Initech seems far away now. It’s nearly capable of being romanticized. It seems a long time ago, but that is just the experience fattening that silly goose, time. The jarred nerves from corporate life are rebuilding. Gradually that little kid is starting to show up a little more often. I notice small changes in me. Changes from being further removed from the captains of modern business or changes from being closer to something else, I don’t know. And, yet, as far as I may be from making pushpin designs in the soft fabric walls of a cubicle, it returns to me each day, an undeniable piece of my personal history.
People love to ask questions and want lovable answers. They want to know, it helps them. Helps them identify. Helps them talk. Talk helps them feel there somehow, alive somehow. ‘What do you do?’ They love the ring, the tone, the sound, the rhythm of the words as they bubble out of their mouths, ‘What do you do?’
What do I do when? Now? Then? Next? I want to ignore the question. Pretend I never heard it. Act like I have no intention of answering. It means nothing, really, what do I do? But it’s important for one reason or another and I know I will answer. I want to say ‘I’m an escort.’, ‘I’m a hand model.’, ‘I work for the witness protection program as a location scout.’, ‘I’m in the witness protection program’. But these are not the truths and in my own pursuit of the truth or something that feels a little honest, I am compelled to give the straight answer. And I am lost for words.
How do you say I did all these things and each one has a title but I never really was any one of those things and I really don’t do any of that anymore I hope? How do you give them enough so that the innocuous conversation starter what do you do doesn’t turn to seed-pulp in an instant. Some words have bad effects; corporate, technology, information technology, sales, education programs, nausea, glaze-over, All the words have their shortcomings, so I tell them honestly of my jack of all trade nature with the best title I can muster. ‘I’m the Prime Minister of the United States living in exile in Canada.’
They chuckle. They want to talk politics. I refuse. They forget about what I do because for now, I make funny. They want to talk politics – politics are funny. I refuse. They want to talk about the US and Americans and dirty little things. I refuse. They remember and ask ‘What do you do?’
Are we not the culmination of our experiences? Our lives are shaped each day by what we do, our actions. Once they occur they become what we’ve done. We hand people things and ring them up at cash registers. We make fittings that will be examined by experts. We write emails that make something happen which causes a little more or a little less stress. We screw up, we sit in meetings, we work weekends, we show up late, we win awards. Things we’ve done. In polite conversation they turn to what we do. But in polite conversation we don’t want to know what someone has done. We don’t want to know the details of a TPS report. We want to have some way to move the conversation along, share something interesting for a change. We want to meet escorts and drug dealers and witness protection program scouts and presidents and kings and prime ministers.
What do I do? For now, I hope. I hope for sun and more rain to cool it off. I hope to never experience dehydration again. I hope my flip-flops don’t blow out. I hope if my flip flops do blow out I wont hum Margaritaville while I hobble over the hill. I hope to meet more interesting people who after a day we will hug and be comfortable with our shared honesty. I hope for another text message to make me feel like the luckiest person alive. I hope someday the notes and the watching will come together into something interesting that helps someone making pushpin designs in a cubicle somewhere live a slightly better or happier or sillier life. That’s what I do. I hope.
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Sunday, May 28, 2006
thoughts from a tiny island
On this tiny dive island in the Gulf of Thailand, motorbikes race up and down the streets of the main town. Other than that, there is no sign of hurry. Expats control the way and their eyes watch with detachment the silly antics of the newly arrived tourists. They are lucky, some might remember, that even though they are tourists, they are mostly here to dive. Diving tourists are more sensitive to the reefs both under water and those on land. Unlike many locations not far from here, there are no busloads of frantics anxious to rush by art and edifice, pausing only to snap a photo or buy a trinket. They are lucky, but that does not minimize their slightly superior pose. It exists everywhere, I suppose; dominant coffee house buzzards in Greenwich Village, self-righteous non-smokers on the patios of La Jolla, style commanders draining perfect martinis in the air conditioned safety of South Beach. And here, amidst simple bungalows dotting palm covered cliffs, it is hard to take it too far or too seriously. It is beautiful and easy and friendly. It’s sad to think that in ten years it may be prostituted to Burger Kink and Starbucks. The Hyatt’s will bring their exclusivity and profit margins will be analyzed against other resorts and quality control will be enforced by policies dreamt up in an industrial park in Horsham, Pennsylvania.
