this is one of the most beautiful views in Vancouver…

… but you can’t see it unless you’re watching TV.

I don’t go for conspiracy theory but this is pretty messed up

9+11 = 20. Fold a US $20 bill like a paper airplane and weird shit happens. It’s just a weird coincidence and, if you’re a hammer, everything looks like a nail. But this is still pretty messed up. On one side we see “United” and “America” (United 93 & 175 and American 11 & 77 were the hijacked flights) and what could be “interpreted” as the Twin Towers burning.

Flip it over and we see what could be, again, interpreted as the Pentagon burning.

Just thought that was neat and that I would pass it along.

BSC

2:17am

I’ve been bantering around in my silly self-pity the idea that I am such a great guy for doing this and thinking that. Here is wisdom. It is  2:17am; I got home from the party last night at 6:00am. Tonight, I was sitting in the bar surrounded by a bunch of idiots and some truly great people. I’m sitting there at, let’s say, 10ish, trying to figure why the hell I’m listening to this person. My boozing is legendary within my circle but that doesn’t give you an excuse to be a lousy drunk. Are you hitting on me or just fucking retarded? When she first walked in I thought she was homeless when I saw her counting her change. Then she starts a tab with a credit card and I figured “Whoops!!!!”

Okay, maybe she’s for real but when she gets started on her awesome band that nobody’s ever heard of… come on. If you’re D.I.Y. you’re D.I.Y. It’s not as though you’re truly special in some way because you figured out how to record a song. I’m out on the patio with ****, who is a bone fide sound engineer and your speel (how do you write that so it sounds like Shpeel? Don’t know don’t care) just doesn’t jive.

I’m being awful because I can. I’ve blown through a $100 bar credit and into my own cash, some of which went to old friends for new fun. Fuck it. I feel like being selfish. **** and I continue our conversation while 1/2 of the Columbia brewery is coursing through my brain. Honestly I can’t give a fuck about your stuttering mantra about how cool your life is.

I am dying to email someone I really shouldn’t talk to while flipping my phone open to text a friend but decide to give her a break from Baron’s Weekend. All the while, this god awful woman won’t stop going on about how much she hates me [wants to fuck me] and I just wish I could get away but I have nowhere to go. **** and I try to keep talking but suddenly the bar is closed and we’re locked outside. Fine. My fucked up lady friend has a lady friend who’s trying to get with the other straggler, who at this time is way too drunk to even stand, but he is saved by her teenage daughter and friends who yell, “Mom you’re coming home now!” I laugh myself silly because that’s something you just don’t witness everyday. He stands and drops his glass. SMASH! Oh well, tough shit.

**** gives me a lift home and drops me off at the off ramp. Walking down the hill, I watch the Olympic search lights playing in the sky and think, Jesus did I really pay for this? I have a smoke and walk home trying to figure out what the hell I’m doing and why I bother. I flip my phone open again but have the sense to leave her alone.

I fire up the computer and Facebook stalk the other “her” to see if her status has changed then start writing this. The stupidest thing I could ever do is hit “Publish” but that’s exactly what I do

Here Comes the Sun

Thursday, 12:00pm

When I wrote my Latin final at UBC, it wasn’t going well. I sat at my desk, an ancient language mocking me. If I failed this exam, my degree would go with it. My future hung in the words of the past, the words of the Caesars, yes, but the past nonetheless. When I finished my exam I added a line: alea iacta est. The die is cast. These are the famous words spoken by Julius Caesar as his army crossed the Rubicon into the Republic. It was a move he could not retract. I passed my exam.

Now, I find myself in a similar situation. My stomach is in knots as I await the result of a meeting Friday night. Two people will sit down to discuss their futures, and, in doing so, will discuss mine as well. I was led into this willingly as we so often are. I am not a naive man in any sense of the word unless it comes to matters of the heart where I tend to strike fast because my passion outweighs my judgement at every step.

To love a person is almost a cruel joke. Idealism and fantasy clash with realism at almost every step. My heart leaps when thoughts of this woman enter my mind and I just can’t stop. Some friends have told me to just drop it and walk away. But I cannot. I cannot walk away until I know for sure. The prize is just too worth it. Our discussions have opened my heart to a world I possibilities I never thought imaginable until now. It feels too right to be wrong but the universe and I have had similar jousts. Some of them I won; most resulted in my bloodied armour being dragged from the field.

