I Want To Ride My Bicycle

            I have a confession to make. I do not know how to ride a bicycle.

Now that the gasps of shock and mockery have subsided, allow me to explain. Yes it’s true, in my nearly 27 years on this planet I have somehow avoided learning to ride. I have traveled by three, four and five wheels but never two. Somehow I managed to avoid that classic childhood moment of figuring out that secret balance or whatever it is that one needs to ride a bike. And when I say I somehow avoided it, I mean that I might have tried once without training wheels found it very hard and so vowed to ‘never learn this stupid thing, because who needs to ride a bike anyway.’

            More often than not when I reveal this fact to somebody I am greeted with a wide-eyed look of bewilderment, followed with some sort of query as to how this can be. Which I always find somewhat amusing as it doesn’t seem like that big of a deal to me. Bikes and bike riding just never figured into my life. People are aghast that this most basic of skills has eluded me all these years.

            I suppose that I can sort of relate to this level of shock. Indeed I find myself filled with similar feelings when someone informs me that they have never seen ‘The Godfather’ or eaten some good slow cooked pork belly. Some of you might find that comparison ridiculous, but for me it makes perfect sense because those are things that to me seem like fundamentals for anyone going through life. Fundamentals may seem about strong of a word but I think that just goes to show that everyone has a different take on life and how it should be lived.

            Each and every person leads a different life and it’s when commonalities are found that we find connections to others. And it’s through those connections that we are able to build a fuller and richer existence. It is with that thought in mind that I have now determined to learn the art of the bicycle. Now and then I do find myself thinking that ‘yes, it is a travesty that I can’t ride.’ Especially when I consider the culture of the city in which I have grown up and live. Vancouver is striving to be a green city and is blessed with some of the most beautiful scenery to be found. Not to mention the glory that is the Seawall. A wonderful feature of the city that I have never been able to fully enjoy as walking the entire length is a time consuming yet rewarding task. It also makes perfect sense for me to take up cycling as I do not own a car and grow weary of public transport.

            Many of you have heard me profess my intent to learn how to ride before so this might seem like a load of hogwash. But with the warmer weather fast approaching I think I am long overdue and I do relish the chance at proving the naysayers wrong. I have gained a dedicated teacher who thinks it silly that I have no riding ability and is determined to see me ride, even providing a loner bicycle. Perhaps one of the strongest points in favor of this teacher is that she actually rides on a regular basis.

            Many of the peanut-gallery who have expressed shock in the past over my apparent shocking inability, do absolutely no riding of their own. This fact always strikes me as mildly hypocritical. Being mocked and jeered for never learning a skill that my detractors themselves never use seems unfair. Yes, they may have already gained this skill and I have always been told that one never forgets (it’s like riding a bike) but they never use it. I on the other hand am almost always willing to sit down and re-watch The Godfather and am constantly on the look out for my next chance at a decadent pork belly dinner.

            I have no idea how long the learning process will be. It might only be an afternoon or a couple of days or perhaps weeks due to the impending falls and subsequent scraped knees and childlike whimpering – I don’t bounce the same way I used to. But the process starts this week.

            It is now one month till my 27^th birthday and although I have no doubt it should not take me that long to learn, I have chosen that day (weather depending) to make my debut. And so, loyal readers, I propose to you that on that day you join me for a tour of the aforementioned Seawall. This call goes out especially to those of you who in the past have scoffed at my lack of ability and yet cannot yourselves remember the last time you went for a ride.

            Finally I will add that if indeed I am successful and do achieve my goal of a birthday ride – of course to be followed by champagne and balloons – that those of you out there should follow my lead and take the time to enjoy one of those things that somebody has once expressed shock you have not done. And should it be watching The Godfather or any other such essential cinematic work I will gladly join you. I’ll even bring the refreshments and to me that sounds like an offer you can’t refuse.

Valentines Shmalentines

            Love is in the air. Romance is flowing along with plenty of wine. Couples everywhere are rejoicing while single folks are pretending not to care while weeping in there frozen dinners for one. Somewhere a sadistic little toddler is sniping people with arrows and cash registers are exploding at every florist, chocolatier and card shop. It must be Valentine’s Day. Which in my opinion is the worst of the non-holiday event days.

