consorting casually

Camp life, an excert

2012-01-09T17:20:00.000-08:00

The comedy of camp life directly reflects the intimacy and isolation of the situation. The survival and sanity of the members of camp is at stake and is often perilous when access to outside communication, nutrition and pleasurable activities run dry. Life on top of the plateau, where supplies and personnel arrive by weather-dependant helicopter runs, can range from hysterically comical, when the sun is shining and the beer and cigarettes are plentiful and the drill is running correctly, to dismally depressing, when there is nothing to smoke and the drill helpers have mistakenly drained the hydraulic fluid out of the machine. The setting for this tale is 7000 feet above sea level, on an alpine plateau, deep in the Coast Mountains. When all is well, the drill is turning 24 hours a day and the rumbling and creaking of the drill accurately reflects the mood of camp. A silent drill equates to grumpy drillers and grumpy drillers equate to a somber camp. The drill is extracting core, up to 900 feet down, and within the core samples, the geologist hopes to see signs of copper, molybdenum and gold. Presumably, the search is on with the ultimate intention of mining these minerals, but the vast and pristine alpine environment seems incongruent with a mine and the disgusting tailings ponds that go along with such an environmental disgrace. To the North, East and West, camp is flanked by glaciers and on the south side of camp, cliffs drop hundreds of feet to the valley below. Standing on the side of the cliffs, even without getting close enough to see over the edge, one can feel the enormity of the precipice and sometimes can hear the cries of the hawks echoing against the sheer cliff walls.
One quiet afternoon in camp, with the humming of the drill audible over the ridge and everyone in camp content in their respective afternoon tasks, the phone rang, and the driller’s wife was on the other end, urgently wanting to speak to her husband. “Pete” we called on the radio several times, repeatedly asking if he had his ears on. Obviously his radio was on, but due to the ferocious volume of the drill, the drillers frequently missed their calls on the radio. “Pete. Pete. PEEEETTTE” we called, again and again. “Your wife is on the phone and needs to speak to you urgently.” He replied that we should patch it through the radio, jokingly, but being the literal bunch that we were, we commenced an exercise in holding the satellite phone up to the radio, with the intention of eavesdropping on their conversation. After several discussions and failed attempts, we finally deduced that the only way for them to effectively communicate in this matter was to hold the receiver end of the sat phone up to the microphone on the radio and have both parties say over at the end of each. In retrospect, it was this phone call that represented the demise of the finances of our employer, and the comedy of the way in which this information was transmitted to us reflects the generally lighthearted nature of the members of our camp. “Pete, I called to let you know that there is still no money in the business account. You haven’t been paid in nearly six weeks. None of the contractual obligations have been fulfilled yet. Over” Pete’s reply was barely audible to his wife, and considering the din of the drill, and the method in which she was communicating from her home office to her husband, who was perched at the controls of the drill, it’s a wonder that communication was possible at all. “I copied that, hon,” came Pete’s scratchy reply. “I’ll be home tomorrow afternoon and will get hold of our lawyer. Over.”
The next day, as the chop-chop of the helicopter blades faded into the distance, those of us left behind stood there with our hands in our pockets, perplexed by the departure of the two camp bosses. Both the geologist and the owner of the drill had boarded that chopper, leaving us, an assorted bunch of greenhorns, to oversee the camp move from the plateau to the lower camp, 2000’ down the valley. Surveying the camp: the five tents, the drill, the piles of food and the assorted flotsam and jetsam that supported our existence on this alpine plateau, we truly had no idea how to go about the enormous task of packing up this camp, organizing it into sling loads for the helicopter, and then reassembling the whole circus into a liveable camp down in the valley. Without the leadership of the two boss-men, anarchy was likely to prevail. The following day, the morning dawned overcast and dark, but clear skies to the southwest indicated that sunshine was possible for later in the day. The high winds that had been plaguing the plateau for days had dissipated, which was good news for the dozens of trips that the helicopter was likely to have to make. As the chopper landed, however, the weather socked in completely and within a few minutes, we couldn’t even see the chopper from the cook tent, let alone expect the pilot to be able to see the end of his 50’ long line where all of our gear was to be attached. We suggested that he sit down in camp for a spell and we would all hope together that the weather would clear up. In a vain attempt to make his stay more comfortable, we offered Rob some cashews and a granola bar. Ordinarily, we might have hot coffee or even a meal available to unexpected visitors, but due to our complete lack of planning, experience and utter inability to foresee the logistics of a camp move, we had foolishly packed up the food first. To our credit, the food was now neatly bundled up in a sling, in well-labelled totes, ready to be flown down to the valley in anticipation of the nutritious and exciting meals that the cook would prepare there. Rob politely accepted the nuts and stale granola bars but I noticed that he ate very little of both and both were so stale that few crumbs tumbled to the floor. The conversation with Rob was lively and nothing at all like most of the conversations that happened around here. It’s not that the occupants of camp were stupid or even uneducated. It seems, however, that it is difficult to be a hardy working man who can fix any problem and also be a bright intellectual with original opinions and thought-provoking ideas. In any event, Rob’s explanations of anarchy and contribution to a discussion on women’s rights in the Muslim world proved a welcome relief to the inarticulate swearing and discussions of female anatomy that plagued the dinner table in this drill camp.

As the day wore on, Rob kept a keen eye on the fast moving clouds, and the instant that he could see all the way down the valley, he hightailed it out of the tent, calling over his shoulder that he would be back “soon.” And just as soon as we realized we were about to be abandoned on the plateau again, he had fired up his helicopter and was on his way, the clouds closing behind him and leaving us alone on the plateau, shrouded in clouds and blowing snow. With the conversation between Pete and his wife still a recent memory, we couldn’t help but wonder if there was money to send the helicopter back up to us, good weather or not.

Just say yes

2012-01-09T16:51:00.000-08:00

It was something that we had talked about, vaguely, but the hesitation on my part had something to do with a fear of the unknown and an uncertainty about who a likely candidate would be. Adding another girl to our already exciting and unpredictable antics seemed like a good idea while we whispered late at night, but in the harsh reality of daytime, seemed unusual and downright unbecoming. Where would we find such a person and how would we broach the subject?

Just say yes. If you never say no, then the possibility for adventure and campfire story-worthy escapades is significantly higher. Also possible with the never-say-no mantra is the acquisition of new skills. For example, when the old mechanic down the street offers to teach you how to square dance and tango, the immediate answer should be yes! Throw caution to the wind and go for it.

Let me recount a story that had the possibility of two very different outcomes…Saturday night, as my lover and I giggled in front of the family planning section of the drugstore, debating the merits of our many options, a woman wandered down the aisle behind us, browsing for a headache remedy. She heard our giggles and, with a provocative smile, commented that our night was shaping up to be much more fun that hers. My charismatic and charming companion did not hesitate to inform her that we certainly had room for a third in our festivities, and she smiled in a modest and seductive way and took a step closer to us. At that moment it occurred to me that such events cannot be planned and certainly shouldn’t be anticipated and such a moment was a perfect example of how yes might lead to an exciting and erotic night a trois, while no could only lead to a mundane and predictable evening.

living with an incurable disease

2011-11-12T14:50:00.000-08:00

It’s an inescapable force that weighs heavy on the mind at all times. All social engagements must be carefully considered as the weight of this disease affects any social interaction. It is contagious and, once contracted, is unlikely to ever be lost. There is no known cure, and its origins are not known. Those without the disease cannot possibly understand the constant frustration that come with having the disease and once afflicted with this life-changing disease, the carrier will always be more comfortable around other carriers. The ubiquitous support groups, meetings and forums that exist for other ailments are simply not available for this particular problem and sufferers may find themselves with little open and honest support for their disease. A romance between a carrier and a non-carrier may prove detrimental to the relationship as the non-carrier simply cannot understand the constant pressure of the disease and the inescapable desires that the disease presents.
A sign of the disease include a constant need to know what is going on outside one’s present set of circumstances. Symptoms include checking twitter while on a date, calling voicemail from another cell phone because one has misplaced one’s own phone or signing into facebook while at a party. There of course, a myriad of other signs and symptoms but the general theme is the overwhelming desire to know what else because it might be better than the present activity.
If a support group existed, I think many would be wise to attend, myself included.
Hello, my name is KC and I have FOMO.

ode to the northern man

2011-08-28T10:13:00.000-07:00

You who is tough but unable to forget your manners. You who can figure out how to build anything and answer any question. You who has travelled the world but is content to spend your days and weeks in a 60 square kilometer area. You who is so ruggedly handsome but without the accompanying vanity. You with steadfast confidence yet complete humility and respect for the environment. You who can stitch up a dog with fishing line so as not to ruin the party. You who can round up three friends a build a deck. You who will sleep outside in -40. You who builds model jets in your spare time. You who is conservative yet informed and curious about the outside world and its populations.
The Northern Man comes from afar or has been here for generations, but always values and understands the sense of community that the north cultivates.

the comedy of distance and the tragedy of separation

2011-08-27T12:51:00.000-07:00

I remember the first time I experienced the pain of a broken heart. I remember the enduring agony and the days, weeks and months of consuming sadness. I remember having a complete inability to see beyond my anguish and recognize that the very real pain of the moment would pass and become nothing more than anecdotal evidence of yesteryear’s relationship. I remember languishing in my gloomy house, uninterested in outings with friends and existing in a seemingly unending state of melancholy.
I remember the first time I broke someone else’s heart. I remember the pain on his face after hearing that I was no longer interested in being one half of the couple. I remember remembering my own pain that I had felt upon hearing such sentiments from someone else. I despaired for the power that one person can have over another heart, and silently wished him a speedy passage through the dismal mourning and heartache that would surely ensue.
As the years have passed, variations of heartache have come and gone in my life, but none as poignant or noteworthy as the first.
The trouble with the initial few days of heartache is the prevailing silence of the phone. Late night phone calls give way to time spent woefully alone, hopefully coming up with important and valuable goals for the future rather than lamentations about time wasted in an insignificant and perhaps inappropriate relationship. But gradually, the thoughts about the relationship and the lost person become fewer and the moments of joy caused by other friends and new scheme’s become longer and more frequent.
Eventually, the heart heals and memories of time spent with someone who gave the illusion of significance are reduced to funny anecdotes. I am sure.

trust and the internet.