Will it happen this time? I fear that it will. But we all fear such an outcome. I am unwilling to express my true feelings on the outcome here because I don’t want to jinx it. But I also know she’ll say “no.”

There, I said it. Damn it all.

There have been moments in my life when I wanted to take my library and burn it. All those words of hope and love clouded the despair of those that wrote them. I survived those moments and remain an adherent and disciple of those men and women who wrote the words that have brought so much pleasure and pain into my life.

The death of my father sent me into a tailspin that ended with a mythologized trip to a video store and police shotguns. The loss of my nephew put a dent in me that I just can’t straighten out. The death of my heart would be the death of me. I fear I would revert to my ultra-narcissistic and dangerous ways. And it is not self-pity. It is an awful pragmatism when one realizes that his path is such that for every step forward he takes, he is delivered not a reward but a crushing blow.

Like Nietzsche’s slaves, we comfort ourselves by saying, “Nice guys finish last” and a bunch of other Hallmark platitudes designed to sugar coat the harsh reality that life is cruel and nonpartisan. The law of averages dictates that if you surround yourself with goodness your chances of evil encroaching upon you are greatly reduced. Tell that to my nephew.

It is a gorgeous day outside today and yet here I sit, keeping counsel with my typewriter. I will go outside today, but I fear the sunlight. In here, I can amuse myself with the gadgetry of our age and try not to over think the next 36 hours of my life. When I go outside, I will be thinking of nothing but the joy of being a family walking in that sunshine for the rest of our lives. I’ll do that Saturday or never at all.

Thursday, 11:00pm

We didn’t make it to Friday but parted with a tender “Goodnight.” Tomorrow, the sun will rise and I will walk in the sunshine. If it rains, I’ll bring an umbrella and walk in all the puddles.

(I was just about to post this entry but decided to check the channel listings before doing so. It was playing Here Comes The Sun. Fucking universe… you really just gotta love it.)

examples

Despite what I get paid for, you can’t teach a person to write. You can teach them grammar and correct their spelling, but, when it comes to finding their voice, only they can find it. What I try to do is give them examples. I give them examples of other’s writing and let them find their own voice from within the voices of others. All art is a smorgasbord. We pass along the table enjoying it piece by piece. People who only ever order the same item everyday, always eat the same damn thing and that bores me to tears. I try to be a guide and mentor to these students but I think that if 2010 is to be truly the “Year of Baron,” I will need a couple guides and mentors myself. The list is below. I know the people on the list with the exception of three. The people on the list are people who have had a positive effect on all I do. Some have been there for a while. Some are brand new. One is a rediscovered treasure and two are people more dear to me than life itself who I have never met.

The Examples:

Tom Wolfe, Hunter S. Thompson, and Lester Bangs -

Tom Wolfe first coined the term “New Journalism,” as it is used today, in the 1970’s. The New Journalists were writers who believed that journalism could be literature. Unlike Hemmingway, who wrote literature like journalism, these writers came down from the bleachers and involved themselves in the articles they wrote.

Hunter S. Thompson gave us “Gonzo” journalism, his own breed of the New Journalism. He is a mentor to me for his true and undeniable love of life and his unrelentless war on the “new dumb” who preyed upon the underdogs. Some claim his take on the New Journalism killed it by making himself the story rather just including himself within it. Despite his death from a sudden, self-inflicted, catastrophic lead overdose, he was a liver of life and, by most accounts, a true Southern gentleman while doing so.

Lester Bangs wrote music journalism the way the Beats wrote life. Accused of being a loudmouth jealous of the musicians he covered, I read him as a humourous and honest voice in a genre where too many people seek to be rock stars themselves or stop at nothing to destroy the idols they created.

Adam P. W. Smith

Adam is a local, live event photographer. Not the most famous of photographers but he is well on his way. His pictures of the local music scene are always amazing and he is always generous with his advice when I ask. Melodramatic as it may be, the day at Pub 340 that he took a picture of me (as opposed to one I was just in), I felt like my “arrival” had begun.

http://www.adampwsmith.com

Robyn

I met Robyn at Capilano College at couple of years ago and we reconnected on the Internet. A recent grad of SFU’s Communications Program, she is 23, brilliant, insightful, and gorgeous. 2010 will be her year and I am jealous already.

http://walkthroughpuddles.wordpress.com/

“Nono”

I won’t put up his picture here, but when a 16 month old child displays more courage, strength, and resilience than you have in 37 years, you take notice.

