Rainy Gay

Fallout

2007-08-11T13:29:00.000-07:00

The day after I was out with my friend Mike, he wasn't answering his cell phone, or more accurately I kept getting the message ' the customer you are trying to reach is not available.' I assumed he was suffering from the depression thats usually the fallout after a manic phase. After two days, I called the hospital and went to visit him. He had been mugged and severely beaten entering his apartment by someone behind him trying to get in the building without a key. Rightfully, Mike didn't let him in.
He doesn't remember what the criminal looked like, partly because Michael has a bad habit of taking too many tranquilizers, in strong enough doses that would put an elephant in a coma for two days. They also effect his judgement and he switches from beer to double vodkas.
I took him clean underwear, socks, deodorant and t-shirts. The roof of his mouth had been shattered so he has to have surgery, and his teeth removed. His Mom sells dental equipment, and Mike had very beautiful teeth. He hadn't filed a police report, so we called them and gave them as much information as we could, though I was not with him at the time. He was so out of it, he couldn't remember his address, and because he recently moved there, I didn't know it either as I've only visited his apartment twice. Plus I'm terrible at directions. I helped him find this place, in what I thought was a relatively safe neighborhood, but according to my spouse, it's sketchy. Rent's are high downtown, bachelors run for 1000 a month or more, and very tiny, but I think he's better to live in 1/4 of the space in a safe neighborhood that where he currently is, even though it's still a short trip to downtown. Then I called his Mom, who I really like, and helped her find a deal on a plane ticket as she's not computer savvy, and she's flying out tonight.
So today I was going to visit Mike at the hospital again, but he's been discharged, is not in another hospital and I can't get a hold of him because he has no phone. He had my number on speed dial on his cell phone, and I left him my number again at the hospital, but I'm sure he lost it, because he was so out of it from the pain killers and pyche medications. He takes the highest dosage of Prozac possible, the dosage they only give to severe anorexics. And methadone, not that he was a junkie, but it is used for extremely bi-polar people.
Then he told me he's thinking of moving back to the small town he came from, Sault Ste. Marie, but six months ago, he told me his life might as well be over if he moved back there, so I hope it was just the drugs talking and not something he's seriously considering. Gay, bipolar people do not do well in small places.
I called the police today and asked them to check on him, and give him my phone number. They won't give me his address, and I could probably find it, but there were too many similar buildings in the area, and I don't know his buzzer code.
I hope he's o.k.
Two months ago he got a huge income tax refund and his Mom suggested he buy himself a really nice watch which he spent a ridiculous amount of money on.
Someone mugged him for that too.
Vancouver is a safe city, but like Lions on the Savannah, some seek out the damaged, the drugged and the vulnerable.

Manic Rain

2007-08-08T17:43:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I ran into my friend Mike, the one who's severely bi-polar, and sometimes I think his manic phases can cause one in me, either that or I just get caught up in his enthusiasm and it sets it off. We ran into each other at Main and Hasting, I was looking for a tranquilizer because I wasn't having a good day. Mike gave me one of his and we ended up going to this seedy bar, that wasn't as seedy as I thought it would be for that area. Anyway, I invited him over and gave him an expensive leather jacket, suede with baseball stitching, that I love, but I bought it without trying in on and it never fit me properly. Apparently a medium, but more like a large. Then I got carried away and started to give him other clothes that I rarely wear, plus a shirt I bought in Germany for my sweetie that he never liked.
Then we headed downtown to a gay bar, and this guy kept putting his hands down the back of pants, and to be honest I liked it. Just rubbing the small of my back and slightly lower. What I didn't know was that his very jealous boyfriend was in the bar and asked me if his bf had his hands down the back of my pants, and I said no, partly because the man was 6.5 feet tall and looked like he drinks testoterone for breakfast. I also whispered to the groper "you totally owe me". Mike started drinking Havey Wallbangers, a drink that reminds me of the 70's, and kept losing his stuff, so I packed everything up and showed him all the zippered inside pockets in the jacket I gave him so he wouldn't lose anything else.
RB keeps telling me to find some more normal friends, but with Mike, he gets it, he understands, I don't have to explain myself .

Let Your Freak Flag Fly

2007-08-06T10:19:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, on my way to the parade I was stunned by how packed the skytrain was assuming that there must be a football game on, so I asked where everyone was going, and they looked at me like I was from Mars and said the pride parade. These were not your typical urbanites but wives,husbands, and children from deepest suburbia.
I love Vancouver. I was planning on going with my severely bi-polar friend but he was feeling sick so I ended up sitting with a middle aged husband and wife and we had great seats along a brick wall and the weather was perfect, though a little hot for me, meaning over 70. I'm a heat sissy, must be my Irish Swedish DNA. The crowd was estimated at 400 thousand, it's largest ever, and remember the metropolitan area of Vancouver's population is estimated at 2.2 million, with Vancouver proper having a population of just under 600 thousand people.
There didn't seem to be as many Americans visiting this year which I suspect is due to our dollar being at par with the American for the first time in thirty years. Miss those big butch hairy brutes. Five years ago our dollar was only worth 60 or so cents. War is expensive. The parade, for the first time had a contingent of East Indian gays and lesbian, and I admire their bravery because that's still a huge taboo in their culture. I stood and cheered for them. One guy had a sign reading I wasn't born gay, Bollywood made me this way. Best sign ever!
And a Rabbi, along with members of his synagogue had a float with signs saying we marry Jewish lesbian and gays. Another big cheer. There were also people marching with different signs reminding us of how gays and lesbians are murdered in many countries simply because of their orientation, and the methods in which they are murdered and tortured.
Air Newzealand had a float and I know corporate sponsorship is controversial, but financially they saved the parade a few years ago due to rising costs of insurance etc. Yet New Zealand only has a population of three million people so I can't really see it as a gay mecca tourist destination, though it's a beautiful country. I went to a bar for a few beer after, and as usual ended up having the most interesting conversations with the women in the bar. Home by ten, in bed by 11, but all in all a wonderful day. Plus the valium helped.
And all you heteros who support people like us, a big Bravo and and warm hugs to you.

Like Sunshine Ater Rain

2007-08-04T12:57:00.000-07:00

He's doing better but almost died, and slowing becoming healthier than ever. Don't watch Grey's Anatomy if a loved one is having surgery. Thank you for all your kind comments and I apologize for not updating regularly. Facing the possible loss of the one person who loves me unconditionally, who can read my mood by a simple tilt of my head, a slight change in the tone of my voice, who forgives my manic phases and depressive bouts, was like living in some sort of alternate nightmarish reality. He's a stubborn Scots man with that Celtic cheeriness, the opposite of my brooding self. It's hard to write about him, in part because I'm embarrassed by how much he means to me. My one true thing.
And how I never thought someone like him would choose to be with me.
This is how naive I was about him. He likes violent Clint Eastwood, Bruce Willis movies, Martin Scorcese gangster sagas, but I rented Torch Song Trilogy where the Mathew Broderick character is gay bashed and murdered and RB's body spasmed in horror. I was confused, this is the man who didn't blink during the gory scences in Scarface. It took me years to figure out that he wasn't afraid for himself but terrified that something like that would happen to me. He passes, is often mistaken as a cop. I, though not a screaming queen,( most of the time at any rate ) do not always pass.
RB was married at 21 and had three children by the time he was 25, but he's never come out to them. Officially.But it's unspoken, the twighlight zone and that which must not be named. We used to argue about it, and I sometimes feel like I'm living in 1950, but I couldn't stand to upset him, and I don't have children, so when he's ready, if ever, that's his decision. Once, during a heated argument about his coming out, his body shook, and tears welled up in his eyes. Sick the gay pride police on me now, but I came out in a redneck town in Northern Canada at 17 and was promptly whisked away to my first psyche ward visit so cut me a little slack. During his illness his eldest daughter called me and wanted to talk to me privately to get the honest version of her Father's health as RB has a tendency to minimize. It was a little awkward as I know she knows and at first I thought she was going to ask me if we were a couple. His other daughter married a therapist who counsels gay men, and the last time they were over for dinner ( I have to de-gay the condo, meaning hide the pictures of the two of us hugging etc ) She said" We know more than you think you do". I said no, I know you know, but what you don't know is how long we've been together, because at one time when the family visited I would leave for the evening. In hindsight I wished she had said those words to her father and not me.
This is what is unique about his sexuality.
He had no idea until he was thirty something and was wrestling with a friend and had an orgasm. The friend thought he was having a heart attack as they were fully clothed. I didn't believe this tale, until I got to know him better and now I believe it, because denial can be extremely powerful. Six months later his wife's sister and three out of the four children were murdered by her husband. He was an undiagnosed schizophrenic. The surviving infant daughter was put in a foster home whilst an expensive custody battle raged between RB his wife, and the paternal grandparents. RB and wife won, partly because at that time they had the financial resources to hire good lawyes. A year later RB's Wife left him not coping with her sister's death and there were problems with the businesses they were running and RB, was slowly coming around to accepting that he might be gay. RB said they were in constant competition with each other. She's since been through four marriages, the last one a gentle man from Pakistan, named Surinder, who I jokingly referred to as Surrender, because the ex is a very difficult, angry, efficient woman.You know the type. I met RB's eldest daughter before I met the ex, and couldn't figure out how someone as easy going and good natured as him could have such a high strung angry child, and three minutes after meeting the ex, I understood. RB's mother introduced as during a visit to Kelowna, and the wife who has remained on good terms with RB and his family showed up. RB's Mom said " Have you met Lotuslander". She refused to even look at me let alone say hello. This is 14 years after they split up.
His first born son contracted meningitis in the hospital and can live without supervision, but of all the step children he's the one who's company I enjoy most and the one who likes to hang out with me. He does have brain damage, and his co-ordination is off, and he has problems with speech, and sometimes he's mistaken as a junkie. The second son, was born with spinal problems and spent years in the hospital as a child having his spine stretched, science that was learned in Nazi Germany where they used human guinea pigs to find just how far they could stretch a spine before it snapped.. He's very short, not a dwarf, but under five feet and has to buy his clothes in the children's department.
Friends of mine say RB's family history give them a headache, when I've explained the dynamic.

The post title comes from one of my favorite lines about love from Shakespeare.
"Love comforteth like sunshine after rain."

Bad Stuff

2007-05-10T01:00:00.000-07:00

Haven't posted. My spouse had knee replacement surgery, and, just when I thought it had gone extremely well because he also has a not- Aids-immune disease, they found a blood clot on his lung, so I've been spending most of my time in the hospital with him. I hate seeing him in pain and unhappy and frustrated, and wish I could take his place.

Coffee Talk

2007-04-21T17:28:00.000-07:00

There's a new coffee shop on my block called Kenya Organic run by a black guy with an obscure accent I can't place. He only makes drinks with espresso, so if you order coffee you get an Americano for the same price. It's dark and strong and good, but he likes to chat and lately, give me lectures about not working. He has magazines placed neatly on the window sills, mostly womans - Oprah and fashion and gossip, stuff that I imagine is his girlfriend's, because I doubt his family is here. It used to be a crepe place run by France french guys that went bankrupt not knowing that duck mousse crepes four blocks from Crackville wouldn't be the wisest business venture. The Muslim lady at the convenience store keeps asking about my fake blonde hair and I think she secretly wants to throw off her hijab and bleach hers and put on bright red lipstick and horrify her family. Her sister doesn't wear a scarf, but I like the hijab woman more, she's nervous and cautious at the cashier and smiles shyly.
I have a friend from Pakistan who won't eat meat unless it's killed and bled according to Muslim dietary laws, yet he's gay and doesn't seem to have any problem breaking that rule, which I'm sometimes tempted to point out, but don't, thinking that maybe he's just trying to hang on to what he can. I slept all day, a bad sign, and with the shorter nights I can't avoid daylight because it's light out when I fall asleep and light when I wake up. I have periods where I'm on a normal cycle, but eventually I end up nocturnal , and to break it I have to stay up around the clock and go to bed that night.
I haven't taken a tranquilizer for a month, and I'm restless and uneasy and in awe how a small pill can create an entire bubble of a world that keeps most of the sharp things away or at least, gives the illusion of it. Since the war, Valium is sold without a prescription to housewifes in Iraq by the handfuls - just 20 cents a bottle. But I know if I stay on them too long, I'd dig a deeper hole.

A Room With No View

2007-04-17T14:39:00.000-07:00

Most of the time, except when he is home, I keep the blinds shut so I don't have to look out at the ocean and mountains and feel like the view is demanding something of me. I found this article on line about Alice Munro who lived in Vancouver at one time and many of her short stories are set here.

Ms. Munro has neglected to mention this stupendous setting — the echoing curves of
bridge and cove and mountain, the dull silver of the sea, the green-black hump of Stanley Park, all this grandeur of land and water so close it's as if the great northern wilderness laps at the city's feet.

But Ms. Munro was always oppressed, almost crushed by Vancouver's fabled vistas.
"Well suppose you're in a low mood, and you get up and here spread out before you is this magnificent view. All the time, you can't get away from it. Don't you ever feel not up to it?"

"Not up to it?"

"Guilty," said Eileen, persistently though regretfully. "That you're not in a better mood? That you're not more — worthy, of this beautiful view?"

