etiquette

I think it’s been raining for 3 weeks straight. There was really no end in sight. In fact there continues to be no end in sight. There was a brief hiatus in sight 2 days ago. That hiatus has now come and gone. It proved to be a few, what I assume were blissful hours of sunlight and dry. Not so much that the concrete was sapped of moisture, but dry enough that I didn’t have to wear boots this morning.

This has been the first year I’ve used an umbrella. Up until now I’ve been emphatically anti-umbrella. Why? Because they are cumbersome, soggy and dangerous. Dangerous for me primarily, who insists on unavoidably thrusting herself into harms way. I get mocked relentlessly by my friend Katie-Lynne for voicing my two biggest grievances. Umbrella etiquette and bicycle etiquette. However, despite the mocking I know I’m not the only one who the malpractice of both these activities irritates to high heaven. Abuse of umbrella and bicycle privileges runs rampant. As soon as the first rains arrive the bikes go inside and the umbrella’s come out.

There’s not a season in the calendar year that doesn’t have me flinging myself out of the path of some jack-ass recklessly wielding a spoke-laden weapon.

The rules are simple.

Bikes: If you’re riding a bicycle and you’re too afraid to ride on the road, keep the thing chained to a pipe in the laundry room where it (and you) belong. Don’t . . . I repeat, don’t force me to yield tso you may continue your leisurely roll down the sidewalk. And if you’re on a motorized scooter, you sure as shit better not be within striking distance of a pedestrian. More specifically? Me. A helpful hint in minding the p’s and q’s of bicycle etiquette is in the word sidewalk. Ahem.

Umbrellas: They are pointy. They are designed cleverly to keep you dry-ish, but it’s seldom a person’s person extends to the perimeter of that protective dome. It seems common sense (and courtesy for that matter) evades 80% of the population. Don’t walk under the awning with your umbrella when someone without one is walking towards you. (this is the exception where a wally on a bike would be welcome to run Umbrella Offender into a particularly wet puddle) Think about it. Do not assume everyone is 5’4”. Umbrella’s don’t skim the top of my head, they impale me directly in the eye. I will spaz. So jack-asses the world over, be prepared to have that umbrella either torn out of your hand and pitched into the streets, or carelessly deflected with the business end of my fist.

It’s time to implement some sort of ticketing system. Lets put those screaming wastes of space the Downtown Ambassadors to good use. Finally, something feeble enough that it could be “in their jurisdiction”. Otherwise I’m more than happy to perform my brand of a citizens arrest. I’m going to need an angry ferret and some steel wool.

The End of Summer

Just your average Sunday. It began with plans to test drive various city toilet facilities after the Chili and Blues Fest here in Gastown (appropriate locale). 18 types of chili for the bargain price of $15. What goes better with chili than Blues? I don’t know sour cream, toilet paper, avocado, cheddar cheese? Plans were rearranged 45 minutes into the day when all of a sudden out of nowhere came the offer of an intimate flight for 7 up to a secluded lake in the mountains. By 3:00 we were soaring up into the wide blue yonder. It was in fact blue, and wide. Few clouds plenty of sun, and little white paper bags for yours truly to heave into should the fancy strike her.

A 25 minute flight and we were at 5000 feet altitude in a float plane landing gently on the azure waters of Phantom lake. No shit. For a couple delightful hours a group of 7 enjoyed a picnic, some swimming and some feeble attempts at fishing. It was suggested next time we fly up to this particular lake we figure out what sort of fish are calling it home ,and pack lures and bait accordingly. One of my fellow passengers idea of digging for worms was only slightly overshadowed by my idea to stab a small chunk of my roast beef sandwich onto the hook. That worked ok until the line broke. Still, a more successful try than when I tied a string to my finger and tried to lure fish to the surface with that.

