Laura Learns to Drive Standard

My friend Laura asked me to help her learn how to drive standard. For the first time, she is the new owner of a car and it happens to be standard. I leapt at the opportunity. I really enjoy teaching people and driving standard can be very stressful if you aren't confident. An earlier attempt to learn from her boyfriend had proved disastrous. (It is usually best to learn from someone a little more removed than boyfriends or fathers.)
Now, I should mention that Laura had lost her license. She lost it through inactivity - not by driving wildly and with wanton disregard for the safety of others. Far be it from me to hold a bureaucratic oversight over someone. So until she retakes her drivers test, she needs someone in the car with her while she drives. To me, that simply meant I would have to pick her up.
What I didn't know, and gentle reader I must hope that you believe me here, is that there were actually three reasons she let her license lapse -
1. She was traveling or working abroad a lot.
2. She didn't have a car.
and 3. Driving kind of scares her.
Now that in itself isn't so troubling. And to be honest, she got the hang of the clutch fairly quickly. Even hill starts didn't bother her. Well, that is unless people were looking at her. Which they would, since she crawled through their neighbourhood unwilling to break the 30k mark. I told her where third gear is, but to be honest she seems happy with 2nd. Actually, she seems happy driving like she is always looking for parking. And so I asked her, "Why do you want your license? When are you going to drive?"
"Sundays," she said. "I'd like to drive to church on Sundays."
That is when it hit me - the full weight of what I had done. I've lost all rights to complain. I was teaching that person. I was teaching a Sunday Driver.

The Borthwick

Somewhere out there is a man named Borthwick. He's a friend of my friend JP. And within their circle it was well known that during an evening out at a bar or something of the sort, he would - without warning - disappear. He would get tired and rather than announce that he was done and wanted to go home, he would quietly exit. A move like that gets you out of dealing with the cries of 'one more' or 'you can't leave yet, it's early'. For them, this social maneuver became known as simply 'the Borthwick'.

I have Borthwicked before and I'll do it again. It is a socially offside move, but at least there is pride in the decisiveness of it. 'The Wanless' however lacks that strength. It is the Borthwick with the added twist of announcing your intention to Borthwick. There isn't any pride in Wanlessing. It aims to please and yet is somewhat pathetic while trying to do so. It is less defiant and self-willed and more just throwing in the towel.

Some people try to Borthwick and fail. With the intention of going out the back door, they say things like I'm just going to the washroom. Not that that is a bad excuse. Personally, I would never sully a good Borthwick with that kind of clutter, but it can be effective and would still qualify as a Borthwick. That is ... if you are credible, if we in fact believe you are coming back.

And with that, Maxine, I say to you, "You Wanlessed."

Saboteur

Lyon, France - Interpol has recently released a travel alert to all single women between the ages of 19 and 32 to be aware of a very emotionally unavailable man possibly traveling under the assumed names of either Claudio Lopez or Kid Prof. Especially noted are women traveling with both an accent and a name notably inappropriate to said accent - for example any Spanish Jennifers or Italian Gertrudes should take particular care.
If you are wooed by this individual, be on the look out, particularly near the dates of January 9th, March 28th, and as the Canadian Festival of Labour approaches, for signs of emotional sabotage and mental distancing. Do not be distracted by possible plans to meet in very remote countries at vague dates in the future.
While considered mostly harmless, this man may be carrying far more baggage than is apparent.
If you see this man today, kindly wish him a Happy Birthday.

My Ghost of Christmas Past

I think it is funny how small things can haunt you. Every Christmas, after opening all my presents, I am always scared to throw out the wrapping paper. I gather it all to one side carefully. Not careful in the way of a grandmother that doesn't want to ruin such lovely paper and wants to reuse your dollar store gift wrap. No, careful more like a customs official. I scrunch every bit of discarded wrap like I'm patting down a known criminal. I'm paranoid that I'll throw out a gift with the garbage - a baby with the bath water so to speak. All because one year I killed C3PO.
As a kid I remember getting a pile of Star Wars action figures while staying at my grandparents and for some reason in my gift frenzy I neglected to take C3PO out of his package. My grandparents lived on the third floor of high rise and before I noticed I had a man down, the empty packages were jettisoned down the garbage chute. The irony of C3PO landing in a trash compactor was not lost on me, even then. The horrible twist being that it was an incinerator.
Funny how it's small things that stick with us.

Our New Christmas Ball

Donna and I inherited a lot of ornaments from my parents. We always had a motley crew of decorations on our Christmas tree. Growing up with lights strung together from different eras and generations of decorations hanging from the tree, I have never been fond of the designer trees. You know the kind. Three styles of ornaments repeated throughout the tree. Each of them chosen from a theme. Very pretty in a hotel lobby, but in my world they lacked that sense of family and history and perhaps nostalgia. I'm sure that some of the ornaments I have are hideous. My arts and crafts kindergarten gingerbread leaves a lot to the imagination. But each one (including the reindeer with missing antlers) is special. Each one has a story and although I would need my mother to tell them all to you, I know they have one. Some are simply beautiful in their own right. Delicate jewels that date as far back as the 20's and 30's.
With that in mind, Donna and I have bought a single ornament for each year we've had a tree together. This is our third.