2011-07-04T23:19:00.000-07:00

The issue of trust is something that comes up repeatedly in relationships. Monogamy, financial accountability, secret-keeping, promises…

Trust is a fairly easy thing to acquire once, but nearly impossible to acquire a second time. The commencement of a new relationship inevitably involves some kind of trust in that we have to trust that a new lover will call when they say they will, will keep certain secrets, will not laugh at any sexual idiosyncrasies that arise, and ultimately will maintain tight lips about certain sexual acts that may have been performed during the course of a relationship.

A specific trust issue that seems to come up with increasing frequency is the suggestion that it is acceptable to photograph or film a sexual act and keep the evidence. It seems to me that such an act is extremely risky and is perhaps the final frontier of trust in a relationship. Other issues, such as monogamy and honesty can perhaps yield devastating repercussions if abused, but ultimately can be overcome. A hard drive with a video of a blowjob or a suggestively naked photograph may never die and if such a video were to find its way to the internet, the embarrassment and the shame surrounding the situation could potentially last forever. I’m sure few of us are immune to the temptation of filming sex, but we must approach the situation with the utmost caution and concern for our future selves. We do not know what paths our personal and professional lives will take and there are certainly many scenarios in which an online amateur pornographic video could have devastating consequences.

So go ahead, film the great head that you got on a polar bear rug with a flickering fireplace in the background. Keep that digital image of the best tits you’ve ever seen or the video of the Eastern European man handcuffing you to his kitchen table. But for the sake of everyone’s future self, and for the sanctity of trust, keep those .mpg and .jpg files to yourself, to be looked at only late at night and in private.

relationship criteria....?

2011-06-27T16:56:00.000-07:00

A lot of loving and learning has gone by in the past four point five years. That’s been four point five years of single, autonomous, free-wheeling, free agent, selfish and un-witnessed living. Four point five years of carrying on without the security of a long term partner. I hardly remember the caring and compromise that surely must epitomize relationships and my only knowledge of coupledom now comes from observing my friends and their trials and successes in relationships. This is not the forum for analyzing why singledom has defined me for nearly half a decade, as there may be reasons which I’d rather pretend weren’t so, but I do often speculate as to why so many people are inclined towards monogamy and, furthermore, how they manage to keep their relationships alive and exciting.
I’m certain that the early days of all relationships leave the participants with pangs of excitement and nervousness, but I’m also certain that the desire to pass unending hours together must be overcome in favour of preserving some of the excitement and newness for the days and weeks to come. It can be hard to imagine, when one is caught up in the mystery and allure of someone new, that there could ever be a day when boredom or annoyance might set in, but I’m certain that such emotions ultimately plague all relationships. What I am uncertain of, however, is how such feelings can be overcome. Ultimately, I imagine that relationships settle into a sense of comfort, providing nurturing support for both participants. Frankly, however, I haven’t the faintest idea of what it takes to get there. It’s quite possible, I will admit, that I have no sense of selflessness and no real ability to look after anyone other than myself. I observe friends and family, taking the time to do things for the sole purpose of pleasing and supporting their partners, and I wonder if I am capable of such selfless behaviour.
The desire for a companion, a supporter, a witness to all of life’s ups and downs is, I suppose, a valid reason for embarking upon a committed relationship, but what of the desire to make autonomous decisions and operate as a free agent? Is the desire for companionship stronger than the desire to be independent? And if the need for companionship is stronger than the need to be solo, then how does the mate selection go? Obviously, every possible mate is going to possess a certain number of flaws and qualities and, in theory, there is always going to be the possibility of meeting someone better. But at what point should the search be called off and commitment to an individual be solidified? If, as one friend told me, five non-negotiables are to be used, then is it acceptable if a prospective mate has four out of the five non-negotiables? What if finding a five for five partner isn’t possible? How long should you wait? What if, upon finding the ideal partner, one is so out of practice and so conditioned to solo living, that it is impossible to love in the selfless and compromising way that is the defining quality of any healthy relationship?

contemplating cougar-dom

2011-05-16T13:05:00.000-07:00

Getting older is fun. Although there are going to be frustrations that come with age, and lamentations for that fleeing youthful beauty, for the most part the wisdom and humour that come with age look promising. It seems that the more years I put behind me, the greater the opportunities for meeting interesting people. Now that we’ve all been around for a bit longer, we have more interesting stories to tell and, furthermore, we’re less self-involved and more interested in listening to other people’s stories. With age has come more money, and with it more exciting trips with friends. Weddings have provided memorable parties and the other parties we go to often have more creative venues and are less about getting wasted than about having a civilized laugh with good friends. Age has also provided us with greater comfort with ourselves, our looks and our lifestyles. Confidence has increased with age and activities that might have been considered weird in our teen years are now socially-acceptable and encouraged.

More importantly, however, with age comes a wider selection of dating possibilities. The younger a person is, the smaller the age pool in which it is acceptable to choose a mate. As a late twenty-something, the possibilities for dating stretch from forty all the way down to men in their early twenties. Although few twenty-something women are strangers to the sexual attention of an older man, the possibility of passing the evening with a younger man may be a new concept, and definitely one worth exploring. The younger man isn’t going to spend the weekend tearing up the laminate flooring in his new condo. He isn’t interested in adopting a pet and he has few (if any) friends with kids, so the chances of having children at any social gathering are slim. It’s likely he’s fairly new to his career and hasn’t acquired much professional responsibility yet. Less professional responsibility equals weekends that start at 330 pm on Fridays. The younger man suffers from fewer hangovers, and is less likely to have other health problems. More importantly, a younger man will have that sexual enthusiasm and stamina that seems to fade as men reach their thirties. A twenty-two-year old man wants sex at all hours of the day and night, and would rather stay in bed on a Saturday morning than get up and meet friends for brunch.

I’m not quite ready to uncork the chardonnay and leave lipstick marks on my wine glass (two telltale signs of a cougar), nor am I prepared to wear age-inappropriate clothing and abandon my responsibilities, but I do think that my age-acquired confidence and a younger man’s curiosity and stamina will prove to be a successful combination.

Impossible friendship?

2011-05-03T20:30:00.001-07:00

There are some who say that the male-female friendship isn’t possible, that nobody can have a friend of the opposite sex without the occasional wayward sexual thought. As one fellow explained, he will always fantasize about his female “friends” when they’re in the shower in the next room. Does this lascivious young man represent the standard among men? Do all men who purport to have platonic female friends harbour secret desires for passion?

The question led me to analyze the assortment of friends I have accumulated in my travels. At first I immediately dismissed the idea that any of them have ever had any desire to be more than friends. If that was the case, wouldn’t we have tried that already? Wouldn’t they have acted on their desires? Perhaps not. Perhaps there are many reasons to restrain oneself for the sake of a friendship. A friendship with a representative of the opposite sex offers insight into certain things that one’s own gender may not be capable of. For women, an assortment of male friends offers opportunities for activities that have a shortage of female participants. The reasons for successful male-female friendships may simply be the same as the reasons for successful friendships of any variety: mutual interests and a shared sense of humour.

However, what is to be done when one desires a sexless friendship to evolve into a relationship that is meaningful and sex-filled, yet still maintains the integrity and humour of the friendship? Is this a conceivable goal? How do you broach the subject anyway? I have one pair of friends who were great friends, went on a trip together, came back as a couple and then spent three years as a happy couple. Eventually, however, they broke up and now their friendship can best be described in terms ranging from non-existent to tumultuous to awkward.