I am too new to say how the Thai’s fit in here. Perhaps it is only to provide an example of how to smile and let it all happen, no matter what it is. It would take a few months, maybe a year, maybe a lifetime to peel back the layers to see how the pieces connect. There is no purpose in that, though. Better to come, enjoy, take a little, give a little, and hope someone in my footsteps may take an afternoon to listen to the breeze or watch the ballet of butterflies in a slightly imperfect garden while waiting for the rain to cool off this dot of sand.
I am too new to say how the Thai’s fit in here. Perhaps it is only to provide an example of how to smile and let it all happen, no matter what it is. It would take a few months, maybe a year, maybe a lifetime to peel back the layers to see how the pieces connect. There is no purpose in that, though. Better to come, enjoy, take a little, give a little, and hope someone in my footsteps may take an afternoon to listen to the breeze or watch the ballet of butterflies in a slightly imperfect garden while waiting for the rain to cool off this dot of sand.
Monday, May 22, 2006
and a few more shots from the Royal Palace
Bangkok - Khao San Road
Bangkok. Not really as foreign as I anticipated. In fact, it’s pretty much like any other place I’ve been. Well, sort of. For some reason I had it in my mind that I would be stepping into a very unfamiliar land where I would be absolutely at the mercy of whoever would take pity on me. In actuality, it is nothing like that at all. I found my way to Khao San Road, searching for a budget place to stay. I expected to find sort of an Asian version of Bourbon Street or some similar place in Prague, but in reality, it’s more similar to Canal Street than anything, except there are far more white people here than there are in Canal Street.
In Steven King’s The Talisman, there is a character called Wolf – briefly, he is the specie of which the legend werewolves is derived. Wolf refers to the world we live in as ‘the land of bad smells’. I think of Wolf often here and hope for his sake he never comes to Bangkok; his senses would simply not be able to handle it. It’s funny though because there are times when it smells really nice and then just when you are thinking, hmmm, this is nice, is that yellow rose incense? Or fresh jasmine flowers? The tables turn and you are infused with a smell that I find suspiciously similar to some of the ‘experiments’ I’ve grown in the back of my fridge – you know, the ones that kick in the gag reflex as they get dumped down the sink. This smell can be purchased, apparently in a bowl or on a stick.
In all fairness, Bangkok seems like a decent place and I have explored only a small fraction of it. I’m very glad that I’ve stayed out of the Sukhumvit district. From my conversations with people this is the heart of the sex tourism area. I know I won’t be able to avoid witnessing this pimple on the Thai culture, but I fear it will sadden me as most red light districts back in North America and Europe do. And on a happier note…
The Grand Palace and Wat Phra Kaew must make the Vatican City green with envy (no pun intended – Wat Phra Kaew houses the very holy Emerald Buddha). The gold and semi precious stones that guild the many buildings of this site is simply outstanding. Unlike the cathedrals of Europe, there is far more texture to the intricate mosaics that adorn the stupas in Wat Phra Kaew. Instead of all the tiles being flush with the façade, many stick out to form little lotus flowers or some other decorative flair. I spent a good 5 hours here and could have spent more had I used a little common sense and eaten a good breakfast before heading out to this spot. Of course, I ran into my favourite deities, the Garuda and this certainly made me feel quite at home.
In both the Grand Palace and the Royal Regalia, Decorations and Coins Pavilion, I found the plaques are virtually useless. There is rarely mention of when something was made and most of the information is written in Thai. I had a pretty good time chastising myself for forgetting all of my studies in Buddhist lore while strolling along the longest mural I have ever seen, nearly 2000 metres. The mural depicts various classic Buddhist themes and stories and I could figure out a couple, but most ended up being impressive on an artistic scale only. Of course, with my vivid imagination, I had a pretty good time making up my own version of the story, but I did yearn for a guide from time to time – well, about half way through I thought, ‘sure, they have guides, spend ten years in a Buddhist monastery and you might get the stories straight’. Also unlike Europe, I found it hard to hijack other guides (you know, listen in on their discourse) and when I did, their explanations seemed, frankly, a bit shallow.