No Parking on Park Benches

I have really romantic notions around park benches. I think of them as a critical part of the mosaic that can transform a few city blocks from an anonymous grid of houses and shops into a neighbourhood.
To the north of our apartment is great stretch of park littered with benches - many of them looking out to the sea with the mountains and the downtown peninsula as a backdrop. We sometimes go down to the water at sunset with a coffee. I wouldn't dare complain about these benches. They are comfortable enough, wooden benches. Although they are designed for three they rarely hold more than two people. It isn't these benches that irk me.
Up the hill to the south of us is our stretch of shops. It is a cute neighbourhood. Far from any mall, it offers a great variety of unique stores. People tend to walk up and down the six or more blocks that it stretches. While I don't get tired on the way and need a spot to rest, some surely do. And while it isn't the place to watch the sunset, it still has a pretty side to it. So I have to stop and wonder what our city was thinking with there newest installation of benches.
Take this bench for example. It is caught between popular sections of the main street and is pushed off to the side street. At first I thought, with the gravel patch around it, that it was something as utilitarian as a bus stop, but there are no buses on this sidestreet. And while I'm not that fond of a backless bench at a bus stop, it would be better than nothing. Instead this bench is for everyone.
Is it meant to entice you to sit for a while and gaze out at the intersection? Notice that this backless metal bench is subdivided into three equal sections. Are we to think that the popularity of this bench is so high that it needs to be partitioned. Why would our government install this bench? Certainly not for people to sit on. Is it meant to be decoration?

Science World Leaking?

I have often thought that Science World has been an ironic symbol for Vancouver. I recognize that it was built in that window of history where 'the future' meant geodesic domes and mono rails. I'm sure it made sense during Expo to build a big shiny ball for a building even if the interior layout wasn't particularly useful - it was futuristic, and an expo requisite. I'm also sure that the architect didn't know that the exoskeleton was going to reflect the ubiquitous scaffolding that clouds our city. Who knew then that someday Vancouver would spring a leak, or two, or twenty thousand.
I have always enjoyed the irony in having a symbolic building eternally draped in leaky-condoesque scaffolding. So when I saw our fair globe under its new canopy, I couldn't help but laugh. While I'm guessing that this is a cleaning or something equally boring, Science World looks to have joined the rest of this leaky city. If you look now, you'll find it draped in a great white cloth. What you mind find even more surprising is they have added scaffolding. Kind of funny looking when you think about it. I mean didn't Science World have its own built in.

Something's Rotten in Vancouver

While Donna is excited to finally be able to vote, I must admit that I am at an all time low in faith in our elections. I like to coddle myself with delusions about how different we are from Florida: How scandal doesn't stand in Canada. I love to point the finger at the Bush administration and call them a banana republic. But how much better are we?
Here in Vancouver we had a recent mayoral election that stank. It stank and nothing happened. We had over a dozen candidates, but in earnest it came down to two: Sam Sullivan and Jim Green. Pretty clear, except that we had another guy named James Green running. Same name right Jim and James. Except of course that James comes before Jim (alpha order).
Here is the stinky part. Sam won by less than 4000 votes and James got over 4000 votes. James did very little to advertise and came in third. Try a google image search for Jim Green Vancouver and Jim pops up to the top. For James Green Vancouver, the closest I got was a picture of a fish at the Vancouver Aquarium.
Worse, it has been reported that Sam helped James' candicy. True or False? I don't know, but I know it stinks. I also know that nothing is happening about it. No by election. No concession from the "leader".
All this is happening as we go into a federal election that stinks.

Citizen Keating

It snowed today. Big wet fluffy snowflakes. Unusual for Vancouver, but wonderfully appropriate for Donna's big day: Today she became a Canadian Citizen. While it is nice to see Mother Nature showing some good Canadian pride, this means I can no longer call her a foreigner, which I'll miss. It also means we won't get pulled aside at borders, which I won't miss. Recently Donna has been traveling under as many as three names and two flags, none of which is looked upon kindly by our neighbours to the south. In case you're wondering, in the end, after 29 years of living in Canada as a landed immigrant, it was the promise of voting that got her to swear her allegiance to the crown.

Damn Telus Ads

I'm starting to get angry at those damn Telus ads with the cute little bunnies. I don't want a bunny. I don't need a bunny. And the ads suck, cause all Donna asks me when they come on is "Can we get a bunny?" To my knowledge, she hasn't ever noticed the wares our little hares are pushing. She just sees how cute they are and wants one . Or two. Or more.
Not me, I like my carrots all to myself and I think those things will breed like rabbits.

Eastside Culture Crawl

This weekend is the Eastside Culture Crawl and I strongly recommend checking it out. Tons of studios are open on the eastside with artists on hand to show their work. The best place to start in my opinion is the old warehouse turn studio complex on 1000 Parker St. There are dozens of artist studios littered throughout the building. There are usually good sized crowds making their way through the building, so you can be totally anonymous or meet the artist as you gawk at stuff you hate and stare at stuff you love.