Ten years ago I told a friend that I desired more than friendship from him, but he respectfully declined to advance our friendship. We remain friends to this day, but the pain of rejection wasn’t easy to overcome and I still wonder what the girls whom he chooses to date have that I don’t. In another scenario, a close friend and I found ourselves tangled up in the sheets after one particularly alcohol-saturated evening. The days following our romp were a little awkward, but we managed to overcome any residual emotions and return to a comfortable friendship. The point is, all friendship scenarios are slightly different but the possibility of sex in an intergender friendship is always present and perhaps impossible to ignore.

moving solution

2011-04-21T11:03:00.000-07:00

Moving poses the frustrating conundrum of what to do with all the junk that has somehow accumulated in the closet. When the shipping company is charging by the pound, transporting barely-worn summer skirts and broken camera lenses seems like bad money management. But what to do with the stuff? What do you do with half a bottle of olive oil or three backpacks that each cater to different trip-lengths? Is it financially viable to ship an accumulation of bike tubes? An infrequently worn dress that has the power to stop traffic? A pair of skis without bindings? A cast-iron skillet that cooks omelettes to perfection? Or how about a stack of funny and interesting paperbacks that friends have left behind and that were always at the top of the reading list but somehow never got opened?
All these things are evidence of a life lived, of fun times had; some forgotten, and some impossible to forget. The solution I propose to this conundrum is to leave it all behind, but in spectacular fashion. Fill one of the backpacks with party favours and extra camera memory cards, put on the dress and take on the town. Document everything, but at the end of the evening, remove the memory cards and ditch the cameras. Screw shot glasses on to the skis, and outfit your friends in the summer skirts. Ensure that the man-woman ratio for the festivities is at least 1-2, and at the end of the night everyone will get what they want, whether that be a rambunctious roll on the floor or a warm bed for rest. Above all, clothes will be torn off and booze will be polished off. In the morning, omelettes for all can be made in the skillet and the departee can hightail it to the airport with (hopefully) nothing left but a handful of memory cards.

chivalry = more sex

2011-04-11T13:42:00.000-07:00

There is a disturbing trend I’ve noticed of late. The end of chivalry is upon us. This evil decline has manifested itself in ways other than doors slamming in girls faces and women standing uncomfortably on busses and subways while young, able bodied men leisurely sprawl across the seats, but these are the most obvious traits of this death. I recognize that in the age of feminism, gender roles can be a bit ambiguous, but I do believe that the death of chivalry has far-reaching ramifications that will affect us all, most notably in the bedroom.

Chivalry, by the way, is the sum of ideal qualifications of a knight, including courtesy, generosity, valour and dexterity in arms. Here’s the thing, no matter what we choose to believe, men and women are not equal and I adamantly believe that men should treat women with care and respect. On behalf of women, here’s why: We offer ego-building support. We carry your babies. We get down on our knees and perform sexual acts that have nothing to do with baby-making. But all of that might stop if men continue to defy and abolish chivalry and manners.

My point is that gender roles are present for the simple reason that men are stronger, and every man wants to be leaned on a little bit while every woman wants one who is dextrous in arms and who has strong biceps to dig her fingernails into. We want each other, but if women start paying on dates and men stop holding doors open, then the roles get confusing and the sex gets less frequent. And the main purpose of this rant? More sex, more often.

Gentlemen: on a first date, you should not pull out your cell phone calculator and divide the bill in half, asking her to pay her share. Generosity is #2 in the definition of chivalry.
In a budding relationship, manners are of particular importance. A little bit of courtesy (#1 in the above definition) extended towards your partner will get you a lot further than behaving like the asshole that your friends and family know you to be. Sure, little annoyances will reveal your true colours eventually, but for as long as possible you should attempt to hide your mean, arrogant and selfish qualities. Examples of relationship etiquette and manners include, but are not limited to, showing up or calling when you say you will, not showing up empty-handed at your partner’s house, not taking secret pictures during sex, not juggling multiple women in your modern interpretation of polygamy, and not calling at 3am after liquoring yourself up. Although all of these examples may seem like they will equal more sex in the short term, they will have prohibitive qualities in the long-term quest for sex and, again, I only want for everyone to be having more sex, more frequently.

show some passion

2011-01-20T20:23:00.000-08:00

In pen, I have added yet another qualifier to the list of attributes that a potential mate must possess: A love and passion for food. There is simply no way around this one. It occurred to me recently that so much time spent together when in a relationship is engaged with the process of preparing meals, consuming meals, and enjoying meals. Whether the meal in question is a sandwich and a paperbag beer on a park bench, a hastily-eaten fried egg in the morning, or a $400 candlelit dinner on Valentines Day, when I find myself as one half of a couple, the second most popular activity is enjoying meals together. I have noticed, of late, several red flags that indicate a lacklustre enthusiasm for food. Some of the following point to downright ambivalence when it comes to sustenance.
Inviting me over for a first-date dinner and serving bagels and egg without wine is unacceptable. As is choosing Thai Express pad thai over homemade pad thai. Eating Subway or Tim Hortons in Canada’s best culinary city or preparing pork chops without any seasoning or oil. Buying canned mushrooms instead of fresh, not knowing the difference between basil and cilantro or preparing instant coffee. Asking for a fork at a chinese restaurant. Preferring Aunt Jemima syrup topping over real Quebec maple syrup. Eating sushi when you are more than 50 km from the ocean. Choosing low fat cheese over the real thing. Buying produce when there are pots bursting with summer vegetables on your terrace. Making salad dressing with canola oil. Systematically picking apart a meal because you have an aversion to different foods touching each other. Finally, lacking the ability to distinguish between quality food and mass-produced food that is only fit for the compost bin is the ultimate test that distinguishes between passionate eating and apathetic fork-to-mouth disease.

a pair of aces

2011-01-08T15:21:00.000-08:00

When you’ve settled into your seat on any lengthy commercial flight, there’s always a few moments of bated breath while you wait to find out who your seat mates will be. Watching people squeeze down the aisle towards you, their eyes searching the row numbers to find their assigned seat, I always scan the faces, always hoping for the ideal seat-mate. Always hoping for a tall, beardy-faced man with a good sense of humour and birthdate that falls somewhere between 1980 and 1985. I always know when someone has identified me as their seat mate. First their eyes rest on the 26B sign above my head, and then I see that they quit scanning the rows behind me, and instead make direct eye contact with me, their forced companion for the next 270 minutes. At this point, there are three emotions on my part: pure elation (tall beardy-faced man), apathy (middle aged petite woman) or utter despair (any individual over 250 lbs). Being squeezed into an Air Canada economy seat with a fatty sitting next to you is kind of like being dealt a handful of sevens and threes: difficult to make the most of the situation.

On my flight home after the holidays, there were numerous delays due to snow and malfunctioning de-icing equipment, and after two hours of mindless chilling in the airport, the full flight from YEG to YYZ was finally ready to board. Snuggled into my window seat, I was doing the usual scan of other passengers, when my eyes locked with a blue-eyed ball-cap wearing young fellow with a blonde beard. Easily the best looking passenger on the plane, and he was headed for the seat next to me. Sean turned out to be funny enough to laugh with for 185 of the 270 minutes. The rest of the time, I occupied myself by stealing sideways glances at his fit chest and remarkable speed at which he was simultaneously penning-in sudoku and crossword answers. Due to the ongoing snow-related delays, we didn’t land in Toronto until nearly 1am, at which point his flight to Thunder Bay and my flight to Montreal had already departed. Air Canada surprised us all by offering hotel vouchers to all delayed passengers and kindly rebooking all on next-day flights at reasonable times of day. The shuttle ride to the hotel contained a little bit of awkward giggling about our inconvenient travel situation, but when the Quality Inn check in dude asked if we were together, one of us calmly answered yes. Doubling up on hotel rooms and saving one voucher for a later date seemed like an obvious economical use of resources. Looks like I was holding a pair of aces on that late-night voyage across the country.

sex-free zone

2010-12-01T16:50:00.000-08:00

Philo, a Jew of Alexandria, observed and wrote about a Jewish sect living on the shores of Lake Mereotis near Alexandria. The sect consisted of celibate men and women living in individual cells and devoting their lives exclusively to prayer and contemplative study of allegorical interpretations of scripture.

Sex is confusing at the best of times. It’s often unclear what the opposing party wants, and, beyond pleasure, it can be somewhat unclear if the pleasure of the moment is worth the introspection and frustrating emotional repercussions that occur after the fact.

At present, I find myself in a secluded town in Quebec, living a delightful scenario with a man, but refusing to participate in sex. Is this a stand for individualism, a valiant effort at emotional self-preservation, or just a silly act of pride and a fear of pain? We are here, at the House of Too Many knick-knacks because he has a deck to build. And me; I’m here as an invited guest. A last-minute invitation; a legitimate albeit unexpected invitation. I sleep in the plaid room with the yellow roses, and he sleeps across the hall in the rooster-themed room with the red daisies. During the day, I sit at the oak dining table and postulate brilliantly about Sufism in the West and interpretations of the Qur’an, and he dons his leather tool belt and ventures into the snow and frost to do manly things out-of-doors. Me, I’m distracted most of the time by this sexy Quebecois man whose scent lingers in the maple floors, and I find myself blushing every time he comes inside, stomping the snow off his boots and greeting me with a smile and a wink.

In the evening, we listen to French music and eat and drink, talking our strange language that is constituted of a mixture of my poor French and his charming and comical English.