Once, in a museum in Florence I was a parasite to one guide who was so knowledgeable and I got such a tremendous education I felt compelled to give her a tip or pay her normal fee outright. In contrast, in the Grand Palace today, at one point I was tempted to start reading aloud from the free brochure while a guide was reciting it nearly word for word to his customers. I didn’t mostly because I didn’t want to embarrass the guy and didn’t feel it was necessary to point out to the tourists they had been rooked.
Hunger eventually caught up with me and I headed back to the familiar territory of Tr. Khao San. I was very pleased to find the place called Pannee where I sat for three hours eating, watching, drinking and eating some more. After 3 hours, I decided it was time to leave, asked for my check and nearly fell out of my chair – 360 Baht. That’s pretty cheap for 3 hours of drinking and eating. Especially when the food is so tasty and the service is attentive in that special Thai way of being attentive while ignoring you. That’s hard to explain so let’s just say, if you come to Thailand don’t get your britches in a bundle just because the waitress has spent the last half hour setting up a stand across the street. That’s just the way it works and if you need her, cross the street and say hello, otherwise, enjoy your time here on earth. I know I certainly am. Love you all – even if I don’t know you.
In Steven King’s The Talisman, there is a character called Wolf – briefly, he is the specie of which the legend werewolves is derived. Wolf refers to the world we live in as ‘the land of bad smells’. I think of Wolf often here and hope for his sake he never comes to Bangkok; his senses would simply not be able to handle it. It’s funny though because there are times when it smells really nice and then just when you are thinking, hmmm, this is nice, is that yellow rose incense? Or fresh jasmine flowers? The tables turn and you are infused with a smell that I find suspiciously similar to some of the ‘experiments’ I’ve grown in the back of my fridge – you know, the ones that kick in the gag reflex as they get dumped down the sink. This smell can be purchased, apparently in a bowl or on a stick.
In all fairness, Bangkok seems like a decent place and I have explored only a small fraction of it. I’m very glad that I’ve stayed out of the Sukhumvit district. From my conversations with people this is the heart of the sex tourism area. I know I won’t be able to avoid witnessing this pimple on the Thai culture, but I fear it will sadden me as most red light districts back in North America and Europe do. And on a happier note…
The Grand Palace and Wat Phra Kaew must make the Vatican City green with envy (no pun intended – Wat Phra Kaew houses the very holy Emerald Buddha). The gold and semi precious stones that guild the many buildings of this site is simply outstanding. Unlike the cathedrals of Europe, there is far more texture to the intricate mosaics that adorn the stupas in Wat Phra Kaew. Instead of all the tiles being flush with the façade, many stick out to form little lotus flowers or some other decorative flair. I spent a good 5 hours here and could have spent more had I used a little common sense and eaten a good breakfast before heading out to this spot. Of course, I ran into my favourite deities, the Garuda and this certainly made me feel quite at home.
In both the Grand Palace and the Royal Regalia, Decorations and Coins Pavilion, I found the plaques are virtually useless. There is rarely mention of when something was made and most of the information is written in Thai. I had a pretty good time chastising myself for forgetting all of my studies in Buddhist lore while strolling along the longest mural I have ever seen, nearly 2000 metres. The mural depicts various classic Buddhist themes and stories and I could figure out a couple, but most ended up being impressive on an artistic scale only. Of course, with my vivid imagination, I had a pretty good time making up my own version of the story, but I did yearn for a guide from time to time – well, about half way through I thought, ‘sure, they have guides, spend ten years in a Buddhist monastery and you might get the stories straight’. Also unlike Europe, I found it hard to hijack other guides (you know, listen in on their discourse) and when I did, their explanations seemed, frankly, a bit shallow.