The Meat War

Donna and I are waging a slow war. At first I thought it wasn't a cold war, because I was fighting on the wrong front. I control the stove and the oven, Donna seems leary of them at best. So as chief cooker of our household, I was sadly self-deluded. I, or so I thought, would decide what we eat and what we do not eat. Tough talk, eh?
But talk is cheap and it doesn't buy the groceries, and it would seem that neither do I. Or at least that division of labour is more egalitarian when it comes to Safeway. So you can see - it is a cold war and the true front is the refrigerator. Sure I don't have to cook what is in there. There are always plenty of options. But Donna is ahead of us both. You see she knows well and true that I can't throw out perfectly good food. I'm far too frugal for that. She also knows that I'm too lazy to cook two versions of the same meal, so yes it is deliberate.
It has been a long slow battle and I must admit that I'm losing terribly. I was virtually a vegetarian when she met me and today I used actually pepperoni while making pizzas. (not the usual fake kind that I buy, but never use more than half of) I'll tell you - I didn't like it. Not one bit. ...Losing that is. The pepperoni was pretty tasty. See. Damn it. I am losing.

My Other Blog

For those who are curious about my painting, I have started another blog called paul keating's paintings There you will find all of the 'digitally blurred' paintings I've done.

Again, for those who are curious I am using a new technique that plays on the Impressionist style. The French Impressionists like Monet were painting in a time that saw the invention of the camera. Traditional portraiture would never be the same as the camera excelled at realism. As a reaction, a group of painters started painting loose and rough strokes and focusing on light and colour.

When seen close up, Monet's Water Lilies are blobs of colourful paint. When you step back, your brain blurs the colours until they make sense and suddenly lilies floating in a reflective pool of water appear. This process is called optical blending.

Recently, in reaction to the overwhelming use of the digital camera, I started painting portraits that use optical blending and a pixel like brush stroke. Up close, some of the portraits fail to resemble people at all and at a distance a face appears.

Robert Esmie

I had the chance today to spend a little time with Robert Esmie and to watch a tape of him blasting off at the Atlanta games. If you don't recall, he was the fifth runner on the Canadian 4x100 relay - the substitute. The night before the finals, he was told they needed him not just to run, but to lead them off. He shaved his head leaving the words "blast off" embossed in large letters. I don't know if you remember, but I do.
I spent that summer in Trinidad as the guest of a friend. I remember the 100 meter final first. My friend is Trinidadian and so his eyes, and every set of eyes in the room really, were locked on Ato Boldon. The only network we could pick up was American and so the camera was focused on the man in stars and stripes. While I, the lone Canadian, kept an eye on Bailey. Off the mark, it looked as if Bailey was out. He was far back at 20 meters and I was disappointed. This was the chance to erase some of the Ben Johnson scandal and it was slipping away. They were ecstatic. It looked to be a race between Ato and Frankie Fredericks of Namibia. The entire island was leaning forward watching, trying to push Ato faster.
At sixty meters, I was a believer again as Bailey poured it on, gaining ground with every stride. When he finally passed them in a blur and flew across the line. I was screaming and the rest of the island was quiet. Not that they weren't proud of Ato and his bronze medal, but they just never even saw Bailey coming. Their eyes never left Ato and Frankie's neck and neck race.
The network was shocked as well. No American in the medals. What should they talk about? They weren't prepared.
So even though I was still the sole Canuck, when the Canadians came to the line for the 4 x 100, everyone around me believed they could do it. They could beat the Americans. 'Don't count they out until the last second', they were saying. All I was hoping was for it to be close at the last leg. Esmie was young, Gilbert was unknown, Surin hadn't run well in the semi finals and that left Bailey to close the gap. A good start could make the difference.
When Esmie unveiled his haircut - Blast Off. I believed it could be done. Hearing him today talk about that moment and the cameras focusing in on that statement and how he felt electrified by the event, the attention, and the people, brought me right back to the little living room in blistering Trinidad. I moved to the edge of the couch waiting for the starters gun and when it went, didn't Esmie explode. The race of his life. Gilbert stretched himself and Surin knew before Bailey that we'd won. We'd beat the Americans on their own soil at the event they had never lost. Thanks Robert - what a blast.

Jip Diesel Should've Been Loaded

If only the Jipper had been drunk, he would be fine now and not the gimp he is. And the Jipper I've known would have been. We'd had plenty of access to free liquor all through dinner and Jipper turned it down. He and I were at a work event and after dinner we joined a lively bunch of co-workers in a bar. We each ordered a beer and before Jip could take his first sip, he was in need of some medical attention.
It is hard to say what happened for sure. I can't say whether the glass was cracked already or if it was too hot coming out of the dishwasher and the beer too cold out of the tap or if Jip is just super strong and dangerously unaware of his awesome power. What I do know is that had he been drunk, he'd have been fine.
You see, as the waitress handed him the pint, Jipper crushed it in his hand. If he'd have stopped at that, it would have fallen harmlessly to the floor, spraying people's feet with foam and shards of glass. Instead he tried to catch it. Instinctive. Sudden. He reached out and tried to snatch the glass as it dropped from his hand, already shattered into long shards. Had he been loaded, the delayed reaction would have saved him.
Jip caught the glass, cutting himself to the bone. He lacerated a tendon and nicked a nerve. After a few long hours in a dingy small town emergency ward, he was told he needed to schedule some surgery. They stitched him up, but he flew home the next morning to see a specialist. Turns out he'll be fine. He's got a cast on and it looks like he's thumbs up for a while.

