Stars: A Prose poem
My family has a cattle ranch in the Rockies. It was there that I learned that the night sky has far more stars than anyone who lives in the city will ever see. It’s called “light pollution.” The light that the city gives off, the buildings, the streetlights, the cars; all of them combine to blind us to the lights in the sky above us. Apparently it fucks with the migratory paths of birds as well. Part of me likes to think this is why they shit on us from above, covering our streets, statues, and cars with a layer of discontent. They’re pissed off that, rather than wintering in Mexico, they’re stuck here getting rained on all winter like the rest of us Vancouverites.
These are the strange things I think about when I’m sitting on a bench in Chinatown at four o’clock in the morning and I’ve been awake for nearly twenty hours.
I look up and the night sky’s true awesomeness is hidden from me because of the light seeping into my eyes from all that surrounds me here on Earth. But you will not hear me complain. I have enough “stars” of the human variety that surround me here on the streets of this city I call home.
There will be plenty of time to gaze into the heavens when I am lying on my back, gasping for my last breath, in a piss-filled gutter somewhere. This is my city.
YVR: My city, ’tis of thee.
The Haus of Boudoir Autumn Gala
I sent my lawyer the first draft of my review of the party thrown by Lola Frost and Little Miss Risk. This is what he sent back…
George Stroumboulopoulos: The Truth on TV
Since there’s been television sets to complain about, parents have been warning their children that they “can’t believe everything [they] see on TV!” I would agree that this is very often the case, but when it comes to George Stroumboulopoulos, I’ve decided he can be trusted.
*This next bit is going to read like a second introduction and I’m pretty sure it is.
It irritates me when people talk about hating people they have never met. You can hate Lady Gaga’s music all you want or hate Charlie Sheen’s lifestyle, but you really can’t hate a person you don’t know. So whenever I hear people talk that way about George Stroumboulopoulos (which is rare but it does happen), I feel the need to defend him, having met him three times now.
The first time I met Stroumboulopoulos was in April of 2007. I was in Toronto to visit my sister and do the usual Toronto stuff: The Hockey Hall of Fame, The CN Tower, and the Allied Beauty Association’s convention and trade show (Yes, there’s a whole different story there.).
I also made plans to go to a taping of The Hour. It was really my main reason for going, next to seeing my sister, of course.
It was Tuesday, April 3, 2007 and his in-studio guests were James Bartleman, then the 27th Lieutenant-Governor of Ontario and Neil Sedaka; if you don’t already know who he is (shame on you), I won’t bother having to explain. But it wasn’t his interview style or the the guests that got me. It was how he dealt with the audience. During one of the breaks he started talking with someone in the crowd about hockey goaltenders. The conversation lasted the whole break. The floor manager gave him the 30 second sign. Stroumboulopoulos acknowledged it and kept talking with the audience member. At the 20 second warning, he began walking backwards to his chair, never breaking eye contact or conversation with the audience member. At 10 seconds, he was sitting in his chair still conversing with the audience member until he put his finger up for a pause, said, “Just a second”, then turned to the camera, “My next guest…”
After the show he stayed to meet every person who stayed to meet him.
The second time I attended a taping was November 30, 2009. His guests that day were Patrick Trahan, a motorcyclist from the Dakar Rally (who almost killed my friends and I when he arrived on his bike at the CBC, bumped into a cab, then lurched up onto the sidewalk), and Shawn Ashmore, the actor. My sister, her boyfriend, my friend Lori, and I sat front row. It was cool. At the time, I was doing my own interview show online and had a picture of Stroumboulopoulos out of sight, down by my knee. If an interview was going a little awry, I’d look down and think, “What would George do?” He signed the picture for me that day.
I hate Metrotown. I hate everything about Metrotown. In fact, the last time I was there was for this, five or six years ago:
Now hanging around all day making snide remarks about Canadian Idol is a great way to spend your day in the mall. Standing in line? Not so much. This past Saturday, Metrotown played host to a CBC Live event. I went to check it out. One “Lucky Facebook Winner” was given 20 or so minutes to ask Stroumboulopoulos questions, interview him. One of the questions was “Why the CBC?” Stroumboulopoulos responded that he didn’t even return their call the first time. It wasn’t until it dawned on him that there were no investors, no bottom line, at the CBC that he wanted to go work there. The CBC existed to program for a nation, not make investors rich. I decided to stay afterward to see if I could get signed posters for a couple of friends.
After almost two hours, and tweets like, “If I don’t get a @strombo poster b/c the line was too long, next person to walk by with a Heartland poster is getting punched on her 14yr old tit!”, I finally got a chance to meet him again, shake his hand, and get a couple of personalized autographs for my friends. Standing in line makes you punchy, I know, but I really wasn’t worried. Just as I figured, he stayed. While the Dragon’s Den guy was long gone with the cast of The Republic of Doyle, Stroumboulopoulos, “George” as he always introduces himself, was still chatting wildly with the first two people in line.
He is the real deal, Truth on TV. If you don’t like his show, fine. But if you’re going to slam him, shake his hand and look him in the eye before you do. It’s not being star struck either. Stroumboulopoulos is no star; he’s Canada’s boyfriend.
This is NOT a pub crawl
Okay, maybe a little. I prefer to think of it as a “leisurely cocktail walk“.
I have been blessed with many things in this life; a good cocktail bar was not one of them. Don’t get me wrong. I still love the Squarerigger Pub, my “local” (Crystal and Scott pour a mean “dirty”), and I will still go to pretty much any venue to see/hear good music but I wanted a cocktail bar, somewhere hip and cool and ridiculously overpriced. So last night, I started holding auditions.
5:30 pm – The Squarerigger Pub, 150-1425 Marine Drive, West Vancouver.
Beer. A pitcher of Sleemans Original $9.99. $13 after tax and 16% tip.
I like the Rigger. Anyone who knows me knows I spend most of my time out here. It’s a great place to watch a game and the downstairs section is just itchin’ to host your party. I recommend coming down during the day for a cup of coffee and annoying the manager, Scott, while he tries to get some work done. It’s my new favourite thing.
7:30 pm – George Ultra Lounge, 1137 Hamilton Street, Vancouver.
Aviation: Beefeater gin, maraschino liqueur and fresh lemon juice, served up and finished with violet liqueur. $11. $15 after tax and a 22% tip.
Essentially a Mike’s Hard Lemonade made with Gin. It is simple but good. It was also my server’s favourite.
I have no idea what an Ultra lounge is but whatever it is, I have a sneaking suspicion that George is it. The lighting is at the perfect setting for apres-business or pre-sex. Take your pick. The staff are all beautiful (women and men) and clad in black. It’s definitely Yaletown in here. As I continue to sip my cocktail (apparently in places like this, sipping is appropriate – not a lot of beerpong going on in here), it actually gets better. My heartburn doesn’t but that’s not the cocktail’s fault. The lovely Alexandra brings me my bill and I am off. I am coming back to be sure. George also gets an extra point because it is a chip shot away from my lawyer’s office. Always handy.