I am happy to report I only felt truly nauseated once when we were landing on Phantom Lake. I am also happy to report the Chanel bag I happened to be carrying when we were hijacked to go flying survived the trip. There is photo documentation of some twit hauling a Chanel bag onto a float-plane to god knows where. As we all stood on the dock I felt like we were about to embark on what so many misguided groups do. That being a run of the mill horror movie, where by the group of us would be murdered gruesomely and indiscriminately. By the end of the day we’d (the prerequisite two of us that remained unscathed-ish) end up with at least 5 unexplained disappearances on our hands, and multiple chases through dark and branchy woods.

As it turned out this aforementioned scenario did not happen. But in keeping with my cinematic imagination, I was also reminded of the film classic Lake Placid. As I dangled my dijits in the gently lapping waters surrounding me I asked my boat-buddy over my shoulder “what was it . . . . . (pausing to adjust the string on my finger, as it dripped on my silk blouse) an enormous crocodile?” (delicately splashing the surface again, not noticing the sinister yellow eyes that had just broken the surface 15 yards away)

This also did not happen. What did happen was simply lovely. Not in the slightest dramatic or bone-chilling. We flew to a lake, we landed, we snacked, we “fished”, we left. A delightful Sunday to be sure. The perfect way to celebrate one of the last weekends of Summer.

GSD

Without “blowing his cover”* I'd like to raise the issue of my Dad and his “occupation”. He's acquired a rather convincing limp. Now, I'm not sure whether this is an injury from “work” or from a “fall” he had a few winters ago, but he's been keeping it pretty consistent for three years. It hasn't suddenly switched legs in the middle of a stroll to the market. The guy's a pro. Or a “Professional” (see Jean Reno)

I like to think the “limp” is part of his “persona”. His “persona” of business prof/self unemployed consultant. I like to think my Dad, let's call him “DAD” is some sort of spy, akin to a Jason Bourne/James Bond/Simon Templar/Maxwell Smart. Since I can remember “DAD” has worked away from home. Home is where me and Mum were, and “DAD” travelled here and there, keeping us in lipsticks and latte's.

This was a less than ideal lifestyle for my Mum, and a totally acceptable one for me, as it had always been that way since I was teensie. By High School I, along with my friends (one in particular) were pretty convinced that “DAD” had a secret life. A few variations have taken shape. First; The Green River Killer ( . . . . a bloody axe falls out of his briefcase and he just shrugs it off.)Second; Mafia . Finally, my personal favorite (fingers crossed) the aforementioned Secret Agent. Naturally my friend and I were “sleeper” agents, what with our mutual Eastern European connections. And one day we too would be put into action and would begin leaping expertly from rooftops and roboticly and systematically firing semi-automatic weapons. But we're not talking about me here.

At a youthful 66, I expect “DAD”'s secret agent days are coming to an end. He's no Sean Connery, and he's got the “limp”. However he still manages to find the most dangerous places on earth to go visit LED light manufacturers(?). I don't know what was going on in Trinidad in the early 90's but he was there A LOT. More recently the list of these un-savory locations begin with a variety of “Stans”, Russia(the corrupt kind), Bangladesh, Zimbabwe, Fiji was cancelled . . . . (due to the Coup) and was replaced with Samoa, until the earthquakes, and next on the list is Sierra Leone. Natch. Now either the man is still “live” or finally he's putting some of that cash he's been squirrelling away for the past 20 years to good use and picking up some Blood Diamonds for me and my Mum.

Wishful thinking? Perhaps. But “DAD” can yammer on all he wants about his students, these manufacturers in god knows where and how he's a crotchety old man. I don't believe it for a second. I know as soon as Canada's out of ear-shot and he lands back in Europe, the Velcro sneakers come off and the Cesare Paciotti brogues go on. His weapon of choice? His biting wit, and probably a tidy little hand gun.

DAD” returns to his sleepy home a few times a year to find cauliflower soup and cups of milky luke warm coffee waiting for him. He laughs at inappropriate jokes, and sneers at small children (for about 19 years I was one of them). He appropriates those behaviors synonymous with an average dad/husband, but I know what's really going on. . . . He is merely a ringing shoe-phone away from his next mission.

*first use of inverted comma's, these will appear roughly 17 more times in this note.