Charlie and Chocolate Factory and Must Love Dogs

Last night four of us went to the Hollywood Theatre to see the double feature. It seemed an odd pairing and to be honest I really wasn't that interested in Must Love Dogs. Well, except that it did star Diane Lane. (Like fine wine, she keeps getting better with age.) Since I was already committed to the idea of seeing Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, the prospect of seeing a predictable romantic comedy had two things going for it - it was free and there was eye candy for me. Donna was also motivated by eye candy, but it came in the form of Johnny Depp in the first film.
Eye candy, it turns out is just where the similarity ended.
A reviewer wrote, "I was charmed by "Must Love Dogs" (the title is Internet-date shorthand), and it was mostly because of Lane and Cusack - though it was also due to writer-director Gary David Goldberg (1989's "Dad"). His script is full of complex and lively love patter..."
It is a lie. It isn't just bad. It is barely tolerable. If I had been rip roaring drunk, I think I would have still seen the 'twists' coming. I'll admit that Lane and Cusack are talented actors and that they, at times, were able to distract us from the painfully formulaic script. But no amount of talent could have bridged the awkward gaps in plot or breathed life into the tired obvious story.
On the other hand, the G rated Charlie and the Chocolate Factory tells us a story that we had all heard before and somehow makes it fresh and new. Johnny Depp does carry the story through his charm, intensity, and relentless commitment to the character of Willy Wonka. Tim Burton, the director, doesn't leave him stranded. He finds, in the factory, a perfect platform for his wild and wonderful imagination. Delightful, charming, and twisted.

Trick or Treating Where?

Part way through my grade three year, we moved to the last house on a quiet street, nestled up against a pine forest. In the way that we never have the chance to choose our relatives, this was a time in my life where I didn't choose my friends as much as they were thrust upon me by proximity. There were simply a gaggle of kids living on our street and we learned to get along. After dinner, our band of misfits would play a variety of games - kick the can being a favourite. Despite the wealth of hiding spots our forest gave us, we never played there. Not kick the can. Not at night. No one told us we couldn't and it wasn't a scary forest during the day, but a night it was a little too dark and too creepy for us.
It was a deep rectangular forest and hidden away at the very back was an old mansion. We believed stories we'd heard about old Mrs. Cressman who lived in the mansion. She had Dobermans that she would let run wild at night and anyone daring to venture too far into the woods would be attacked. On the best of nights, it kept us out of the forest. But on Halloween, when ghosts stories were whispering in our minds, we were truly afraid.
There is a vague unwritten window for trick or treating and mostly we start younger than we remember. How old we are when we stop going out for the evening asking for candy from our neighbours is really up to our genes. Being very tall at a young age only shortened my trick or treating career. It was near the end of my window when I was finally brave enough to walk all the way through the forest in the dark to the old Cressman mansion. It was shrouded in trees and vines so much that it seemed to grow out of the ground itself. I remember knocking on the door for the first time, proud of myself for having come that far. The wide door swung open slowly to reveal a small grey haired women hunching over a big metal bowl. It was a bowl filled with the holy grail of Halloween - full sized chocolate bars. Not some miniaturized version of a Mars bar or a Smarties box with four Smarties inside. No, full sized real chocolate bars. A true prize for only the bravest.
I was at a mall today when I thought of that woman. I remembered too, when I was younger, going into someone's garage where we were blindfolded and we given things to touch. Eyeballs and brains. Actually peeled grapes and overcooked pasta. We screamed. Then touched them again.
I'd like to think that people still do that sort of thing, but I doubt it. Today, as I left the mall around four o'clock, hundreds of children in costume poured into the mall. They went from store to store trick or treating under fluorescent lights. (No Batgirl costumes ruined by snowsuits - that's for sure) It was depressing. What sort of message was woven through that event? Well, I was afraid that maybe no one let their kids go out trick or treating through their neighbourhood anymore. We live in a small apartment building and so we never get kids at our door, but I wondered if this is where they had gone.
I'm glad to say that isn't true in Kitsilano. On the way out this evening, my wife and I drove down a few side streets and there were plenty of kids out, but is that just because there isn't a mall in Kits. I hope not. I hope you had lots of kids trick or treating at your door.
Oh and thanks, Mrs. Cressman, for the full sized real chocolate bar and even more so for the scare.

Halloween Fireworks?

What is up with all the fireworks at Halloween? Is this just a BC thing or do people everywhere do this? I'm a transplant of eight years and I really think of this as home. I may even take a little pride in having embraced the BC way of life on many levels. In fact, I even call a twelve pack of beer a 'case'. Boy, that took some getting used to. But I just don't know about these fireworks. Canada Day by comparison is relatively calm out here. I don't mean to complain. I like big explosions in the sky for whatever reason. I guess I just don't see the connection.