The macho cherry trees are in bloom, big fat pink popcorn blossoms. The delicate early blooming Japanese cherry trees have lost all their blooms and when I walk through the courtyard there is pink confetti scattered on the sidewalk. And the rhododendrons, which I can never look at without seeing vomiting, convulsing goats, because a friend of mine has a hobby farm in Richmond, and his goats escaped and died from eating them.
Once, in another city, I rented an apartment, because it was built around a glass elevator, and if you sat in the tiny kitchen you could watch the elevator go by like looking at a giant bug scurry up a tree. The whole apartment was built around the elevator with odd shape rooms, and the rent was low because of it's size and most people didn't want an elevator zooming by their window.

Ms. Munro's Vancouver is an outpost where new wives blink through the rain and wonder when their real lives are going to begin.
"Winter in Vancouver was not like any winter I had ever known," Ms. Munro writes in "Cortes Island," a story in her 1978 collection "The Love of a Good Woman" that matches detail for detail with her first months in Kits. "No snow, not even anything much in the way of a cold wind." After a day of wandering the city vaguely looking for work, the story's nameless narrator (dubbed Little Bride by one of the other characters) returns to Kits Beach at dusk as "the clouds broke apart in the west over the sea to show the red streaks of the sun's setting — and in the park, through which I circled home, the leaves of the winter shrubs glistened in the damp air of a faintly rosy twilight."
Maybe you have to grow up here not to feel like your living in some alien world.

Border Towns

2007-04-03T11:56:00.000-07:00

My Dad was the first of his family to be born in North America. His older brother and sister were born in Northern Ireland. The town my grandfather comes from is on the border with the Republic of Ireland and holds the distinction of being the most bombed- by- the- IRA small -town in what my Grandfather always referred to as Ulster. I don't why they moved to Canada, and once asked my Dad when he was alive and he said he never asked them. Rumour has it, from Irish relatives that have visited us, that Grandpa had to leave, and leave in a hurry, and that's all we know. My Grandmother was from Dublin born to an Irish mother but her father was Swedish and for some reason left Sweden for Ireland, and that question was never asked either. As kids, we use to visit my Grandparents house which smelled of pipe smoke and scones, and in summer there were always violet pansies planted along the front of the house. We'd be offered a 'sweet', usually a peppermint, and my Grandfather would read us the same story over and over again, Oscar Wilde's "The Selfish Giant." We didn't ask to hear this story once we heard it the first time, but he liked to tell it and read it like a theatre production, though we often had a hard time understanding him because of his accent. We didn't complain, because somehow, young as we were, we knew it was important and something that mattered to him,, and to say anything might cause him to feel foolish, and a part of us loved him for loving this simple story and repeating it so often. He'd refer to himself as "Grandad, rather than Grandpa", but we never called him that as we were firmly planted in the New World. He seemed to not see us, except as an audience, maybe because there were so many of us or maybe because we were the only captive audience he could find, or maybe he just wanted someone, anyone to listen to him. After my Grandmother died, he moved in with us for a year, and my Mother would find empty whiskey bottles under the bed, hidden in the water tank of the toilet, and he'd spend his time in the Legion, call a cab and come home stumbling up the stairs singing Irish songs. We were fascinated. At that time, we were going to school in a French area, and Grandpa insisted he spoke it from his time in France during " the Great War," but we'd try not to laugh because he spoke French with such a heavy Irish accent. He'd insist on a green vegetable and a yellow vegetable for supper everyday, and thought that woman should only drink sherry, and only on holidays. Eventually he moved back to Ireland and lived into his 90's. My sister visited a few times, and Grandpa would talk about the evils of alcohol, yet have his bottles stashed in the lane.
My Dad never spoke well of him, always referred to him by first name, and in vulneralbale moments spoke to my Mother of how ill-treated my Grandmother was. Yet, my Grandfather reminds me of everything I don't want to be and everything I am, and therefore I forgive, or at the least, ty to understand. But my Father's eye's only once blinked, only once seemed unsure and confused, only once faltered and openened with confusion and it was when he tried to speak of his Father.
I wish I could time travel and hug the little boy he was and convince him it's not his fault. Until he believes me.

The Curse of The Sibilant S

2007-03-30T13:27:00.000-07:00

Gene, the man who had referred me to the temporary labour force company, asked me to meet him before I went to the job site. I wore my hiking boots, that I spent way too much money on during a manic phase when I had a credit card, and an off-white distressed Italian denim jacket that I got for an incredibly low price at a sample sale two years ago. I wore a pair of old Replay jeans that I rarely wear and a light baseball cap. I wore biking gloves, from back when I bought a Rocky Mountain bike, and was briefly determined to become a healthy, fresh aired Vancouverite. I used the bike four times.
I walked into the coffee shop Gene and I agreed to meet in, and he looked at me in horror and said" You can't wear any of that". Why not, I asked, it's just an off white denim jacket and a pair of jeans I never wear anymore."

" Trust me ditch the jacket, ditch the cap, ditch the jeans." He asked if my boots were steel toed, and I reminded him that yesterday he told me just to lie. Gene somehow was in the Vietnam war when he married an American woman ,plays part time in a jazz band on week-ends, does high tech construction work during the week, and teaches MBA sudents communications at Simon Fraser University.This how I know I live in this this alternate universe callled Vancouver. He ended up lending me some of his work clothes, including a hard hat, a worker- type mans jacket an orange glow vest and a pair of proper gloves. Then he said I needed " to queen it down," lower my voice and started giving me lessons on sounding more masculine. "Where's the fuckin coffee man, etc ". Doug was also at the coffee shop and laughing at my attempts, saying it reminded him of the Birdcage.
"Ill just try not to talk" I said to Gene. It's not that my voice is that high, but I do confess to having the curse of so many gay men, that of the sibilant S. I have a hard time swearing, especially swearing loudly but I was becoming increasingly uneasy about how I would be treated by the crew. My voice has served me well in sales and phone conversations and It's not that my voice is high, it's just unusual, and yes the sibilant s.
I've been told I sound like a gayer William Hurt, but I fear I sound like the psycho transexual in Silence of The Lambs.
I headed down to the site, and it turned out to be the Vancouver Pre-Trial, a jail for those waiting court dates that the crew were either gutting or demolishing. I walked in and asked for Garret and was told I was way too early. There were two woman chatting, and they were friendly and introduced themselves . I had to go through a safety orientation with the First Aid guy, and basically agree that I understood what they were talking about. He asked me when I had had my last hearing test, which I don't remember. The other guys shuffled in and they were a mixed bag. Patrick, who I thought was 60, supplements his welfare income by doing this type of work, as it's often under the table. Later he asked me if I smoked crack and told me he was 45. He was small and wiry, but amazingly strong.
Daniel was a young black guy from Nigeria with smooth velvet skin and perfectly symetrical features, and had he been taller, I'm sure he could have had a career as a model.Not my type as I like my men a little rough around the edges, but I was mezmorized by his beauty. He was also gentle and friendly and I spent the first few hours working with him shoveling broken drywall and picking up pieces of aluminum and metal. Daniel told me not to work too fast because they'll end the shift early and we won't get paid the full eight hours. Jordan was this young white "dude", with dreadlocks who told me he couldn't work very often because he had to pay for a dog sitter, otherwise his Pit Bull barks if he's alone and he's doesn't want to lose her to the SPCA.
Then there was Stacey who I was told would be my foreman, though that turned out not to be the case. She told me her life story, how because of an accident she lost her house,her career and ended up on the street. She spent all her money on physiotherapy, which normally is covered by Medicare, but Stacey said at that time her household income was over six figures, so she wasn't eligible. The full time employees wear these Darth Vader like respirators, which makes it difficult to understand what they're saying.
After shoveling the drywall , we switched to broken concrete and loaded it into garbage like bins and then had to drag them down six floors on dolly's, lift them off the dollys and load them on the truck. By this time I was running out of steam, but Daniel could see I was having a hard time and would help me.
Glen, the real foreman was this dark haired hugely muscular celtic looking man and he literally threw these very heavy concrete bins into the trailer outside. I was a little afraid of him at first, but once I smiled and said his name, he smiled back.
I came home covered in dust, and today my body is aching.
My cheque. A whopping 56 dollars.The temp companies really exploit the desperate, and the indigent and I realize that I'm very lucky.

Hard For The Money

2007-03-29T09:10:00.000-07:00

There's a bar across the street from me that's mostly a place construction workers drink beer at after work, and I occasionally go there. My friend Doug is there everyday he's not working, and ended up living with this much younger, muscular carpenter. They're totally accepted as a couple in the bar but it's an odd match, as Doug spent several years in Thailand as a Buddhist monk, and now is a mental health worker.
So yesterday, I was offered a job by one of Doug's friends as a laborer on a construction site and I said yes. I start at 3pm today, but I've never done any sort of manual work before, other than moving furniture when my partner had his business.
And I'm not sure what to wear, I have hiking boots that sort of look like construction boots, and some old ripped jeans, but I'm wondering if I've truly lost it. They aksed me if I knew what a crow bar was and I said yes, but I didn't tell them I have no idea how to use one, except in movies where it's used as a murder weapon.

Gimli

2007-03-27T07:34:00.000-07:00

My Mother married twice, and in between marriages lived with a man. There were no children from the first marriage, two from the second, and six from the third . We span the baby boom, the oldest born in 1946 the youngest in 1964. The eldest sister Kate, due to an unwanted pregnancy, married at 16 in 1964 and hence my Mother and Kate were pregnant at the same time. My mother was 40 and visibly pregnant at my sister's wedding. My Dad was severely ill at the time so my Grandfather gave my sister away and many of the groom's relatives thought my elderly grandfather was my Mother's husband. Much whispering in the pews. And no, I didn't grow up in the Appalachians. My Dad was eight years younger than my Mother, an anomaly in their generation, and his family were staunch conservative Irish Anglicans. My grandmother had a degree from the Belfast conservatory, played the organ in the Anglican Church. My Mom grew up on a small farm in an obscure part of the Prarie with little money. They married when she was thirty and he was twenty- two. My Grandparents were not pleased with the match. WE are a family of four boys and four girls, but seven pregnancies as I have a twin sister.
After Kate married she moved to Gimli, a small town on Lake Winnipeg, the 14th largest freshwater lake in the world. And once home to the largest Icelandic population outside of Iceland , though many left for larger cities and better opportunities. It's also the summer home to many Winnipeg Jews.
For several years, my twin sister and I spent a portion of the summer with Kate, as she loved having us with her. Her husband was rarely home and she was lonely. My twin Jane, being the more extroverted of us, quickly became friends with the neighboring Icelandic kids and some of the summer people.
One humid afternoon an austere man came knocking on the door and asked Kate if she'd like to have Jane and I go to Sunday school. Kate at this time was trying to be the perfect Donna Reed housewife, and I also think she wanted some free time to herself so she agreed without bothering to ask anything about the Church.
They were Jehovah Witnesses, and the Sunday school congregation consisted of two, my sister and myself.
So off we went, and basically were asked to memorize bible passages and recite them, and if we passed we were given a jelly bean or some other piece of candy. My parents were not religous so this was our first foray into the world of religion so we had no pre-conceived ideas about Christianity. Soon we invited our Icelandic friends to join us, and a few days later we were treated with a distinct chill, and they told us about blood transfusions and the oddities of the church, and I remember clearly the seriousness in Deborah's expression as she explained this to us. We were scared and stopped going and my elder sister was indifferent. "Whatever you kids want." Had we asked for Scientology lessons, I'm sure she'd have sent us. She was a kid herself really, sixteen. I don't think Kate even knew what a Jehovah Witness was. A few weeks later we did go back, and to my surprise Deborah, the Icelandic girl who was so horrified that we were going to that church was sitting in the pew, her face completley earnest and pious. She had been going for several weeks, by herself. I was confused, and I'm still confused as to why she showed up there. Did she think we were die hard Jehovah's and had turned us against our religion and felt that she had somehow damaged us?. We said hello, and sat with her, now a congregation of three, and then went to a night service, which had an easel with images of hell fire and damnation, which gave me nightmares for weeks, and that's was the end of my life Witnessing for Jehovah.
But Deborah's earnest face haunts me, and I like her for trying to repair something she thought she had harmed, even though it was misguided. And I wonder if I inadvertently converted someone to a religion, that I think is one of the whackiest ones out there. Doomsday anyone? I hope she married a nice Icelandic aethist and isn't out in Russia trying to convert people. Or worse standing on a street corner handing out copies of the Watch Tower.