By night, we lie in our respective cells of celibacy, presumably both contemplating the possibilities of combining cells.
But there’s no sex, and each night I go to bed wishing that there could be. I’m fairly certain that the only thing barring that particular pleasure is me, and if I was to just put the suggestion forth, all the pleasure I desire would avail itself. But I can’t. Many moons ago, we were engaged in passion, night after night. But the pain of separation over the past many months is still fresh and palpable. Now, I only wish that I could indulge in that instantly gratifying pleasure without the need for a promise of a future together.

Maybe those Alexandrian Jews had something figured out. Sex complicates things. When sex enters the equation, individual goals tend to fade and it can be hard to have perspective when all-consuming pleasure is part of the daily discourse. Without it, there is time to engage in thoughtful introspection and detailed examination of ancient texts. The point is that, without personal pleasure, there is time and clarity of mind to engage in examination of endeavors that are not based on pleasure. Indeed, without the distraction of the previous night’s pleasure, I find myself able to concentrate for hours on end on academia, and perhaps our occupying of individual cells here in Ste. Eugene de Ladriere is contributing to my ability to think critically about the world and not just about myself.

Untitled

2010-11-11T23:07:00.000-08:00

Brace yourselves. This is a delicate topic, a tricky subject, a treacherous narrative. Suggestions of sexism, racism, immigrantism, and Islamophobia are lurking conspicuously under the surface. But I’m going to throw caution to the wind and forge ahead with this politically-incorrect commentary. Normally, I feel that it is in our nature to shine the best possible light on ourselves while regaling friends, family and foes with the dramatic sagas of our lives, but unfortunately, in this case, no such angle exists and there are no good lights shining on any of the characters involved in this story, myself included.

I will start the story in September, when I returned after an extended absence to my Montreal apartment and my Montreal roommates, one of whom is attempting to become a Canadian, but originally from Egypt. Montreal, apparently, is over 40% foreign-born, so living with an immigrant is practically part of the culture. In this case, it means that my apartment has pyramids on the coffee table, mummy replicas in the kitchen and hieroglyphic charts on the wall. It’s charming. Furthermore, living with a foreign roommate equates to the the possibility of learning new types of cooking and having friends to visit in fascinating places around the world. In fact, as a religion student at Concordia without a specialization, living with a young man from a predominantly Muslim country prompted me to take an interest in Islamic Studies. Likely I would have a different major if I had found myself with a Buddhist or Jewish roommate.

But I digress. So, upon my return to Montreal, I was quite shocked to be greeted by a cold and unwelcoming Egyptian who refused to speak to me. Now, I was by no means completely innocent in the situation; I wasn’t exactly up for any roommate-of-the-year awards before my mid-summer departure from Montreal. I was certain, however that the situation could be fixed with some humble apologies on my behalf. Not so. For six weeks, the apartment was filled with nothing but deep –seated tension and bitter contempt. Regular apologies from me were met with stony silence and deaf ears. It wasn’t until a discussion about the October hydro bill had to be had that my roommate finally acknowledged my existance. Unfortunately for both of us, six weeks of being ignored had caused my rage to reach an all-time high, and the conversation quickly escalated into a screaming match about, well, nothing and everything. Respect and forgiveness were the themes, manifested in frustration and anger.

So after that flare- up, the apartment returned to silence and silence prevailed for four more weeks. We tiptoed around each other, avoiding the kitchen if the other was there, retreating to the sanctuaries of our respective bedrooms. My illusions about learning how to cook new foods and having people to stay with in Egypt dissolved into the black hole of hatred that our apartment had become.

I have a desk in the corner of our shared living room. It has been there since May and it bothers nobody. Studying and reading are quiet activities, with perhaps the only sounds being the shuffling of pages and the occasional sigh of boredom. In any event, for my Islam, Human Rights and Feminism class, I had an impending midterm worth 50% of the final grade. So in the days leading up to that exam, I had been putting in extra hours at my desk, shuffling papers and sighing in boredom. The night before the exam, I was burning the midnight oil, quietly trying to cram as much information about Islamic human rights into my head, when The Egyptian suddenly slammed out of his bedroom, stormed across the apartment, swept all my books and papers onto the floor (literally, flipped the table in the most dramatic and comedic way you can imagine), pushed me out of my chair, and picked up the table and attempted to carry it back to his bedroom, all the while yelling “this isn’t a fucking library, this isn’t a fucking library.” “You can’t be in the living room at night.” “The only part of the apartment that is yours is your bedroom.” “You have no respect.” “There are rules in this house.” Needless to say, I was stunned into silence. I felt like a child who had disobediently stayed up watching TV, and an angry parent comes into the room and takes the TV away. The whole thing about not being allowed to be in the living room late at night was all very strange to me, especially since he regularly has friends over who stay well into the small hours of the morning, often sleeping overnight on the couch. The strange double-standard was very apparent and this double-standard between men and women was exactly what I had just been reading about in my texts. I felt like the words had been lifted off the pages and were being physically reenacted in my apartment. I was suddenly living in my textbook. My rage exploded at this complete lack of respect and utter insanity on his part, and we were suddenly engaged in an altercation, with an Ikea desk between us. I learned two things about this Egyptian man that night: 1) he is very strong. 2) He has no problem hitting a girl.

Needless to say, I did not do well on my exam that day. I was seething mad all night and all day, unable to concentrate in the exam, scratching angrily at my exam booklet when asked questions about women’s rights in Islam and respect in the household.

Is this funny?

2010-10-18T22:46:00.000-07:00

I'm dating a new guy. A hilarious and un-selfconscious fellow. Mostly, he makes me laugh and mostly I'm able to tolerate his quirky nuances. However, as of late his habit has been to wander through my apartment in the small hours of the morning, rummaging around in the kitchen and eating my roommate's food...naked. I suppose I admire his confidence and, really, what's the problem with nudity anyway. It's just that my roommate and I are on shaky footing at the best of times and I fear that if he was to awake at 245 in the morning to find a naked Quebecois dude eating his croissants and havarti, he might channel his anger at me.

So, in the name of keeping the peace, I've repeatedly requested my French Canadian friend to wear something while he assembles late-night snacks for himself. Mostly, he ignores my requests but occasionally he'll sling a towel over his shoulder or perhaps carry his pants with him, but only if I throw them at him while he leaves the bedroom. In any event, last night I pointedly asked him to stop traipsing naked through the apartment. So, in an effort to appease me, he dressed himself in a tee-shirt. Except he didn't wear it in the conventional way. He put it on as pants, and shuffled off towards the kitchen with his legs stuffed through the arm holes of my shirt.

What would be stranger for my roommate to discover in the kitchen: a guy wearing a tee-shirt as pants, or a guy wearing nothing at all?

more existential ennui?

2010-08-16T21:14:00.001-07:00

These days, it seems that wherever I turn, I’m listening to one friend or another prattle on about the latest existential crises that has come to befall them. Now, I’m as muddled up as the next twenty-something, but I do find some humour in listening to the woes of my friends. It seems that the underlying theme in these self-deprecating rants is a question of “why.” “Why did I become a pilot?” “Why is my friend getting married?” “Why didn’t I finish my degree?” “Why am I still living with my parents?” “Why did I spend five years toiling on a good-for-nothing liberal arts degree?” “Why haven’t I travelled more?” “Why am I living in this city?” and the list goes on.

I am currently faced with the difficult predicament of deciding how to spend the last three precious weeks of my summer. I have two choices (not including the simplest choice of spending them lying on the couch watching Friends reruns), both options equally interesting, exciting and fun and I am overwhelmed with indecision. It occurred to me this afternoon as I was turning each option around in my mind for the 17th time, that a fundamental problem of young people right now is the over abundance of choices. Maybe, however, all these seemingly fabulous choices are working against us. Sometimes it’s hard to enjoy the present moment when you are aware of all the other exciting possibilities and all the other things you could be doing and other places you could be.

In a recent chat with an old friend, he told me that he is looking for a Scorpio who has already had lots of fun adventures and now wants to settle down. Well, good for him. Way to eliminate all the other choices and pinpoint exactly what he wants. If only we could all make such clear decisions with our careers, living arrangements, relationships, finances, travel plans and educations.

hate to miss a party

2010-08-02T22:39:00.000-07:00

I hate to miss a party. Although I was already on a canoeing and camping trip with two good friends, my unyielding desire to get to the Thai Techno Party on the Taiga was irrepressible and after making a valiant effort to convince my dear friends to come with me, I found myself faced with the decision to swim there or miss the party altogether. You see, my two friends and I had paddled and portaged our canoe out to Hidden Lake and the plan had been to stay for two nights. Unfortunately, the second night conflicted with what was surely to be the party of the summer and we only had one canoe for the three of us. So I did what any dedicated party-goer would do.

The plan seemed foolproof, really. Three lakes, three portages, and the summer sun heating up the lakes. With my nine-pound sidekick Onyx on my back and a snack, dry clothes and my camera safely tucked away in my drybag backpack, I headed out on what was sure to be the most unorthodox method of arriving at the party. I didn’t see another soul as I breast stroked across those lakes. The portages were silent except for in the middle of the second one, where Onyx and I managed to sneak past a blueberry-munching black bear. The excursion took us just under two hours, and I arrived at the party in my swimsuit with a bedraggled black poodle and no photos to prove of our alleged adventures because I had neglected to properly close my drybag and all my clothes and my camera were now waterlogged.