8:10pm – The Morrissey Pub, 1227 Granville Street, Vancouver.
Classic “dirty” martini. $12.05.
1516 beer. $5.50 (after tax)
$25 after tax and a 31% tip (and a free beer).
This one was a bit of a cheater. I’ve been here before and really quite like it. It really isn’t a cocktail place either. But that doesn’t stop them from serving some of the best martinis I’ve ever had. According to the bartender, they are more of a “beer and scotch” type place. And they’re pure rock and roll. You’re going to find more lip piercings and plaid in here than you would suits and Italian shoes. The stereo sounds like my iPod and the bartender is a slightly shorter, bearded version of Graham Myrfield in appearance and attitude. This is a good thing. I get the impression that a lot of the customers have forgotten more about Vancouver’s music scene than I’ll ever know and I have to stifle a sigh as the two lovely young ladies beside me drink Jameson’s with beer chasers… Honey, I’m home!
9:45ish pm – The Keefer Bar, 135 Keefer Street, Vancouver.
I don’t know. I just said “Dealer’s Choice” and got this: Famous Grouse scotch, sweet vermouth, artichoke vermouth, maraschino liqueur, with Peychauds and Angustura bitters. $12.50 after tax. $15 with 20% tip.
Now THIS is a cocktail. Plus service with a smile.
Now, for starters, the Keefer Bar is small. It’s cozy and great, but it’s small. If you plan on going there, go early. I meant to be there around 9:30 but the bartender at the Morrissey Pub queered the deal by comping me a beer. So I pour myself in at around 9:45ish and the place is packed. The burlesque show starts at 10. There is one empty stool at the bar. I asked if it’s being used and the woman kindly responds that she’s pretty sure it is but she’s not sure by who.
The MC takes to the stage. She cracks wise and plays some tunes to get the crowd primed. Lola Frost does her routine to Mancini’s “Pink Panther”. It’s killer. I think this is the third time I’ve seen Lola perform. The other two times, she was dancing with Villainy Loveless (as “The Switchblade Sisters”) as part of Shiloh Lindsey’s stage show. There was a routine with a wind-up doll that made me happy in all the right places. Good times. Great hootch and pasties? How can you go wrong? After the set, the woman I spoke to about the stool earlier comes over and tells me the stool is free. I thank her but tell her I’m quite enjoying being in everyone’s way. It was standing room only and the ladies on stage deserved it. So did the Wee Keefer for that matter. I chase my nameless-but-awesome cocktail with a Blue Buck lager and hit the streets once more.
11:05pm – Bus.
11:20pm – The Squarerigger Pub, 150-1425 Marine Drive, West Vancouver.
Beer. Sleemans Original. $6.15 with tax and 15% tip.
So I’m back at The Rigger for about five minutes when the wild & wonderful Miss Lori Roberge comes rumbling in. After surviving her harrowing drive across North America, she has returned to Vancouver only to have someone swipe her glasses. So if you know someone who frequents Darby’s Pub (2001 Macdonald Street, Vancouver) who suddenly has a new pair of glasses that look like these:
Kick some ass WITHOUT breaking the frames and let me know.
All in all it was a fun night. I’ll let y’all know when the next round of auditions is being held and we can go for a “leisurely cocktail walk” together.
Baron S. Cameron, thy name is vanity [and unemployed]
Dear Friends, It has come to my attention that having money and a legal source of income is somewhat of a necessity these days. To that end I have decided to promote and sell action figures. Please browse the catalogue below.
University Grad
A Fond Farewell
Last Friday at The Anza Club was a fitting send off for Vancouver’s SWANK! and the second of three of the Sound Lounge Presents Concert Series.
Let me start by saying this: Jonathan Todd is why I go to shows. When SWANK! played their first show ever, this troubadour was yet to be conceived, let alone born. I wouldn’t be surprised if told his frame is as big as it is to hold the heart that beats within. If you can imagine Gary Farmer with Bob Dylan’s hands and Rufus Wainwright’s voice, you’d be getting close. He plays a mix of originals and covers, covers which include a show stopping rendition of Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah” that I have no problem telling you actually brought me to tears.
Listening to Jonathan Todd progress through the opening set was like finding a $20 bill in the pocket of a pair of jeans and then realizing it’s actually a cheque from Lotto BC for a couple million dollars.
Next to take the stage that evening was The Jardines. The Jardines are a country/folk outfit made up of the mother/daughter duo of Cherelle and Ajaye. Cherelle Jardine, along with Kirk Douglas, is one of the organizers of the concert series.
This is the first time I have seen The Jardines with the full 8-piece band. I had previously seen them perform as a duo at West Vancouver’s Harmony Arts Festival this past summer. My two favourite songs that day, “Addicted to the Burn” and “Neptune’s Daughter”, transform seamlessly into ballads adapted for the full band and are easily my favourites again. There was perhaps a bit too much chatter about the songs between the songs (I always prefer to let the song act as stories in and of themselves without added preamble), but the banter between Cherelle and Ajaye is also largely due to Cherelle and her daughter being able to share moments [on stage] that very few mothers/daughters can.
Finishing the evening (literally), Swank took the stage for their last show. After 18 years they’ve decided to go out on a high note. When not every heart beats in unison, it can only throw the music off, eventually. Swank are too good of musicians, too good of friends to ever let that happen. Thankfully Swank has left us with a lot to remember them by. In fact, the song, “Donkey Cart” off Campfire Psalms is on my shortlist of Best Songs of All Time, sharing shelf space with The Who, Judy Garland, and Kermit the Frog.
Swank’s stage persona always feels relatively light; they are all accomplished and serious musicians but Swank shows are/were always an equal mix of sheer talent and sheer joy to perform. That night was no different. Except for one thing… when it’s the last song, everyone dances just that little bit harder. During Swank’s set, Douglas Liddle and Dave Badanic carved into their guitars with no mercy. On the faster, “rockier” songs, I was transported to all the indie, all ages, church basement shows of my youth, when at 17 years old, I’d watched many a beaten, second-hand guitar hammer out the West Coast Garage sound with the fury of an avalanche.
Swank are just damn good and there’s no two ways about it or super-poetic way to put it otherwise.
Spencer McKinnon (vocals/harmonica) led the band through the set like a Southern Minister possessed by fire and brimstone, his pulpit a stage, his sermon a rock and roll revival meeting that had us all speaking in tongues. You can’t have fury without the thunder, supplied in abundant surplus by Phil Addington (bass) and Kirk Douglas (drums).
After the show, I grab the couch in the Sound Lounge’s control room for a quick nap. Douglas takes a moment to sit down before heading back next door to finish packing up the gear and Swank.
