where folks who know us say, "Oh, your wife must be soooo tolerant." I will not disagree.

Other things I thought of were "Acceptance", "Respect", "Appreciation", and "Lack of Undue Financial Pressure". We accept each other's strengths and weaknesses as part of the entire person. We respect the contributions and concerns we both bring. We appreciate the millions of beautiful things we see in each other and share in our lives. On a superficial note, due to a reasonably large windfall about 12 years ago, we have been able to own a home and work through life without too much concern of "making it". This is not magical and gooey and sweet, but I have to acknowledge the pressure it's taken off us. It's a pressure that I see so many wonderful people struggle under. As John and Paul said, "Money Can't Buy You Love", but it can, in the right situations, eliminate a lot of friction and stress.

Last week I was in for my second session on my tattoo. (No more pics until it's done. Just too flaky/scabby/icky) I'm realizing that I quite enjoy the company of my Tattooist. That's good because I've been stuck on the couch for about 2 to 3 hours both times, with more to come. I find it soothing to make small talk with the smart and talented lesbian who gouges away at my arm with her inky motorized needles. Hell... it beats wincing and staring at the wall. She has a bit of the bartender/psychoanalyst in her and has quickly learned about how my wife and I met in music school, got married, had a kid, etc. Telling someone who is new in my life about that fateful Halloween date 20 years ago when my future spouse took me by the hand reminds me how long it has been. Long meaning ripe, and with growing maturity.

Wifey plans to go under the needle as well, so I was asking my artist what she thought is a good location for a tattoo on a woman, in her artistic opinion. My artist asked what kind of body-type my wife is. Oooh, that puts me in the trouble zone. I hesitated and thought of the best way to put it. I told my Tattooist that my wife isn't very tall, nor is she overly skinny the way, too often, women are expected to be in our culture. I said she was "fine", with emphasis on the word, much like you might hear it said on one of those black sitcoms from the States. "Fine" as in special, rare, and excellent, with an implication of curve and bounce. That she is, indeed.

That got me thinking about evening plans. I told my artist, between the buzzing and dabbing of blood, that we'd had an unexpected windfall. It turned out that our son's friend's birthday party had been extended to a sleepover, and that we would have the house to ourselves that night. Anyone who is a parent will understand how valuable a night alone is. Casual nudity and loud vocalizations, once forgotten, may be rediscovered. My Tattoo Artist laughed darkly and said, "Oh, Tim, she's gonna tie you to a chair." Sounded good to me. Actually, that didn't happen, but we did do a few new things on the stairway. And we scared that family of raccoons out the cedar tree in the back yard.

Lucky little me to have such a wife in my life.

Prickly Old Kingsway - part 1

2008-04-10T16:57:00.000-07:00

Here are two views of the corner of Kingsway and Knight Street, looking Southwest. The first was taken in 1939, the second one was taken today. I'll be damned if I can see any resemblance. Kingsway is considered the oldest major road in the lower mainland. Depending on who you ask, you'll either be told that it was originally a trail blazed by the local First Nations folks, or by the subsequent European entrepreneurs. The trail was used to connect, via the shortest diagonal route, the waterfront areas that are now New Westminster and downtown Vancouver. You can only use the term "old" in its Vancouver meaning. A scant 150 years ago, just a few generations really, there were very few people in the area Kingsway now traverses. It was mostly wilderness.

Kingsway is awkward. If you are visiting by car it will likely annoy you that it cuts diagonally through the normal North-South/East-West grid, which grew up around the thoroughfare over the decades. I live in a 97 year-old-home near Knight and Kingsway. When the house was built it was part of a boom of new homes in the cheaper forested and farmed areas outlying what was then Vancouver. These new districts were strung together by the miracle of the electric streetcars that were installed on the original trail/road, bringing electricity for new “modern” homes with it. My neighbourhood was bulking up as if on steroids around that time. It was a combination of immigrant families in new homes, dairy farms, the old Cedar Cottage Brewery, a new school (which will be demolished this year, not quite surviving a full century), new churches, shops and more. If you look at pictures from that era, it looks very quaint and old-fashioned by today's standards. It’s all quiet gravel roads, 2-storey storefronts and long lines of electric poles, a bit reminiscent of those old Little Rascals movies from the 1930’s.