Once, in a museum in Florence I was a parasite to one guide who was so knowledgeable and I got such a tremendous education I felt compelled to give her a tip or pay her normal fee outright. In contrast, in the Grand Palace today, at one point I was tempted to start reading aloud from the free brochure while a guide was reciting it nearly word for word to his customers. I didn’t mostly because I didn’t want to embarrass the guy and didn’t feel it was necessary to point out to the tourists they had been rooked.
Hunger eventually caught up with me and I headed back to the familiar territory of Tr. Khao San. I was very pleased to find the place called Pannee where I sat for three hours eating, watching, drinking and eating some more. After 3 hours, I decided it was time to leave, asked for my check and nearly fell out of my chair – 360 Baht. That’s pretty cheap for 3 hours of drinking and eating. Especially when the food is so tasty and the service is attentive in that special Thai way of being attentive while ignoring you. That’s hard to explain so let’s just say, if you come to Thailand don’t get your britches in a bundle just because the waitress has spent the last half hour setting up a stand across the street. That’s just the way it works and if you need her, cross the street and say hello, otherwise, enjoy your time here on earth. I know I certainly am. Love you all – even if I don’t know you.
Interlude
I guess I forgot to add in all the stuff between Kitty joining Gillian and I and heading off to southeast asia. Oh, well.
Needless to say, it was, as it always is, an absolutely terrific trip. No wonder they are my favourite people. Gillian likes them too!
Needless to say, it was, as it always is, an absolutely terrific trip. No wonder they are my favourite people. Gillian likes them too!
Thursday, April 27, 2006
one more passenger
It looks like kitty is coming with us. I never noticed how well suited kitty is for Gillian.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
another side track
There may be a thin or thick line between flexibility and complacency. I wonder if I might have fallen into a lull lately. Each day, I have fears that I have abandoned my dreams, hopes, goals, aspirations and plans. I sit by the pool, I stroll the aisles of Target with the housewives picking out acrylic margarita glasses, I wash and wax the car more times than any rational person should. ‘Why am I still here?’, I ask myself. Better yet, why am I not there? Is it fear? Is it responsibility for all the loose ends that never want to be tied? Or is it that I have become too attuned to the Dr. Suess philosophy of life that I end up more or less happy no matter where I go.
Lately, I have been recovering some lost time with loved ones. Maybe this is an important item to pack into my bag before I go. Maybe it is that I am complacent with just visiting. Maybe I simply do not care to be on my way yet. I am starting to accept that in my plans, I must be flexible. To be rigid, may, in fact, take me further away from this mysterious isle of appetizers. What regret might I feel, if I arrive at the table only to find that my appetite is for something else. If I did not consider my appetite before departing, I suppose it would be fine. But I do consider it and for a little while, my hunger takes me somewhere else.
They say, of all the senses, the sense of smell is the most powerful catalyst of memory. Today, I smelled a scent that reminded me of something; something I hope to never forget. That reminder solidified a recent notion I had to introduce another tangent to my trip. As much as the on-coming rains encourage me to leave today, I know there is something else I would rather do. Samosa eludes me today and I am happy with this choice. Too many times we set out on journeys and never realize that the destination we crave is right in our own back yard, right here within us. I refuse to do that this time. Perhaps I am a fool but I think to ignore this would be also foolish. So Anna, Gillian and I are going to head off for another long drive. I think we will start with Zion. But we all know where in my heart of hearts I want to be and where this trip will take us.
Lately, I have been recovering some lost time with loved ones. Maybe this is an important item to pack into my bag before I go. Maybe it is that I am complacent with just visiting. Maybe I simply do not care to be on my way yet. I am starting to accept that in my plans, I must be flexible. To be rigid, may, in fact, take me further away from this mysterious isle of appetizers. What regret might I feel, if I arrive at the table only to find that my appetite is for something else. If I did not consider my appetite before departing, I suppose it would be fine. But I do consider it and for a little while, my hunger takes me somewhere else.