Following my latest viewing of “the core” I got all nostalgic. As well considering Mother Natures recent fussiness in Samoa, I figure there's no time like the present to address my entirely rational fears.

After calculating the formulaic ingredients when baking an epic natural disaster film, I took a genuine interest in probability and scrounged up some actual facts and figures re: The West Coast.

What you need to know:

Getting earthquake ready? Do you have visions of impending doom? Visions of film classics such as the the Day After Tomorrow and Armageddon dancing in your head? If you answered yes to any of these feeble questions you’re in luck. Brace yourself for a natural disaster reminiscent of Indonesia 2005. Vancouver Island is scheduled for a revamp. A revamp that involves being wiped clean off the planet. Time for my dear Islanders to head for higher ground.

According to my sources the West Coast is slated for a gargantuan quake of devastating proportions. If I’ve got this straight, the Juan de Fuca and Cascadia plates are experiencing some growing pains. These pains are manifesting themselves in tremors (see: Kevin Bacon filmography IMDB http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000102/) about 300 fathoms * deep off the coast of Vancouver Island. Hollywood lives for this crap. In fact, come to think of it I’m a little surprised there hasn’t been a film produced called “Boxing Day Blues: December 26th”. Ack.

At any rate, earth is getting restless and not a bit cranky. And we are going to be the lucky recipients of a 9 point something on the Richter scale. Good ol’ Richter. I didn’t think earthquakes were detectable, but apparently seismography has advanced leaps and bounds since the 1984 National Geographic I nosed through. Now is the time to stock up on canned goods and start filling pots with water.

Seriously though. The stats are less than alarming. Out of six of the largest quakes to hit BC only five of those quakes (spanning 100 years and ranging in magnitude from 7.1 to 9.0) maybe four people died in direct correlation to the disaster, one of those died in Seattle due to a heart attack. These facts should comfort you. Hopefully your fear has subsided and instead been replaced by panic as you bob hopelessly over what was the Empress Hotel.

* A fathom is a unit of length in the Imperial system (and the derived U.S. customary units), used especially for measuring the depth of water.

There are 2 yards (6 feet) in a fathom

To Catch a Thief

I just love it when a man smacks an hysterical broad to shut her up. Ahhhhhh the 50’s. The era that time forgot. Which Brings me to my first Film Review.

Cary Grant plays John Robbie. He sports a tan that would make George Hamilton jealous, and appears suave yet casual in an exceedingly French get-up. (curently avialable at LARK on Main st.) John Robbie is an exquisitely refined American (so much so that he affects an accent of indeterminate origins. English? Upper West Side? Who can say?) who has begrudgingly retired from cat burglary and finds himself leading an agreeable, albeit sleepy lifestyle on the French Riviera. Cannes in particular. Cannes, where sunglasses are necessary well after the hour of 8:30 pm.

Life becomes less hum drum when the ‘cat burglar’ after years of being dormant, strikes again. JR is the obvious suspect. Enter smart-alec meddling American heiress, in the form of Grace “I’m impossibly Attractive” Kelly.

Through a chance deliberate encounter John Robbie becomes easily and quickly acquainted with heiress Francie Stevens and her chaperone/come mother, presumably, Mrs. Stevens. Naturally over a few gallons of Champagne there brews an immediate chemistry slash tension between Mr. Robbie and Miss Stevens, despite the 20 year age gap. The three of them make a lovely couple. Him, her and her battalion of diamonds. A ‘retired’ thief meets a blasé, careless heiress? What could possibly go wrong? Four minutes later, their first kiss is accompanied by a text book fireworks montage, as the ‘explosions’ get bigger, brighter and more elaborate, Miss Stevens finds herself that much closer to smittendom.

With some feeble plot getting in the way of the real story, which is Cary Grant and Grace Kelly making babies, We find ourselves watching what turns into more than a game of cat and mouse but a murder mystery. * foreboding music * The underlying theme being diamonds, like a moth to a flame.