            Other similar non-holiday events are St. Patrick’s Day and Halloween. The major difference with these days is that both of them are used as excuses for unnecessary partying and mass consumption of alcohol. Not to mention the less than conservative attire to be worn, particularly on Halloween. Where as this day of love is not used as an excuse to have fun, but instead is a day of forced guilt and affection. A day when we are told how to act and what sort of mood to be in and what to buy, all under the guise that it’s about love.

            Now I don’t want you to think that I’m am anti-love or have some sort of hate-on for Valentine’s Day. It is indeed quite the opposite. I’m all for love and romance, especially of the hopeless kind – you know grand gestures and magical moments and all that other mushy stuff. It’s just that on this day it is forced upon us. To me the idea of a romantic obligation seems like a bit of an oxymoron.

            Also wrapped up in this notion of obliged romance is that it’s all on the men. Over the last few days everywhere I turn I see warning signs to men not to forget the big day. Open the funny pages and all the male characters are fretting because they have to find the perfect gift for their girlfriends/wives/sweethearts. All the while the women are adding more pressure with hits and jabs, while waiting to be swept off their feet.

            It’s not just in the comics where this idea prevails. Flip through the rest of the paper and you can find many other articles telling guys what the perfect gift is and what women really want for Valentine’s Day. And it’s not limited to the print media either. I must have seen half a dozen TV ‘news’ stories in the last week with lead-ins along the lines of  “Well Valentine’s is just around the corner and one local resident is helping out all those guys who haven’t got a clue what to get” or “OK fellas, not sure what to get your special lady, well here is dating advice columnist such and such to tell you what to do and how to do it.”

            I just don’t see how bombarding someone with the notion that if they don’t shell out big for V-Day they’re a lousy partner. I fail to see the romance in a man showing up, gift in hand and saying “Here Sweetie. I got you this and I know you’ll like it because I read all the advice columns, articles, wish lists and even the consumer report on most popular Valentine’s gifts for women…so…sex please”.

            Again I feel I should mention that I am not anti-love or romance, I’m just not a fan of a large build up and emphasis on a single day. I’m also not saying that you shouldn’t do something nice for that special someone today. In fact I think you should, but don’t let it be because you feel obliged. Do it because of the caring and love you may have for one another.

            I also feel that by going to all the trouble of some elaborate dog and pony show to display your love on this single day it diminishes all the other days. It’s as if by going all out on V-day you can slack off all year. But why does it have to be today? Why not three days from now? Or three weeks? What’s wrong with showing up with flowers and making dinner just because it’s a Wednesday or meeting your guy/gal at the end of a day to walk home with them or what have you?

            It just seems to me that if you have a special someone why wait for one day to be outlandish. Why not spread it around all the time and not force each other into spending huge amounts of cash and effort into one day. Anyway I’ve got to go because the stores will be closing soon and I just realized I don’t have the perfect gift yet…Oh God, Oh God, I’m screwed what am I to do. I should have listened more to all those advice columns. Looks like I’ll be sleeping on the couch. Happy Valentine’s Day.

Bathroom Poetry

          On a recent night out at the Biltmore I noticed something on one of my visits to the facilities – and no this has nothing to do with dicks or dick jokes. What caught my eye was the vast amount of graffiti on the walls. I have been to the Biltmore many times before but this is the first time I really thought about the ink that covers the bathroom walls so completely. I guess the main query I had was, who wrote all this stuff?

            I found myself wondering several things about these authors. The thing that stuck out the most was my curiosity over who brings Sharpies or big fat permanent markers to the bar? I suppose it would be the same type who carries one around so they can mark-up mailboxes and bus stops. At least I hope it’s the same type, it would be even stranger to me to be leaving for the bar and make sure to grab your marker so you can tag the bathroom. That sort of action shows a level of forethought towards bathroom artwork, which I find to be curious/creepy.

            Something else I couldn’t help but muse on was that despite so much writing on the Biltmore walls and that of many other establishments, I’ve never seen anybody writing on the walls. Which filled me with questions over wall writing etiquette. Are you supposed to wait until the room is cleared before you start? Was the stuff written above the urinal done whilst peeing? Does that ever result in awkward moments with other patrons? See, now I kind of want to catch somebody in the act. I think I would get a modest chuckle walking into the loo to see a guy, junk in one hand and Sharpie in the other leaving his mark.