Jane Sawyer

Voice of an angel and a smile Lucifer would be jealous of, her sense of Vancouver warms my heart. She’s a nanny who teaches music to incarcerated juveniles and knows where to buy a gloriously awful grilled cheese sandwich. She has been free and clean for over a year and I can only dare to try.

http://www.myspace.com/janesawyersongs

Aaron Chapman

A writer, storyteller, and one time member of every band in Vancouver, Aaron always greets me with a smile, a story, and a genuine interest in what I’ve been up to. I love his music and his laugh and I am always happy when we run into each other.

Hellachella

A voice from the darkness, Chella and I met in tough times and rode them out together by sharing our insanity and ending up sane. She is a musician, writer, crafter, maker of horribly alcoholic preserves, and a heart to be reckoned with. She loves her kids, her man, her friends, and taught me that a little bit of laughter can take you a very long way. I owe her more than I could ever pay or she would ever accept.

http://domestica79.blogspot.com/

If you didn’t make the list, don’t worry. I’m a day to day type guy and you’ll make the list six months from now when my life falls apart again!

What exactly is the point of having a restricted vision sign hidden in a bush?

I’ll get by with a little help from my friends

“like i said, everyone is entitled to those SHIT days”

bar stories

Is every bar story true? Of course not, but who really cares anyway? Movie director, John Ford, famously said, “When the legend becomes fact, print the legend.” A-freakin-men. Bar stories are meant to be entertaining and fun. People who come to the bar and only talk about downer shit should just stay home and sit around in their underwear drinking with their cats. Last night, during a bar story moment, a friend told me the best cop story EVER.

He’s about to get a ticket for drifting through a stop sign. The cop asks him why he didn’t stop.

“I slowed down,” is his reply.

“Slowing down is not stopping,” says the police officer.

“Close enough.”

“Get out of the car.”

He gets out and the cop holds up his Maglite.

“I’m going to start beating you over the head with this. Now, tell me: Do you want me to stop or do you want me to slow down?”

you know what I hate?

I hate Rock Band. I hate Guitar Hero. I hate most video games. I used to play Grand Theft Auto with the cheat codes on and just sit and pop people’s heads off with a sniper rifle but that had to do more with just hate, not video games… heh.

You know what I like? I really like a good cause. So, even though it is a “Rock Band” thing (ugh), it is truly a worthy cause and needs your support. Check this out (via Facebook – Rock-Off for Spinal Cord Injury) :

Prepare to get your Rock On! The Rock Band “Rock-Off for Spinal Cord Injury” in support of Rick Hansen Wheels In Motion, is coming to Darby’s Pub in Kitsilano on Thursday, February 4th. Come hungry and ready to show off your Rock Band talents! Tickets are $20 and include a burger and a beer. Entry into the Rock Band “Rock-Off” competition is $2 per person, per song. Win great prizes for mad skills and crowd pleasing antics! Net proceeds will go towards improving the lives of Canadians with spinal cord injury.

Tickets can be purchased at the Blusson Spinal Cord Centre reception desk (818 West 10th Ave), through the Rick Hansen Foundation office at 3820 Cessna Drive in Richmond, or by phone (604-707-2154).

Please call (604-707-2154) or email (jquan@rickhansen.com) if you are planning on attending so we can put you down for a ticket.

Tickets may also be purchased at the door if you are unable to pick them up.

One day, and February 4 may be that day, I will ease up on my hatred for Rock Band and video games. Until that day, this is how my friends and I “play” Rock Band. Seriously though, it is within us all to support those causes that need it. This is one.

Je suis le chevalier fou

It will probably come as no surprise to many of you, that among the many eccentric items in my collection, I own a set of dueling pistols. Whether or not they are “battle ready” is a matter for the aether, but my finger remains on the trigger, always. Part of being a lover is being a fighter: If you did not love, you’d have nothing to fight for. Duels come about as a challenge, Romanticized blood-sport where honour is at stake. I fight as best I can against ignorance and injustice and relentlessly cheer for the underdog in most cases. But the sides I picked were always selected through analysis. Al-Queda may be the minority in number but you won’t find me supporting them or their tactics any time soon. One thing that is sure to cock my hammer, is someone being held down, kept back, or repressed by ignorance. Be it the jackals of organized, evangelical religion preying on the fears of the weak, or a small minded man who would rather crush a flower than let it bloom and juxtapose its beauty with his pettyness. For these things I will fight. I will fight with a passion that knows no bounds, no limit. Once my heart is engaged in the battle, I ask no quarter and expect none in return.