The Great Gazoo

My paper mache alien head has turned out to be too close to the Great Gazoo to fight it. I've bought some green paint and some green clothes. Now I need a little green make up and a green cape. If only one of my friends would go as Fred or Barney, then I could refer to them for the entire night as Dum-Dum. Ah well we can't have everything.
I'm looking forward to tonight. I hope that I never get over this childlike love of dressing up in disguise. Taking on a new persona is still fantastic escapism for me. And with no parental intervention I won't ruin my costume with warm clothes bundled over top.
Of course, my mothers sensibilities had us wear our jackets on top of our costumes. Like all children, I couldn't imagine who, besides my mother, had ever heard of a vampire catching a cold? But last night at dinner, Donna pointed an outraged finger across the table at her mother. Donna is still disturbed by being forced to wear her snowsuit underneath a Bat Girl costume. "Who," she cried as if it happened yesterday, "has ever heard of a fat Bat Girl?" Well tonight she'll be Cat Woman and trust me - she won't try to squeeze a snowsuit under this costume.

Murderball - a documentary

This is an excellent film about individuals that don't want to deserve your pity, but want to earn your respect. Some things I learned from this film: Quadriplegics have impairment in the use of all four limbs. Murderball, with its armoured wheelchairs, looks post apocalyptic. And I'd be a little scared to play these guys.

I have always misunderstood the term quadriplegic and it was this recent documentary that set the record straight for me. I thought that quadriplegics were completely paralyzed from the neck down, having the use of neither their arms no their legs. That said, you can imagine my surprise to hear that there was such a thing as 'quad rugby' a.k.a. Murderball. Stephen Hawkins is the visual reference I was working with and any game of rugby that he is playing isn't going to be too interesting to watch. Not so with Murderball.

Murderball will suck you in as it lays out a collision course for the American and Canadian national teams on route to the Athens Olympics. And on this level it shows like a typical sports documentary. That familiar format helps open a door for you. It serves to underline the normality of the extraordinary lives to which we are given access. Each team member has his own amazing story. Each one has had enough reason to quit and has instead chosen to inspire.

Four Eyes

Donna often catches me leaning back from whatever I'm reading, like I'm climbing out a window. I admit that I've begun to focus in a fashion more akin to a microscope than a person. The page is raised and lowered until the blur is lifted.
It's not that I'm afraid I'm getting old. Even the most casual observer can see that the war on grey is not going well for me. Still, unlike a few people around me, I have not turned to dye. I have a few friends who sport the occasional unnatural purple haze to their hair as the dye slowly starts to relax. No, I have fought hard against getting glasses, because I just don't trust any 'doctor' that sells you the cure. I lump bone crackers in with mechanics, in that you don't ever know if they did anything and that you always seem to be coming back. But Optometrists, they sell you the glasses right there, so I doubt they are going to say, 'You don't need glasses."
So, while that may be true, I have to admit that the fact I need glasses was becoming painfully obvious. I knew I couldn't read the newspaper as easily as I once could, what I was worried about was driving. I thought I could see fine, but maybe a professional opinion was in order. Maybe I've been getting by on blind luck.
Turns out I'm just far sighted so I only need glasses to read. So four eyes it is. Donna likes them. And me, I think I look even smarter.

Costume

Halloween is coming. Do you have your costume ready? Last year I rented a great clown costume, but not this year. I'm not sure how it will turn out, but I am trying to make my own costume. Now serving as the form for my paper mache creation is the giant silver exercise ball that I rescued from its Siberian outpost (our garage). The two flights down and up are the most exercise I've every had with the ball. I am trying to make a giant alien head and I'm afraid it won't work. I'm afraid that paper mache, while easily mastered by grade school kids everywhere, will elude me. This is only my second attempt at paper mache and I certainly hope this will be a much better attempt than the last. Or else, I'll be a giant alien mush head.

One of Donna's Personal Myths

Donna has spent most of the day moaning. Sometimes from the couch. Sometimes from the bed. Sometimes just while standing around looking dazed. She's sick. What's worse is that she isn't very good at it. I kind of enjoy being sick on some level. I wouldn't pick it mind you, but at least you can sit on the couch for hours watching movies or sleep wrapped up in heavy blankets or some sort of hybrid. And all guilt free. Not that guilt really factors into my daily conduct. Which is just the opposite of Donna.
I suppose at the heart of it, it is guilt that gets in her way of eking out any joy in being sick. She feels she is supposed to be doing something else. She fights it tooth and nail. She denies any sign of sickness and suppresses them with an array of 'medications', ignoring the most important - rest. She does all this to defend a personal myth: She doesn't get sick.
Or at least not cold or flu sick. We have to ignore incapacitating headaches and crippling hangovers. Both of which have her vomiting for an entire day. But she isn't sick. Not sick sick, at least.
So today Donna didn't go to work. I've made her soup. Brought her a box of Kleenex. Rented her movies. Massaged her neck. Driven her to the acupuncturist. And cancelled dinner plans. Now I'll make her favourite hot toddy kind of drink- a blueberry tea. But ask her if she is sick and she tell you, "I don't get sick."