My Favorite Woman

2007-03-26T11:50:00.000-07:00

Vira was my boss for five years when I worked at Intrawest, and we immediately became friends. Instantly. It was like a schock of recognition, some unspoken bond and we still keep in touch, but not as often as I'd like, as I still find it difficult to leave my apartment. Vira's Mother is Fillipino and her father is Latvian. Her husband is of Irish/English descent, so baby Gus has a very interesting gene pool. But that's not uncommon here in Vancouver, and I think 100 years from now we will be a city of Eurasians. She's now very powerful in the corporation she works for and it's well deserved, but she's never arrogant to her employees. I nagged her for years to have a baby, because so many women I knew put it off and waited until their forties, and almost all of them either miscarried or gave birth to stillborns. And vicariously I wanted to live through her, and knew enough of her nurturing character that she'd be a fantastic Mother.
I'm going to visit her and the baby on Thursday. Her husband owns a ski/snowboard shop, and Vira has decided to take the entire year of maternity leave rather than the six months she originally planned on. She wisely said that Gus will never be this age again, and time with him is more important than her career, even though it's a financial drain, as their mortgage on their house is astronmical. It's a tiny house but cost 500 grand, that's Vancouver, but luckily there is a small suite in the basement they rent out to help with the financial pressure.
She always defended me at work, calmed me down when I sat in her office and sobbed over the the pressure of the sales quotas I was given, basically real estate in resorts like Whistler and Mount Tremblant and Sandestin. Most months I made or even exceeded my quota, but it was like pulling teeth sometimes And every month I'd have to start from scratch again. And somedays, I just couldn't face the excel sheet.
She's warm and funny and smart and kind and rarely judges anyone unless they're a complete asshole. She did however call the police and mental health officials on me during a serious bout of depression, and had me hauled off to the psyche ward, but it was the right thing to do. I never went back to that job.
If I were not gay, I'd have married her. I'm one of those guys who relates better to woman than I do men, and I can never understand the type of gay man who sort of dismisses women. Maybe it's having three sisters, a niece five years younger than me, and the warm and loving relationship I have with my Mother.

Blonde on Blonde

2007-03-25T08:13:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I swallowed my courage and downed it with a tranquilizer and went back to the Hair School and told Danaray politley that I was not happy with the auburn hair colour I ended up with. I asked for blonde and I specified no red. She was gracious and said " We'll fix it.". An hour and a half later I ended up with flaming orange hair. I just shook my head and said this is worse than what I had before, so back to the chair and I end up with a medium brown cinnamon colour. Then I pulled out the big guns. I said " I hate to be so difficult but I have a casting call Monday morning with three lines and the assistant director insisted I be blonde as I'm playing a Nazi if I get the job." I've been in the chair for five hours by now and Danaray's instructors keep telling me that the medium brown colour is flattering to my skin tone. "But I need to be blonde". And I apologize for being difficult and explain that I'm one of those people who never returns clothing, never sends food back from restaurants, always tip even if the service is lousy, because I don't expect perfection, and people who work in the service industry are often treated like petulant servants, which irks me to no end.
So they bought out the hair plutonium and totally de-colorized my hair which feels like battery acid eating away at your scalp and seeping into your brain. After this process, my hair was a bright yellow, which I'm told is normal until they add the toner. My appointment was at 9am and now it was 3pm. Danaray then added a small amount of toner to a wisp of my hair and let it dry rather than adding it to all my hair so she could get an example of what the final product would look like, and after twenty minutes of letting it process the colour was dead on. O.K. maybe a little too white, but close enough and everyone should revive Billy Idol now and then. So she added the rest of the toner, let it process and I'm as Blonde as a white peach. I stole that line from Notes on a Scandal when Judy Dench describes Cate Blanchett.

It took seven hours, and they didn't charge me for all the dye jobs, just the original one that didn't turn out, and it looks ten times better than the bottle stuff. Then she cut my mohawk off and I'm fairly happy with it, even though I don't recognize myself in the mirror and look slightly pale but maybe because I find it almost impossible to change my life and my mood I can at least change my hair. I"d show you a picture, but that cross-dressing consruction worker stole my digital camera after I asked him to sleep in the spare bedroom, so I'll try to find something on the internet.

I talked to my spouse on the phone and asked him if he liked blondes and he said no, I've never felt any attraction for them. " You're attracted to anything that moves", I reminded him, and he laughed.

Something I learned about dying hair is that ash blonde is the hardest and most painful colour to achieve. The school was fun, the bustling students, the intense but smiling instructors ( except for the humourless headmistress ) the whole ambience was one of humour and laughter and I briefly thought of a career as a beautician, but the world doesn't needs another gay hairdresser. Then again last month I thought of becoming a construction worker. I did windows and merchandising for awhile and not to blow my horn, but Harry Rosen told my boss that he thought I was a merchandising wizard, but unfortunately, due to a run in with the police in my early twenties, no store would touch me. In the old days, they didn't run criminal record checks, but now everyone does. It was in 1984 and I could have applied for a pardon but never did, as for years it didn't affect me but it does now. My crime. I was just coming out and met a man from Toronto who I was smitten with, ( and I had just spent the previous five years in an isolated part of the far North ) but I had no idea what a con artist he was. He stole a credit card, bought me girly drinks and we flew to Toronto inebriated and were arrested at the Airport. I knew it was wrong, but I felt that since I never touched the card I hadn't committed a crime, and I never would have gotten on the plane had I not drank so much. I now know that if you're aware of a crime you are as guilty as the perpetrator. I confessed everything, pleaded guilty and was sentenced to seven days. It's the only crime I ever committed other than stealing five valium from my Mom. And I try not to lie unless it involves hair colour or to cover things I'm too ashamed to tell the truth about. I just tell what should be the truth. Truthfully, I lie for the dumbest reasons. Like I'm 35, half Jewish, a good skier and once had a conversation with Anne Reinkling. O.K. I answered the phone when she called an old friend who I was dating at the time, so I stretched it a bit. I left Gary in Toronto, knew I'd never see him again, but that episode has quashed job opportunities countless times. I'm in the process of applying for a pardon, something I should have done years ago, but it takes seven years, but hopefully, because it's been more than twenty years, the state can hasten the paper work.

How did I go from dying my hair to my criminal past? I eventually told my future bosses about my record, but only after they knew me for a period of time, and usually they're stunned, as I don't fit the profile. Once a laptop went missing in a co-workers office and the police were called , and I was filled with sheer terror knowing that I'd be suspect number one, or I've worked other places where cash has dissappeared and it's like a rock sinking to my stomach. They caught the offenders, and it worked out o.k., but still, after all these years, it's a source of shame and I've been turned down by companies who were gung ho to hire me, and I know it's because I had to sign a waiver allowing them to check for any criminal record. Nowadays, I would have recieved a suspended sentence, if that, as it was a first offence, but during the court appearance before the judge, the prosecutor mentioned that it was a 'homosexual" offense, because Gary stole the credit card off a man he picked up and dragged home. I remember the judge looking up at his paper work and staring at us with a look of disdain. I didn't drimk for seven years once I flew back home.
And prison is scary. Really scary. I was almost raped, by a midget or little person. I think midget sounds less offensive. But that's another story . My life in jail, not the political correctness of the term midget.
Today I'm happy, I hope not manic, just normal happy. I think.
I changed the colour of my blog, partly because it's not so grey here anymore and the new blogger gives you so many options, and it's easy to do.

Maybe I'm a little manic today, but it feels so good to feel hopeful. I just walked home from the video and grocery store, and asked for a job, and then on the elevator ride to my floor ( I didn't do the usual stairs to avoid people ) I talked to this really rugged handsome man just returning from Whistler.
And he was friendly.

P.S. The picture is of Rutger Hauer of Blade Runner fame who I met in a gay bar a seven or so years ago, and he had the personality of a gourd. He kept talking about his kid leather jacket and how many baby goats died for his glamour. Anne Rice wanted him to play Lestat in Interview With The Vampire, but to her horror, Tom Cruise landed the role.

Razor's Edge

2007-03-24T03:30:00.000-07:00

Last week on a whim I shaved my head . I missed parts, so I have these long hassidic curls along with pieces of my scalp showing. I went to the Beauty School near me to die it dark blond or light brown and told them I do not want any red tones in my hair. I ended up with flaming bright orange hair. Danaray tried to repair it by adding a dark blond colour but instead it turned out a very deep auburn. With all the corrections it took three hours, so I skipped the haircut because I couldn't sit still in the chair longer than three hours so now I have a pseudo auburn mohawk. And it's not flattering. I'm scared to see my shrink as she freaks everytime I do something radical to my hair as the popular theory is that it's a means in which psychosis manifests itself. I'm tempted to phone Danaray and tell her I'm not happy, but I don't want to get her in trouble and receive a bad grade, so I guess I'll just live with it. Either that or I'll pour Javex over my head, isn't that was bleach is for? Or maybe I'll just go totally bald but my spouse would hate that.

I'm becoming disilusioned with all the Democratic candidates and their refusal to take a stand on gay marriage and their clever sidestepping of the issue. Have to get those Christian votes I guess. I remember, for the first time a presidential canidate( Bill Clinton ) addressed a crowd of LGBT people and said my vision of America includes you, and what utter joy that inspired in me. He eventually reneged on that, but in that one moment I felt hope for the future. It seems all about pandering to the masses, and not one of them has taken a brave stand. I had no idea until I started reading American blogs what animosity exists down there towards people who A.E. Houseman wrote in a poem based on Oscar Wilde's trial, "For the colour of his hair." And these are bright articulate people. I know there are millions of Americans who support equality, but it's just so draining to read the hate that's spewed by so many. And to see Hilary and Barack not have the courage to speak out but instead side step the issue with careful finesse. Power corrupts, and being elected president appears to be more important than taking a strong stand towards justice and freedom for all. Doesn't that include gay people? I read recently that George W did not realize there were two different Muslim sects, and that he went to war without that knowledge and the possibility of a civil war. Un-fucking believable if it's true/ How could this happen in a country with many of the most brilliant people living there.

I don't normally write about politics, I just wish someone would have the balls to speak out, stand out, not be afraid of polls, change the medical system so everyone rich or poor gets the same medical treatment. It's the only industrialized country that doesn't have it, and it's not like they don't have the budget for it, though I admit lawyers and malpractice lawsuits are a major part of the problem

I'm not some rabid socialist, but I'm sure I'd be considered that in America, but it's a fact that one percent of Americans control 40 percent of the wealth. What's wrong with this picture? I'd like to take a course on Amerian studies. I have a friend who has a degree in Asian studies, but America seems far more confusing and complex.

What surprises me though, is how nice Americans are. I hate the regime and the politics but for the most part, in my experience, I've had meaningful relationships with many Americans. Even conservatives, god forbid.

Excuse the rant. Vote to get your country back. I want to visit again, and I haven't since W was elected.

Here's the whole poem. I read it as a confused teenager, and I've never forgotten it.

The Colour of His Hair

Oh who is that young sinner with the handcuffs on his wrists?
And what has he been after, that they groan and shake their fists?
And wherefore is he wearing such a conscience-stricken air?
Oh they’re taking him to prison for the colour of his hair.

'Tis a shame to human nature, such a head of hair as his;
In the good old time 'twas hanging for the colour that it is;
Though hanging isn't bad enough and flaying would be fair
For the nameless and abominable colour of his hair.

Oh a deal of pains he's taken and a pretty price he's paid
To hide his poll or dye it of a mentionable shade;
But they've pulled the beggar's hat off for the world to see and stare,
And they’re taking him to justice for the colour of his hair.

Now 'tis oakum for his fingers and the treadmill for his feet,
And the quarry-gang on portland in the cold and in the heat,
And between his spells of labour in the time he has to spare
He can curse the god that made him for the colour of his hair.

-- A. E. Houseman

Broken Head

2007-03-08T13:16:00.000-08:00

I spent the night locked up and restrained and in my fury banged my head repeatedly against the wall with the intention to break my skull and have my brain engorge. I think I was insipired by Bob Woodruff subliminally at least. Today I have bruises all over my forehead but other than that I feel fairly normal. I felt that there was absolute no reason for the authorities to lock me up just because I stumbled while hailing a cab. I hadn't drank that much, it's just that sometimes the medication can intensify the effect of the liquor, but how much time can I spend alone in my apartment. The evening began with meeting my friend Mike, the guy I've written about before who is the most severerly bi-polar person I know, and spends more than half the year in the psyche ward.

He made it home fine. Mike's motto is "as long as the police weren't involved it was a successful evening." So I guess last night wasn't. I did not give them my real name as I've lost my wallet and I.D. more times than I can remember otherwise they would have transferred me to the pyche ward, and that would mean at least a week spent there again. To be honest I had bought some Valium on the street and it's never a good idea to drink on that, but the Valium elevates my mood so much that it impairs my judgement and I start to think that nothing could possibly go wrong. So I feel pathetic, foolish and stupid and I want to run away to a TRappist monastery and never speak again except I'm not a Christian . My arm is damaged and I tried to explain this to the police, but because I don't have a cast they didn't believe me, and what happened to being allowed a phone call. The cop said I was watching too much CSI, which I've never seen a single episode. Plus, because I was banging my head they put me in another room and turned the air conditioning on full blast to make it as uncomfortable as possible, so I immediately took my clothes off, well my pants anyway to piss off the guards, but the handcuffs made it impossible to remove my sweater. Freeze me fuckers. And none of the cops were handsome either which is the worse crime.

Then I had to walk home at 4am in the roughest neighborhood in Vancouver where some drug dealer started stalking me until I told him I just got out of jail, which seem to scare him off, or maybe he just gave up.

The worse of it is, it's not my first time. The last time I spent the night there was when my arm was broken of which I have no memory.

I'm not proud of this, I feel like the biggest fool, and not sure why I'm writing about it only that it feels cathartic to let it out.