“That was a hard show to play,” he says, a wistful smile creeping up on his tired face.
I bet it was at that. It’s sad to see you go but it was indeed my pleasure to watch you leave.
Hair-brained Year-long Project #18284-F: The dress
Okay.
I have decided I am making a dress (not for me, thx).
I’ve always liked fashion. But I can’t sketch, stitch, cut, or sew.
I am starting from scratch. But with my library card, my passion for ridiculous ideas, and my mom’s sewing machine, I’m giving myself one year, 365 days, to design and make a dress. Why? Why the fuck not?
Repost: “Leave the Gun; Take the Cannoli”: The fun and foibles of live music
This entry was originally posted on the Baron S. Cameron Blog 13/11/2008. I was just giving it a read and thought I’d throw it back out there. BSC.
“Leave the gun; take the cannoli” is possibly the greatest throwaway line ever. Delivered beautifully by Richard S. Castellano, as the affable but deadly Peter Clemenza in The Godfather, I consider it to be one of the best lines in the history of American Cinema. But what does it mean, and, perhaps more importantly, why would I bring it up in an article about live music?
When Paulie, Vito Corleone’s ex-driver, is murdered, Clemenza and his cohorts don’t dwell on it. Paulie is never mentioned again except when Clemenza lets Sonny know that the job is done: “Paulie? You ain’t going to see him no more.” Essentially, the dirty work is behind them; they move on. The gun is the awfulness of the immediate past. The cannoli is the anticipation of a sweet future.
As a medium, live music can be as exciting as it gets. There is a thrill of instant creation, a rush. It may not easily liken itself to skydiving or bungee jumping, but there is still the anxious possibility of a moment of glory and, equally, of a mistake. Luckily for musicians, such mistakes are rarely physically fatal. The death of one’s career, however, is sometimes a very real possibility. Unlike NASCAR though, very few people attend live music shows just to see if someone fucks up; they go to see a performance. And, provided that the mistakes are small enough, people rarely notice them. It is usually the solo burden of the musicians who are often the only ones in the room who know that something has gone awry. They should never be too hard on themselves though. We, the audience, are waiting for the next note, and, perhaps more importantly, we are waiting for the musicians to supply it, which they won’t if they are dwelling on the note that didn’t quite make it.
It is physically impossible to play the same song twice performing live; humans are not exact enough to do it. Even if a song could be perfectly replicated, the live moment originally accompanying it would be gone. The art of creating is fleeting. The effect or result of the moment of creation can be recorded in some fashion (tape, canvas, ink) but the actual moment is gone forever. It is a point in a dynamic process that exists for an instant and is then disappears to whatever realm it was pulled from in the first place. Creation moves forward. Where we were is not as important as where we are going and this is why live music forgives our little mistakes: what’s done is done and rarely remembered as it actually happened. Humans are also pretty lousy recorders of history, especially when our passions are aroused. So unless the DAT’s rolling, don’t sweat it. This of course is not to say that a musician doesn’t need to try on the previous note, only to make it up to us with the next one – we’re talking about small mistakes here, not shoddy musicianship. Also, if you really can’t play, you’re doomed. “They suck” is a pronouncement more difficult to revise than “murderer” or “whore.” Changing a crowd’s mind is simple enough with some practice but getting a crowd out to see a band that “sucks” is nigh on impossible.
But the mistakes can be glorious too. Most scientific discoveries don’t happen with a “Eureka!” but with a “How the hell did that happen?” Take Radiohead’s “Creep” for example: the seemingly out of place guitar crunches before the chorus are, as guitarist, Ed O’Brien, explains, “the sound of Jonny [Greenwood] trying to fuck the song up.” In the final cut, however, it is Jonny Greenwood’s “fuck ups” that end up being the most memorable part of a very memorable song.
So here is wisdom: If you flub a note, don’t sweat it. We’re waiting for the next one. In short, “Leave the gun; take the cannoli.”
Design V. Documentation: “What Is Art?” and my problems with photography
Every society and culture that I am aware of, has garnered my awareness through their desire to be remembered. Those who want to disappear, persons or societies, often do so. But I believe that we can logically assume that most would like to leave some type of legacy or, at least, a dent in the wall somewhere to show they existed.
A classical studies professor I had at UBC once suggested the reason we have the ancient literature we do is because it was popular and mass produced thereby greatly increasing its chances of surviving the ages. Does this mean that our society will be thought of as a society of Dan Brown readers and Justin Bieber fans? Well, truth be told, we are a society of Dan Brown readers and Justin Bieber fans, but we are also much much more. Unfortunately, that “much much more” is rarely as well documented as the other. When was the last time you saw major media outlets spend a week discussing the latest tattoo acquired by the lead cellist in the Vancouver Symphony Orchestra?
So, my contribution to pot is documentation.
I review, promote, provide, and take pictures. But are the pictures art?
A lot of photojournalists have had their pictures declared “art”, won awards, etc… But are photographs always art? No. Where is the line? What is a good picture?
We (well anyone with a Facebook account) know what a bad picture looks like: over exposed, poorly framed, out of focus, poor use of subject… But what about a picture that is perfectly exposed, framed, focused, representing the subject as intended but the subject is a printing press you’re photographing for a technical manual? Is it art?
Another problem very evident in the world of Facebook and MySpace is the word “photographer”. I have owned cameras for over 20 years, but does the mere fact that I take pictures make me a photographer? According to a dictionary, yes. A quick glance through 99% of Facebook albums and the answer is “no”.
So let’s look at these:
Click me; I get bigger.
The Olympic torch bearer running through West Vancouver. I was prepared for him to arrive. I was able to run along side. I like this picture. If my flash had gone off, as I had intended it to, the picture would have been ruined. So… means, opportunity, and dumb luck. Am I a photographer yet?
Click me; I get bigger.
Serena Ryder, arguably the most famous person I have photographed. People see this pic and recognize her, see her. Is it well framed, exposed, focused? This was also the first time I was told by a stage manager that I had three songs to shoot before I had to pack it in. Other people were shooting pictures, flashes popping on their little palm cameras… The stage manager thought I was a professional: Three songs. No flash. Am I a photographer yet?
Click me; I get bigger.
Jeff Myrfield of The Stumbler’s Inn. I love to photograph these guys and have a lot more access to them than most. I like this pic. I was trying to take it. However, it is very dark. Jeff is backlit. To get this shot I needed to ramp up the ISO and got “noise”. I shot this with an f1.8 lens. If I had a lens with a bigger aperature, would this be a better photo? Could I have brought the ISO down and decreased the “noise”? As a non-professional, despite my desire, I can’t afford lenses that won’t eventually pay for themselves. Also, I’m asking a lot of questions about technical aspects of shooting. This time I had a plan, access, but wasn’t entirely sure if I was using my gear to the best of its abilities. Am I a photographer?
