I'm Sick of Radio Hosts

Where is Venus Flytrap now? What happened to the DJ? Are they gone forever? Did they disappear with Drive Ins - quietly, from neglect?

I'm sick of Radio Hosts and radio contests and little games. I'm sick of their tiny little playlists full of the same crap day in and day out. I don't want to phone in to win and I don't want to hear about the ever grateful that just won a general seating ticket to a $12 concert. I will not learn the "phrase that pays" or any other pathetic marketing ploy. I'm fed up. I can't take anymore of two talking heads bantering back and forth about shopping, social faux pas, and trivial celebrity news.

Sometimes they drive me to talk radio. But there are times when I just want to hear some music. I want a DJ. I want someone who knows what they are playing and cares about it. Someone who takes pride in what they do, has control over what they play, and is passionate about music.

I don't even mind the commercials. I know we have to pay one way or another. So please let me know if you know any good stations with DJs that I can listen to while driving in Vancouver.

Warning

Can there be any better advertisement? I often find myself late at night watching trash TV. Flipping aimlessly through channels looking for something to watch. I'm the sort of person who struggles against sleep. Drifting on the couch, achy and tired and wanting to go to bed seems preferable to actually going to bed.

Nothing on. Click. Nothing on. Click.

Then I see a warning. That's enough to stop me. And then I wait for it. The offense material. I think of it as a promise made. Does this really deter anyone? Who is offended by what they see on TV and why are they watching Showcase?

I wish I came with an advisory label. It would give less people grounds to be offended and would probably make me seem that much more interesting.

Evil Twin or Alter Ego?

This is my mother-in-law, Jane. Personable. Charming. Smiles a lot. You wouldn't think so if you've ever seen her running.

You see, Jane has an evil twin. I see her running all the time. She wears a red jacket and looks a lot like Jane. Well, except that she never smiles. She doesn't look as if she is grimacing from running, she just looks angry. I couldn't tell you why. All I can say is that, she won't smile.

Or at least that's Jane's story. She says she doesn't have a red running jacket and that if she saw me she would smile. She says she has seen her evil twin. But I can't say that I have ever seen them at the same time. Still, I was sure that she has been telling the truth.

But lately, I've been thinking. You see, Jane is a runner, but I never see her running - just the twin. Then I came across this photo and now I'm not so sure. I guess I'll leave it to you to judge. Does Jane really have an evil twin or just an alter ego?

Do You Mind Me Asking?

When people want to know how old I am, they just ask. When they want to know how old Donna is, then they use the magic words - 'Do you mind if I ask, how old are you?'

Just in case you are currently using this phrase with what you believe is impunity, you should know that it really is a short form for "I think you are old, but I don't know how old." Not that Donna isn't older than I am (eight long months I never let her forget), but no one seems to mind asking me how old I am. Funny, isn't it?

I guess, there are some things that you can't come straight out and ask. You have to make your way around them. Con it out of people. It is a social rule and a very Canadian one at that. (Confrontation is to be avoided whenever possible. Of course the notwithstanding clause is applied to all hockey arenas. You will notice that most balloting is done in schools and churches and not arenas. No mistake there.)

"So, did you vote yet?" That's the question everyone is asking today and I can't always tell if that is what they want to ask. Is it just a filler question, like 'how about them Seahawks?' or 'how's the weather in Vancouver, raining?'. Or is it really a different and more interesting question? Am I just being reminded of my duties or do people really want to know how I voted?

That's what I want to know.

How did you vote?

You don't mind me asking, do you?

M.I.A.

Have you seen this man? He's missing in action. I saw him last Saturday night. He was tumbling through a crowd chasing a certain girl. He was supposed to play hockey with me on Sunday, but he never appeared. What has she done with him?

If something dire has transpired, well I'm holding Donna and Laura accountable. They were after all the architects of his demise. It was those two who made the introductions between him and this certain girl. To be precise, it was those two who set him up on a blind date. Now, I've never been on a blind date and in fact, although I know they happen, I can't say that I've ever known someone to have been on a blind date. I've always liked the idea.

I guess I attach a more Hollywood romanticism to it than a TV 'reality'. (If TV reality makes any sense.) Why I think of Hollywood and not TV is a mystery to me, because TV is my only real experience with blind dates. By that I mean, during one of our pub crawls - the bicycle crawl for those who are keeping track - we stumbled across a taping of a blind date.

We were absolutely polluted by this point and stumbling is the most accurate description of our motor skills. When we poured into approximately our 14th bar, I noticed a big camera and searing bright lights shining on a couple. The lights and camera kept everyone at bay. Everyone except two of my very drunk friends, who boldly walked up and started chatting. I think they were trying to pick up, but to be honest I had trouble concentrating.

So when Donna and Laura started talking about setting our friend up on a blind date, I had nothing valuable to add. I also had very little in the way of expectations. I suppose that's not really true. I expected that they would meet and date a couple of times at most - maybe out of boredom or out of obligation - but that would be it. A couple of times, max.