As car culture took over through the 1950’s and beyond, Kingsway was given over more and more to the needs of the driver. The strip catered to it, actually. Car shops, diners, hotels and repair shops defined the character post-war Kingsway. The residential areas filled in around it to the point that the entire area is now part of Vancouver. Gravel roads, electric streetcars, meadows, creeks, farms, and pockets of forest are all distant memories, but some of the seniors here can still talk about the old days.

Kingsway has always been a “way to and from” somewhere, and remains so, often to the detriment of those of us who choose to live here. Thousands of people drive through my historic neighbourhood every day, often inconsiderate to the fact that it's somebody's home. I have to observe that although there was a time when the car made Kingsway, it is now harming it.Back in the 1950’s and ‘60’s businesses thrived along here, servicing travelers and providing for their stylish chrome chariots. Then there were some changes and things took a downturn. Apparently one of the worst blows to local businesses along Kingsway was when, to accommodate the demands of more traffic and commuters, the city eliminated the original parking lanes and added them to regular traffic. Suddenly all those potential customers to the many mom ‘n’ pop businesses didn’t stop en route anymore, because parking became too much of a hassle. The politicians were happy though, because more and more residents found it more and more convenient to drive from Burnaby and New West past the (more and more bankrupt) businesses. The gradual decline has lasted for decades and only now looks like it may turn around. Symbolic of this trend is the fact that Wally's Burgers, a struggling, age-old landmark from the groovy car days, will soon be torn down to make way for new higher density housing and condos. It seems unfair that along this historic avenue one seems unable to keep the good history as we try to build a better future.

The silver lining to this particular cloud has been the influx of new residents and immigrant businesses from Asia, particularly Viet Nam. Cheap rents on neglected storefronts allowed those starting out to give it a shot. When no-one else was willing to invest in Kingsway, these people were. My son reaps the benefits by knowing his globe-spanning neighbours and glimpsing their cultures. He can enjoy a world-class dosa and the best pho this side of the Pacific because you can buy them a mere five-minute walk from our front door.

I believe that these immigrant investors fit perfectly in the procession of other hardworking folks from around the world who have, over the past 4 generations, build this residential community. The grandmas and grandpas on my street come from England, India, Portugal, China and Germany. Where else but on prickly old Kingsway, may I ask?

Confessions of a Stay-at-Home Dad

2008-04-08T07:49:00.000-07:00

To begin with, there was an enormous amount of vomit. Our boy had a "trick gullet", "bad-gag-instinct", "faulty esophageal occluder"... Whatever you want to call it, the kid could puke. That's one of my few very clear memories of the treadmill that was my first year of parenting.

My wife and I were struggling financially and, no surprise to those who know us, she was far more capable of earning something like a real wage to pay for our shiny, new and massive mortgage. She was not so keen to leave our son at home and head back to the salt mines after a scant 3 months of mom-time, but that was our only real option. Nowadays there are better benifits for new parents, but back then maternity leave was basically the idea that mom goes on the pokey for a maximum of six months, which was only 60% of your regular income. I was never able to understand why the government thought that, with a new baby in the house, we were supposed to eliminate 40% of our expenses. Those politicians are so smart, but maybe they need to brush up on their grade 8 math.

My wife's milk never came in really strong so, much to the disapproval of the la leche league (we called them "tit-nazis"), we were forced to put our boy on infant formula. Oh I recall the joys of combing the city for the lowest-riced Enphalac and hoarding it as much as our greatly reduced cash-flow allowed. The sanitation and boiling and cooling and heating and rubber nipples and all.. yes, this was my domain. Being a kitchen dad and foodie, this wasn't too bad. Later I also made all the home-made baby food. Anyone for steamed yams and squash, lovingly mashed a la mano? These things my boy heartily yakked back upon the man who made and administered them.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not complaining. By the time a year went by (or 1000 laundry cycles) the vomit was within normal parameters. My son is a sweet and gentle boy and he offered me very little friction in those early days. Certainly I got off better than my mother did, but that's another story. I've observed the hellcats that some of you are trying to wrangle into adulthood and I feel that I got off pretty easily by comparison. Also, we only have the one, you see... so we outnumber him.