Click me; I get bigger.
Walking back from a live show, I stopped to take a picture of an escalator being repaired. As I turned, I saw this. Click. This picture led to this:
Click me; I get bigger.
This picture is an interesting one. It is the first time complete strangers have let me pose them so it is a step, for me personally, towards taking the kind of “people” pictures I’d like to. But this picture is also a big disappointment for me.
I shot it in black and white. I didn’t think to switch my camera back to standard. That graffiti is vivid and amazing. In this picture it is dull.
This picture isn’t in focus. I suck at manual focusing and the autofocus on my 50mm is sometimes worse. Plus, I’d been drinking, which is never conducive to focus… heh.
Here’s the thing. Could I have kept my subjects there while I changed lenses and reset my camera? A fun idea can become an imposition pretty quick sometimes.
Art cannot be dumb luck but dumb luck can contribute to art. Art is talent but cannot be restricted to only trained thought. Art is knowing your tools but not confined by them…
So what happens with a guy who just wants the world to know how cool his friends are and how much fun this city still has? I don’t know if I’m a photographer let alone an artist.
The History of the Hipster
The common mosquito, in its current form, is over 95 million years old. Despite its many eons of bothering the hell out of others and the sad truth that it probably isn’t going to go away any time soon, we still feel the need to complain about it, them. This is not hard to believe of course; they are annoying as hell and generally don’t provide a whole lot in return. Some would argue the same could be said of hipsters. I’m deciding. Granted they haven’t been around for 95 million years. Contemporary hipsters can be traced back a decade or so. But, as I will explain, there have always been hipsters, the parasitic culture gentrifier.
A Time article, written almost a year ago to the day, outlines the modern hipster. Dan Fletcher describes them as “smug, full of contradictions and, ultimately, the dead end of Western civilization.” This may be a bit harsh, but it’s not the first time it has been said.
Herb Caen, a columnist for the San Francisco Chronicle, coined the term “beatnik” in 1958. Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg were not amused. If you read the Beat writers’ work, you’d know they almost always had jobs and worked very hard to play very hard. Kerouac was admitted to Columbia on a football scholarship, a strange crossover for the King of the Beats. They did not create a scene, but drew attention to it. This is the invitation, the opening of the door that beckons to all the hipsters. In a letter to the New York Times Ginsberg wrote, “if the beatniks and not the illuminated Beat poets overrun this country, they will have been created not by Kerouac but by industries of mass communication which continue to brainwash men.” When Ginsberg wrote of “Angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,” I suspect he was referring to those who came before, those who were the scene, not the ones who made it. Even the French Revolution was going along swimmingly until Maximillien Robespierre hijacked the Committee for Public Safety and kind of ruined it for everyone. Hipsters have existed everywhere.
The term “hip” is from the jazz clubs of the 30s and 40s. Before that, the etymology becomes a little hazy. Suffice it to say, to be “hip” meant that you were in the know. To be “in the know” now is not very difficult, especially in the digital age, when music and image are swapped like so many hockey cards. I think what angers a lot of people is that the hipster culture isn’t a culture; it’s a flea market where culture is bought and sold. Fletcher writes, “…instead of creating a culture of their own, hipsters proved content to borrow from trends long past.” Indeed. I once had a 15 year old kid tell me that I was responsible for Kurt Cobain’s death because I “didn’t appreciate him.” I didn’t have a calendar on hand, but simple math revealed that he would have been two years old when we killed Cobain and not even an egg-seeking sperm when “Bleach” was released. That’s probably why I don’t remember seeing him at a show.
You would never go to the Vietnam Memorial in Washington, D.C. dressed as a veteran if you were born in 1987. The Black Label Society had to cancel a show in Manchester because of threats of violence from a local motorcycle club. The club argued that BLS’s use of “rockers” on their jackets was an insult to any 1%er who’d actually earned them.
So is there anything actually wrong with a parasitic subculture intent on the lifelong search for cool? If there is, I blame Henry V. His Saint Crispin’s day speech called out all the “gentlemen in England now abed” and called their “manhoods cheap.” Essentially, if you’re not at the party, if you’re not hip, you suck and should think yourself “accursed.” Maybe that’s a bit of stretch. We are a society of consumers, of course, but cultures are supposed to produce as well. The true danger of a parasitic culture is not what it feeds on but how it feeds.
If beauty is in the eye of the beholder, a sentiment first expressed in the 3rd century BC by some Greek guy, then it doesn’t actually exist except in the abstract. We must see it for it to exist. This would also imply we should look for it. But if our search only extends as far as what someone else has told us is beautiful, the buck stops at the “industries of mass communication” Ginsberg railed against.
Candace Pert was responsible for discovering the opiate receptor in the human brain. In a 1981 interview with OMNI she stated, “Heroin bludgeons the opiate receptors into submission, functionally shrinking them.” In other words, if we keep outsourcing our opiates (she also stated that most drugs have less potent, natural analogs within the human body) our bodies can lose the ability to use our own; if we never leave the house, we become dependent on the deliveryman. This is the danger of the cool-seeker who doesn’t actually look. Hunter S. Thompson takes a similar stab at Leary’s Acid Culture in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, calling them “a generation of permanent cripples, failed seekers, who never understood the essential old-mystic fallacy of the Acid Culture.”
I too am a cool seeker. I too am a hipster in some aspects. But I want to believe that I replace that which I mine from the depths of culture in equal measures. I write about culture and society not to hand down truth from on high but to inspire you to take up the search as well. As Shakespeare wrote in Love’s Labour’s Lost, “Beauty is bought by judgement of the eye, / Not utter’d by base sale of chapmen’s tongues.”
So we continue to swat at the hipsters buzzing around us. They’re not going anywhere though so get used to them. As for yourself, art can be art for art’s sake but cool shouldn’t be cool for its own sake. Cool is the blind faith of the unoriginal. At least that’s what I heard.
Two Weeks of Vancouver Fun: Femke van Delft, The Pack AD, and Shiloh Lindsey
I wish I could tell you I’ve been really busy but, truth be told, I’ve just been sluffing off, watching TV, and gaining weight. Joy. The last two weeks have actually brought a few things that I should have been writing about so I will do that now.
Thursday before last (June 3rd), I was at the Railway Club for the opening party of Femke van Delft’s exhibit, “The F-Stops Here”. If you couldn’t figure it out from the clever title, it’s a photography exhibit, specifically concert/live shots.