Gold Farming

2007-03-07T12:31:00.000-08:00

Thousands of people in China survive making a mere existence gold farming in the massively popular World of Warcraft or as some call it World of WarCrack, due to it's addictive nature. But it's not real gold, it's virtual gold, yet middle class North American teenagers are all too eager to skip the grind and pay real cash on internet websites for virtual gold in order to expedite the purchase of that new magical armour they've been coveting, or a mount that would allow them to travel over Azeroth with the ease of plane travel as compared to hiking.

Indonesia also has a thriving gold farming industry, though not in league with China, and the average salary per month is USD 120. In China this amount of cash has tremendous buying power, yet many work seven days a week 16 or more hours a day, and if they don't make their daily quotas, they're constantly under the threat of being dismissed. Gold farmers, many of whom support extended families are happy to have the work and jobs are competitive. There are ways to spot gold farmers on WOW, usally accounts that are constantly active, that are probably shared by more than one player.

I just find this so bizarre. Making a living harvesting unreal gold and selling it for real cash, and also ambivalent, as it is affording them a livable wage, yet it just reminds me of how decadent the west is.

Keifer Sutherlands Grandfather

2007-03-06T22:05:00.000-08:00

Tommy Douglas is acknowledged as the father of universal healthcare in Canada, and was also instrumental in starting the CCF Party which went on to form the first socialist government in North America in the province of Saskatchewan. Keifer himself admires his grandfather greatly , and hoped to play a bio-pic of him, but conflicting schedules negated that.

I was reading David from Somewhere in A Tree about 24 and the creators. To quote David "But the most disturbing article is about Joel Surnow. You know him, right? He is the co-creator of the TV smash hit "24." Did you know that he is best friends, I mean like 'throwing them birthday parties' best friends, with Rush Limbaugh and Ann Coulter? Did you know that the portrayal of torture on the show, often by patriotic Americans including the hero Jack Bauer, is shown as a necessity for the safety of our way of life? Did you know that the dean of West Point military school has met with the staff of "24" to urge them to tone down the portrayal of torture because his students are being influenced by what they see on the show? Students are embracing the show's premise that "the letter of American law must be sacrificed for the country's security." Did you know the Bush White House loves the show? Did you know that Surnow is now working to create a comic news show as a response to "The Daily Show?" He is doing this because, as he says, "there's a gay network, a black network - there should be a conservative network." Ironically he is working with Fox News to create this. Because there is no conservative network. The mind reels.

As far as I know, Keifer is a social progressive, extremely proud of his grandfather and his courage and dedication for social justice. So how did Keifer end up on 24? Tommy Douglas'S life was fascinating. During his career as a minister he was inspired by the Social Gospel movement which was an intellectual movement that was most prominent in the late 19th century and early 20th century. He also viewed first hand the police brutality during the Winnipeg General Strike of 1919 (Off topic, this was my one and only film role, which I playes a closeted doctor in a gay bathhouse in Chinatown, which I am mostly naked, not a porno but a grainy art film ) , which had a proufound effect on him. Social Gospel principles continue to inspire newer movements such as Christians Against Poverty. The movement applies Christian principles to social problems, especially poverty, inequality, liquor, crime, racial tensions, slums, bad hygiene, poor schools, and the danger of war, and most recently in Canada and the United Church in particular, equal rights for gays. Theologically, the Social Gospel leaders were overwhelmingly post-millennialist. That is they believed the Second Coming could not happen until humankind rid itself of social evils by human effort. For the most part, they rejected pre-millennialist theology (which was predominant in the Southern United States), according to which the Second Coming of Christ was imminent, and Christians should devote their energies to preparing for it rather than addressing the issue of social evils. Social Gospel leaders were predominantly liberal politically and theologically. O.K, this is the Jesus I could believe in. Or more accurately, the Jesus that seems like the kind, benevolent forgiving person he was who came for the poor and the broke hearted. Yet, I'm still not a believer. The CCF later became the New Democratic Party, which is the party I have belonged to all my life, though to be honest, even though I admire their brave stance on unpopular issues just as ending discrimination based on sexual orientation twenty years before the Liberal party waited until it became a little less contentious, they've always been trailblazers. I simply don't see any of the current hopefulls running for President in the US brave enough to demand an end to the discrimination of a significant number of Americans. But leader of the free world can be very seductive, can't it. None of you get my vote, even if I could. However, having lived under provincial governments with the NDP party in power, the economy usually suffers, so lately I've been thinkin of voting Liberal in the next federal election for the first time, but I'll never vote Liberal provincially. The provincial Libearls and the Federal Liberals have very different ideologies. But it's a hard sell and one I feel somewhat guilty about. I guess in America I'd be considered really left, but I don't feel that way here, and it still kills me when I hear the word "liberal" used in the states as akin to child eating swine trollop. I'm left more confused than angry. When did Liberal become a bad word.

The again the current government in the province I live in call themselves Liberals, but they're really conservatives in drag. Every major party in British Columbia has suffered some sort of scandal, so they just reinvent themselves under a new name. Like calling yourself Starflower when you own a steel factory. Yet, every year I see more and more homeless people, you can't buy even a tiny house for less than 1/2 a million dollars and a small one bedroom condo the size of a walk-in closest costs on average over 200 thousand. The average salary of a working person in B.C. is 42 thousand dollars a year, so home owners and even renters take in foreign exchange students to pay the rent and just to help maintain their exorbitant mortage payments . Of course land is limited in Vancouver as we're surrounded by either the ocean or mountains, and unless you want to live 2 to 3 hours outside the city core and commute everyday that's the price you pay. Then again, it's not as extravgant as New York and San Francisco, though a few years ago Vancouver's housing prices exceeded San Francisco's.

All of this makes it stressful to live here, but every spring the sun comes out and shines on the mountains, the air is fragrant with flowers, there are stunning beaches all over the city, including one right down town, it's safe to walk around, Stanley Park makes Central Park look like it's needs to go to green rehab. So whenever I think of leaving, like an abusive spouse it wins be back again. Plus it's a twenty minute trek to the nearest ski hill, and one hour to probably the best ski resort in North America, Whistler. And it's not cold, just rainy.

And it feels like the a futuristic experiment of a city. Forty percent of the populationis foreign born, woman with biracial children and and mixed race spouse are as ubiquitous as cherry trees and rain. Where gay is almost, but not quite irrelevant, where I can marry who I want , where if I'm broke and not suffering from social phobia, can walk around downtown and sit in an outside cafe and watch the people wander by and listen to the ocean.

The city has the only safe injection site in North America, and whatever your feelingz about it, it's proven to have safes lives rather than drug addicts dying alone in back allies The ex-mayor had the foresight to realize these people belong in a hospital not a jail. It's also decreased the rate of HIV infection and therefore safing taxpayers money in healthcare costs. Unfortunately, the new Conservative government would like to shut it down, and we need to write letters to keep it open. The War on DRugs didn't work. Harm Reduction does. A few years ago a Catholic Nun from New York eloquently and passionately spoke to City Hall about the deaths of New Yorkers and was instrumental in shedding insight into some of the more hard line city councillers when she talked about how many drug addicts were found dead crawled up in holes and crevices where no one could find him, out of fear they'd be arrested for possession. Not selling, just possesion.

Anyway, I would hope Christianity would once again find a new vigor in addressing important things like healthcare, proper education, affordable housing, job training. It's enough for me to attend Church on Sunday.

P.S. In a poll amongst Canadians, Tommy Douglas was voted the greatest Canadian

O.K. I used to know how to do this, but how do I insert links, and then have the persons blog title come up. Any help would be appreciated.

Lisa Simpsons Comic Books

2007-02-28T09:09:00.000-08:00

In North America comic books are mostly stories of hyper-muscled men in tights read by boys and a small but zealous group of adult men. Not so in Japan. Manga is the Japanese word for comic and shoujo ( meaning, literally lesser, or little, girl ) manga are comics aimed for a young female audience, generally teenage Japanese girls and young woman.
Shōjo works cover a huge range of subjects, from historical drama to science fiction
The best selling manga magazine—which is far and away the best selling magazine of any kind in Japan has a circulation of over six million where a third of Japanese in their thirties, half of those in their twenties, and nearly seventy percent of those between sixteen and nineteen years of age say they like manga.About forty percent of all Japanese over the age of sixteen read Manga.
This is were it gets strange. Many of the characters in Shoujo Manga are two beautiful teenage or young adult men in some sort of tragic love story. Plot lines such as in "The Heart of Thomas", set in a German gymnasium where a teenage boy is grieving over the death of his boyfriend, when a new transfer student shows up who looks just like the dead lover". There's also a lot of gender bending such as in "The Rose of Versaille", where a young cross dressing woman dies defending Marie Antoinette, and her subordinate boyfriend who discovers on her death that he is actually a she.
Lesbians rarely appear and when they do they are usually portrayed as tragic, though often scheming and manipulative characters. All the men in shoujo manga seem feminized with large eyes and an adrogynous quality.
Some theorize that young Japanese girls are afraid of sexuality yet want to confront it and by making the couple two males, gives them some distance from it. Others say it allows readers to project unvoiced feelings onto the male Other.Homosexuality in shôjo manga also exposes girls to a non-threatening male sexuality. Reminds me of Lisa Simpson reading non-threatening male comic books.
As Japanese critic and novelist Hashimoto Osamu (who is gay) has pointed out in a book of shôjo manga criticism, a gay male, unlike a heterosexual male or a lesbian, poses no threat to a girl who is not yet comfortable with her own sexuality. A third purpose of same-sex love between male characters is to help girls try to make of sense of the mysterious male animal by casting him in terms that she can understand, by feminizing him and making him more interested in relationships than in, say, soccer.

Some other famous Shoujo Manga.

Bannana Bread Pudding
Now that Ira's older sister is getting married, who will take her to the bathroom after ten p.m. and sing "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" outside the bathroom door in order to protect her from the beautiful, androgynous, child-eating clown? Will marrying a closeted gay man help?

Desperate Love
Why must I be a teenaged pop idol in love...with another boy? Love knows no gender. It might even drive you to hack your own arm off.

The Song of the Wind and the Trees
The first commercial shôjo manga to show two boys in bed...and they weren't sleeping.

The Oscars

2007-02-26T13:30:00.000-08:00

I didn't know the Scottish Royal Family was black, or has the racial barrier in Hollywood been so knocked down that black people are now playing white people? Then again, Elizabeth Taylor played Cleopatra forty years ago so why not. Who was that man who won best song wearing all the make-up who thanked his pretty wife. I thought it was Simon Le Bon from Duran Duran at first until I heard him speaking in that masculine voice and I wonder if this will be the start of male pop stars wearing make-up again. Maybe finally Hollywood will make the long yearned for bio-pic of Boy George and that Melissa guy can play the Marilyn part. I was glad to see the Departed win Best Picture, and I remember how I was sitting on the edge of my seat when the passengers fought back against the terrorists on 911, but I don't remember seeing Leo or Jack on that plane, but I think they played Air Traffic Controllers or maybe security personel. They did a great job, because I didn't recognize anyone.That's acting. Was nice to see Faye Dunaway again. I also thought she should have won an Oscar for portraying Joan Crawford after her daughter Cindy wrote that book about her. But I was glad Cindy was able to bounce back from all the negative publicity and have a succesfull modeling career afterwards. So Babe didn't win, they tried a few years ago, and just because they have the pig speaking Spanish to Brad Pitt this time, doesn't mean audiences aren't going to recognize the same movie in Japanese. And really putting Babe on some island with a bunch of American ships and soldiers attacking it writing letters home? Someone in lala land went off their meds.

I felt bad for Djimon not winning and losing to the host, as his singing and dancing with Kate Hudson in Dreamgirls May Come was one of the most memorable movie experiences last year, except for that part where Robin Williams is rolling in paint with the penguins.
Next year I have to watch this on High Definition T.V. because as far as I could tell there were no green people at the Oscars, and I think maybe they are taking this diversity thing a little too far.

I liked Hannibal Lecter's dress he designed for Penelope with that flesh- eating theme that is so de rigeur this season, ditto Meryl's time-travelling Joni Mitchell takes too much LSD and goes shopping in Tibet high-style, but neither will ever beat the simple yet quirky eleagance of Bjork's swan dress.

I was glad to see Borat win the consolation prize of lifetime achievement in Music Scoring or is it Scorer or Scorcerer, the man's multi-talented, can write butch gunslinger music, and sappy Celine Dion songs, plus he's funny. Just wish he hadn't gave his speech in his native Kazdakhazania.

Fauns and Fascists

2007-02-24T12:05:00.000-08:00

Usually, if I go to movies, I go in the afternoon where it is o.k. to be alone. At night I have to go with someone lest I appear as the social pariah I am, but I prefer to go by myself as most of the people I know can't sit still for two hours and not talk. I like it best if the theatre is empty as it was yesterday during Pan's Labryinth. It's a strange movie, part fantasy part guns and violence yet it worked, and the reality was more terrifying than the imagined world. Two of my favorite movies this year were directed by Mexicans, the other being Children of Men, but I've yet to see Babel. Pan's Labryinth uses old fashioned make-up and art direction rather than CGI, in the same way that the director of Eternal Sunshine of The Spotless Mind used camera angles and other more conventional,yet ingenious ways for the special effects. I hope this trend continues. I'm not all that interested in the Academy Awards this year, as other than Best Picture, all the other categories seem locked in. I haven't seen Babel or The Departed, was going to try and rent them but I don't want to make the long trek to the video store knowing the chances are slim to nil that they'll be in stock. Toni Collette has good taste in movies, and I've liked everything she's done except for Connie and Carla.