Whether this story is true or not, I got some good laughs from the other partiers, and the affair did indeed prove to be the social gathering of the summer. Thai Techno Party on the Taiga Two. Not to be missed.

responsible partying

2010-05-11T13:59:00.000-07:00

The first meeting, on a sunny Montreal rooftop on a warm day in April was defined by gin and flirtatious laughter. He told me that he had spent the morning watching White Fang in his apartment with the drapes tightly closed against the sun. He described himself as somewhat of an introvert and says that he prefers not to embrace the light of day too frequently.

The next meeting, on a rainy evening at a friend’s birthday party was defined by French cigarettes and debating the merits of death by drowning or burning. I asked him why he favours clothes entirely in black and why he wears black eye makeup. Our conversation was repeatedly interrupted by the host’s bi-polar roommate who was intent on explaining how much he hated social gatherings.

The third meeting, at a mutual friend’s going-away party, was not fuelled by any substances and with a clear head, I couldn’t help but notice this tall man’s lovely lips and strong hands. We chatted about the strangeness of Montreal and the acceptance of all styles and ways of living.

The fourth meeting was on an especially stormy night, and the combination of the lightning flashes and rumbling thunderheads, along with two bottles of whiskey, two cartons of wine and a little bit of valium thrown in for good measure, caused the evening to progress from quiet drinking, smoking and guitar-playing to an all-out convention of sexuality.

Maybe growing up and approaching adulthood means that we are all increasingly free to do exactly what we want. Without curfews or a parent awaiting our return home leaves us free to do whatever please and sleep wherever we feel. Stuck in a limbo of freedom, somewhere between the innocence of childhood and the responsibilities of adulthood, and particularly in a city where weirdness and experimentation prevails, I often find myself making questionable decisions. There’s nothing quite like waking up in a tiny apartment, sandwiched between two men in a room strewn with cigarette butts, half finished beers and empty wine bottles and condom wrappers to make you feel like you’re coming along in the world. An important contributor to society, indeed.

current nemesis: silver maple

2010-04-18T20:31:00.000-07:00

Gardening is hard work. My backyard plot is overrun with budding silver maples, and the past few days have been dominated with yanking these tenacious little fuckers out of the ground, roots and all. I spent most of Thursday and Friday pulling trees out of the ground, and wrestling with these saplings is not for the weak. Extracting these trees from the earth is akin to playing tug of war with someone twice your size: you’re pulling with all your might, but no progress is felt until suddenly your opponent lets go, and you go careening backward, landing in an unceremonious heap in the dirt. In the case of uprooting trees, you find yourself on your ass but with a silver maple clutched tightly in your hands. A trophy, if you will.

It occurred to me on Friday afternoon that a vast amount of help might be procured in the form of a big strong man. So I gathered up my girlfriends and we trooped out into the rain, in search of the breeding grounds for such a man. The number of fixed gear bikes in front of the bar we chose corresponded exactly to all the dudes with tight hipster jeans and giant spectacles on their faces inside the bar. Although hilarity and philosophical conversation ensued, the end of the night approached with no big strong man in sight. With their man purses and flimsy shoes, the three film students we’d been talking to weren’t quite fitting the profile of what I was looking for.

Our post-bar destination was poutine and hot dogs at the Main, along with pitchers of beer (where else in Canada can you get a pitcher of beer at 4am? I love Quebec). Halfway through the meal, like a mirage in the desert, the biggest and the strongest of the men appeared at the head of the table. A friend of a friend he turned out to be and he joined us to indulge in two servings of poutine. With a worn plaid shirt that clearly didn’t come from American Apparel, sturdy Carhartt pants and giant shoulders, this man was everything that I couldn’t find earlier at the hipster bar. He doesn’t know it yet, but he is going to be of indispensable help to my urban gardening project.

Just grow some food

2010-04-12T21:05:00.000-07:00

TreeEater Permaculture, July 2009. Treading water below an oak with a rope swing, deep in a debate about the value of a doctorate degree, my friend threw up his hands and muttered “Just grow some food.” A closing comment, slurred out, after spelling out his argument that we all need to be consuming resources that come from close, rather than far. And that spending years engrossed in academia is an irrelevent luxury. He’s an example of the lifestyle that he believes in, and on his property on Denman Island he grows produce, raises fowl and mills lumber. He shares the property with an assortment of horticulturalists, all interested in living off their own resources, in varying capacities. Over the years, fluctuating groups of people have built small houses, set up tents, lived in busses or trailers and contributed to the ever-evolving garden. This utopia which he envisioned for himself while studying International Relations at U of T is now a ten-year work in progress, and an ever evolving idea.

Every day after spending hours contemplating the works of Nietzche, Kierkegaard and Meinkowski, I come home to my Plateau apartment and open balcony doors and bask in the sunlight. It’s cramped here, in this pile of bricks, but with a backyard that faces southwest and what appears to have once been a garden, I’m not the first to envision producing some edible resources in the middle of the city. In the name of nobly producing my own food, I bought a shovel and a hoe and spent the weekend tearing out weed tubers and tenacious brown growths that had invaded what will soon be my vegetable garden. Yesterday, the only thing I knew about vegetable gardens was that bean seeds will rot in cold weather, zucchini needs well-drained soil and rosemary will keep the carrot fly at bay. Today, my Egyptian friend told me that Lebanese cucumbers will grow well here and my Jewish friend instructed me to add some dry leaves to the too-moist compost. So now I know five things about growing vegetables. And vegetables will grow. And I will eat them. Hence, growing my own food.

The drugs don't work, they just make it worse

2010-04-05T09:01:00.000-07:00

Put some maple syrup in that espresso. Is that a joint in your hand? Don’t bogart that, bitch. It’s summer time, let’s mange on some mushrooms. Get down with nature and commune with the soil. Did you know everyone at that party last night was doing blow? Ohhhhhh. Pinot Noir with lunch? Absolutely. Pinot Noir with breakfast? Sure why not? Is that Viagra in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me? My mojito seems to have some PCP in it. Be careful not to drop the bong after you inhale the salvia. Make sure the dentist gives you some percocet for those wisdom teeth. Take a gravol, you’ll sleep the ride away. Only four morphine shots an hour. It’s two lithiums and one prozac. Not the other way around. There's mescaline in that cactus. Try it, you'll love it. You've got another ten hours of acid ahead of you. Pace yourself. Do not take the purple pills. I repeat, do not take the purple pills. Hop in the tard cart, we’re all going to Burning Man.

Canada Geese

2010-03-17T20:03:00.000-07:00

Although the first official day of spring isn’t until this weekend, spring seems to have sprung early this year. Montrealers are coming out of hibernation, people are dining al fresco, buskers are playing in the streets, runners are wearing shorts, the sun is beating down until 7 pm, and all manners of recreation can be witnessed in the park.

Montreal and fashion are inseparable, and as unique as most people strive to be in this city, there are a number of unfortunate trends that have afflicted large groups of young urbanites. The puffy Canada Goose parka is one trend that, upon my arrival in the city in January, I was dismayed to see on every other hipster and non-hipster in the Metro. With spring having arrived this week, however, and the mercury climbing past 15 degrees today, I was certain that nobody would be wearing their parkas anymore. But lo and behold, this afternoon on my way to school, I spied a man at the other end of the Metro car who was inexplicably sporting his Canada Goose bomber jacket, complete with fur-trimmed hood.

The ad campaign for Canada Goose features the slogan “ask anyone who knows.” I am convinced that if you are wearing goose down and wolf fur at 15 degrees on a sunny day in the middle of the city, you definitely do not fit into the category of someone who knows.

tragic reminder

2010-03-14T17:40:00.000-07:00

In the wake of this weekend’s avalanche tragedy at the Big Iron Shootout in Revelstoke, BC, I would like to express my deepest sympathies for the families of the deceased. It is unclear how many fatalities there are, with news reports varying from two to three people confirmed dead.

I have no doubt that every comment I have about the snowmobile situation in BC has been expressed before, nevertheless I wish to contribute my perspective. As one spends an increasing number of seasons in mountain towns, surrounded by people whose daily lives revolve around serious risk taking, the number of critical injuries and fatalities of friends and acquaintances inevitably increases. It is an unavoidable fact that in a community of risk takers, such as the snowmobile community who gathered at the Big Iron Shootout this past weekend in Revelstoke, death is undoubtedly not a new affair. While pushing the limits, taking risks and seeking adrenaline are blameless pursuits, I fear that many members of the snowmobile community continue to disregard avalanche warnings and, worse, are uneducated and even ambivalent about avalanches. A snowmobiler may have hundreds of hours of experience sledding in the mountains and have never encountered a slide. I was thinking about an analogy for this, and perhaps walking on a frozen lake in the spring is a reasonable comparison. Just because you have been walking the same path across the frozen lake all winter and have never fallen through the ice, doesn’t mean that you can continue on this path every day. Conditions change. In fact, the more time you spend walking on the lake, the higher your odds of falling through the ice. However, measuring the thickness of the ice is a reasonable way to decide if the ice is safe on any given day. The same idea applies to avalanches and, fortunately for snowmobilers, the Canadian Avalanche Association measures avalanche danger in any given region in BC and makes this information available to the public via daily information bulletins.