Femke is the first to say hello when I get there. We take a moment to remind each other where we know each other from (standing too close to the Railway Club stage on a few occasions) and she thanks me for coming. Femke works the room, saying hello to anyone and everyone who doesn’t say hello first, with the self-deprecating yet strangely confident air of an artist. Later on, she sits with me (while her salmon burger gets cold), flipping through a portfolio of her work. Her photos require little or no explanation but the little stories behind the photos are great. These are the pictures I want to take. They are not just a case of access; she certainly has an eye for this. Paparazzi in LA get paid for badly framed pictures of Jennifer Aniston buying sandals whereas photogs like Femke don’t get paid for taking amazing shots of not-so-famous people doing what they do best. It is a real shame. That’s why it is so good to see local talent have nights like this. It’s a chance for friends, acquaintances, and strangers to get a first hand look at how good they really are. A friend had gone to see Ricky Powell at the Fortune Sound Club the night before and said he was a drunken, stuck up mess. Femke is by no means sober; this is her party and she enjoys it. Unlike Powell, however, when she gets up to address the crowd, she is funny, welcoming, and above all gracious.
Femke introduces the first musical act for the evening, Alexa Bardach (who also plays guitar for the East Vamps). I have no idea what to expect when the music starts and my first reaction is, “Oh… Okay.” To me it’s not so much music in the “record store section” sense; it’s more of a sound poem or picture. It’s about choices: why this sound with that effect. If you surrender to it, and just let it be what it’s going to be, it washes over you like a warm wave and is nearly trance inducing. I would be very interested to watch (hear) the process of putting this piece together. I assume it might be like my afternoon sessions in my kitchen, playing with tastes in a dress rehearsal, a week or so before the dinner party, finding what does or doesn’t fit together. It’s cool stuff.
I wish that I could stay longer but I must be off. I say goodnight to Femke and give her my congratulations again. We promise each other it won’t be another six months before we see each other again.
Friday (June 4) finds me sucking back cheap cans of PBR at The Biltmore Cabaret waiting for The Pack AD to take the stage. The Biltmore is sold out tonight and slowly begins to fill. For those of you who still haven’t made it out to The Biltmore for a show, for gawd’s sake, go! It’s still dark and downstairs but by no means the cesspool dungeon it used to be. It is a venue with a bar, not a bar with a stage.
The Pack AD start their set around 9:45. They’re awesome, okay? I’ve seen them play a few times and they keep getting better, closer, tighter. I know what you’re thinking but your wrong. The more a band plays is not always a guarantee that they’ll get better. I’ve actually seen bands that get worse the longer they play. I once said before that where most people eat, sleep, and drink, “The Pack AD tour.” It’s true and their stage act has been honed into a well-oiled but thunderous Rock ‘n’ Roll machine. They have a new album out, We Kill Computers, and the new songs are awesome.
Watching these ladies play live is something of a marathon. Maya’s kick drum and snare work alternately as artillery and infantry and get right into your skull. And I’m still trying to imagine how such a large sound (guitar & vocals) manages to erupt from such a slight package as Becky Black. Becky, I’m certain, is the reason sound guys/gals bolt their gear into racks. Every compressor in the room wants to run for cover when Becky leans into the mic and gets ready to let loose. The Pack AD slay and there are no two ways about it.
Again, I have to ditch before The Sadies play. It’s nothing personal of course. If it weren’t for my ongoing battle with North Shore buses, I’d of stayed to catch what I’m assured would be an awesome set.
After a less-than-entertaining downtown footrace, I manage to catch my bus at the last possible stop because a couple of tourists don’t take the driver’s word for it that the fair box doesn’t accept bills. My favourite part of the night? Sprinting, two steps at a time, up the immobile centre escalator at the Granville Skytrain station (yeah, that one) and still missing my freakin’ bus by 30 damned seconds.
The next few days pass uneventfully except for painting a bar one night. Let me tell you: beers, shots, and wood stain make for one hell of a hangover.
Thursday (June 10) and I’m back on Main Street headed to the Anza Club to see Shiloh Lindsey play for her record release party.
Eldorado kicks off the evening with a great set. I’ve missed seeing them by five minutes a few times. Tonight I arrive early enough to make sure I see the whole thing. I’m glad I did. The music is fun. Now, I don’t mean “fun” in the “church groups wearing matching shirts singing Jesus camp songs” fun. I mean put a smile on your face and enjoy your life fun. The bass player is so relaxed he reclines on a stool. That’s what it looks like until I kick myself for not noticing he’s got a broken foot. Yay me. By the end of the set I have convinced myself I’m in love with Angela Fama.
SWANK! takes the stage as The Swank String Band. Kirk Douglas makes his way out from behind the drum kit and joins the rest of the boys of the front line. It’s a loose but energy packed set. Swank are incapable of “phoning in” a set; they’re too good to be bad. But with all the smiling and impromptu banter going on, one soon gets the impression that The Swank String Band are here tonight to have a great time with their friend Shiloh on her big night. If you’re looking for one hell of a party, make sure SWANK! rsvp’s. If you’re looking for the best damn campfire sing-a-long known to human existence, invite The Swank String Band. Also, for the record, Bone Rattle Music is not the place to go to swipe sunglasses if you’re so inclined.
Earlier in the evening, I hear Shiloh discussing “the dress” and whether or not she’s going to wear it tonight. She wears it. It’s a beauty and a throwback to the days when Country & Western music had royalty, unlike the jesters that seem to be holding court these days. Shiloh’s set is the best I’ve heard from her, and that is saying something. Shiloh’s voice has always been able to cut through me and tonight is no exception, but there is a point in “Figurines of Faith” where her voice takes a tone I haven’t heard before. One name jumps to mind: Melanie Safka. Yes, she’s the one who sang that ridiculous “Rollerskates” song, but I’m thinking more of the deep tones of “Candles in the Rain” here.
Up until tonight, I would never heckle Shiloh onstage, but after watching how a rowdy “fan” was wrestled into submission by The Switchblade Sisters (burlesque performers Villainy Loveless and Lola Frost), I’m seriously considering it. Shiloh uses the comedic interlude to change into the more recognizable jeans and western dress shirt. She apologizes that the costume change took longer than expected and explains, “There’s boys in there,” with a nod over the shoulder to the backstage area.
The rest of the set is pure Western romp. James Wood and Graham Myrfield join Shiloh on stage to sing background on “Tired of Drinking” and Chad Taylor lends his trumpet (which any Ennio Morricone fan can tell you most certainly is a western instrument) to add the ghosts to “Head In My Grave”.
The Switchblade Sisters make another appearance and I can’t figure out why, as I look at the rear display on my camera adjusting the settings, my auto-focus servo continually whines as it locks and unlocks, until I look up and see two sets of pasties swirling in front of the stage. I can understand why the camera can’t focus as I seem to have the same problem at the moment. I think I just fell in love again. Sorry Angela.
I hit the road after Shiloh’s set (apologies to Rich Hope). Us West Vancouver boys don’t turn into pumpkins at midnight but our buses sure as shit do. As I walk down Main Street towards the Skytrain station, I ask myself the same question I always ask on this particular and all too familiar walk: Why the hell don’t I just bite the bullet and move out here?