I did all the stuff you're supposed to. He went everywhere with me. We were often at the park with the strollers and the other moms. These women tolerated me with reasonable friendliness most of the time. I think it was because they sincerely believed that, because I was a dad with a baby, it was clear that I no longer had a penis. As such, I was often awarded an honorary vagina and allowed to hear all the details of every single epesiotomy, c-section, epidural, hemorrhoid, and even the occasional vaginal birth. They would sit there, glowing and beautiful in the full-flush of their yummy-momminess and lactate at me. It was a privilege to be in their company, and likely kept me from going completely bonkers, but at times it was a lonely sisterhood for me.

There were the occasional know-it-all moms who couldn't resist the urge to correct my shoddy parenting. I fondly recall the woman in the photo-lab (had to develop the new batch of baby pics!). I had the boy cradled in the baby sling, dozing. She confronted me with "That's not how you use the sling. Baby isn't comfortable. I know because I have one just like it." That day I really didn't feel like I had a penis.. If I'd had more testosterone at the time I likely would have told her to fuck off.

The main reason I'm looking back at this today is that tomorrow is my son's 11th Birthday. I've noticed that my recollections of the earliest days of parenthood are pretty blurry, especially if I don't refer to the photo albums. Must be due to the the life-changing exhaustion, emotion and exasperation that that phase entails. When you talk to your folks they might try to warn you about how the years start to just fly by. Today I feel like I'm looking through a telescope backwards and peering at the tiny past. I wonder if the next 11 years will feel so blazing. We've got many hurdles ahead, what with puberty, relationships and sexuality, post secondary school, and the ultimate vacating of his room. I hope it won't go by too quickly, and that my future memories won't be so blurry. In the meantime, I guess I'll get busy making them.

Why we put up with it...

2008-04-06T13:46:00.000-07:00

Today I infiltrated the ivory towers of the West Side and snuck my dog down to Spanish Banks West, which is the only beach park in Kitsilano that allows you to run your dog off-leash. I hadn't been there in years, and returning reminded me why Vancouver is such a special place to live. The cool ocean breeze, rich in life-giving oxygen, lofted the playful eagles over our heads. The massive cluster of steel and glass towers in the distance purports to be what makes the town "world class", but I think the beach, mountains, climate, and diversity are what it's really all about. Still... if there was ever a time that my wife and I wanted to live West of Main, that's a distant memory at this point. Lemme hear an "Amen!"

You'll see my son in the pictures. He's going to be 11 this week and yesterday demanded that I buy him a toque with the skull on it, so his friends would thinks he's "cool". I steered him away from the one that said "stoned to the bone" on it, explaining the meaning. At least he agreed it was a bit inappropriate. He's hilarious in these pics, trying to look all "wicked and street". In truth he's a sweet and sensitive boy. I think I'm seeing the early edges of puberty here...

Today I'll be making Sunday Roast Beef. It's easy to do, and reminds me of my Gramma Betty. The trick for the meat is to season it well and then blast it in the oven at 450 degrees for 15 minutes. Then turn it down to 350 until the meat thermometer reads 127. That'll give you perfect med-rare beef after it sits on the counter for half an hour, coming up to about 134 degrees. If you don't have a decent meat thermometer, stop being such a loser and go buy one. They are essential and inexpensive. If you require less bloody beef, I'm afraid I don't like you much...

More important to a Gramma Betty style-roast dinner is the Yorkshire Pudding. Here's how I make it. This recipe works well so pay attention. Mix one cup milk, one cup flour and 4 eggs together about the same time you put the roast in. Whisk it nicely so it's all creamy and smooth. Cover the bowl and leave it on the counter while the roast cooks. When the roast is done, put the muffin tin into the oven with a bit of oil in each cup. Crank the oven to 400 degrees. When the oven reaches that temp, pour the batter evenly into the 12 oven cups. Close the oven and leave it alone. No really... mess with this and you'll kill them. In a half an hour they will be lofty, bubbled and nice. Make sure you let 'em get good and done (med-dark brown). If you pull them early they will smoosh down again, which tastes good, but looks very sad.