A list of some of her movies
1. Muriels Wedding
2. The Sixth Sense
3. About a Boy ( this is a huge favorite of mind, and Hugh Grant's best performance )
4. The Hours
5. Little Miss Sunshine

She also is one of those actresses who does an American accent well, along with Kate Winslet. Mel Gibson never uses his real voice in interviews, either that or he's completley lost his Aussie accent, which is unlikely as I've read that you will only lose your native accent if you leave a country before your eight years old. I suspect it was a marketing ploy to try to make him as apple pie as possible. I'm good with accents, can usually spot an American within five words, and they're always surprised. New Zealanders do not like to be confused with Australians, them's fighting words, as I've learned the hard way, but they do have a distinct accent of their own, but I prefer the Australian one. Crisper, and less nasal. There are regional accent in Canada, but it's more North and South than East and West, except of course Quebec and Newfoundland. I remember a friend of mine from Montreal being surprised that so many French people spoke English with no discernable accent in parts of Western Canada with large French populations, especially in the city that I can not name. I don't know any Spanish, other than Hola, but many of the words I heard at Pan's Labryinth reminded me more of German which surpised me. I lived in Germany for almost a year shortly after the wall came down, and it was strange how I slowly started to understand what people were saying. The easiest way to learn a language is to surround yourself with it, and it doesn't take all that long. I speak English in a way a German can understand, like "What time must you stand up in your sleeping rooms?" I used to work with a Spanish woman who's husband was English so she had this strange Spanish/British accent and would use Brit phases like mates and jumpers ( sweaters ) and thought it disgusting that we ate Turkey at Christmas instead of something good like Lobster. I think she was Catalian the French part of Spain. We used to go to Pedro Almovadar movies together, and she was homesick for Spain, and eventually moved back there, but they come back once a year to go sking. So many people go away or give up on this city and head home. And I wonder how long it will be until I do to.

Back

2007-02-23T08:09:00.000-08:00

I'm home after spending the last few weeks in the hospital, after a particularly bad bout of depression. I blame it on the rain. Yesterday, I kept staring at a photo on the internet and wondering why I was so mesmerized by it, and then realized it was the blue sky. It can rain for weeks on end in Vancouver and eventually I start feeling like I'm living underground blinking from the world. The thing about depression is that it can be strangely comforting, like freezing to death . I've also become a little more cautious about revealing my identity and hence, I've removed my photo in the profile.

It's quiet here, and it feels odd, after being constantly surrounded by people and sharing a television. The only show we could all agree on was Heroes, but one of the schizophrenics believed he had super powers as well, so we were "encouraged" to watch something else. I've gotten to know some of the nurses over the years, though they never answer my questions if they're personal. The answer is always "Let me worry about that, we're here to worry about you". Must be in the manual. There is one nurse I have a bit of a crush on, not sexual, because the meds kill that, but I like him, and I'm sure he's gay, and use to patients burning candles for him. I imagine him going on hikes with his handsome boyfriend on Grouse mountain with their Labrador Retrievers, and drinking Gatorade and having dinner parties with other happy normal, healthy people with rosy cheeks. And I'm a little envious. A part of me would like to teleport to their house and have something bad happen like the evil fairy crashing Sleeping Beauty's birthday party. Take that, and see how you like it. Then I'd cry and apologize, remove the curse and ask him not to hate me, that I only did it, because, well I'm not sure why.

My goal for now is to try to go to bed at 11pm and get up by 8am everyday, and stick to that schedule, rather than go to bed at dawn and wake up at sunset, which is what I was doing most of the winter. Say goodmorning to the night. An obscure Elton John song, that I totally loved when I first heard it last year.

Thank you bloggers for all the comments left on my last post. And a heartfelt good-bye to Inger, author of Dancing Through the Minefield, one of the best blogs I've read, and will dearly miss, though I do understand why you had to shut it down.

I Don't Like Sundays

2007-02-04T10:52:00.000-08:00

Remember the song from the 80's, from I think the Boomtown Rats with Bob Geldof? About the teenage girl who goes on a shooting spree at her high school, and when asked why, calmly answers "I Don't Like Mondays."

I almost like her. And no, I'm not planning a shoot out.

Meyers Briggs On Line Personality Test

2007-02-03T13:53:00.000-08:00

I'm usually skeptical of psychological tests, but this one has been surprisingly accurate both for myself and friends and family. Try it and see if you agree.
And I'd love it, if you left your type on the comments section.
I can't seem to insert the link for some reason, but the web address is
www.humanmetrics.com/cgi-win/JTypes2.asp

After your given your type, just Google it, and you'll find a wealth of information.

I'm an INFP, introverted, intuitive, feeling, perceiving.

Profile by David Keirsey

INFPs present a calm, pleasant face to the world and are seen as reticent and even shy. Although they demonstrate a cool reserve toward others, inside they are anything but distant. They have a capacity for caring which is not always found in other types. They care deeply-indeed, passionately-about a few special persons or a cause. One word that captures this type is idealistic. At times, this characteristic leaves them feeling isolated, especially since INFPs are found in only 1 percent of the general population. INFPs have a profound sense of honor derived from internal values. The INFP is the Prince or Princess of mythology, the King's Champion, Defender of the Faith, and guardian of the castle. Sir Galahad and Joan of Arc are male and female prototypes of an INFP. To understand INFPs their cause must be understood, for they are willing to make unusual sacrifices for someone or something believed in.

INFPs seek unity in their lives, unity of body and mind, emotions and intellect. They often have a subtle tragic motif running through their lives, but others seldom detect this inner minor key. The deep commitment of INFPs to the positive and the good causes them to be alert to the negative and the evil, which can take the form of a fascination with the profane. Thus INFPs may live a paradox, drawn toward purity and unity but looking over the shoulder toward the sullied and desecrated. When INFPs believe that they have yielded to an impure temptation, they may be given to acts of self-sacrifice in atonement. The atonement, however, is within the INFP, who does not feel compelled to make public the issue.

INFPs prefer the valuing process over the purely logical. They respond to the beautiful versus the ugly, the good versus the bad, and the moral versus the immoral. Impressions are gained in a fluid, global, diffused way. Metaphors and similes come naturally but may be strained. INFPs have a gift for interpreting symbols, as well as creating them, and thus often write in lyric fashion. They may demonstrate a tendency to take deliberate liberties with logic. Unlike the NT, they see logic as something optional. INFPs also may, at times, assume an unwarranted familiarity with a domain, because their global, impressionistic way of dealing with reality may have failed to register a sufficient number of details for mastery. INFPs may have difficulty thinking in terms of a conditional framework; they see things as either real or fancied, and are impatient with the hypothetical.

Career

At work, INFPs are adaptable, welcome new ideas and new information, are well aware of people and their feelings, and relate well to most, albeit with some psychological distance. INFPs dislike telephone interruptions and work well alone, as well as with others. They are patient with complicated situations, but impatient with routine details. They can make errors of fact, but seldom of values. Their career choices may be toward the ministry, missionary work, college teaching, psychiatry, architecture, psychology-and away from business. They seem willing and usually are able to apply themselves scholastically to gain the necessary training for professional work, often doing better in college than in high school. They have a natural interest in scholarly activities and demonstrate, as do the other NF's, a remarkable facility for languages. Often they hear a calling to go forth into the world to help others; they seem willing to make the necessary personal sacrifices involved in responding to that call, even if it means asking others to do likewise. INFPs can make outstanding novelists and character actors, for they are able to efface their own personalities in their portrayal of a character in a way other types cannot.

Home

As mates, INFPs have a deep commitment to their pledges. They like to live in harmony and may go to great lengths to avoid constant conflict. They are sensitive to the feelings of others and enjoy pleasing those they care for. They may find it difficult to reconcile a romantic, idealized concept of conjugal life with the realities of everyday living with another person. At times, in fact, INFPs may seem fearful of exuberant attainment, afraid that current advances may have to be paid for with later sacrifices. The devil is sure to get his due if the INFP experiences too freely of success, or beauty, or health, or wealth, or knowledge. And thus, INFPs guard against giving way to relaxing in the happiness of mating. They may have difficulty in expressing affection directly, but communicate interest and affection indirectly.

For INFPs, their home is their castle. As parents, they are fierce in protection of home and family and are devoted to the welfare of family members. They have a strong capacity for devotion, sympathy, and adaptability in their relationships, and thus are easy to live with. They are loyal to their family and, although they may dream of greener pastures, if they stray into those pastures they soon locate the nettles. The almost preconscious conviction that pleasure must be paid for with pain can cause a sense of uneasiness in the family system of an INFP, who may transmit an air of being ever-vigilant against invasion. In the routine rituals of daily living, INFPs tend to be compliant and may even prefer having decisions made on their behalf, until their value system is violated! Then INFPs dig in their heels and will not budge from ideals. Life with an INFP will go gently along for long periods, until an ideal is struck and violated. Then an INFP will resist and insist.

Mates

The INFP questor probably has more problems in mating than any other type. Let us be mindful of the relative infrequency: about 1 1/4 percent, say two and a half million people in the USA. Their problem lies in their primary outlook on life. "Life," says the INFP, "is a very serious matter." Now when a person makes his life a kind of crusade or a series of crusades, then there's bound to be some taxing of the spouse. If the INFP takes the other tack, the "monastic" (and the same person can tack back and forth-now a crusader, now a monastic), the spouse will find himself again taxed, trying to draw the monastic out of his dark meditative cave.

The opposites of our crusading monastic seem well equipped for this alternating-phase taxation: ENTJ and ESTJ. Both are anchored in the real world with a vengeance. The ENTJ marshaling his or her forces toward distant objectives, the ESTJ administrating in a solid, dependable, and traditional way whatever is his or hers to administer. Both provide anchorage to a person who might otherwise get lost in meditation or in crusade. Selection of a mate of irrelevant form (e.g., an ISTP artisan or an ESTP promoter) would not be the wisest of tactics in so serious a business as life.

Rosie

2007-02-03T10:29:00.000-08:00

I woke up this morning thinking it was Friday and was wondering why a nature show was on instead of the View. I've been hooked on the show ever since Rosie joined and turned what use to be a polite tea party into an "edge of your seat, what will she say next' experience.

I admire Rosie's candor about her sexuality, how she talks about it as effortlessly as talking about a t.v. show she likes, and even though some days she seems agitated, usually she's self deprecating, and doesn't take herself too seriously. But she's complicated. The Queen of Nice title long gone, but why can't she be both, The Queen of Nice and Angry Woman. Having a twin sister has always reminded me how strict the social roles are for woman, that you are suppose to live up to some sort of antiquated Victorian stereotype, and be constantly gracious, kind and nurturing. Either that or be a bitch.

Rosie recently said that every hate mail she receives, starts off with fat, such as you fat ugly dyke, you fat stupid bitch, but fat is always first, like it's the worse thing a woman could be.

Rosie has given more to charity than any other celebrity out there and she has received flak for not coming out in the nineties, but as she has explained, "I had a talk show and I didn't think America was ready yet." But it was the biggest open secret in Hollywood, and she never denied it. for me it's hard to judge her for that. If I was getting twenty million dollars a year, damn right I'd stay in the closet.

So if you haven't watch the View in awhile check it out. Especially the first fifteen minutes. And the Apprentice sucks.

Burning Tara

2007-02-02T11:39:00.000-08:00

My spouse just called and told me that he has 80 thousands dollars in payroll to dole out, yet the company he manages only has 1400 dollars in the Bank. The comptroller has ran off to Chile, and there are hopes that the business will be sold soon and the potential buyers have run reference checks on my spouse, so with some luck things will find a resolution. Yet, it's terrifying and I imagine myself living in a single room with a hotplate on skid row, with crackhead neighbours. Much of it has to do with global warming, as the business he runs deals with Natural Gas, and because of the warm weather in so many parts of North America this winter, energy consumption is down, and also it hasn't been cold enough in the far north for the mechanical people to be able to drive on the unfrozen roads to the drilling holes. Like Scarlett O'Hara, I'm determined to find a job, even if that means taking three Valium a day to be able to face the masses. So, I've hired Howard to fix my computer and re-install Microsoft Office, and solve whatever problems that are plaguing my computer. And update my resume.

I thought any industry having to do with fuel, would be bullet proof safe, as I keep hearing about shortages, but I guess Natural Gas is not in the same league as oil.
After reading over my posts the last month or so, I wanted to write something cheery today, but reality once again intervened. But the upside of all of this, is a part of me wants to lose everything, start from scratch, be free of all the worry of having to constantly live beyond my means. I don't need an ocean view, I sleep on the couch most of the time, even though I live in a two bedroom condo. I don't even need to live in Vancouver, it's charm wore off years ago, except I'd miss the beautiful springs and summers, and being able to walk to most of the places I need to go to.
Freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose. I forget who sang that, but it's one of my favorite lyrics.