            I suppose a large part of my interest also goes to the mentality of bathroom tagging and I guess tagging in general. I fail to see the drive behind it. If, indeed it is some sort of turf thing or an ‘I was here’ feeling, then wouldn’t – if caught in the act – the writer turn to me and pump his fist with a little ‘Fuck yeah and shit!’ so I knew it was him. So I knew that I was in the presences of greatness, that I actually saw ‘Stumpy’ or ‘Togsoner’ or ‘FilthBomb’ in person.

            This phenomenon of bathroom tagging is not contained solely within the lavatory of the Biltmore. It is something I have seen at dozens if not hundreds of establishments, as I suspect you have as well. Which means you should be familiar with the two basic types of privy prose. The first being the simple ‘tag’, which when I think about it is most fitting for the bathroom as ‘tags’ tend to be heaping piles of shit. The second form encountered is the small poem or comment – things such as ‘Becky Winston is a bitch’ or ‘for a good time call 778-995-5789’ - at least in the men’s room, not so sure about the other side.

            It’s actually what is written in the ladies room that caused me to dwell so much on the washroom scripture. A day or two before that I was with a friend who told me of some truly great conversations she read written on the stall door of the washroom. They sound very much different than what I am used to reading in the men’s room. This particular conversation started with a girl complaining how fat and ugly she thought she was or something to that effect. As it turned out the response was all positive, several comments left behind reassuring this initial girl that she was wrong and that she was beautiful and other such comforts.

            My friends informed me that this sort of thing is not uncommon, that girls will often write nice things to each other and try and be helpful to the strangers who had previously popped a squat in that particular stall. Again something I found fascinating. This concept opened up a whole new dimension to the bathroom writing mentality that just leaves me with more questions.

            So, I will put those questions to you. If you, loyal reader, can shed any light on the practice of bathroom tagging, poetry, conversations and any form of stall messaging please do. If you have engaged in this practice yourself then help me understand why? If you have ever caught somebody in the act of writing on the walls/stalls of a bathroom please share. Lastly, if you for some reason can recall a particularly memorable piece of writing you’ve read then share that story.

The Driver's Bubble 2

           As I mentioned previously in ‘The Driving Bubble’ I have not done much driving in the last year. This is due to my steady lack of employment, which has made it somewhat difficult to afford the upkeep of an automobile. So over the last couple of months I have been trying to sell my car – a gorgeous ’97 Corolla if anyone is interested. A small problem with my attempted sale is that because the car has sat idle for so long the battery is pretty low. So for the last few days I have been taking my ride for little spins around the neighbourhood to keep it in running order. Nothing to far afield, just aimless circles through the surrounding blocks. It was on one of these short jaunts I was struck with a realization – I miss driving.

            I know that sounds similar to the original ‘Driver’s Bubble’, but this time it had nothing to do with the special zone for unfettered singing. It was simply the joy of being behind the wheel and going for a cruise. It was at some point when I cracked the window to get a little breeze going that I had a flashback. I was instantly transported back to the early days of having my driver’s license and the ensuing feelings of freedom.

            I couldn’t help but remember what a big deal it was to acquire a license, that ability to no longer rely on a parent or bus to take you somewhere ­- An instant feeling of being older, of reaching some sort of milestone. It’s been ten years since I started driving and over those many days and thousands of kilometers covered on the road, I lost that feeling of excitement when getting behind the wheel.

            Over those last ten years so much of my time at the wheel felt like a chore. Gone was that spark of giddiness when turning the key and hearing the rumble of the engine. All too often driving became a headache, with the traffic jams, bad drivers and ever ballooning gas prices. Don’t get me wrong; I do not miss any of those aspects of being a motorist. It’s just than when I think back to those first few months of driving in that first car, I miss it.

            Back then I used to drive just for the hell of it. It’s kind of funny how enjoyable it was to load up the old 626 with a few friends on a Friday night and just cruise around. Throwing on some good tunes (well they seemed good at the time) and driving around looking for other young people to interact with. Maybe stop for a slurpee then jump back in the whip to roll around and talk about nonsense and girls and stupid school and girls and sports stuff and girls and tell crude jokes and yell out the window at strangers and punch each other in the arm, all the while thinking we were swinging dicks. But in truth we were just another rowdy car full of awful awful teenagers.