Er... you DO know how to make gravy, don't you?

Tim likes sausages.

2008-04-05T11:58:00.000-07:00

I'm a foodie. I endured years of restaurant kitchen work in my youth, grabbed some skills, and liberated myself to cook for friends and family. I love to eat and I love to find sources for real ingredients. I''m also fascinated by the history and origins of what we eat. How many different cultures offer us their take on the noodle, or the dumpling... or the sausage?

Bask in the dark ages, when I was in music school in 1988, I got hired to perform in a cheesy rock and roll revue at Playland. I used to ride my bike along Commercial drive early in the morning to go to rehearsal. When I passed 2nd and Commercial I would get hit with this intoxicating smoky, salty, fatty smell. It was the Polish sausage shop. I'd ride past sadly, looking at it's locked doors.

Over the years I've been in there quite a few times. They make their own ham, smoke their own sausage, and offer a culinary and cultural skill and ability that is truly humbling. Walking in to the small storefront you are confronted with all manner of hanging meat and other Good Things. This morning I caved in while riding home from the gym (lo these 20 years later) and bought some garlic sausage to go with my scrambled eggs for brunch today. Fuck the diet... it's Saturday and the bran bar just ain't gonna cut it. It's the J, N & Z Deli in the 1700 block of Commercial. Go there and get some, because when these old school food artisans die, more and more no-one moves up to take their place. One sad day it'll probably be yet another Starbucks or Money Mart or other ubiquitous and depressing establishment. There are two more old-school sausage joints I can tell you about. But I'll save 'em for now.

I make sausage and back bacon, too, from time to time. It's a fattening, cholesterol-laden hobby, but the rewards are obvious, I'd say. If you are interested, I heartily recommend the book Charcuterie, by Michael Ruhlman. You can find it on Amazon.

Black Friday?

2008-04-04T10:26:00.000-07:00

So, here I am looking into the grey, Vancouver "spring". I'll soon drive downtown to meet my accountant to pick up some papers. That's because I no longer have an accountant. At the wise age of 43 I've decided to grow up, save some money, and do my own freaking taxes. Gah. I hate that kinda stuff, but cutting corners is how you pay for vanity projects like big-ass tattoos. Rain, scrabbling for papers, math... feh.

We're still getting over the flu here, it's too wet to ride my bike with any pleasure, and I'm too weak for the gym. Is it too early to start drinking? My son won't be home 'till 12:30. Opinions may be offered in the comment section. Oh... and feel free to leave comments. I really have no idea if anyone's reading this stuff. Thanks...

Wouldn't have been on my top ten list...

2008-04-03T07:24:00.000-07:00

Barley is a 95-pound Chocolate Lab that lives in my house. He's about a year an a half old and is doing nicely with his behavior and training. I've made a point of trying to bring him up well. You see, I notice more and more people with dogs around me, and I must say that I think many of them are twits. There are a few different types of dog owner that totally rub my rhubarb. Are you one of these?

1) Parent of a surrogate child: These are the folks who, for some reason or other, have decided to have a dog instead of a child. On the surface, this is fine and normal, except that dogs aren't people. Honestly... if you more wetly smootch your pooch than you might kiss your spouse or a toddler.. if you dress your four-legged companion in Roots gear... if your dog gets more dental care than you do... it's time to stop. Or at least don't do it in public and save yourself the humiliation. Your baby licks it's genitals, you know, which is something I've never seen my son do.

2) Clueless Galoot: Yeah, brah! You're a manly guy with a big dog who's trolling for babes at the park, or just wandering the 'hood, showing us all that leashes are for pussies... and I don't mean cats. Oh yeah, you're totally in control of Cujo as he climbs up and over my back to play with my (restrained) dog. Wanna know what's harder to control that a 95-pound lab on a leash? Try one that's actively playing with a Rottie and who's running circles around you.