It is certainly food for thought.
Read more music related posts HERE.
Narcissistic Shrieks and Baseless Information
“Narcissistic shrieks and baseless information.” That’s how Tom Wolfe regards blogs. I tend to agree. It is interesting though, being a fan of Wolfe’s and his being a hero of mine is one of the reasons why I blog. Oh well. I have decided to start a new blog actually. Not anything too different, in fact it could be considered a subsidiary of this one, a little brother if you will. I like “narcissistic shrieks and baseless information” but don’t know if they really have a place on The Loudmouth Bear and what I am trying to do here on this blog. The new blog is on Google’s Blogspot service. I’ve titled it “Narcissistic Shrieks and Baseless Information”, of course. There’s nothing there now but I will keep you posted.
The Loudmouth Bear will continue as usual with stories about Vancouver and my life in it. The new blog will essentially be the new home for the “Straight From the Bear’s loud mouth” and “Cute Shit my friend says on Facebook chat”.
PCAHA Scholarship Awards
When a kid does something wrong, it’s news for days if not weeks. If they do something really bad, after week two of unending “coverage” we start seeing pieces about “What’s Wrong With Society?” and “Will Your Child Murder You Tonight?” If you’re lucky, they’ll tell you who is to blame for all this; chances are it’s video games or tv or music. What about when kids do something right?
Tonight, I find myself in the “Captain’s Club”, a lounge on the 2nd floor of GM Place. I’m here to take photos. Over the past 33 years, the Pacific Coast Amateur Hockey Association (PCAHA) has given away more than $380,000 to 687 players. I’m willing to bet the $10,250 they give away tonight that you have never heard a thing about it or the kids who win. Despite several invitations, no major news provider in the Lower Mainland has ever mentioned it, let alone attended. Even the power of the Vancouver Canucks, who present five scholarships, can’t sway the media to pay attention.
However, get one of these to kids to throw a brick through a window instead of excel in school (coach and referee sports, work with special needs children, be camp counselors, produce films about sustainability, raise money for Third World nations, volunteer for the Red Cross, save a school from closing (yeah, he did), tutor, play an instrument, volunteer with Big Brothers/Sisters, work at the Food Bank, bring Palestinian and Israeli children together (no, I am not making this up), act in school productions, write for the school paper, be on the Grad Committee and/or Student Council, raise $70,000 for cancer research, work at a Mexican orphanage, prepare and serve food in a soup kitchen) or play a damn good game of hockey on top of it all and it makes it to the papers.
The list above is a short cross section of the accomplishments of the winners tonight. The ceremony usually lasts about 30-45 minutes and is a generally tame affair. One year Brian Burke scared the hell out of some kid by yelling out, “Smile! They’re giving you money!” just as I was about to take the picture. Burke, for the record, stayed for the entire ceremony that night, despite his aides constantly tapping at watches. He even stayed afterward to take pictures and sign autographs for anyone who wanted them. He knew how important nights like this were. Small and quiet as the ceremony is, it’s special for the kids and parents (and coaches and teachers and principals) to know that there are rewards for hard honest work, and hockey.
Slate.com ran an article about positive peer pressure. Surround children with smart, achieving classmates and your child is likely to rise to the occasion. This makes perfect sense to me. So why do we rarely hear about the kids who do well? If children are our future, maybe it would be a good idea to remind them now and again that there is still a future worth having. Just a thought.
Lost in Translation: Not every burka is visible to the naked eye
We had some international guests last night at the open mic/jam. A 20-something Japanese couple joined us on the patio. She was beautifully clothed in a wide striped dress. He was an Asian hipster. They were chatty and fun. Her English was much better than his and we spoke most of the night. She even complimented me on my Japanese pronunciation. I’ve never studied Japanese but because of my father’s business connections, I learned how to be polite to Japanese speakers at a very young age.
My dad traveled to Japan quite frequently in the 80s and on one trip he acquired a painting by (I believe) Osawa Seiichiro. It depicts two pregnant women with no faces. My mother instantly hated it. At the time, I didn’t quite understand why. But I figured it out. She had an issue with the way some Japanese men treated women and the painting just gave it an image. I had never really though about it. We hear a lot these days about Muslim women and the hijab and burka. I’d never thought too much other cultures. Out of sight out of mind, I suppose.
Last night at the bar, I left the patio to pack up my stuff at the bar. The young woman I’d been talking with for most the evening came in to order a round of drinks and asked me what all “the men” were drinking. I told her she did have “to buy any drinks for those bums,” but she insisted because it was her duty to do so. It dawned on me then that she’d been filling the glasses all night, adjusting my chair every time I stood up or sat down.
I told her that I did not mean to insult her or her culture, but Western men open doors for women and should never walk in front of them. The idea of not walking behind a man almost frightened her. She told me, nervous and quiet, that she wasn’t “Japanese enough” when in Japan and never felt Canadian enough when here. I told her whenever she came to our pub and sat at our table, she was just our friend and didn’t have to serve anyone if she didn’t want to. She smiled, her dark eyes shining, but I am certain we will never see her again.
When we returned to the table, without the drinks, her boyfriend cast an accusing glance at us. His hipster charm wore off soon there after.
Border Towns: Myth v. Fact when it came to my passport[s]
Someone once told me that the United States doesn’t recognize dual citizenship between the US and Canada. That didn’t sound right to me. Guess what… it wasn’t. The United States most certainly recognizes dual citizenship between our two countries. You only run into problems if, when you became a citizen of Canada, you meant to renounce your US citizenship. For myself, I didn’t. In fact, becoming a Canadian citizen was a passive act for me. While I sat (or stood) doing whatever it was I was doing on my 24th birthday, I became a Canadian citizen.
I was born in the US – Greenwich, CT to be exact. I have often joked that having been born in Greenwich and raised in West Vancouver, BC, my snob pedigree is perfect. Both my parents are Canadian (born and raised in the Kootenays) so I was considered a Canadian citizen born abroad. Because I lived in Canada when I reached the age of 24, I became a full Canadian citizen.
When I applied for my Canadian passport, I needed a guarantor’s signature, and those of two references. For my US passport, I just needed my birth certificate (stamped with the seal of the issuing State) and picture ID. I used my Canadian passport. Which leads me to myth number two: The US won’t allow you to carry two passports.
BUZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ. Thanks for playing.
The woman at the US Consulate in Vancouver told me that when arriving in the US, arrive as an American. When arriving in Canada, arrive as a Canadian. That’s two passports kiddies. Surprised me too.
Lastly, though it pains me to say it, these idiot Tea Partiers might actually have something with this smaller government thing. It took two and a half weeks for my Canadian passport to show up and about two hours to apply for it. My US passport took me less than 45 minutes to apply for and arrived a week and a day later. Of course, when it comes to government, if the US can figure out healthcare and education for its (our?) citizens I’d be willing to wait another ten days for my passport.