            It wasn’t just weekend nights either. There was the first summer of driving and cruising with the windows down on a hot day. All the days of what seemed like the best choice, cranking a little Fog Hat and slowly rolling past the beach to gawk at the ladies and continue to yell crude comments out the window and punch each other in the arm and generally be dreadful human beings. But every so often things would work out and we’d spot a bevy of beauties. Convince them to hop in the car and head off somewheres.

            And then there were some nights when I would just hop in the car by myself and drive around, simply for the pleasure of driving. It’s that simplest of pleasures that was lost and which I miss. Also, now that adulthood has happened and people have grown into their bodies I have no idea how I ever fit eight bodies into the 626 for a cruise.

            So I say to you, if you are fortunate enough to have a car, on your next day of idleness – go for a drive. Damn the gas prices, damn the traffic and damn the environment. Get behind the wheel with no plan and take yourself for a spin. If you’re sick of the city get out of it. If you prefer staying local, then do some rubbernecking along some unfamiliar side streets. Either way, I say pick out your best road tunes, strap yourself into the bubble and relish the ability to drive a car. A tool that doesn’t have to simply be a utility, but a luxury.

A View To Die For: a short story

Morgan Connoly inhaled deeply. The feeling of the breeze on her face had a calming effect. There was a strange sweetness to the salty ocean air. Part of that was due to the bottle of champagne she’d almost finished and partly because she had succeeded. Morgan sat atop a cliff over looking the Pacific. Casually dressed in her comfiest jeans, rolled up to just below the knee and a loose cotton blouse that billowed slightly when the wind gusted.

She closed her eyes and slowly drew another long breath, her fiery red hair dancing lightly in the wind. She couldn’t remember the last time she felt so content. The empty bottle of champagne lying by her side, the last of it filling the flute she loosely held in one hand, resting on her knee. Normally not much of a drinker she felt justified in this heavy indulgence, after all she was celebrating. The last month had been a grind. She had never worked so hard in her life, but today it had all paid off.

She laughed a little to herself over how nervous she had been that morning. It was her big chance to stun all the senior members of the company and she didn’t disappoint. She absolutely killed at her presentation. She had left the board speechless. Morgan was especially proud of how blown away Evan had been; he was the one she most wanted to surprise.

Morgan thought back to when she was first hired. How everyone had told her she wouldn’t cut it. That the corporate world she was entering was a man’s world. That she wasn’t tough enough for it, that she couldn’t handle the cutthroat nature of the business. These types of things Morgan had heard her whole life and she was determined to prove her doubters wrong. It was a struggle.

Being the only female employee not working as a secretary or assistant Morgan had expected to be slightly resented, but she was totally unprepared for the abuse she received. The constant whistles and catcalls from the male department heads. The steady stream of lewd remarks and suggestions she’d be happier at home in the kitchen or on her back in the bedroom. At first she tried to convince herself they were intimidated by her presence and this was all some sort of hazing because she was new. Morgan believed once she showed that she belonged it would all ease up. So she worked hard and her work was top notch, outshining many of the longer serving male employees. But it only got worse.

The remarks only got dirtier with time and the abuse slowly crossed the line from verbal to physical. Suffering the occasional “accidental” collision resulting in a hand on the breast or a pat on the rear end after a meeting followed by a sarcastic “good job, sweet cheeks.” The problems reached their climax when Morgan started being late for meetings or missing them altogether, because she didn’t receive a memo or meeting times were changed at the last minute. This was the worst as it was her work that was now suffering, but she was determined. Morgan was tough. She could handle the taunts and slurs, she worked hard and late to catch up, she could cope with all that. What made it unbearable was all the while Evan watched and did nothing.

Evan was a senior vice-president and her college boyfriend and almost fiancé, Morgan would have accepted his proposal if it weren’t for his demand that she give up her “silly” career plans. He told her with his Dad’s connections he’d soon be making more than enough money, so she could stay home and take care of their children and not worry her pretty head with finance markets, mergers and acquisitions. When she told him she couldn’t live that life, that she had to work for herself and have a career, but loved him and wanted both – he left.