On Thursday, March 11, 2010, along with the daily information bulletin, avalanche forecaster Greg Johnson published a Special Bulletin specifically outlining the anticipated increase in avalanche danger in areas near to Revelstoke. (http://www.avalanche.ca/uploads/SPAW/SPAW%202010-03-11.pdf) Johnson cited the first big storm cycle in eight weeks on top of a weak snowpack as a reason to anticipate unstable conditions on the 13th and 14th of March, the days on which the competition was to be held. Suffice to say that the prediction of “very dangerous” conditions came to fruition and a slide occurred, killing at least two and injuring many more.

I have spent time with many sledders, many of whom have years of experience in the backcountry and I have listened to their tales of daring adventures. The prevailing theme of bravado, I fear, leaves little room for the humility and respect that the mountains deserve. I have heard sledders proudly talk of avalanches that they have set off, often on purpose, and many claim to be able to outrun slides, citing circumstances where they have done this or seen it done before. The mountain, however, doesn’t care if you are on the newest and fastest turbo-charged Skidoo. The mountain doesn’t care if you are an experience highmarker and the mountain certainly doesn’t care about your ego and the fact that 200 spectators are watching from below. The mountain is big and mean and will kill you if you’re not careful.

I respect and often commend risk taking. I absolutely understand the need for a daily dose of adrenaline and do not wish to condemn sledders for their continued quest for thrills. I do however implore snowmobilers and other mountain adventurers to heed the warnings from the Canadian Avalanche Association and other avalanche professionals. Education, along with a humble reverence for the mountains, will help to bring every backcountry traveler safely home to their families. My heart goes out to the families and friends of the deceased.

Big Iron Shoot Out 2009

(photo:globalnational.ca)

a musical delight

2010-03-10T21:17:00.000-08:00

Something I watch sometimes if I'm feeling down. This little number never fails to cheer me up.

Paul Simon looking teeny standing next to Kenny Rogers
Springsteen belting out his solo. Go Bruce Go
Cyndi Lauper giving it her all
BFF's Diana Ross and MJ
MJ! Looking amazing and young in his sparkle socks and military costume
Bob Dylan, completely out of his element but letting Quincy Jones direct him
Lionel Richie and his thumbs up at the end.

Never fails to make me chuckle. Just watch it.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jzw6GiqZyD0

I heard there's a remake that was made this year for Haiti. I won't watch it. No collection of artists could ever recreate this gem.

the man in the van

2010-03-10T16:57:00.000-08:00

Backpack on, thumb out, facing the northbound traffic. Is this the image of a vulnerable freeloader or a savvy and resourceful traveler? Without any sort of gainful employment over the past year, exploits such as globalfreeloaders.com, free church dinners, tenting in the backyards of friends instead of paying rent, and dumpster diving have become the mainstays of my existence. Granted, with my diamond earrings and North Face backpack, I realize that I don’t even vaguely resemble the hobo that I sometimes imagine myself to be. In the past, I have proudly described myself as a freeloader, but today, as car after car whizzes past me, I wonder if maybe it’s time to pull up my socks, get a job, find a home and stop expecting free rides, both of the metaphorical and literal variety. It’s just that all these cars are going by, most of them with only one occupant, and I just don’t understand why we can’t share resources such as fuel.

I like to sing to myself every time I stand on the side of a highway, awaiting free rides and eagerly anticipating the stories I’ll hear from whomever the lucky driver is to pick me up. “Spent most of my youth out hobo cruising/and all I got for proof is rocks in my socks and dirt in my shoes/so goodbye non believer/ don’t you know I hate to leave here/ so long babe, I got the flashback blues.” (John Prine) It’s lyrics that I keep in my mind, lest my imagination wander to horrific scenarios that could occur to a lone woman, hitching across the country. My parents despair of my hitchhiking habit, offering money for plane trips, or pleading with me to take the bus or find rides with friends. The thrill and the mystery of traveling by thumb, however, keeps me coming back for more. You just never know who is going to pick you up and where you’re going to end up.

That day, standing on the side of highway 99, north of Whistler, there was no way I could have anticipated what kind of adventure I was in for. My object was to get home to Yellowknife; with my summer semester over and a month off before I had to be back in school in Victoria, my plan was to hitch all the way home. A white Mercedes SUV zips by, followed by a black BMW and another expensive white SUV. Then a black panel van pulls over and before I have a moment to consider that a black van with Quebec licence plates and no windows might be exactly the ride I don’t want, the driver jumps out, barefoot and all smiles. “Salut, I’m Fred,” he says, opening the back door and taking my pack from me, tossing it onto the mattress in the back of the ominous van. I can hear techno music playing from the speakers and, leaving my common sense behind in the ditch, climb into the van, prepared to make friends with this attractive French man. With hitchhiking, I’ve found, the best strategy is to become the best friend of the driver. This is not the time for arguments or provocative comments. No matter what they say, it’s just best to be agreeable. After all, they are offering you a free ride. Hence, this was certainly not the time for me to voice my extreme distaste for loud techno music.

As we got on our way, north towards Pemberton and over the Duffy Lake Road, I tried to engage Fred in conversation. He told me that he is from a small town in Quebec and that he had been driving across the country for the past ten weeks. He had seen Ontario, the Prairies, spent time in the Rocky Mountains, but his favourite places were the beaches on the west coast of Vancouver Island. He had surfed for the first time there and told me that he hoped to go back and do more surfing. Yelling over the music, I asked where his next destination is. He told me that he’s headed north, to a little town called Yellowknife. “Quoi?!” I turned to him in shock and said that’s where I’M headed! How is this possible? He looked at me, confused, and asked why I was going to Yellowknife. When I told him that it’s where I grew up and I’m going home for a visit, we were both quiet for a few moments, contemplating the unlikelihood of the situation. When I had conceived of this hitchhiking adventure, I had imagined it would take days and many rides to get all the way home. It appeared, however, that I had just found a ride that would literally take me from my doorstep in Whistler to my doorstep in Yellowknife. How extraordinary.

Another reason why I like to hitchhike is because I feel it fosters a sense of community that is lost when we all have our own cars. Cars, while convenient, are incredibly isolating and I hate that isolation. I like to interact with the world around me, hear other people’s stories and ideas and of course share my own thoughts. Fred had a similar view of the world, and over the two-day drive to Yellowknife he told me of all the people he’d met over the past ten weeks. He told me of fruit picking in the Okanagan, where he met a group of people living in what could only be described as a commune who were happy to share everything they had with him. The lyrics to Proud Mary ran through my head: “If you come down to the river/bet you gonna find some people who live/You don’t have to worry cause you have no money/the people on the river are happy to give” We both agreed that living with a group of people, in a co-op of some description, where the community shares responsibilities such as cooking and raising the children would be a very rewarding and enjoyable way to live.

Upon arrival in Yellowknife, we immediately retreated from the city and paddled to my cabin for what was supposed to be only one night. Two weeks later, we were still there, living an idyllic life and completely disconnected from the world. There were wild grouse to eat, a lake full of trout and the first of the fall cranberries to pick. There were books to read and drugs to do. There was wine to drink and a sauna to lounge in. The weeks went by in a blur, and a picture of what I want from my life started to emerge. The complications and the vanity of city-life faded, and simple things like chopping wood began to emerge as the important daily activities.

On one of the mornings, after a particularly magical drug-infused evening, we paddled to the middle of the lake to watch the sun rise. With the sun rising in the east, and the full moon disappearing into a velvet sky to the west, the sky rapidly changing from navy to pink to blue, I leaned back and let myself be consumed with happiness. For me, the red canoe in the middle of the lake, with the rising sun and the full moon...that is the image of paradise. I can’t imagine a more beautiful place in the world. “The sun is a rose the lake is a bowl of wine/I got enough hope for both of us, yeah,/ in this heart of mine.” (Po Girl)

credibility?

2010-03-04T19:52:00.000-08:00

As I observe my peers making increasingly more complex decisions in their lives and taking on more responsibilities, I fear that I am being left behind. I have found myself in some kind of limbo: the clock keeps advancing, but my life doesn’t appear to be going anywhere. I am doing the same things that I was doing eight years ago. Somehow, despite having been enrolled at three universities over the course of nine years, I have yet to complete an undergraduate degree. Despite having spent four winters skiing full time, I never managed to parlay that passion into a career, or a job of any description. Despite having done assorted training programs of varying natures, including over 300 hours of yoga certification, 160 hours of first aid training and 60 hours learning how to drive big rigs, among other random certifications, I have made very little money from these so-called skills.