They say, of all the senses, the sense of smell is the most powerful catalyst of memory. Today, I smelled a scent that reminded me of something; something I hope to never forget. That reminder solidified a recent notion I had to introduce another tangent to my trip. As much as the on-coming rains encourage me to leave today, I know there is something else I would rather do. Samosa eludes me today and I am happy with this choice. Too many times we set out on journeys and never realize that the destination we crave is right in our own back yard, right here within us. I refuse to do that this time. Perhaps I am a fool but I think to ignore this would be also foolish. So Anna, Gillian and I are going to head off for another long drive. I think we will start with Zion. But we all know where in my heart of hearts I want to be and where this trip will take us.
Thursday, April 06, 2006
random things weird people think about while driving for a long time alone
Driving from Vancouver to Arizona is best done over the course of more than two days. I did not have the liberty to take more time due to a fictitious delivery date and this is the cause of only slight disappointment. I would have liked to have passed through Wala Wala, WA, for which I long ago prepared a lovely song and dance, but that will have to wait for my autumnal return to BC. In any event, there were some interesting observations and insights on this rapid trip south which I would be remiss to not share (in no particular order).
- I am not a bat, but somehow the phrase “bat out of hell” kept coming to mind.
- Coconut donut is much more fun to say than to eat.
- There seems to be a surplus of white fluffy people in Oregon.
- Blythe, CA. Upon driving into this town there is an overwhelming smell of jasmine. Either it is a soap factory or there are actually things growing there. Once you get into the town of Blythe it no longer smells like that but there is a girl at the Burger Kink with a script tattoo on her neck which reads “La Blue eyes” - I think the first ‘e’ in eyes is lower case on purpose, but I decided it was too personal to ask.
- A traffic jam in Los Angeles moves 40km/hour faster than regular driving in Vancouver.
- I made it all the way to Los Angeles before I saw any patriotic billboards. There, I saw two. The first read “God Bless America”. Simple enough. The second read “Bless this land and it’s people – God” Does the cute factor work for anyone? Hmmm, me neither. It’s a good country but I don’t think God gives a shit about national borders – oh, man, I hope not. What happens if someone dies out of their country? Is there a form to fill out?
I think one of my favorite things to do is go on very long road trips. I know I have been a less than ideal companion on some of these trips, mostly attributed to sleep deprivation and SUV headlights in my rearview mirror. Regardless, there is an unquantifiable joy in tearing down the road pretending to be a trucker while singing “Harmony and me… we’re pretty good company…” knowing full well that if I got caught I would be required to sew my lips together.
Now, there are some other epiphanies that came to me that have me very concerned (aside from how badly smoking has damaged my otherwise heavenly singing voice). Let’s start with cell phones. Remember when we were in high school and on Saturdays we would get really stoned and go to that course called “Drivers Education”? Did your instructor ever indicate that holding a solid object to your head cutting out 50% of your peripheral vision discussing why your boss continues to be a prick might in some way cause a problem? Well, in case they didn’t, I’m here to say “THIS IS A DANGEROUS PRACTICE. STOP IT.” You have two choices which may be much safer for you and others. Choice 1: Pull over, finish your conversation and then get back on the road. You really wont loose that much time. Choice 2: Get a headset. I know they are terribly expensive (about $10 US), but they may just make you look smarter/powerful/savvy/modern. Also, a headset could help disguise some of your singing as intelligent conversation.
A convenient segue to choice #1 involves pulling over to talk on the phone. Back in the old days when people were on road trips they would drive for hours until the bladder was ready to explode then pull over into a rest stop and conduct a few pieces of business. Aside from stretching, purchasing cheese whiz crackers and bladder relief, we would also call ahead from a pay phone. Pay phones are quaint devices that allow people to punch in numbers and then talk into a clunky piece of plastic to people far away over thin copper wire. I hate to say it, but there are no longer pay phones at rest stops – at least none of the rest stops that I visited. I guess since everyone except for me has a cell phone there is no longer a need for this and I am just going to have to step up and join the modern age. It is amazing how cellular communications has made our lives so much more convenient. But I guess the whole thing is not quite ready to come out of the oven.