None of that mattered anymore, because after today she would never again suffer the merciless abuse of her co-workers. Her presentation was flawless, her execution perfect. Morgan raised her glass to toast herself. The setting sun giving the champagne the look of liquid fire and as she stared into the golden bubbles she noticed a strange flicker of blue and red.

“I thought they would have found me sooner.” She uttered. “It was awfully nice of them to wait for me to finish my champagne.”

Morgan slowly got to her feet, wobbling slightly due to the effects of the champagne. She turned to face the dozen police vehicles speeding towards her. She was impressed by how many they sent for her.

“Maybe they thought I had help.” She mused. “I guess they didn’t believe one little woman could murder a boardroom full of men by herself.”

Morgan raised her glass in salute to the large group of officers now facing her, guns drawn. Draining the last of her glass Morgan held her arms wide, her blouse fluttering in the wind, her hair swirling about her head. Morgan let the glass slip gently from her hand as she took three steady steps backwards, which was one too many.

That's ASSinine

           Two nights ago, I along with countless other 20-something’s longing for a little extra spice, teenage boys dreaming of the future and middle-aged men dreaming of the past watched the Victoria Secret Fashion Show. And I suppose a few women doing some sort of window-shopping. Not a program I’m overly proud about viewing, but I figure I’m allowed, as I watch neither Jersey Shore nor any of the Real Housewives train wrecks.

            There were many aspects of this program that I was shocked/disturbed/surprised about and none of them had to do with women walking around in barely enough material to make me a toque (granted I do have a pretty big head). The first of which is that through absolutely no effort of mine I have matured slightly…slightly. You see I have watched this show in the past, but this year I found myself saying ‘This is stupid’. I was actually more interested in the musical performances than the noodle thin prosti…uh Angels on stage and I’m talking linguini here, not fettuccini. Yes I seem to have grown slightly or the Internet has just corrupted me to the point where this sort of thing seems insignificant.

            Second on my list of irritants was the behind the scenes aspects in which the models were being interviewed. I guess this also showed some sort of aging or maturation, as my most common reaction to the models was ‘no, no, no. What terrible examples you’re setting.’ Upon listening to these women I found myself with a level of concern for any young girls who may be watching. There were two thoughts expressed that struck me the hardest as dangerous messages.

            The first came from a young and first time Angel who noted ‘I feel like I’m living the American dream.’ Which in some ways may be true as I’ve always perceived that dream to be along the lines of anybody can make it big if they work hard and strive to achieve. But that is not really how this women’s message came across and I fear for the young girls that what was heard was ‘I’ve made it. I’m beautiful, famous and rich’. Which I guess is the new dream. The other message delivered came from two Angels talking about their own childhood and dreams of being a model. They said they hoped and believed that somewhere a young girl was watching who could dream big enough and like them one day walk around in their underwear and skip meals for money. And to me that is just not the right thing to promote to children. I can’t really say there is anything morally wrong with modeling, I just feel like aspiring to be wank-fodder for 12-year old boys whose parents have good internet locks is aiming a little low.

            Finally the thing that stuck out to me the most and I found to be the most peculiar happened after an Angel made her turn at the end of the runway. As she was walking off stage my eyes followed her so as to see the design features on the back of her outfit when I noticed that her backside had been blurred out. This was particularly noticeable as none of the preceding models had this happen, so I can only assume she was wearing a thong or a g-string or some other cool new thing I’ve never heard of.

            This struck me as pretty gosh darn hypocritical, because the entire show is based around titillation and cheap thrills. Yet seeing an ass crosses the line? There didn’t seem to be any need to blur out any of the women wearing lacy see-through bras, where nipples were as blatant as a fly in one’s soup. And it certainly didn’t take a Sherlockian eye to notice all off the dromedary dactyls on display. Aside from the obvious reason of my penchant for hindquarters, I think this censoring bothered me so much because it speaks to a larger issue in TV censorship.

            It is the censoring of sex and sexual content that I find somewhat ridiculous. It’s not that I need to see t’n’a all over the small screen, but that sex is still considered taboo on network TV and violence is so commonplace. I mean sex is about as natural as it gets, pretty much everybody I know has experienced it in some form, probably even some priests. Yet I can’t think of any acquaintances who have shot, stabbed, blown up, or candlesticked someone to death. Any of which can be witnessed thousands of times a day on any number of shows, but try and find a nip on prime time and you’re plum out of luck.