For Wendy From The Cat

2007-02-01T12:57:00.000-08:00

On March 13, 1995, my friend Trevor furiously pounded on my door, his voice an octave higher than usual, full of panic, and fear. I had been sleeping most of the day and night having recently lost my Doctor boyfriend and a job I loved. "It's bad, Trevor yelled, really bad. Tyler's DEAD, he hung himself with a towel on the shower rod". Tyler was not quite 14. I couldn't think, I couldn't process something so unimaginable, it seemed the universe had turned Topsy-turvy, the sun had refused to rise, and every sure thing I knew would never be again. Tyler was the son of Trevor's closest friend Wendy,and they had a deep bond even sharing a secret language. A friendship I was included in, but never with the same degree of intimacy . Wendy liked me,used to call me the cat. Would ask Trevor" How's the cat, what does the cat think, what's the cat up to now." But at the same time, I resented her somewhat, as Trevor preferred her company to mine.

Wendy was a Sociology major, and had studied teenage suicide, and felt she should have been able to have seen the signs, predicted the future, saved him, talked to him more. But I knew she loved her son and he loved her as I'd watch how gently and lovingly they treated each other, Wendy's face gleaming when she looked at him.

I didn't believe it was suicide, I knew beyond doubt that it was accidental, auto-erotic asphyxiation, but I didn't tell her, believing that it would upset her because of the sexual connotation. I wanted to explain to her that when I was fourteen and discovered masturbation by reading one of my older cousins "True Confessions" magazines I was led to believe you needed Vaseline to "do it." My first visit to the store to buy a jar, the clerk looked at me and asked loudly "What on earth do you need that for," like she knew I was some disgusting pervert.I felt filled with shame, a fraud, my good marks and gold stars at school,thrown in the trash. So I stole it from friends homes instead, always checking out the bathrooms for a possible new bottle. "I was a teenage Vaseline thief", believing,once exposed, this would be the headline the Enquirer would print to the horror of my parents. Years later on a camping trip, I learned that Vaseline wasn't necessary, because it's not easy to find in the Canadian wilderness.

A month after the funeral, I visited Wendy at her shop, and she was a shell of her former self. "You can't console me, I'm inconsolable. She said it calmly, and firmly and with absolute conviction They are the saddest words I've ever heard.I said nothing.

I moved to Vancouver on May 5th, I felt like I was fading away, that my life was finished in that city, and maybe because I moved so much as a child, I knew that no matter what, life would be different somewhere else. Maybe not better, but free of the nuclear waste and all the tragedy and death. Friends of mine were dying from Aids still, and I felt I had become a waking ghost. A year later I returned to that city, and visited Wendy, and I told her I didn't believe Tyler killed himself, that he died from auto-erotic asphyxiation, and that it's not that uncommon. "Why, oh why did you not tell me that before", she asked. I thought it would make it worse, I said, I didn't know how to tell you, I didn't want to cause you anymore pain. But it made her feel better. She told me she had never heard of that, and I could feel the weight of her guilt lifting . At the time we were both on anti-depressants, and suddenly it was me, not Trevor that she talked to, as she knew that even though my pain was not in league with hers, she also understood the darkness of depression, something Trevor did not.
But Tyler's death was the catalyst for me to fly hundreds of miles away, so when I think of him, I think of how he changed my life.
Wendy divorced her husband six months later, which is not uncommon for parents of deceased children, and I think of her often, but I don't know what her last name is anymore, and I'd like to send her a letter, and sign it "Love the cat." And see her smile. The joyful smile that made me feel the world was the most wonderful place. If only for a moment.

Don't Look Down

2007-01-31T08:32:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, I attended my second support meeting for mentally ill Gay Men at Coast Mental Health. The first being the hike from hell last summer in the Lynn Valley Canyon where I was unable to cross the suspension bridge, which forced the group to take a five mile detour, and needless to say, they were not pleased with me and I haven't been invited on any other outdoor excursions.

There were about twenty of us, ranging in age from 20 to 55, dealing with everything from schizophrenia, to depression, to mixed mood disorders, and manic-depression. The ultra talkative bag piping Moscow to Vladivostok train-travelling bipolar Bear I met on the hike was there, but he was much more subdued this time. But that's bipolar, you never know what personality your going to meet.
Tyler was there, the gentle 20 year old schizophrenic who believes the voices he hears are due to heightened senses and there is nothing wrong with him, yet he was institutionalized at 16 and spent three years locked up. But he has a calming effect on me, and half of me wants to believe he really is a magical being, something that science can't define or explain.

The facilitator was a handsome 40ish man, dressed in outdoorsy wholesome clothing, yet slightly dishevelved, and spoke in a calm and gentle manner, like a younger world weary Mr. Rogers. He works there, and I'm not sure what his title is or if he's a psychiatrist or a social worker. The meeting started with introductions, and I was first because excluding the hike, he had not met me before. I didn't want to talk first, this was not what I was expecting, and I wanted to tell him that I have functioned in the world, unlike these truly insane people I'm sitting with, but instead told him I've been diagnosed as bi-polar two, but my manic phases are far rarer than the depressive episodes, and that the only way I could be here today, is that I took two Valium beforehand. He suggested I join Coast Mental Health so that they could daily monitor my behaviour and I'd have a safe haven when I was feeling overwhelmed. The problem with that though, is I'd be official, stamped and tatooed like the Jews in Germany, computer files popping up at job interviews, flashing bi-polar in red neon, health insurance denied etc. The end of any hope of someday having a full life. And if you don't show up at Coast at least every second day, they send the police to your door to either lock you up or drag you down there.

This did not go over well with the other members, most of whom are on disability, and will probably never work again. My one defender was Tyler, who doesn't believe he's schizophrenic, and he should know, because the voices in his head keep telling him so. Another guy started talking about how he was born in Canada, except for his feet which were born in Taiwan. I imagine his Mother going through a long labour on a trans-Pacific flight. My friend Mark, talked about being in a coma, and his 5 month stay in the pyche ward then another month in I.C. with the coma, and how he can only sleep for an hour at a time . I've been sleeping 14 hours a day, falling asleep at 6pm and waking up at 8 in the morning, but it's not a complaint, I like it. The morning sun, I mean. Most of the winterI was awake all night, dark when I went to bed, dark when I woke up, a vampiric existence.

The man beside me started crying everytime he was asked to speak, and I couldn't understand what he was saying, so I held his hand, and I'm ashamed to admit I started crying with him. His hands were dry and cool, and nicotine stained, and his grip was firm. But I slowly squirmed my hand away, out of fear, that his present could be my future. And I briefly felt shame for my selfishness.

Crocuses, Comas, and Computers.

2007-01-30T07:00:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, I saw a crocus beginning to sprout, so spring in Vancouver has officially arrived. In February, some variations of cherry trees start to bloom, and the , dark, rainy winter reluctantly recedes. My computer is ancient, and every week, I check the Dell website to see what specials they have, but every Friday, they add new features for the same price, so it feels impossible to buy one, without regretting waiting another week, month or six months. Like holding out for the perfect boyfriend. My friend Mark was in a coma for three weeks, believing he caught some super bug when he was in the psyche ward, and came close to dying. He came over for dinner, and he cooked, because he likes to, and he's good at it, but he uses almost everything in my pantry and my kitchen looks like the Tasmanian Devil tore through it.Mark struggles with his weight, partly because of the medications he's on and when he's well enough, he goes to the gym everyday, but it doesn't seem to have any effect. Every visit, he puts on Brokeback Mountain, and I asked him if we have to watch that yet again, that maybe it's slightly obsessive to watch the same movie 7 times. I realized there is a good chance he'll be dead in less than three years, as he's had liver cancer, and other serious health problems, coupled with the severity of his bi-polar illness. My friends used to die of Aids, and now it's suicide and drug overdoses, and I've known 7 people in the last few years who have died from either or. I wonder if I'm drawn to doomed people, or if it's something we all experience. I will never kill myself, no matter what. No matter how bad, because I know the devastation it causes for the survivors, and also that, eventually, things get better, or at the very least, you adjust to the dark. Ten years ago, I took 200 pills, no note, no phone call, and my state of mind was basically I'll probably die or maybe I'll live, and I honestly didn't care one way or another. I survived after sleeping for 24 hours , but was higher than a kite for five days, and people wondered why I was in such a relaxed state. Three years ago, two days after leaving the psyche ward, I had this fascination with walking into the ocean under the Burrard bridge, and I remember standing there mesmerized by the surface and the submerged concrete girders that seemed so peaceful. I stood there for half an hour in the middle of the night, and then went home. Years ago, at my parents cottage, I swam as far as I could into the lake on a moonlit night, but my brother found me and dragged me back to shore. I was in a manic phase and believed I could swim to the other side, about thirty miles away. I'm not a good swimmer. I'm not sure why I'm writing about this, I guess seeing Mark, seeing how fragile life is, knowing it could end so easily, knowing I almost threw it away so carelessly.

But I'm positive a new computer can save my life. This I explain to spouse, but no matter how strong my argument, he doesn't buy it. He's convinced I'll never leave the house and spend all my time playing World of Warcraft. And that's a bad thing, I ask? There is a new game coming out sometime this year by Will Wright who's considered a genius in the gaming world. Spore, where you start off as a single cell organism and overtime, evolve into a highly developed superbeing. The twist though, is that you design your creature, and no two creatures or civilizations are alike. Even the soundtrack is unique to the beings and civilizations you develop, and they've hired Brian Eno for that aspect of the game.

So yesterday I called Dell and was directed to Santosh in India who spoke perfect English and was very helpful, but also wanted me to make a decision right away. I'm sure he has quotas, and is probably on commission so I understand that, but I told him I'd have to talk to my spouse first, and that they were out of town on business. Trying to stay gender neutral. Santosh asked for "her" phone number, and I hesitated and said it was a he not a she, and added in Canada, that's legal here, though I know it's controversial in India. He was still pleasant though, and asked me about Vancouver, as he's heard much about it. Vancouver has a very large Indian population, one of the largest in North America. I explained to Santosh, that it would be best if I talk to him first, knowing that spouse would not appreciate a call from someone he's never heard of in India asking him for his credit card number. I promised Santosh that I would call the number he gave me, ask for his extension, and if and when I buy a computer I will deal with him. He works late at night because of the time difference and I wonder what his life is like, and how strange it must be for him to deal with people in countries he's never been to, and chances are he never will.
But he sounded happy and content and a part of me envied him.

Water

2007-01-29T06:32:00.000-08:00

For the first time ever, Canada's nomination in the foreign film category is in Hindi,not French. Water is the last installment of the triology that began with Earth and Fire and because of the notoriety of those films , had to be shot in secrecy in Sri Lanka. Set in 1930's India, a widowed child bride is banished to an ashram where she is expected to atone for her sins, as if it's her fault her husband died. The theory behind the custom, is that once your husband dies, the wife is half dead as well. Or at least her soul is. She spends her days with other widows, some young, some old, some accepting of their fate, others resentful.

Fire dared to show Indian lesbians on screen, and theatres were burnt, the police were called in, and I remember asking an Indian friend what she thought of it, but she was too gracious to say anything either positive or negative, but was well aware of the film. I haven't seen either , but I'm curious , and if I'm able, will see it this week. The other foreign film I'm interested in is "The Lives of Others", from Germany, about an East German man who is ordered to spy on a family that is considered subversive, but the twist is he finds himself sympathizing with the family he's monitoring.

When I was a child there were two expressions that conjured strong images in my mind . The Iron Curtain and The Third World. I pictured an actual Iron Curtain, 100 miles high with ripples and always a dark, dull grey colour, spanning half of Europe, and absolutley impenetrable. The other being The Third World. I thought it was something like the fourth dimension in Superman comics, something you needed magic powers to cross over to after you were vaporized, and upon arrival your molecules would gather and become whole again. And where was the Second World? There had to be a second world if there were a third world. The first world was the one I lived in, never questioned that, but it had none of the mystery of the Third World or what lay beyond the Iron Curtain. I have a piece of the Berlin Wall, and it's anti-climatic, just a piece of concrete with graffiti on it.