As a self-professed aimless wanderer, there was a time when I felt comfortable with this description of my life. As I round the bend from my mid-twenties and find myself in my late twenties, I can’t help but wonder if such a description, albeit charming, amounts to very few marketable skills and even fewer professional references. Over the past several years, I have witnessed my peers achieve some great successes in their lives. Starting businesses, completing graduate degrees, writing novels, building houses, working for the UN, and achieving international musical acclaim is the short list of the prodigious accomplishments that some of my cohorts have managed. As well, of course, I have seen some great failures, such as losing large sums of money in the market, getting divorced or enduring the bankruptcy of a business. But it seems that even these defeats are an indication of a life lived to the fullest. It takes strength and fortitude to get out of bed and attempt anything at all, and above all I think it takes commitment. In my teenage years, I was repeatedly told by my mother that I had to commit to something and that even if I met with difficulties, I was to persevere. Foolishly, and until now, I ignored this sage advice and as a result have nothing to show for myself. My friends never ask for important favours because they know there’s a likely possibility that I won’t follow through, and employers are reluctant to employ me because my C.V. reflects the lifestyle of a transient and unreliable individual. It is finally at this late date that I understand the importance of commitment. Commitment is directly correlated to credibility, and this appears to be something that many of my peers figured out a long time ago, but somehow I missed the memo.

a mesmerizing reflection

2010-03-02T11:36:00.000-08:00

Writers, it seems, are plagued with narcissism, conceit and an over-inflated ego. Everyone in modern society suffers from some variation of these afflictions but writers lay their narcissistic tendencies out there for all to see. If, as a particular slinger of lingo once told me, all writing is personal; than it seems to me that it’s impossible for a writer not to be self-absorbed. Writers, after all, must possess a certain amount of arrogance and a brazen sense of self-importance to bother writing at all. Everyone is out there, working, being, living, each with unique thoughts and ideas, many of which are probably very interesting, at least to a select few. Writers, however, have that audacious and perhaps deluded self-confidence that the entire world is interested in what they have to say. Publishing one’s thoughts and expecting that anyone might be interested is nothing more than an exercise in shameless self-promotion.

As I muddle through Emmanual Levinas' philosophies about the self and the other, and how we need to place more value and give more respect to others than to ourselves, I'm desperately trying to understand what he's saying and apply his ideas to my life. According to Levinas, we are all guilty of possessing an isolated ego, that is an ego that is solely interested in itself, and only interested in promoting and saving itself. The other is anyone besides the self, and although modern western culture encourages us to "look out for number one" and promote ourselves to get ahead in love, business and life, Levinas is convinced that being self-interested is not the exhaustive truth of human nature. Levinas espouses his theories in the name of understanding God, and even though I'm not a big fan of "God," I still think his theories are applicable to our everyday lives. He insists that we should value the other over ourselves, rescue the other before ourselves and place more importance on the other than on ourselves. To extrapolate this rather complicated philosophical idea, I think, means to look out for your friends and enemies alike, care for strangers like you would family members and reach out and help anyone who is in need. Ultimately, I think, this promotes a sense of community and with a strong community to back us, we will all achieve far greater success than we would as individuals. Above all, we should try to refrain from being self-involved narcissists. Maybe quit with the writing andblogging of grand theories and ideas and get out and act on them.

a lofty goal

2010-03-01T09:42:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, in conversation with a friend who is in the throws of an existential crisis, he told me that he's going to go for one month without consuming any alcohol. A lofty goal, I feel, in the booze-saturated social world of Montreal. But a good one. Alcohol has never been my drug of choice and during times of existential ennui, I usually turn to pot, chocolate or high fat foods, but a combination of wasted money on beer, poor decisions while under the influence and excessive drunk-dialing has led to a melancholy feeling this morning and I decided that I too am going to go for a month without drinking.
As another friend pointed out, we're all wittier and more charming when sober, so here's to a month of sobriety.

go Canada go

2010-03-01T09:40:00.000-08:00

Even in separatist Quebec, patriotic pride ran high yesterday after Crosby’s glorious overtime goal. I’m not a huge hockey fan, and although I’ve had the rules explained to me repeatedly, still can’t differentiate between icing and offside. Nonetheless, Canada vs. USA men’s hockey and the final Olympic event seemed like an appropriate way to spend a Sunday afternoon. With my roommate, we ventured to the Peel Pub in downtown Montreal a full two hours before game time in the hopes of claiming a table big enough to accommodate the eight other friends who were planning on joining us. After persuading the formidable bouncer to let the two of us in and claiming two four-tops despite his disapproving glares at as, ordering two pitchers of beer and then haggling with the other pub patrons while we organized ten chairs, in spite of the waitress’ frustrations with our blocking of her path, we somehow managed to get ten of us seated in time for the puck to drop. The beer flowed, the six guys seated behind us disappeared out the front door between periods, each time wafting back into the pub clouded with weed and I felt the patriotism run high as a group of Americans, obnoxiously draped in stars and stripes were loudly booed as they weaved their way through the crowd of Canadians.

Originally the beer arrived one pitcher at a time, in two-liter pitchers, gradually increased to arriving two by two and culminated with arriving, eight liters at a time, in pairs of four-liter pitchers which required both hands to pour. With Canada winning 2-1 at the end of the third period, texts from friends in my former homes, Yellowknife, Victoria, Whistler and Vancouver rolling in, the excitement in our bar, on the screen and around the country was palpable. Put on your Canadian tuxedos and wave that maple leaf, these guys are going to get the gold. Then, to our horror, the American team tied it up with less than a minute to go, and the collective sigh was audible around the country. I overheard someone ask how Luongo fares in shootouts. The answer? “Terribly.” Fortunately, the game never did come to a shootout and Crosby’s goal seven and a half minutes into overtime was met with raucous cheers around the country. A gold medal for the men’s hockey team and a 14th gold medal for the Canadian Olympic team. Go Canada Go.

Proud Canadians, stoned on pride, drunk on beer and high on our national substance spilled out of the bars in downtown Montreal, and flag waving, anthem-singing and patriotic celebrations ensued, but in true Canadian form, in an orderly and polite fashion. The frenzied crowd increased in numbers at the corner of Peel and Rue St. Catherine, people dashing into the street on the green lights, but politely retreating to the sidewalk on the red light in order to allow the cars to
pass.

I'm sure polite celebrations ensued all across the nation.

(Photo: Evan Mitsui, Vancouver)

The search

2010-02-23T18:44:00.000-08:00

Impetuous decisions may seem acceptable at the time of the decision, and may seem acceptable for days, weeks or even months after, but there comes a time when the glamour and novelty of the decision wears off and I find myself faced with the reality and the consequences of the decision. Moving to Montreal was a particularly dramatic example of such a decision, and on this dreary Tuesday evening, I have found myself wondering why moving across the country to a flatland with no mountains, no lakes and few outdoor pursuits ever felt like a reasonable thing to do.

I don’t have a clear picture of what I want from the future, but I do know one thing: ultimately I want to live in a small house in a remote location and grow a garden, maybe live off of game that I or someone I know hunted. I want a large dining table with lots of room for projects, either of the literary or artistic variety and a kitchen that produces fragrant and inspired dishes. A wood stove that needs to be stoked before leaving the house and a porch filled with skis, snowshoes, skates and hockey sticks. A front door that is never locked and an eccentric neighbor who drops by via canoe or snowmobile.

In this country of nearly 10 million square kilometers, it’s a veritable oasis of open space. I have spent many months and years exploring this country, by bike and canoe, on foot, by car, on skis and on snowmobile. All the while, keeping my eyes open for a partner who will want to live in a small house in a remote location with me. The dating world in Montreal, while providing seemingly endless opportunity, has unfortunately yet to turn up anyone but pretty, urban men. I have been on breakfast dates, been to shisha bars, gone for walks and shared bottles of wine. The men here may all speak three languages, appreciate the art of J.W. Waterhouse, understand the nuances of cutting edge electronic music, and maybe even have read Thoreau, but the more practical skills that I seek in a man seem to be lacking. One fellow spent twenty minutes boasting to me about all the skills he learned this past summer while he “renovated” his parents house. After a few minutes though, I realized that the only home improvement skill he had executed was successfully staining the deck. As I meet more and more men who can bench press 200 pounds but have never swung an axe, or can tell me about the omega 3's in salmon but have never caught a fish, I wonder if there’s anyone in this concrete jungle who understands where I’m coming from and who can relate to what I want.

We will all press on with the search. In the meantime, however, we will continue to get up every day, finish degrees, learn new languages, make money, seek pleasure, paint, play musical instruments, read, travel, do drugs, cook, write, watch movies and above all, laugh. After all, when we finally find ourselves living the dream life, whether that be far away from office buildings, bars and concrete, or right in the midst of it all, it’ll be important to have something to talk about.

my moon my man

2010-02-23T09:29:00.001-08:00

Take it slow
take it easy on me
shed some light
shed some light on things
(-Feist)

You're doing drugs with someone and they pass out, leaving you high and alone, suddenly you have to entertain yourself. Is this a metaphor for relationships? You can't depend on someone because when they let you down, you're left vulnerable and alone with only your own resources to depend on. Resources which, at this point, you're out of practice with using.
I don't want to write about my negative thoughts about this relationship. My fears that this is wasted time, that he's just going to flit out of my life, or that we don't have enough to say to each other. So I won't.
I waited so long to see him and now he's here, right next to me and I am going to enjoy every moment of it. Except that right now he's face down on the floor after having too much GHB and I'm energized and unable to sit down from all the MDMA I had. A drug incongruency is what we have here.

share some love

2010-02-14T12:53:00.000-08:00

Beyond the clichéd red roses and pink napkins at restaurants, I don’t think Valentines Day deserves the bad rap that it gets from so many. People in relationships complain because they have to buy lingerie and chocolate for their significant others and people out of relationships complain because they don’t have a significant other to cook a romantic meal for. I can only recall two February 14ths on which I had a significant other; both of which I enjoyed immensely, but I always enjoy Valentines Day regardless of my dating status. It is, after all, a day to express love and love comes in forms that reach far beyond the model of the couple. I urge you all today to scratch your dogs ears, buy your best friend a beer, phone your mom, send an email to someone you haven’t been in contact with for a long time, or simply show some love and gratitude to yourself by indulging in whatever makes you happiest.