Conveniently there is an enormous costume party being thrown in a gruesome villa on the Riviera this season. And even more conveniently 80% of the ‘Who’s Who List of 1955 will be in attendance, no doubt dripping in jewels. What cat {burglar} could possibly resist cream like that? Insert gratuitous flouncey evening gown scene. Fifteen minutes later, cut to the long awaited chase scene. John Robbie clumsily leaps across roof top’s laid with predictably slippery and loose terra-cotta tiles, in hot pursuit of what may or may not be the real cat burglar. . . . . . shots are fired . . . . . . it’s touch and go . . . . . . . what will happen next!?

Oh Mr. Hitchcock, the webs you weave……

current events

I Don’t watch the news, I certainly don’t watch Nancy Grace, and the closest I get to reading the newspaper is the horoscopes slotted into every local-ish publication I stumble upon. What I do do, is turn on the BBC channel and listen to the intro for the world news report. It has a very comforting familiar tune, and as soon as the boop boop boop stops I change the channel. I’d like to get it on loop. My point is, I’m not up on world current events . . . . at all.

I am however understanding what all the fuss around True Blood is. I mean, I get it. I get it because I went through an eerily similar phase back in the 90’s. Back when Brad Pitt, Gary Oldman, and Tom Cruise materialized in theaters. Actually it was even before then. It was Ann Rice (the books), it was Poppy Z. Brite. Friends, If you like Vampire erotica, (and by the constant absence of True Blood at every Rogers and Blockbuster video in a 10 mile radius for the past 3 weeks, I think you do.) look up Poppy Z. Brite’s earlier stuff, I admit, it borders on violently raunchy, and I only got though two of her books. Having preached all that, I myself have not read the Sookie Stackhouse series. Color me embarrassed.

I’m not even going to touch on the pre-pubescent vampire series that’s made it to the big screen. But it makes me wonder? Do vampires go in and out of style like shoulder pads? (not a welcome resurgence by the way) I’ve noticed my rejuvenated interest in the blood thirsty has coincided neatly with my love of The Cult. Yes, I love them. Back in ‘94 I went through my Ian Astbury/vampire stage. In art school I decided it was entirely appropriate to primarily paint large canvases depicting a vampire who resembled rather closely the lead singer of The Cult. Some times he’d be “fangs out” sometimes, a little more demure (because that’s a typical vampire trait) maybe I should say mysterious. After that got tiresome, and I have no doubt that it did, I began including renditions of a delectable looking blonde with heaving cleavage to these magnificent works of art. Good grief. Seriously, it’s embarrassing.

I don’t know what’s going on right now, but I am rather successfully reliving my youth. The Cult played last week about an hour outside of the city. Christ knows why? They played in what can only be described as a barn. A big barn, yes. But a barn none the less. A barn filled to the brim with red-necks. Age-ed red-necks, men and women. Hair, bad-taste and too many beers. Why on earth was The Cult playing in the middle of nowhere? Why were they playing in a venue where in 3 weeks time the country folk in the surrounding area would be displaying their prize squashes and heifers? WHY!!!??? It doesn’t matter I suppose. It doesn’t matter because I went t see them anyway. I went to get a damn t-shirt and to catch Ian Astbury’s attention with my smoldering gaze. I went with my best friend, because we, the two of us are fans. The last time we saw The Cult was Tuesday February 14th Valentines Day 1995. It was the first snow, and I didn’t have a jacket. Not that I needed a jacket inside The PNE Forum, no, I had my enormous backpack strapped to my front.. That kept me pretty effing warm.

I’ve told my Cult story from last week so many times, that maybe I’ll save it for another time. Just remind me to tell you about the fire extinguisher incident, two dreadful and insulting pick-up lines and the fact that a lead singer in his late 40’s remains sexy, despite love handles and ill fitting sweatshirt.

I’m just happy that I feel young again. Like the life force of a vampire coursing through my veins, this renewed obsession for my favorite band and it’s delightful partnering with a child-hood passion has been rather invigorating. All I need now is a trip to Paris and a wander through the Père Lachaise Cemetery and the transformation to age 21 will be complete. Delightful.