3) Cloistered Caregiver: Yes, you, lady... with the glowering maltese or skittish jack russel. You know... your little dog that lashes out and goes ape-shit when my dog tries to say hello? That's when you look at me like I'm an asshole to tell me meaningfully, "Oh, he doesn't like big dogs". I guess that's my cue to vacate the planet. Here's a hint: either socialize your creepy rat or keep it away from us.

4) Lululemon in Lalaland: Oh, I love attractive young women in yoga-wear, but do they really need to accesorize with a min-pin or chihuahua? These aren't dollies, they are pets. Apparently it's too much hassle to house-train the little darlings, too, so they just clean up after them when they do their business on their couch or in their purse. I don't know about you, but one of the main reason's I like having a dog as a pet is that it's possible to teach then not to crap in your house.

5) Shit Ninja: This is a blanket term for anyone who sneakily manages to allow their dog to leave it's calling card anywhere other than on their own property. Are you the nocturnal great dane owner who walks their dog at 4 am out of the view of the neighbours? Do you let your miniature poodle wander down the alley, unsupervised, for a "visit". Cut it out and clean up your poop!

Sorry. I digress. Dog ownership is wonderful and there are always surprises. One of my favourite sources of such doggy fun is a game called "drop-it roulette". This is where you've trained your dog to follow the verbal command of "drop" and want the hound to cough up some mystery object it's harboring in it's maw. So it was with us last Monday. My boy had Barley on the leash as we were walking to school. The dog eagerly snatched an object from the ground and held it firmly twixt cheek and gum. The dog looked too pleased by half, so I figured it was likely something toxic, filthy, or just plain inappropriate. I gathered myself up in my best alpha male way and intoned firmly, "Drop it, Barley."

This dog of mine has an excellent response when he doesn't want to do something. He assumes a pose we call the "Vinny Barbarino" in which he seems extraordinarily stupid, to the point that he can't understand English. Barley stood strong and looked at me moronically as he cradled the enigma in his mouth. I told him "drop" again, dreading the idea of trying to pry something nasty from his uncooperative jaws. I guess he knew the jig was up because the regular glint of intelligence returned to his eye as he looked at me and went "blup", disgorging something onto the ground at my feet.

So, gentle readers, you knew this is where we were going. There a a lot of things you might expect a dog to spit out. Hell... I've had dogs before. I've been there. But this was unique. This item would not have been on my top-ten list. Peering up at me from the asphalt, glistening and pink in the morning sun, was a naked, beady-eyed chicken head. Bawk bawk, baby.

There are nastier things one might expect to find in an East Vancouver alleyway, but few so unusual and unexpected. I guess Henny Penny's head might've been a.w.o.l . from one of my neighbours' trash cans. Maybe it was a poultry gangland hit. Maybe a wayward Satanist, fresh and giddy from a sacrifice, accidentally had it fall from his pocket. I won't ever know. It was just so odd... so damnedly David Lynch in the morning... that I had to share it with you.

For supper tonight I think I'll fry some sirloins in a cast iron pan. We'll have 'em hot and bloody with beans and mashed potatoes. I like to have the big jar of dijon mustard on the table for ease and comfort in these cases.

mid-life crises

2008-04-01T15:53:00.000-07:00

Welcome to my new blog. Most likely you know me if you are visiting. If not, welcome!

I'll start the ball rolling by admitting to something: I finally capitulated to that little voice in my head that's been murmuring over the past 23 years and gotten a tattoo. Not a small one, as you may see. The outline is in place, and I'll update as further work is done. I must admit to being a bit sheepish about the expense ('cause it sure 'aint over) but I am very happy with it. I'm also a bit self-conscious at my new amped-up vanity about the whole thing. There's a bit too much flexing, and checking things out in a mirror, and lotion application for me not to feel like a bit of a poseur. Ah well... what the hell. My next three hour session is two days after my boy's 11th birthday. That comment sums it up as well as anything.

Dinner tonight? I've bought a decadent, massive chicken pot-pie from costco because it's gotta be easy due to karate wrangling. We'll add mixed salad greens with low-fat dressing and Hey Presto! Usually I actually MAKE dinner but tonight I'm copping out.

Welcome to my navel-gazing.