What I didn't expect was that he would go M.I.A. The big man has been giddy like a school girl ever since and I for one must admit I like it. So here's to Blind Dates. And if you see my friend wandering aimlessly, with a giant grin, let him know we have a game next Sunday.

Ordinary?

What makes someone an ordinary person? I've just finished reading Camus' novel The Outsider - a frustrating book about an ordinary man who can't fit in because of he's too honest about himself. Its a book about being normal and what that means. Its also about judging others and how we do it. I didn't like the book the first time I read it, but this time I got all riled up about ordinary. So please forgive me as I rant.

Two nights ago, our perspective leaders made their pitches before a national audience and if we didn't know any better, it would seem that they were all soley interested in the ordinary person. Each of them told us they had a monopoly on insight into the needs, wants, and dreams of the ordinary Canadian. I don't know if I'm that ordinary person they are talking about.
On an immediate level, I feel like I must be. Sure I might be a little taller than Joe average, but whenever I fill out forms about myself with little boxes to check (age 18 and under, 19 - 29, 30 - 49, 50 - 69, 70 and over) it seems I'm checking them right down the middle. And yet I'm no senior, and I'm not poor, and well I'm not any of the people our leaders listed as the ordinary Canadian. I guess they think, despite my very average stats, that I am special.

It strikes me as funny that I'm put off by being lumped in to a great big mass called ordinary and at the same time I'm annoyed when I'm excluded from that same big grey lump. Do we all want these two things: to be ordinary and to be extraordinary, to be normal and to be special? And that's the thing with lumping people into groups - we don't fit.

But who doesn't know what ordinary is? Even Gilles thinks he knows the average Canadian or at least he knows that they aren't like him. He believes that the average Quebecer is completely different form the average Canadian, and that is what gets me riled up. Not him so much. Sure, I think he is wrong. I don't think you can find that average Quebecer anymore than the average Canadian.

Would the average Quebecer be a man or a woman? Would they be from Montreal or Quebec City or from a small town? Would they be a smoker, a liberal, an athlete, an artist, a salesman, a plumber...Would any of these things define them? When you find this person, wouldn't they be as unique and complicated as anyone else? They would be far too slippery to label as the typical anything or anyone. In fact, I believe there is more difference between individual Quebecers than there is between provinces.

But what gets me going is how we depend on this notion that I belong to this group and you belong to that group. We depend on this mythical sense of the ordinary person, a willingness to redefine ourselves as ordinary, as well as a willingness to define 'the other' as a homogeneous mass.

For Duceppe, English Canada is just one big lump. But how different is that from saying things like 'there are no guys to date in Vancouver', as a friend of mine likes to lament. We do it all the time, but imagine a city the size of Vancouver being devoid of any available attractive men. A notion that seems hard to imagine. Any city this size is filled with ordinary people, each one extraordinary in their own right. We just can't stand back and see it.

Don't we all want to make ordinary people extraordinary and extraordinary people ordinary. I certainly do. But sometimes these notions of ours just come undone. Take last Sunday for example. In England, a semi-pro soccer team called Burton Albion played the internationally renowned extraordinary Manchester United. The game finished a 0-0 draw. A team of ordinary guys took on a team of superstars and they held them off for 90 minutes. So does that make them extraordinary? Or were they already an extraordinary and just waiting to be noticed.

IMAX 3D

If you haven't seen a 3D movie at the IMAX, I strongly recommend it. A small group of us recently went to see the Polar Express and it was truly amazing. The story itself is heart warming and well done, but it pales in comparison to the visuals. The animation is outstanding and the 3D effects help suck you in. I had imagined that we would see two dimensional objects floating on different planes and some would jump out towards us, but what I got was a truly 3 dimensional world that felt full and concrete.
If that doesn't interest you, then seeing your friends in these ridiculous glasses might.

Cranium

I really dislike getting in the shower. I like showers and so once I'm in there, well I don't really like getting out. I'd like to say it is the getting wet or the change in temperature that bothers me, but firstly I don't really believe it and secondly I think it misses the point. There are just certain things I hate starting.
Sometimes I confuse my hatred of the getting going part for my feelings about the thing itself. Showers are not one of these things. I hate to admit it, but party games, like charades or pictionary, fall into that category.
So I struggled this New Years Eve against the majority and lost. I found myself playing a party game. And like many a movie about people my age, we were paired into our respective couples. (A dangerous tendency that likely employs a good portion of the marriage counseling industry) I'm often amazed at how the simplest answers will evade us and yet the same pair will leap to the impossible with ease. I remember years ago, my brother mystifying my parents by guessing an answer from a scribble and then getting stuck shouting out "Valley of the Dead. Valley of Dead" until time expired on Death Valley.
You see, I give myself away. I do enjoy them. There I've said it. But don't think that is going to make it any easier to get me in the next time that horrible silver tin of Cranium comes out. Sure, I get sucked in. And maybe I shout out an answer or three. But I still hate starting. Maybe it's the getting wet or the change in temperature.

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.