Granville Pt. 3: Eleanor Rigby’s Friends
On a street full of people, these four guys had no one to talk to, though I suspect it was more like a case of no one really feeling like talking to them. Strangely enough, all but one of them seemed to be in generally good spirits despite being quite obviously alone.
Granville Pt. 2: fashion
I’ve always been interested in people’s sense of style. This is just a sampling of the people who walked past in the hour or so I was sitting on Granville. I once heard that if you sit in one spot for long enough, the entire world will pass you by. Really quite boring when you think about it. Heh.
Enough about f*cking Avatar already…
The year I was born, three great things were brought into this world: me, The Godfather, and Atari Pong. Thirty-seven years later, people still watch The Godfather, people still love me, but not a whole lot of people are still playing Pong. Thirty-seven years ago, Pong was the shit, the highmark of videogaming. Today it is an obselete joke, admired only by retro-fanatics and garage sale enthusiasts.
Enter Avatar.
Sigourney Weaver feels that James Cameron didn’t win the Oscar this year because he had a penis. She told a Brazilian publication that, “Jim didn’t have breasts, and I think that was the reason. He should have taken home that Oscar.” I sincerely doubt that such a commanding actress as Weaver would ever suffer from penis envy. Cameron on the other hand sucks and gets the lifeblood for his scripts from others so it is entirely possible that he does have breast envy.
Weaver then goes on to compare Avatar to Ben-Hur: “In the past, Avatar would have won because they loved to hand out awards to big productions, like Ben-Hur. Today it’s fashionable to give the Oscar to a small movie that nobody saw.” Well, it’s 51 years later and people still watch Ben-Hur.
Avatar and its stunning production values are not the future of moviemaking. It is the future of videogaming. Hurt Locker won the Oscar because it is a well-written and well-acted film. Like The Godfather and Ben-Hur, good movies will never go out of style; cool, movies on the other hand, disappear into gimmickry pretty damn quick. The remake of Clash of the Titans and Alice in Wonderland have proved that already, much quicker than I would have anticipated. A bad movie in 3-D is still a bad movie in 3-D.
Dances With Ferngully may have grossed an obscene US$2,712,444,933 compared to Hurt Locker’s pittance of US$42,079,220 but Hurt Locker will stand the test of time. Good stories always do. Speaking of good stories, track down a copy of “Call Me Joe”. If you liked Avatar, I’m certain you’ll love it. It’s a science fiction story by about exploring the surface of Jupiter using remotely controlled artificial life-forms. It focuses on the feelings of the disabled man who operates the artificial body. Sound familiar? Fifty-two years after it was written, people are still reading it. Well, we all know James Cameron has.
A little lesson in advertising
Lets pretend for a moment that while sitting on your couch, you accidentally spill beer into your bowl of Hawkin’s Cheezies at the same instant that your Clapper shorts out, giving you and your Cheezie slurry one hell of a jolt. When you regain consciousness, to your surprise, you’ve discovered a cure for cancer. So what? No one knows. You could have the greatest product in the world but if the public isn’t aware of it they can’t/won’t buy it.
I read an article on Slate.com today that included a picture of an Obama supporter in the midst of a Tea Party rally, holding a sign that read, “All These People Are Idiots.” This seems to be the only place we see pictures of Obama supporters anymore. You see, content people are boring. They don’t make for good news; whereas, a group of overweight, undereducated malcontents waving ”Don’t Tread on Me” flags and screaming about communsim make for good media coverage. Start whipping bricks through the window of a Democrat’s constituency office and you’re sure to be the lead at 11 o’clock. There has been a lot of talk this week about Ann Coulter’s trip to Canada. Yes, our Charter of Rights and Freedoms guarantees us the freedom of speech and expression but how many people have actually read the Charter?
A society like Canada is built on two political philosophies: natural rights and utilitarianism. Proponents of natural rights believe that as humans we have the right do to pretty much whatever we damn well please. This is an interesting notion, always linked to the belief that humans will always work in the best interest of themselves and other humans. Doesn’t work (the “and other humans” part). Utilitarianism is the belief that what is good for the greatest number of people rules the day. This is how societies maintian themselves.
If you actually read all of the Charter, instead of just quoting the good bits that seem to give you the right to do whatever you damn well please you’d find this at the very beginning:
“Whereas Canada is founded upon principles that recognize the supremacy of God and the rule of law [...]” (emphasis mine).
Right after that introduction you find this little piece of legal literature:
“The Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms guarantees the rights and freedoms set out in it subject only to such reasonable limits prescribed by law as can be demonstrably justified in a free and democratic society” (emphasis mine).
Your rights end where laws protecting society start.
So, back to Ann Coulter and advertising.
What Ann Coulter spews from that evil little mouth of hers is “speech.” Some of it is Hate Speech, which, in Canada, is illegal. So Ann, please quit complaining that your rights have been infringed upon. Every Canadian’s rights are infringed upon to protect society as a whole. It is the paradox of a “free” society. In order to have the freedoms we enjoy we must relinquish our sovereignty to those who would safeguard it. This is, very basically, the Social Contract.
To Coulter’s more vocal detractors? You shut up too. Ann Coulter is not stupid, nor is she an idiot. Coulter is a bully, but a bully with a book deal. The more you shout, the more books she sells. She knows it and if you’re half a brilliant as you think you are, you’d know it too. You don’t have to keep a constant vigil to figure out what she’s doing now, or who she’s offending. She’ll let you know herself. I guarantee it.
The reason so many products are so expensive is we help pay the bill for advertising them. There is no discernable difference in performance between a Puma, Nike, or Addidas shoe. The only difference is which one looks cooler in Maxim. Companies pay millions for this advertising. Stop giving it to Ann Coulter for free.
Rain
A long and practiced Existentialist, he stood in the rain. His jacket was inside and he felt nothing as the rain washed over and, eventually, through him. He was being tested. For years beyond number, he’d believed. Many had challenged him saying that he could not build a belief out of a denial. They had all missed the point. His beliefs were not built on a denial; they were built on a celebration, a celebration of life and its beauty, its horror.
As he stood in the rain he wanted to fold. He was very close. His strength had always come from not a belief, but his certainty that this was how it was.
One day, a beautiful young creature broke his wall, as only someone like her could. He went so far as to tattoo her, in abstract, on his chest, over his heart. She had awoken something in him and never laid a hand upon him.
This didn’t help the rain.
A lifetime of study and pursuit could not keep him from returning to a place in his mind, a word: fair.
There is no fair. There is no guiding light.
Only the wounded need something to lean on as they walk.
Again the rain.
His thoughts went to a child. First the one he lost, then the one suffering the pain and humiliation of sickness.