Back in the old days (the same era as the pay phones), motels used to employ a very sophisticated system consisting of two neon signs, electricity and a switch. One of the signs said “Vacancy” and was always on. The other sign, strategically placed above or before the first said “No” and was controlled by the switch inside the hotel. This was a very crude and ineffective way of informing travelers of the availability of rooms at said motel. If there were no rooms available, the motel clerk would use the switch to turn on the “No” sign to indicate there are No Vacancies. Thank goodness we no longer use this ridiculous method. Instead, now that we are able to send messages magically around the world or to the parking lot, the neon No sign has gone the way of the codpiece. In the new world this is how it works. Get off the highway, pull up to the motel, get our of your car, wake up the clerk at the motel, ask them if they have any vacancies. Repeat this process as many times as it takes to find a motel clerk who does not have a neon “No” sign glowing somewhere in their head. Good luck – start early.
After four hours of looking for a hotel I found a lovely resort right on the off ramp which will rent rooms and girls by the hour or for the full night. Stockton, CA – what a beautiful improvement we humans have made to this desperate plot of random land. Ok, maybe I’m a little over the top. I had been driving for 17.5 hours. It was 4am. I was tired. I had been through Weed in a snow storm. Weed, CA sucks at night in the snow while driving with no lines on the road. Jack and John should have never talked about it.
While we are on the subject of California…I believe I may have found a fantastic idea. In Vancouver there exists a dire and irreversible problem which will be cleverly concealed for the 2010 Olympics. You see, back when Vancouver BC was being designed the city planners started by rolling up a good batch of that famous BC bud, sitting down with a blank piece of paper and drawing creative lines all over. Then, they replicated these lines in asphalt and called them “roads”. Other than a few intersections, there is no such thing as a turning lane, hence, all drivers are committed to driving exclusively in the right hand lane for fear that someone in front of them will want to turn left, which would understandably ruin anyone’s day since they may miss the light. This creates a vermiform parade of drivers (yup, like that new word), clogging up the flow in right lanes all over the city. So what does this have to do with California?
Well, in the desert between Stockton and Los Angeles, including the oasis known as Buttonwillow outside Bakersfield, there is exactly the opposite phenomenon. Regardless of how slow you may like to drive, it is imperative that all drivers must stay in the left hand lane at all times. I believe this is to combat the possible problem that someone else may want to drive even slower than oneself. The only three reasons I can see for anyone getting in the right hand lane is to a) pass someone on the right, b) prevent someone from passing you on the right or c) you have some bizarre understanding of the phrase “Keep right except to pass”. [sort of like “Alternate Merge”, but that’s a east coast thing]
So here is my idea. Drivers from California should mate with drivers from Vancouver. This may produce offspring who will be willing drive in either lane. At first I was thrilled with my new solution. However, after a few hours staring at the ass of a big fat gas-guzzling SUV, I realized there may be a small problem. These genetically advanced pups may, in fact, have a penchant for driving in the middle of the highway. Ok, my idea sucks. Never mind. Next time I’m going through Idaho.
I’d love to share the rest of my thoughts that pooped into my head during my 28 hour drive, but I’ve promised to not write about that, so I will end this entry on this final comment. By the time I hit the 49th parallel, I had come up with a dozen reasons to be back in BC. By the time I made it to Oregon, the list had grown to 100. By the time I crossed the mountains north of LA my list of reasons why I want to return to Canada had grown to 1000. Granted, over 900 of them were duplicates, but I think they are still valid. Despite all the grief and guff I give and receive about the place, I miss you Canada. There is no doubt I will return and in the meantime, I thank you for the friends you provide, the beer you brew and sometimes useful lessons I learned there.
My next stop is a secret and if you see me I will adamantly declare myself a doppelganger and speak in a thick Austrian accent to prove it.
Yes – I meant to say Kink and I meant to say pooped. The rest are just spelling errors. Good night, Gracie.
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