Little Blue Friends

2007-01-28T06:54:00.000-08:00

There are three words that I've never understood, and after twenty-five years I'm still not sure what they mean. They are "the Gay Community." It sounds like we all get together once a week for a quilting bee, or that we all think, act, and feel the same, that we're all bonded in some unspoken way. Like the Amish. I loved Angels in America, but it was the Mary Louise Parker character I identified with the most, the housewife on Valium, detached from herself and the world around her. I don't know any gay people who use the word community, or say I'm part of the gay community, so where did this expression come from? Heterosexual journalists?
I bought six Valium on Friday and I feel calm and sane and safe. I suspect that most people without mental health issues feel this way most of the time, and that my brain has betrayed me, and I'm torn between a life of addiction or a life of anxiety, a drugged out Sophie's choice. I've been able to grocery shop, go to a movie, and even have a conversation with a stranger. I've even, turned on the ringer on the phone, the first time in three weeks. It's a secret though, no one knows except for my therapist, who will not prescribe them to me, as she knows I've become dependent on them in the past. But I only stay on them for two weeks maximum, otherwise the withdrawal is too painful, and Valium withdrawal is hell. I remember reading "I'm Dancing as Fast as I Can", about a housewife and Valium addiction. My spouse does not know, and when he's home I hide them from him, and if I'm overly serene, I blame in on Tylenol Cold, like Paula Abdul blaming her slurring on an inner ear problem.
I also take Paxil and Lithium, which helps somewhat with the depression, but not the anxiety or social phobia, and Lithium has a terrible side effect for me, in that I'm constantly thirsty to the point that I leave a store and drink two liters of grapefruit juice on the street. I've even peed the bed because of the amount of liquid I've consumed in a day.
My friend Mark, who is severely bi-polar is treated with Methadone, Prozac, valproic acid, and I've seen him take twenty Valium at once. I had thought methadone was only used for heroin addicts but not so, and if you remember Anna Nicole Smith's son died from the combo of methadone and anti-depressants. Mark, when he's home, has to go to the pharmacy everyday, and the pharmacist must watch him take his medication, including a big vial of methadone. But he spends more than half the year in the psyche ward and compared to him I'm the Mental Health poster boy. Of course, I can always find someone worse than me to justify my behaviour.
He wants me to join Coast Mental Health, which is sort of a community centre for people who've been diagnosed with a mental illness, but, if you don't show up everyday, they're on your doorstep, , sometimes with the police in tow, and don't even think of turning off your phone. I have went a few times, and the place was pleasant enough, even though most of the people seem shell-shocked, like they just returned from Baghdad. And I don't want to be labeled, I don't want it to be official, even though I'd never have to work again and could go on disability, I'm not ready to give up on having a whole life again. In the past I have been able to maintain a job, friends, a relationship, and even though I fall into despair, I want to be in the world again, real and solid and unafraid.
And today, I feel like it could be.

Leper and Key

2007-01-27T09:00:00.003-08:00

The closest grocery store to me is this huge ultra-modern Safewayish Asian store that has 50 different types of soy sauce but only three brands of olive oil. When you walk in your bombarded by the aroma of fish and seafood and huge aquariums of crabs and Tilapia and other science fiction looking seafood. The crab aquarium reminds me of Auschwitz, so many crowded on top of each other moving as if shot by a tranquilizer dart on Wild America. For a moment I consider becoming a vegetarian. The abalone is locked in a glass freezer and I have no idea what it is, but it's insanely expensive, 50 to 60 dollars for a small portion. In the produce section, it is not uncommon for someone to spend 13 minutes selecting the perfect lettuce, and I immediately feel completely inadequate when it comes to food. I once asked a friendly Chinese woman how to choose a good one , but she spoke little English and just nodded approvingly when I picked the third one up. I couldn't find Kikkoman soy sauce amongst the plethora of brands they have, so I asked a clerk and was told it was in the Japanese section. So they sort according to culture, rather than product. I buy Kikkoman because that's what every Sushi joint I go to serves, therefore it must be good. I'm convinced they give the good Sushi to the food shrewd Asian patrons too, and I remember sitting at a Sushi bar drinking Japanese beer, and the Asian couple beside me were drinking Belgian beer. This seemed wrong to me. Vancouver has the cheapest Sushi in the world, and they're always busy and bustling. I find them comforting, sitting at the bar watching the chefs slice and dice, the smiling shy waitresses. The California roll was invented here, though this is disputed by a chef in L.A. The theory behind it was that westerners did not like seaweed, so he put the rice on the outside, and a star was born.
So yesterday, I was buying Sushi to go at the supermarket, which comes in different combo's. I picked the "Canadian box" which I'm convinced is code for "don't put anything in there that will freak the white people out." But there was a white piece of fish that I didn't recognize so I asked what it was and she looked at me confused and said "Leper." I said I've never heard of that, and she struggled for the English word, and then told me to look at the menu. It was "Snapper". Many Asians seem embarassed by their English, and I felt bad for her, and wanted to tell her that Leper actually does sound very close to snapper, but I didn't tell her what a leper is, and even if I did I doubt she would have understood me.
Then off to the meat department, where I found what almost looked like Chicken but much smaller. I asked the butcher what it was and he said "Key". He could tell by my confused expression, that I had no idea what he meant, and after a few minutes, found someone who told me it was Quail. The store has hundreds of employees, but not one white person, and I understand that, because to work there you need to speak Mandarin or Cantonese. Yesterday I was the only white shopper, which is unusual, as most days there are at least one or two others. The check out is lightening fast, and once again I marvel at how efficient they appear to be.
But I wonder what they think of white people, that were lazy and spoiled and silly? Once, while buying a shirt, the young Asian clerk told me my face was lucky according to a Chinese theory, like Feng Shiu for faces, and that his Mother would like me . I asked him why, and he explained that I had long earlobes like the Buddha, and something about my nose and the shape of my head. I think of composing a letter to my spouse, telling him I'm sorry but I've decided to move to China to pursue my career in film with supporting roles as the mute lucky westerner. And my stage name will be Hung-Gai.

One Thing

2007-01-20T20:38:00.000-08:00

For the first time in a month, I saw the sun today and promptly went to bed. Yesterday, I had to go out to return a movie, and buy some groceries that I can't get at one of the convenience stores in my block, like ahh, maybe vegetables and fruit. I watched Mullholland Drive at 4am, which is a movie I love, but one I shouldn't be exposed to in the state I'm in. "Don't drink all the coke Rita". I wondered what it would be like to live in Diane and Rita's apartment and be a lesbian. Naomi Watts should have won the Oscar that year, or maybe it's just I feel like Diane right now, dead, and alive.

My friend Mark, who spends most of the year in the psyche ward, told me to try to do at least one thing everyday. Like dishes, or sit in a cafe, or laundry. And yesterday I did. I'm dreading Monday, because they're testing the fire alarms in all the condo's so I have to appear rational, and see people in real life, if only for a few minutes. So, I'm torn between braving the day tommorow, and getting some Valium off the street, and then I keep remembering that I did feel better, but how much damage the last Valium spree cost me, the stolen camera, burning one of my good pots, getting a letter from the landlord about having strangers over, the construction worker and his dress and high heels, losing my cell phone and wallet. But I was able to go out, and the future didn't seem so huge.
I don't tell spouse how bad I am when he calls, don't want him to know, because I don't want him to worry, and he doesn't get this. He won't be home until April. I've never seem him depressed or beaten, even when he had every reason to be. " Go for a walk", he'd tell me. But I'd hear his concern in his voice, so I lie.

Little Mosque On The Prairie

2007-01-18T00:47:00.000-08:00

I've been curious about this show since the CBC began advertising it a few months ago, and missed the premiere but saw tonight's episode, and I loved it. The premiere had two million Canadians tuning in, which is a huge hit in this country, as most of us are watching American shows and I think California has a bigger population than we do. In one scene, the teenage daughter of one of the more conservative Muslims wants to run a marathon with her friends, and the father is concerned about how she'll dress. Her plan is to shock him first, with a mid drift top and low rise jeans with most of her belly exposed. He says "You look like a Protestant," She says, don't you mean prostitute. " He looks confused and quietly says, no I meant Protestant."

I have known two Muslims extremely well, but they're about as Muslim as I am Christian. One is from Algeria, who studied in Switzerland, Paris, N.Y. and then the city I won't mention, Vancouver and now he's somewhere in France. It took him years to get his citizenship here and then he leaves. He has a P.H.D. in French literature and did his thesis on Proust, and is currently not talking to me, but keeps in touch with my spouse. He's done this before with other people we know. Years of silence, and then forgiveness, but he always remains friends with the person he's angry with significant other, who he was never originally that friendly with in the first place. Like I'm the difficult child, and my spouse has a burden to bare. Wait, maybe that's true.
The other is from Pakistan, who has a shit job here, but has a law degree that doesn't have any validity in Canada. Both these guys are gay, and their families don't know and they'll never tell them. One is vegetarian, the other will only eat meat that's been butchered or bled according to the Muslim custom, but I think that's about the only tradition he follows. But they're not typical Muslims, and yet some days when I'm housebound, like this week, the only people I see are Muslim. There are two convenience stores on my block, both owned by Muslims, but very different personalities. One is extremely formal and polite, yet distant. The other family is very lively, talkative, friendly and slightly scattered. I love the Mother, she just gives off these warm vibes, is a little nervous around the cash register, but always is friendly to me, and even gave me credit one week-end when I lost my wallet.

But, it's still a hidden world to me. Maybe a little less now. And Monsieur S. if your in Paris, drinking espresso and having an affair with a blonde french guy, I forgive you too.

Us And Them, And In Between

2007-01-16T17:06:00.000-08:00

As of January 23, Canadians for the first time ever, need a passport to enter the U.S.A. so it's officially a foreign country. Twenty or fifty years from now will they invade us? The only country that ever has is them, and even though we were outnumbered three to one, guess who won? I have to gloat a little. I read A Prayer For Owen Meany a week or so ago, after finding a bunch of books in the recycle bin in my building and John Irving accurately described the differences between Americans and Canadians, something that confuses me. We are different. Like tranquilized Americans, speaking of which I'm on a Valium holiday and having nightmares again. Not that I don't like Americans, my best friend was extremely American, an ex-soldier from Minneapolis who died of Aids in the early 90's, and no person ever gave me a better sense of normalcy. He insisted I be part of the world. He switched identities with a Canadian who wanted to live in San Francisco, and even when C. died, the obituary was not in his real name. C. was comfortable in suburbia, comfortable around straight men, laughed loud, loved parties, and people, was irritated by the extreme left in Canada, though he was by no means a right winger. And he got me, totally. His boyfriend resented our friendship, in that, as C., explained to me, he could never have the type of friendship with his spouse that he could with me, and now that I have a spouse, I understand that. Experience is everything. I still think of him, still miss him, wish I could talk to him, laugh with him, gossip with him, but death changes everything forever. The first time I met him I was naked and hung over at a bathhouse and he demanded I leave, and I absolutely hated him, calling him the bathhouse Nazi. He worked there partime while getting his degree. Six months later he was my closest friend in the city. In February he will have been dead for 14 years. He was thirty.

Good Morning To The Night

2007-01-16T02:55:00.000-08:00

It's 3am, and I'm out of cigarettes and wide awake.
I watched the Golden Globes, and who'd have thought Meryl Streep would be funnier than Eddie Murphy? I've never watched Ugly Betty, but watching Salma Hayek looking at America Ferrara with such tenderness when she won was the best moment of the night for me. I love Salma, I wish she'd do more movies and if you haven't seen Frida, rent it. And Jeremy Iron's tailcoat and shirt was so daring, yet it worked.. I remember reading an article where he said "I love clothes, but I hate people who love clothes", and knew exactly what he meant because I'm guilty of the same. Rene Zellwegger, or however you spell her last name, looks constantly on the verge of tears. I'm tempted to mail her some Paxil and promise her I'll go see Miss Potter, mainly because I want to see the cartoon rabbits run off the page. Looks like a nice tea and toast kind of movie in a LSD sort of way, and I am a closet Sound of Music fan. I'm convinced Brad Pitt has had some kind of very expensive cosmetic surgery, he just did not look like himself, in the same way that Tom Cruise ages very slowly. It's extremely well done and very subtle, but still a little Invasion of the Body Snatchers. But God, is Angelina beautiful and I loved the colour of her dress. Perfect. O.K. I'm sounding really gay now. Will this denial never end?

Where was Judi Dench? Is she jealous of Helen Mirren? I mean Helen is the new grande dame of English actresses now, and it must be a little hard to have your throne upsurped. Judi won an Oscar didn't she for playing Elizabeth the 1st and was nominated for her portrayal of Queen Victoria in Mrs. Brown. She lost to some obscure younger actress. I still want to see Notes on A Scandal, where I here Judi plays a manipulative lesbian blackmailing Cate Blanchett. And whatever happened to Michelle Pfeifer? I haven't heard anything about her in years. Fame is fickle. And it seems much tougher on woman. Unless your English or Meryl Streep.

My volunteer position ended. I lasted three hours. I'm lying, I just couldn't leave the house to show up for it. I get in trouble when I leave the house. I'm never sure where I'll end up, or what I'll lose. I tell myself, I'll try to change when it warms up, and I know I'll feel a part of the world, instead of what I can become, which is something I can't describe. Like I'm made of vapour. Or something not there.

The Golden Globes

2007-01-14T14:02:00.000-08:00

Glitz, Glamour, nervous stars, I'm so looking forward to tonight, even though the Hollywood foreign press are a very vague group, half of whom most people have never heard of and are over 60.

So here are my pics, and also who I think will win. Usually they don't coincide.

Best Picture Drama

Winner The Departed

My Pick Babel

Best Picture Comedy or Musical

Dreamgirls

My Pick

Little Miss Sunshine

Best Actress Drama

Winner Helen Mirren for The Queen

My Pick

Helen Mirren, but for Gosford Park a few years ago.