A Car Called Hubris

Last night we got a flat tire. Simple. Straightforward. A quick and sudden flat tire. We were driving on an easy road at a time that wasn't too busy, so this was a danger free chance to get in touch with my manhood. Beside me, Donna was no longer simply my wife, she was in my eyes a damsel in distress. Time to get my hands dirty.
Well I got down on my hands and knees beside my wounded steed, jack in hand, and searched out the best place to begin the lift. "Why don't we just call BCAA?" "Beside not having a membership, well this isn't that difficult," I replied, still eager to prove my worth. I reached under the vehicle, placing the jack under the frame, and began cranking it up. And up. And up. And still no real movement. I mean the rim was still firmly planted on the ground. Down went the jack. Shuffled it over. And up, up, and nothing.
My wife, now in anyone's eyes a damsel in distress, spotted an acquaintance of ours. Someone more inclined to cars than I am. Of course, truth be told that applies to most men. We called him over for his input. I take solace in saying that he wasn't helpful. Or at least not in a tangible get the wheel off the ground so we can pop on the full spare kind of way. No, he did nothing to prevent me from sulking away, tail between my legs, defeated. What he did do was help me come to admit my defeat sooner and thereby limiting my pathetic struggle.
If the question were asked, 'Why did you buy an SUV?' Well the answer is pretty easy. My wife is a traveling sales rep. She drives throughout the province carrying a lot of samples, so we need the room. If the question is why we bought an SUV instead of a minivan. Well the answer has to be pride. We don't want to be that kind of couple. You know - sensible. We want to be rough and tumble. Ready for anything. When truth be told, we are pretty sensible. (Bought the Jeep second hand for a great price.) And we're clearly not very rugged. And the sin of pride will get you every time.
Last night it caught me in the rain, when our friend pointed something out to me that should have been obvious. The jack I was holding didn't belong to my giant SUV, but rather to a little tiny Honda.

Acupuncture: The Jury's Out

What you may know is that my wife, Donna, suffers from migraines. What you may also know is that she hates wearing socks. What you probably don't know is that these two facts are related. Or at least according to Dr. Oh.
Donna has a small blue plastic box that often comes with us on trips, short or long. Inside you will find wafers that dissolve on the tongue to be taken as she feels a migraine coming on. When one doesn't work, take two. When two don't work, well good luck. A few days ago, two didn't work. I suggested acupuncture.
It is not that I'm a believer in ancient or homeopathic or natural or holistic medicine. On the contrary, I want expensive pharmaceuticals when I'm sick. No, really I just wanted to see someone with a whole bunch of needles sticking out of them. Since they aren't likely to let me walk into the back and take a few snapshots of any ole' patient, well my best chance of seeing a human pin cushion up close was my wife. Anything seems reasonable to her in the face of an oncoming migraine and so off we went.
It was a two round affair. The needles stay in for half an hour and so they can't do your front and back at the same time. I only went for the first round, because Dr. Oh barely let me look. "One photo. From here." Then back to various issues of S.I. left in the waiting room. Not big on bedside manner - when asked if it will hurt, he simply and flatly said, "Yes."
While she did feel good after the needles were removed, Donna's headache had started to subside the minute we made the appointment, so any hope of an objective evaluation had gone right out the door. I'm holding off judgment on the effectiveness for a little while at least. Although, I don't have high expectations.
Still, no matter what happens, I'll admit - I feel lucky. The unexpected did happen at the acupuncturist's. Dr. Oh told Donna that cold feet cause headaches and she needs to wear socks all the time. Let me thank you now Dr. Oh, 'cause usually it's just some warm part of my body that Donna uses to defrost her sockless winter feet.

Peeing in Public: Equal but Separate?

Gender specific single occupancy washrooms: Why do we accept them? I mean those little pairs of washrooms, equal but different, at the back of cafes and restaurants, with some clever symbol on the door indicating whether you stand or sit to pee. Could you imagine wandering into a downtown cafe anywhere in North America and seeing bathrooms divided by race? Or religion? Imagine a Starbucks with a crescent or a cross or a star on a bathroom door. We would be outraged.

Returning recently from Greece, I have to note that they have multiple occupancy bathrooms that are not gender specific. I suspect they are everywhere. But they sure aren't here. No, here we can't even pee consecutively in the same room. Or at least not in public. I don't get it. I don't know anyone who has separate washrooms at home. We might say something like, "Hey Frank, thanks for having us over. Say do you mind if I use your men's room", imagine if that's what you found at the end of his hall - men's room on the right and women's on the left.

But in public, they're equal but different. Or are they? Come on, it's a lie. More often than not, the women's is so much nicer. We never have plants, or little decorative touches. So much so that occasionally a man will find himself half way through the door only to stop. This is too nice he thinks. Then checking the door, he realizes he hasn't noticed the picture on the door is a dairy cow. To be sure he checks the next door down the hall. A bull confirms his suspicion. What to do now? The bull door is locked.