            A couple weeks ago while watching the premiere episode of Hell on Wheels I saw (spoiler alert) a man getting a hole blown through his head and a throat cut wide open – if you haven’t watched the show I suggest you do. All that’s fine, it doesn’t bother me in the slightest, but I know there is no hope of seeing any tits-a-poppin. At best I might catch a little side-boob, which admittedly if shot well can be mighty fine but you know…its not the real deal. And I fail to see how seeing a breast is more inappropriate than a fairly realistic shot of a man losing his scalp under a native blade.

            I guess the thing that bothers me is how much work goes into covering up all the smut. Watch any episode of CSI and you’ll see a dead woman in a hotel who has been murdered and left in her own blood and despite the killer going to great lengths to brutalize his victim he was very careful to tastefully drape a sheet across her naughty bits, I guess so the police won’t find her in a state of indecency.

            I’m not saying I have a desperate need for more nudity on TV, because I don’t. Sure in certain situations it can lend an air of realism, but who watches TV for realism. I guess what it really boils down to is, coommmeee ooonnn – it’s the Victoria Secret show for Pete’s sake.

The Driver's Bubble

           As I alluded to in my previous post I am now a regular and constant fixture on the cities’ public transportation. That’s all well and good, but today I witnessed something that made me long for the days of driving. As I was crossing the street a car pulled up to the stop sign, as I looked inside to gauge whether or not the driver would roll through or allow me to pass, I saw her singing and doing a little head bobbing. She stopped upon seeing me notice her and I couldn’t help but smile a little. Seeing this made me miss the days of the car-rock-out.

            There is something about driving along and listening to some catchy beats that I sorely miss. I think it has to do with being in that special zone, that driver’s bubble. A time when despite the fact you are surrounded by windows, you feel as though you’re alone. I always hear horror stories of long commutes to and from work, but I always enjoyed those moments (admittedly I always had relatively short drives, if I was say coming in from Surrey everyday I would probably want to ram my face through a plate glass window).

            When I was driving I always felt a certain calm, I enjoyed that time as a little me time. A few minutes when I could think about whatever and hopefully get in some solid car-dancing and it really didn’t matter what I was rocking out to. That is the great thing about a solid driving bubble rock-out. I could through down a wicked drum solo on the dashboard while listening to the Chili Peppers or belt out to the world how much of a Firework I am.

            For whatever reason as soon as I was in that little imagined world of privacy I was a rock star. Sure, every once and a while I would get busted and feel a little sheepish, but there is usually very little judgment from other motorists. And one of my favourite things to do when busted was to try and get whoever saw me to sing along. I know when I see someone having a drive-time dance party and they’re really getting into it, I’m a little jealous. I’m curious as to what they’re listening to and hardly ever think less of them, actually I usually think more – except that one time a couple months ago when I saw a guy in a honkin big pickup cranking Hootie, come on? Hootie?

            I’m not sure what it is, but there is some strange magical force that takes over when sitting behind the steering wheel. I don’t for a second think about what I’m singing or how ridiculous I might look doing the Sprinkler at a red light. But this only seems to happen in the car. I no longer drive but I still listen to music all the time. My Ipod is a steady accessory, but I rarely have a walking-down-the-street rock-out.

            I came close the other day while crossing the street at Broadway and Macdonald. I was mid crosswalk and listening to a song called Livin’ In The Future by the Boss, when the late great Clarence Clemons chimed in with a bad-ass sax solo. I had a hard time suppressing my urge to give a Michael Jackson inspired leg kick and air-sax my way across the street. If you’re familiar with the work of Clemons you’ll understand, if not I strongly suggest you give him a listen.

            I suppose there would have been nothing wrong with a little dancing in the streets, but I felt restrained. As though my actions would have been viewed as those of a spacey weirdo instead of a dope guy having a blast, which is how I think I may have been received had I been driving. Which I guess again speaks to that magic force that arises when sitting at the wheel. Strangers seem to recognize that special zone, a common bond amongst those who need a few moments of spontaneous jamming. When otherwise normal folk feel the right to be completely silly and good for them. If only there were more times when it was acceptable to cut loose and act the complete fool the world might be a better place. However, that might diminish the specialness of the driver’s bubble.