Best Actor Drama

Winner Leonard Dicaprio for The Departed Blood Diamond

My Pic

Peter O'Toole for Venus

Best Actress Musical Or Comedy

Winner
Meryl Streep for The Devil Wears Prada

My Pick
Toni Colette for Little Miss Sunshine

Best Actor Musical Or Comedy

Winner
Sacha Baron Cohen for Borat

My Pick
Chiwetel Ejiofor for Kinky Boots ( rent this )

Best Supporting Actress ( the hardest category yet )

Winner
Jennifer Hudson for Dreamgirls

My Pick
Jennifer Hudson for Dreamgirls

Best Supporting Actor

Winner
Eddie Murphy for Dreamgirls

My Pick
Djimon Hounsou for Blood Diamond but he wasn't nominated

Best Director
Winner
Martin Scorcese for The Departed

My Pick
Alejandro González Iñárritu for Babel

Best Foreign Langauge Film

Winner
Volver

My Pick
Pan's Labyrinth

Best Screenplay

Winner
William Monahan for The Departed

My Pick
Guillermo Arriaga for Babel

Best Original Score

Winner and My Pick
Guillermo Arriaga for Babel

Best Song

Winner
Listen by Beyonce

My Pick
The Song of the Heart by Prince

Best Animated Feature

Winner
Happy Feet

My Pick
Cars

Best TV Comedy

Winner
Ugly Betty

My Pick
Desperate Housewives ( Last Season sucked, but this was a good year for them)

Best TV series Drama

Winner
Grey's Anatomy

My pick
Heroes

Best T.V. Actress Drama

Winner
Kyra Sedgwick for The Closer

My Pick
Calistan Flockhart for Brothers and Sisters but she wasn't nominated.

Best Tv Actor Drama

Winner
Hugh Laurie for House

My Pick
Michael C. Hall for Dexter

Best Actress T.V. Comedy

Winner
America Ferrera Ugly Betty

My Pick
Felicity Huffman Desperate Housewives

Best Actor T.V. Comedy

Winner and My pick
Steve Carrell The Office

Best Actress in a Television Movie or Mini-Series

Winner
Helen Mirren (no more Queens for a few years please)

My Pick
Gillian Anderson for Bleak House

Best Actor in a Television Movie or Mini-Series
My Pick and The Winner
Chiwetel Ejiofor for Tsunami the Aftermath

Best Performance by an Actress in a Supporting Role in a Series, Mini-Series or Motion Picture Made for Television

Winner and My Pick
Katherine Heigl for Grey's Anatomy

Best Performance by an Actor in a Supporting Role in a Series, Mini-Series or Motion Picture Made for Television

Winner
Jeremy Irons for Elizabeth 1

My Pick
Masi Oka for Heroes

Best Mini-Series or Motion Picture Made for Television

Winner
Elizabeth 1

My Pick Bleak House

So kids, anyone else want to play along.? Reindeer games and all. Just remember I'm alwasy Prancer.

Home Town Girl

2007-01-12T13:38:00.000-08:00

The headlines yesterday or the day before on the papers here where all about Vancouver's first movie star. I had no idea she grew up here. Lily Munster was the Mother I would have wanted had I lost my own. What lovely dark circles you have under your eyes today Marilyn.

Children of Men

2007-01-12T02:07:00.000-08:00

I left another city in 1995 and slowly lost touch with the friends I had there that didn't die of Aids, but this Christmas Judy sent me a Christmas card with her telephone number and email, and on a whim I called her. She used to be a lawyer but hated it, and wanted to be an artist and now she works as a director for some umbrella arts organization in the province she lives in. For some reason, I can never mention the city's name on this blog, in the same manner I feel uncomfortable revealing my spouse's name. Seven years ago, Judy had an affair with a Columbian polo player, became pregnant and kept the baby. The man is apparently wealthy, but has not contributed any child support or expressed much interest in his son. Yet Judy called him about having another baby. Without hesitating I said have mine instead, then realized we're both in our mid forties and maybe a little old to become parents. Then she told me she'd pick our mutual friend instead, who moved to Toronto years ago and I wanted to tell her that he's cross-eyed, and I have much better genes, as far as still having all my hair, and clear skin, and the other guy is HIV positive. But he is hot. I held my tongue. I think it's because they're both Ukrainian and share cultural values that are foreign to me, even though half my siblings spouses are of polish or ukrainian descent. It's a Canadian prairie thing. I know I'll never have children, and I never thought it would matter to me, but it does, and I'm not sure why. Maybe because it's almost impossible now or maybe it's just my biological clock ticking. Yet I know I'd be an overly protective father, afraid they'd not be happy at school, afraid they'd be afraid, afraid they'd be teased so I'd be tempted to keep them at home and school them, and choose only nice kids for them to be friends with. But still, it's a regret. The pic is of Judy and our mutual friend who's baby she'd rather have. I'm jealous.

The Day After

2007-01-11T14:30:00.000-08:00

I woke up this morning on the couch with chicken curry on the coffee table and broken ornaments in the kitchen. The snow is melting and it's a brutally sunny day that has me feeling exposed and vulnerable. I'd like to live in a fog with no sharp edges anywhere. Like when Nicole Kidman went wandering for her soldier husband in the forest in The Others. I missed my appointment for the volunteer position again, and I'm too ashamed to call Antoinette and apologize. I woke up very early, and went back to bed and slept too long, so I must have slept 14 hours, tracking time is not one of my strong points. Now I have to find the energy to take the tree down because it's reminding me of how out of control I was yesterday. And I'm striving for normal. If this were Dec 26 it would be Boxing Day which is a holiday here. The tradition started in England when servants were given presents that their employers didn't want. But now it's just a huge shopping day with people banging on store doors to open like angry natives storming the castle. My Doctor phoned in a prescription for me after I talked to her on the phone and explained that maybe I need a stronger pill. She was nice about it, but sometimes I wonder if she wishes she'd chosen a different career. She's only 30 and very wholesome and sweet, like your favorite grade two teacher. So I'm calm, if down, but the downs are less destructive than the ups. In the future there will be no such thing as bi-polar illness once they isolate the gene and people like me won't be. I have tumeric on my couch covering, from the curry I made,. It didn't taste as good as the restaurant stuff, and I made a mess. I didn't use a recipe, and I'm not skilled enough to just throw ingredients together like some people I know. Usually I follow instructions with the precision of a serial killer.

I keep staring at the tree, knowing it's going to take time and effort to take it down, so maybe I'll take the lights and decorations off, and then the tree tommorow. Or The Day After.

We Three Queens Disoriented Are

2007-01-10T13:50:00.000-08:00

I'm putting up my tree and decorating my apartment for Christmas. The snow, the Christmas music, the fireplace and most of all I feel happy. Not manic, just happy. No one is exactly sure when HE was born anyway and I basically missed the season this year because of my stay in the loony bin, so why not. My friend Louisa keeps her tree up all year around as it comforts her. She's married but lives apart from her husband, which my sister thinks is eccentric, but I think is so wise. If we could afford it, I'd have my spouse live across the hall from me, so we could visit whenever we wanted, but also have our own private space. I have 1000 lights to string, so must get busy. This snow better not melt, or I'll be sending Mother Nature an irate email. O.K. maybe this is a little manic, but it's not like I'm out buying groceries for a family of twenty at Costco like I did pre psyche ward. Does anybody need a case of tomatoes. Or enough Cascade gel tabs for two years? Two hours later and I can't stop crying. It feels like my life passed me by just like Christmas did, and all the lights in the world won't change that. I started off with so much promise but my mind betrayed me.And all the wrong choices I made. I don't want to go to the hospital, not again, not so soon. I'm playing Jennifer Hudson's "And I'm telling you I'm not going."

CHRISTMAS CAROLS FOR THE PSYCHOLOGICALLY CHALLENGED

Multiple Personality Disorder ---
We Three Queens Disoriented Are

Amnesia ---
I Don't Know if I'll be Home for Christmas

Narcissistic ---
Hark the Herald Angels Sing About Me

Manic ---
Deck the Halls and Walls and House and Lawn and Streets and Stores and
Office and Town and Cars and Buses and Trucks and Trees and Fire Hydrants
and...

Paranoid ---
Santa Claus is Coming to Get Me

Borderline Personality Disorder ---
Thoughts of Roasting on an Open Fire

Personality Disorder ---
You Better Watch Out, I'm Gonna Cry, I'm Gonna Pout, Maybe I'll tell You Why

Obsessive Compulsive Disorder ---
Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle
Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells

Agoraphobia ---
I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day But Wouldn't Leave My House

Senile Dementia ---
Walking in a Winter Wonderland Miles From My House In My Slippers and Robe

Oppositional Defiant Disorder ---
I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus So I Burned Down the House

Social Anxiety Disorder ---
Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas While I Sit Here and
Hyperventilate

Snow Falling on Lotusland

2007-01-10T12:17:00.000-08:00

It snowed this morning or last night and I made my appointment with Antoinette, but Antoinette was a no show. She phoned me at home later and apologized explaining that it took her three hours to drive into the city. I'm guessing she lives in Surrey because it has a large south asian population, and even though that's a generalization certain neighborhoods in Greater Vancouver have concentrations of ethnic groups. North Vancouver has a huge Persian popultion, many of whom left Iran after the Shah was desposed, and Kitsilano has a large ex-pat American population, mostly draft dodgers during the Vietnam war. Richmond is largely Chinese, and Mallardville has a large French population. The West End is home to the gay village, and Commercial Drive in East Vancouver is the Lesbian Mecca.

Snow is rare here, and few can drive in it, even those from colder climes seem to develop temporary Alzheimers when the roads ice up. I don't have a license, let it expire when I moved here because the skytrain ( like an above ground subway ) is right beside my building and much faster than a car and takes me almost everywhere I need to go. The city planners purposely designed Vancouver not to be car friendly, so we're not overun with freeways, and there are plenty of bike paths, and people on the street.

The snow always makes me homesick, the smell of it, the frosted trees, the quietness. I wish I hadn't lost my camera so I could post a picture, but I think I have an old one on my computer. I have the heat on, usually the gas fireplace keeps my condo warm enough. I'm listening to Christmas music, Sarah Machlan's Wintersong which I love. She does a cover of Joni Mitchell's River that is just as good if not better than the original. Joni is ahead of my time, and I only started listening to her a few years ago, but the woman is a genius. We went to the same high school, but at different times. That's my claim to fame. That and I danced with Scott Thompson once.

Idrone

2007-01-10T01:22:00.000-08:00

I want this, but I'm not sure why, as I don't like listening to music when I'm travelling or walking around in the rain , and I'm not one of those people who has to check their email every ten minutes, and I'd rather watch t.v. or look at photo's on a big screen. And I'm phone phobic. Then again, I want to fit into the hive, one of those drones who never mates with the queen but feels just like every other worker bee. Still, this feels like something from Star Trek and it looks good. My gayness or inner geek is asserting itself. Of course in the last month I've lost my digital camera, burnt my best pot, passed out on the couch and put a cigarette burn in my favorite shirt and I have no idea where my cell phone is, and just today I fucked up my computer. But I think I'd feel modern carrying around an Iphone, or at least I could give the pretense to strangers that I have a life, kind of like when Jan Brady pretended to have a boyfriend to impress Marcia.

Lassie's Lobotomy

2007-01-09T22:20:00.000-08:00

I spent the Christmas season in the psyche ward at St.Pauls hospital, and my roomates favorite carol was "Do you hear what I hear." He believed Jesus was communicating with him through his Ipod but it was only Whitney Houston. Or maybe Whitney is God. Kudos to the Nuns for allowing a smoking room unlike the psyche ward at Vancouver General where every hour all the patients are led chain gang style outside but at least 100 yards from the hospital, less, god forbid we should give someone lung cancer from our second hand smoke. O.K the Pope hates me, but at least he lets me smoke. Chances are if your in Vancouver General, second hand smoke is the least of your health worries. One of my friends was in with me, but he's been there for the last four months so I wasn't surprised to see him, but it did make it more comforting. Everyday the nurse assigned to me would ask me how I felt on a scale of 1 to ten. I suspected laziness, but didn't push it,and usually gave her a vague 2 to 5. She seemed to not like 5 at all, so I lowered it to 4 to make her happy. Or at least content. I'm glad, yet a little jealous I'm not schizophrenic, at least they're rarely alone and have disembodied visitors.

So this is blog number three, and this time I'm going to try and not delete it and to post at least every third day. Oh, who am I kidding
What's with all the movies this season named The Good German Shepherd. Sounds like a remake of Rin Tin Tin or a tranquilized Lassie.
Tommorow I have an interview with the Downtown Eastside for a volunteer position. Something to do with helping the unemployable and drug addicted and mentally ill find employment. I meet with Antoinette, who sounded like a very pleasant Indian woman on the phone, yet I wonder how she got a french name. She has an accent so I know she wasn't born here, but I keep picturing her with an elaborate hair-do like Kirsten Dunst in the movie and white make-up. I screwed up my computer, uninstalled my bootleg copy of Office 2003 and can't re-install, so I don't have word, but luckily I found an old resume lying around from my last failed job interview. My psychiatrist suggested that I'd feel much better if I had a reason to leave the house everyday, and I agreed with her. So here goes. The office is on the most notorious street corner in Canada, Main and Hastings, Crack and Heroin central, so I hope nobody steals my jacket. I'm not sure what to wear, I don't want to look too yuppie, yet I don't want to look to down-trodden either. Maybe all black, but that's a little severe. I need something that says nothing about me, and that's hard to do. I don't want to look too thin, because then they'll think I either have Aids or I'm a junkie or both, yet I don't want to wear a big sweater aka Bill Cosby in the 80's. Maybe an olive green shirt with black pants and a fleece. Or maybe I'll just phone Antoinette in the morning and tell her I didn't know what to wear and therefore I won't be attending. But I remind myself this is just a volunteer position.
Anyway, I do feel optomistic. Almost.