Don't you feel a little silly standing outside 'your' washroom waiting for someone to finish, when right there next to you is an empty one. Do I go in? I'm not allowed to use that one. What if I go in and I leave a foul odour and then as I open the door to leave, I find a woman waiting for me?

So let me warn you now: I'm going in. I'm going to use their room too. I won't let 'the man' tell me where to pee and not to pee. I'm going to shed this oppressive yoke that only wields social stigma to subtly reinforce gender inequalites. No I say., no.

Actually, who am I kidding. I'm a typical Canadian, all they need is a sign to stop me.

A Honeymoon in Greece

Too much Saganaki. Too much wine and beer. We needed to come home for a rest. To be honest, a diet that consisted far too often of saganaki (a slice of cheese fried in spirits) should have packed on more than the meer three pounds that it did. It felt like I should have been flagged at the airport on the way home, had a "heavy load" sticker slapped on my ass, and charged a fuel surcharge fee for my excess weight. No, three pounds is a bit of a miracle.

Two weeks in the Greek Islands. A beautiful part of this world. Rich in history and natural beauty. We had the chance to do a little travelling while we were there. A taste of Athens, the Islands, and Meteora.


Athens

Athens is a big city and like most big cities, it sprawls for miles and miles. It is dirty and run down and were it not for the Acropolis perched high in the heart of the city, it would have little to offer. The Acropolis View hotel, in case anyone is interested, certainly can claim a view from some rooms, but here we call that a peek-a-boo view. Leaning out a little from our balcony, we could indeed see the Parthenon. I guess the 'Acropolis Peek-a-boo Biew Hotel didn't have the right ring.



Mykonos

The islands on the other hand are strung through the Agean like a necklace of jewels. The four we visited were each unique and offered something special. Designed to confuse pirates, the streets Mykonos wind and twist like a labyrinth. A tourist trap with a twist you might say. They go in, but do they all come out? The layers of shapes all painted white and stacked askew are truly magical.
The Pelicans are a sight to see as well. Tame enough for locals to scratch their stomaches, these massive birds wander the streets in search of either handouts or simply a good place to groom themselves.


Santorini

Santorini is that girl in grade six, two rows over, who was beautiful but seemed to know it. An island that was much larger, Santorini had a volcanic temper. She blew her top and sunk into the sea leaving a ring of cliff edged islands overlooking the crater, waiting for another outburst. A naturally stunning view from the cliff edge is ever greater at sunset. A must see for any island hopping trip, we found it too commercial to fall in love. More than the other islands, cruiseships seem to set the tempo for the economy.
While our hotel room did have a just claim to this gorgeous natural view, I suppose the telephone pole would have seemed jarring to most.



Ios
If Greece had tumbleweeds, we would have seen them in Ios. A party island that thrives on younger tourists, it screeches to a halt when school starts back in September. The town square was being slowly recovered by locals, drinking coffee and twirling beads beneath English signs offering a free t-shirt to anyone who would drink seven shots in a row. Beautiful, rugged, this sleepy island was a real treat to visit. With a church or chapel for every 4 to 5 people, the island boasts over four hundred chapels. The sunsets were beautiful. The beaches quiet. And with a car you could get to very remote areas easily.

Mykonos

We returned to Myknos to relax a little more. We found a fabulous hotel where we could drink wine, read books, and watch sunsets from our balcony. The windy streets began to feel familiar. We also took a trip to a beach on the far side of the island where you could do a little dancing or watch a strange man dance on tables wearing ... well, actually, what is he wearing?

Meteora
With very little time left, we made our way to a town in Greece that is under the shadow of some amazing rocks. They are carved out of a huge cliff and look ready to topple at any minute. And perched on top of these outcroppings are a handful of monestaries. Built in the 1700's, by hand, with no roads or even stairs. The monks used ropes to raise and lower themselves. Stunning. A fabulous end to a great trip.

I Do

September 17th, 2005 - our wedding day.
Just the idea that we would get married was surprising to many of our close friends. Neither of us were the marrying kind, or so they thought. Too traditional, they said. Even more surprising was how traditional the was wedding. But I wouldn't have it any other way.

What is the point of getting married? For me it was a language issue. The term 'girlfriend' just didn't seem to cut it. Actually, worse: it seemed to sell short what we had. I tried partner, but that often left people with the impression I was gay. Not so bad, just untrue. I wanted the words that implied the depth, and commitment of our relationship. I wanted to say things like, "Have you met my wife?" Luckily she felt the same way.

What I didn't know, was how important it was to me to have all of our friends present. How the public aspect of declaring your love for someone could be so profound. I don't simply mean the vows we spoke, but also the people who stood to speak about us and those took the chance to say personally all the things we sometimes think are understood and don't need to be said. Yet hearing them has a magical effect. I didn't think that my bride and I, having lived together for years already, would feel dramatically different and I don't suppose we do. But, I do feel closer to all our friends for both the words of kindness and for having shared something so personal and so important.