Who wants to live in a world where you must choose between arbitrary suffering or the machinations of a sick prankster, concerned only with His own glory?
I do.
I will.
Because I know that nature hates a vacuum. I know that nature fills the void. Take from me. Give to him.
I am one of those bastards the universe creates who cannot die under its rules. I fear not the darkness. Take that insane courage from me and feed it to him as strength. Give me the hurt. I can take it. Take it from him and give it to someone who volunteers as I do.
Rapists, murderers, pedophiles, they breathe the air. Take it from them to give to him. But if you are to stay arbitrary, let me volunteer. I can survive it. I will survive because my only true care is to live and live large. I will live small if it means that he just lives.
It is definitely time for me and this little monster to have it out.
It has sat, silent, for too long. I do believe it is now time for me to blow the dust off the machine and again take it to task. What will happen? Who the fuck knows or cares? It is not about outcomes. Now it is all about moments. Moments are all I have right now and, hopefully, if enough are strung together, I may get an outcome worth writing about.
Little victories, massive losses, and mail day
Little Victories:
My phone hates me and I am quickly learning to return the sentiment. There’s a little plastic strip that sits right beneath the battery and if it slips out of position, strange things start happening with my phone. Let’s see how out of position it gets when I overhand it, fastball style, into an oncoming dump truck.
Massive Losses:
I overheard my mom and her sister dicussing taking an old, dear family friend off of life support.
About 60kms north of Cranbrook you will find the Skookumchuck Pulp Mill, just to the west of Highway 93/95. The highway crosses the Kootenay River and for about 20 seconds you are driving through Springbrook, BC. About midway through Springbrook, a road meets the highway, Bradford Road. It was named for my grandfather, Baron Bradford. At the end of that road is a bridge. The bridge crosses Sheep Creek. At the end of the bridge is the B-E (B bar E), my family’s cattle ranch. The other day, my mother and aunt were discussing what to do with it, ie: selling it. Like a lot of things I just kind of thought it would always be there. No decisions yet but if we are forced to sell it (because no one in our family is able or willing to maintain it), it will be a lousy day.
We all have a “happiest place on Earth” and this is mine. Below is a postcard showing the ranch.
Any picture you’ve seen of me riding a horse or playing on tractor was taken at the ranch above. Here’s a picture of me holding the postcard above in the spot where the picture was taken. I haven’t lost the ranch yet but I have lost about 30lbs since this pic was taken!
Mail Day:
Ah, MAIL DAY!
You all know by now I’m like a little kid whenever I get mail. I’ve been a little moody as of late and today’s letter was just perfect. I did, however, make the mistake of starting to read it just as “In the Backseat” by Arcade Fire started playing on my stereo and I was reaching for a Kleenex before I was done.
Friends are awesome. Mail is awesome. Especially when they combine like this…
keeping positive.
The only thing worse than being sick is being dead - that and “Jersey Shore.” In an effort to keep my spirits high, I have decided to look at the upside and write about all the good things that come about as a result of the world famous, head cold. So, here is the silver lining that is slowly dripping out of my sinus cavity:
A) People don’t know what a sap you are: Because your eyes are watering so much, they can’t tell if you have a cold or if you just watched the episode of “Highway to Heaven” where the little girl with leukemia gets to swim with the dolphins after replacing her prosthetic legs that were lost in the horrible school bus crash caused by her family swerving off the road to miss Terry Fox running with a box of puppies.
B) Drugs: Nobody wants you to go to work and make them sick too so you get to sit at home watching the walls melt.
C) Better seats on the bus: These days one sneeze/snort combo and you’re riding in style with a whole section to yourself until another sick person gets on and your section kind of turns into a leper colony.
D) Lots of hot showers with no guilt: It was Mother Nature and her germs that did this to you so the bitch can suffer with you for a day.
E) Soup: Soup is awesome. Let’s all just admit this and move on.
F) Oprah: She’ll be gone soon. You better try to get in some “me” time while you can. See “A” above.
G) You have at least one day of bossing your roommates around: They’ll put up with you for one day because they want the same treatment when they get sick and one look at you and they know they will.
H) Cherry Halls: “Dissolve one tablet slowly in the mouth as required.” *Crunch* Next…
I) Pajamas: I have long been a supporter of the notion that one not get dressed should they not need to. Pajamas are the shit, even you have to have several pairs on call with all the joyous night sweating that goes on.
J) The Fever: Suckers all over the world shell out good cash for designer drugs to feel the way you do the night you have the fever. Fever dreams are so intense that being sick is almost worth it for that exact reason. Bon Voyage!
Bus Writing: “Actually, it’s a loveseat”
Originally scrawled in unreadable prose while riding the 253 westward…
The fact that she could most likely smell me before she saw me was probably little solace to ******* when she woke up this morning. It was, however, of some comfort to me. To describe her as bashful would be an outright lie, but there is still a noticeable difference between seeing someone nearly naked on stage and surprising the hell out of them as they step out of the shower. So her knowing I was in the apartment somewhere helped the morning along without any improper run-ins.
The call went out shortly after 2am this morning. I needed a couch. A text reply told me I had 15 minutes to arrive. I leapt from my perch and hailed a cab. I buzzed the apartment and a familiar voice purred, “Hellooooo?” over the intercom. She met me in the hallway with the loving eyes and faint smile of a mother who opens the door to a child who has walked home in the rain.
“Anyone order a wayward drunk?” I asked as she ushered me into the apartment.
It appeared as though I had interrupted her pre-slumber stretching routine. It’s no surprise. A lot of my relationship with **** seems to be based on me interrupting something. This, however, is not difficult to do as she is always doing something.
The stretching is distracting.
It’s not any base form of lust that distracted me; I could draw her soft form from memory. It’s the stretching itself. She casually carried on polite conversation as she bent herself in ways that made every muscle in my body ache at the sight of it. She suggested I try yoga, as she always does. I told her I’d think about it, as I always do.
As I drifted off to sleep, I caught myself snoring and thought, “What a lousy repayment for her kindness.”
**** made me tea in the morning and ****** offered up some herbal meds that are supposed to be good for liver function. I strapped on my Converse, gave **** a warm hug, and thanked her for the use of her couch.
“Actually, it’s a loveseat. It’s not big enough to be a couch.”
Walking down the front steps of their building, I slid my Persols on to hide away from the morning sun and thought to myself, “It’s a loveseat because of the size of your heart, my dear.”
I hit the streets in search of coffee and a new day’s adventure.
January 6, 2012 | Categories: Straight from The Bear's loud mouth (insane ramblings disguised as social commentary), [re]Discovering Vancouver | Tags: Baron S. Cameron, blue buses, British Columbia, burlesque, Canada, contrarian, fame, furniture, humour, memoirs, Vancouver, writing | 1 Comment »