Quixotic? Perhaps, but when passion is involved I cannot remain in the shadows, fearing for my heart and health. I will take to the field with the words of The Rough Rider ringing in my ears:

“Far better it is to dare mighty things, to win glorious triumphs even though checkered by failure, than to rank with those poor spirits who neither enjoy nor suffer much because they live in the gray twilight that knows neither victory nor defeat.”

I could much easier suffer the shame of defeat than the pain of longing felt by the heart that was stirred by nothing. And for this I am a fool? Je dis “non.”

got one of these?

Get one: http://modernurbanguides.com

neither rain, nor snow, or… um… heavy bags or er… bad gas…

Guess what I got today? If you guessed “More awesome mail?” you’re either a genius or living under my desk. I recently blogged about how awesome it feels to get cool mail. Today, was pretty freakin’ cool. Today I received a package from New York (stomping grounds of the illustrious Jen and Elaine). Inside said package was the following:

Okay, for those who don’t have super powers and can’t hear pictures, along with the super-cool portrait is a talking Gilda Radner card. “RAD” indeed. I love the portrait, the talking card – listening to Gilda Radner complain about bad gas from beyond the grave is a must for any Tuesday morning, and the note made my day.

I told you: Mail is a happy thing! And it works both ways. Now Jen can tell her friends that one of her pictures sits proudly beside a limited edition Ralph Steadman print of Hunter S. Thompson, signed by Thompson and Steadman and shot (yeah, shot) by William S. Burroughs. I’d like point out Jen’s portrait of HST is signed too. WOOT! I hope Jen’s work likes its new home because its new home sure likes it. MAIL IS AWESOME!

a-to the-men

“i think the mouth is the most annoying part of the human body.

straight up.”

the age of style

Despite what some of you may think, I am not an entirely vain person. That does not mean, however, that I don’t care about how I look. Truth be told, even when I’m dressing down and feeling kind of slobbish, there’s still a method to my madness. There are several people out there whose style I admire. Often, when I am preparing to go out, I will dress with one of these fashion archetypes in mind.

Style Icon #1- The Bum: Jeffrey “The Dude” Lebowski

If I don’t need to get dressed, I stay in my pjs all day. If I don’t need to shave, I won’t. Soap and showers are a daily must but why dirty clothes when you don’t need to?

Style Icon #2 – The “Writer”: Cal McAffrey (Russell Crowe, State of Play)

Gloriously unkempt but still hip, the writer denotes the artistic side but also states that substance trumps appearance. It’s simple, classic, and sometimes scruffy.

Style Icon #3 – The Gracefully Aging Hipster: Anthony Bourdain

He cooks. He writes. He travles the world. He is so cool, the man shits ice.

Style Icon#4 – The Bad Boy: Tyler Durden (Brad Pitt, Fight Club)

The picture pretty much sums it up. Pitt was only a couple years younger than I am now when he shot this film. So the possiblity for this body does exist for me and men my age.

Style Icon #5 – The Rich Bad Boy: Sean Penn

When passion and wallet match in size, you look just as good in a tux as you do in scrubby jeans and tussled hair. You don’t give a damn what people think because you really don’t have to.

Style Icon #6 – The Suit: George Clooney

No one looks better in the classic suit than George Clooney. If I can look half as good as he does when I’m 50, bring it on.

I love mail

Okay, so it’s really convenient to be able to push a button and have the picture of your baby throwing up on the cat be sent to everyone you know instantaneously, but I still like getting mail. I got this the other day:

(Damn good CD, by the way. Review to follow soon)

You may notice that the address says “King of West Vancouver.” I blog about this from time to time because, apparently, my ego knows no bounds, but in 1994 I recieved my letter from The Smugglers’ Fan Club and it was addressed to: Baron Cameron, King of West Vancouver. The fact that it arrived at my address sets the precedent that I am, in fact, the King of West Vancouver.

Now, the King thing is a bit of a joke but I still like to point out that even though Grant Lawrence started it 16 years ago, when I tell people that’s my address, that’s how they send it. My friends are just as nuts as I am and I love it. My personal favourite was one addressed to “Reverend Doctor Baron S. Cameron.” I’m an ordained minister of the Universal Life Church so, along with King of West Vancouver, it is actually my proper title.