I couldn't have asked for a better day. Despite the overwhelming degree of planning that you put into a single day, so much can go wrong. With an open bar, that possibility is astronomically bigger. While I am dissapointed to say that we didn't have even a hint of fistcuffs, there was a least a little scandal on the dance floor. But as my mother said, "It was great. I haven't been groped in years."

On Men Having No Taste

My fiancee spends a fair bit of time asking me the same set of questions: What should I wear? Does this go? Which do you like better? So when I heard recently that only 4% of women trust the opinions of the men in their lives regarding what to wear, well frankly, I was shocked.

Since my information source on this fact is a call in radio contest titled 'Battle of the Sexes', please understand that I will not stand by the number under scrutiny. But there it is - 4%. And a quick survey seemed to confirm it. I would understand if it were the question - "Do I look fat in this?" Self-interest is a very powerful motivator and no one should be trusted to counsel you against their own self-interest. But what to wear, what looks good? Who could possibly be a better judge? Or at least a more relevant judge?

"Don't be crazy," I was told, "women dress for women." "Men have no taste."

Whereas women, left to their own devices, will demonstrate all sorts of tastes. I have to believe that straight women do themselves a great disservice in dressing for each other. (Especially those who complain that their partners doesn't show enough interest.) What better evidence do I need to highlight the follies of women dressing for women than pedal pushers - pants designed to make all women look short and frumpy. Men have a simple name for them - floods.

I suppose the 'men have no taste' comment would be easier to swallow if men didn't dominate the fashion industry. Women will let famous men con them into wearing the craziest god awful outfits - thank you Fashion File. But let us assume that the "men have no taste" rings true. Doesn't that really mean you are just spinning your wheels when you dye your hair three colours and spend an hour blow drying it straight or curly (whichever it wasn't). If we don't notice, why do you bother?

Don't you think that maybe you might just want to find out what we do like? I caution: be prepared for an appalling lack of vocabulary. We may not know if you've had your hair layered or frosted. We may just call it a shirt, when clearly it is more of a top. But like art and wine, we don't know much, but we know what we like.

So try asking new questions, like, if we have favourites. You might be surprised. But if we say, "These jeans and this t-shirt." Don't just think we don't have any taste. It is our taste. Anyway, you probably look pretty damn good in that outfit.

My Friend's Combover

I have a friend, let's call him Cal. Now, Cal had a forehead with plans to be a five. His face launched two pincer attacks that made camp when they met over the crest. In doing so, they had isolated a lonely island of hair - front and center. While his counter attack involved growing his hair longer, I'm not saying that he'd grown the hair on the left side of his head to a length capable of being draped across his crown in thin, straggly strands designed to fool small children into thinking that he had a robust head of hair and simply an unusually low part. He had not sunk so low as to fear the wind. But looking back, it was there - the edge, the last stop to Combover.

We talked about it. I mean we all talked about, just not with Cal. I suppose the question is why not and I think that the answer is the key to the great combover question - 'Where are their friends?' How do they get to such a bizarre state? Do they wake up one day thinking that they'll start growing their hair until they can pull the wool over our eyes? Or does it slowly evolve from silly to ridiculous? Either way, who stands idly by? Why do they think it works?

Being taller than Cal, I could see the thin strands of hair fanning out from the lonely island like reeds flattened under foot. But from his point of view, the extra length worked. What could I say? He was so sensitive about his hair. It was taboo. And it wasn't a combover by any means. Or at least not yet. It was just a little extra to balance off a little less. That's what I told myself.

Then I discovered the special hair products. Imported hair products. A wax that thickened hair. "It works," he said. And there it was. Like a beam of light shining down and bouncing off his balding scalp and straight into my eyes. It had hit me. This was just the begining. He would keep nurturing the few survivors while the attrition wore down the rest. More and more imported supplies would flow in as the battle escalated. Until one day there would be nothing left but a sorry fringe that, in the shower, hung limply to his left shoulder. Then what could we say. It would be too much of a taboo to say anything.

I had to do something. I'm not much of a man of action, but here it was: Push had come to Shove. Remember that chief among things that friends don't let friends do is wear a Speedo. But a close second is to sport a combover. Third of course is drink Coors Light and heaven help the man who completes the trifecta.

So I said it. "It's time Cal"

"What do you mean it's time?"

"The island, Cal. It's time to taker down. Clippers, Cal. It's the only way."

"Nooooooooo."

It would have been very straightforward, except that people lie. And Cal sought those people out.

"I don't know. It looks fine."

"It may not be time yet."

Nice lies. Little lies. But lies that nearly left Cal on a beach somewhere, half naked in a Speedo, drinking Coors Light out of a can, laughing unaware that the wind was lifting his hair like a car hood. Those people nearly ruined a man's life. I hope they can sleep at night.

You see a man in his state will cling to anything. Even the phrase 'not yet.' He'll hear the words 'it looks fine' and believe it. Ha! Where anyone rational knows what 'Your hair looks fine' can mean. But rational doesn't import hair thickening wax.

Desperate, I took aerial photos of the war waging across his scalp. I took them to a small band of the truly honest people in his life and implored them, "We must make a stand here and now." Armed with clippers and outnumbering him, he succumbed quietly.

And now people say, "You should have done it ages ago."