Even if your letters don’t denote you as royalty, they’re still more fun than email. So if you feel like sending me a letter, I’ll send you my address. Which reminds me, I owe Jane and Lexi letters…

Jane (secret awesome heroine of this blog) sent me a puzzle letter the other day… kicks ass. Try sending someone a real puzzle by email! Can’t do it! So, buy a stamp and send someone a letter. You can imagine how you’ll brighten their day when their daily routine is broken.

“Bill, bill, bill, bi… Hey! A letter!” They’ll love you for it. Trust me!

Eww.

I’m certain I’m dying. I feel like The Horta from “The Devil In The Dark” (*If you get the reference, you’re probably a nerd, btw). My back and arm look like someone double-tapped a freckled ginger in the brain stem then left his face on me. I’m sure I have leprosy, necrotizing fasciitis, or maybe even the Bubonic Plague. On my birthday in 1665, the first case of The Great Plague was recorded in London. There’s got to be a few pissed off ghosts out there somewhere. We grow posies in our garden every year but my medical shortsightedness stopped me from carrying them around in my pocket so now I’m doomed. Not because I have the Bubonic Plague, which I’m certain I do, but because I have to go to the doctor’s office. I hate doctors. Everyone hates doctors.

I’m not sure why people hate doctors. Because when they’re not golfing, driving fancy cars, or marrying gorgeous spouses, they do take the odd moment to help people. The only GP I’ve had that I ever really got along with was a short, East Indian woman who didn’t golf and whose husband I never met. From what I understand she sold her successful practice to go into Naturopathy which makes about as much sense to me as opening a chain of U-Brews in Salt Lake City.

I head out the door into a beautiful Vancouver day, more spring than winter. Why? To go the doctor’s. Yay.

I have a 10 o’clock appointment and I am on time. The waiting room is full and I chuckle a quiet “suckers” to myself as I stride to the desk to declare that I have arrived for my prescheduled, queue-jumping “appointment.” 25 minutes later,  I must stifle a disgruntled snort as the receptionist tells some poor sod that he should have made an appointment so he wouldn’t have to wait.

No one in here looks sick except for a parapellegic whose sinuses seem to have declared war on her. The others are mostly old people suffering from some “old person” ailment that I might have by the time I finally get to see the doctor. Most people sit quietly, periodically checking their watches. Most…

One character you’re bound to find in almost every Canadian city, but seems to flourish in West Vancouver, is the Grand British Dame. They always enounciate every word as though they’re telling the story about the time they “met the Queen.” This particular one, as she berates the Muslim women behind the desk, probably for reasons other than the wait, reminds me of Basil Fawlty’s nemesis, Mrs. Richards, sans the vase and intermittent hearing aid, but if you’re familiar with the episode, you’ll know what I mean.

35 minutes later and my back is driving me nuts. I didn’t put anything on it this morning so that the doctor could see my blooms in all their glory. It burns and itches. It burns and itches like those times when you’re sitting by the phone trying to remember the phone number of the last girl you slept with.

40 minutes have past and after being paged as “Basahn Campbell”, I’m sitting in the examination room. I notice a stack of script pads. Shouldn’t really leave those lying around I think to myself as I notice the shelves are packed with boxes of syringes. This would be somebody’s gold mine. I consider making a joke about it when the doctor comes in, just to break the ice, but think better of it when I remember that I’m here to get my back checked out, not get the bum’s rush because I know just a little too much about drug seeking behaviour.

As it turns out, I don’t have leprosy, or necrotizing fasciitis, or even the Plague. I can’t say I’m disappointed but, as could be expected, my inherent Romanticism pervades all aspects of my life. Turns out the mosaic de yuck creeping across my back is Psoriasis.

*Psoriasis (pronounced /səˈraɪəsɪs/) is a chronic, non-contagious disease that affects mainly the skin. It is currently suspected to be autoimmune in origin.It commonly causes red, scaly patches to appear on the skin, although some patients have no dermatological symptoms.

Apparently it can be caused by genitics (thanks Dad), smoking (thanks Dad), and alcohol consumption (thanks Dad). I get a script for two creams: one to be used in the morning, the other to be used at night. According to the doctor I should be back to my usual white pasty self in 10 days or so. He also said that I should try to get as much sun on the affected areas as I possibly can. Good thing for me the Winter Olympics are coming in three weeks, otherwise it might be snowing.

Not being able to scratch an itch for 10 days might just drive me insane. Better leave Poe on the bookshelf for the next few days just to be safe.