Dating the UN

2010-02-14T12:37:00.000-08:00

In Montreal, the far-reaching cultural experience of the dating world is fascinating and thought-provoking regarding what it means to be Canadian and why others want to participate in our culture. Montreal is so multicultural, so diverse, that every man I meet is from somewhere unexpected. Egypt, Peru, Norway, Texas, Uruguay, New Zealand. As my friend put it so succinctly, in this exciting city, we are “dating the UN.” I continue to be intrigued by what brought them to this island and why they have all chosen to make lives for themselves here.

On Friday night, at a particularly sleazy bar full of upwardly-mobile urban professionals, I met a dapper man from New Zealand, who first intrigued me with the plaid fedora that he was sporting. This bar had that particularly sordid ambiance where everyone has a roving eye and there is no pretense of engaging in any activities other than picking up. No dancing, no pool, darts or other games, and no food other than grilled cheese sandwiches. The type of bar where women are a commodity and the only real attribute that men can flaunt is the ability to buy drinks.

Thomas from New Zealand demonstrated his drink-buying skills in the form of feeding me champagne all night. I was charmed by his dry and subtle sense of humour and he was impressed by the fact that I recognized his accent as being of the Kiwi variety. Not exactly the basis for a great romance, but the makings for a funny conversation. Ultimately, the conversation turned to how long he’s been in Montreal, and what he thinks about Canada and Canadians in general. He informed me that he has been here for more than a decade and that he recently got his citizenship which comes, it turns out, in the form of a cheap certificate emblazoned with the crests of all ten provinces and three territories. Curious about the procedure for becoming a citizen, I peppered him with questions about the hoop-jumping which had to be endured in order to be awarded with citizenship.

He told me of the 20-question exam which he had to pass in order to receive the certificate, and the study manual which gave hundreds of example questions such as “when did the British North America act come into effect?” and “what is written on a federal election ballot?” I don’t imagine that I’m the first to wonder about the relevancy of such questions to being a Canadian citizen. One particularly interesting question he mentioned was “why are the aboriginal people of Canada working towards self-government?” This question apparently is a short answer question. It seems to me that this question might require at least a several-paragraph essay to respond to. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if many a doctoral thesis has been written on the topic. Perhaps the point of the citizenship questions is to illustrate issues which are (or should be) important to Canadians. In my 26 years of being a Canadian citizen, however, I haven’t noticed an overwhelming interest in history, federal elections or aboriginal issues.

What the questions did illustrate was the somewhat quaint, charming and wholesome nature of our country. “Name three ways in which you can protect the environment” and “name six ways in which you can contribute to your community” are two particularly charming examples of our wholesome outlook. The two adjectives I constantly hear repeated of Canadians is that we are friendly and nice. If that is how we are known, and our test of whether we will accept newcomers into our society includes questions about the environment and the preservation of community, then I suspect we will attract people who will perpetuate our values of kindness and community.

Mathieu

2010-02-07T21:42:00.000-08:00

If a man brings me to a restaurant that only serves smoked meat and pickles, and then brings me back to his apartment where the only item on the menu is sex because the sole item of furniture in his possession is a futon, one might assume that this man has no game. However as he slid his hands up my thigh and breathed into my ear, alluding to what we were going to get up to on that futon, I realized that he may lack style and charm, but most definitely does not lack for sex appeal. Game, although hard to define, is immediately recognizable.

We met at a tiny underground bar where one of my favourite bands was playing, the lead singer of which has such a deep and throaty voice, reminiscent of Tom Waits, and delivers a beat that leaves even the most rhythmically-challenged among us with the desire to stand up and move our hips. The combination of the music and my new friend’s broad shoulders and dark eyelashes left me eagerly awaiting our next encounter. When he called the next day while I was playing shinny with some friends, he insisted on taking me out for dinner that night. At exactly seven, he showed up at my doorstep, and charmed my roommates while I finished blow drying my hair. This guy, a novelist and aspiring stand up comedian did not lack for things to say and I was looking forward to spending the evening sharing jokes and witty repartee.

Armed with a restaurant recommendation from my stylish and trendy roommate, we headed into the cold night, my date holding my hand and hurrying me towards the restaurant, jaywalking and ignoring red lights like the local that he is. We laughed all the way there, recounting hilarious stories for each other and only one blunder on his part when he told me that the mannequin in the store window was giving him a hard-on. The restaurant was exactly what I had hoped it would be, cozy and dark with a table by the window and an extensive wine list. Famished from playing hockey all afternoon, I quickly decided on the roasted squash and shiitake mushroom soup to start and then set about tackling the wine list, pausing to inquire with my companion about what he would like to drink. He seemed ill-at-ease, however, and informed me that he didn’t want to stay there and we should go somewhere else. I couldn’t imagine what the problem was, but it occurred to me that this place might be out of his price range and so, hiding my disappointment, said that I’d be happy with wherever we went. Upselling the eatery he had in mind as having been open for more than 80 years and that Celine Dion often dines there, we were out the door, leaving the shiitake soup behind us. Albeit confused by the irrelevant Celine Dion reference, this guy was still funny and I was still unfed and getting hungrier.

As we walked into the front door of our new venue, I was accosted by neon lights, assaulted with the smell of smoked meat and appalled to see that there was no alcohol served there. I had blow dried my hair and put on a dress; a wine-less meal of smoked meat and pickles was not quite what I had mind. Fortunately, along with my sexy boots and dark eyeliner, I had also armed myself with the most open of minds. At the end of the unnecessarily salty meal, I offered to split the $15 meal with him, but he insisted on paying and, pulling his wallet off its chain, headed for the cash register. He may be broke and lack in style, but the man has manners.

The plan was to stop at his house to grab a bottle of wine and then head to a friend’s birthday party. During the walk to his place, the conversation flowed along nicely, but meandered towards the impolite when he told me that one of his favourite words is poop. Why it is a beloved word of his, I don’t care. This, I believe, falls into the same category as the hard-on comment earlier in the evening. Funny, perhaps, but unnecessary fodder for a first date.

We went up to his eighth floor studio apartment which contains nothing more than a futon and a pile of French novels. He showed me one of his novels and, being as my French is somewhat elementary, translated the first chapter for me. Turns out this man writes about statutory rape and suicide. Later, as we were about to leave for the party, I stood at the one west-facing window, surveying nighttime Montreal and admiring some fireworks from across the city. This man with no money, questionable style and apparently thoughts of such charming ideas like rape and suicide occupying his mind, came up behind me, slid his hand across my waist, and whispered what we might do on the futon. We never did make it to the party.

Much later, after wine, sex and snacks, he got up off the futon and did some of his stand up numbers for me. Not many things are more awkward and painful to watch than bad stand up. The only thing worse than bad stand-up is bad stand-up being delivered by a naked comedian. We won’t be seeing each other again, but the things he said into my ear will occupy my imagination for many nights.

Jose

2010-02-07T21:40:00.000-08:00

I met a guy from Peru at Igloofest and he had called a couple of times and I ended up going on two dates with him. On the first date, Jose took me to a Shisha bar, which was nice, but this guy was pretty dull and I really wasn't interested in seeing him again. But when he called again and said he wanted to take me to a Peruvian restaurant, I couldn't say no to dinner and we went out again. True to his word, the restaurant was absolutely delicious. I had no intention of sleeping with him though, and apparently, saying no is one way to turn a man into an obsessed lunatic.
Three days after the dinner date and three unreturned phone calls later, he showed up at my front door at 10 pm with a painting that he said he had spent all day working on. The painting is quite nice. It's a girl walking on the ice towards a colourful city skyline, carrying her skis with northern lights and a full moon overhead. As far as making grand gestures, its a good one, but didn't take away from the fact that Jose and I just didn't have enough to say to each other. Actually, that's not true, he had lots of boring stories to tell me about "his country," but I had no desire to share any boring stories about "my country" and usually I'm bursting with stories and praise about Canada: the North, BC and now Montreal. Unfortunatly, my roommate Rafael was settling in with his Hookah when Jose showed up, and Rafael, being friendly, invited Jose to participate. So I was forced to endure Jose and Rafael's brodown for two hours. ugh. When Jose finally left and asked me when we could go out again, I told him that I didn't think it was going to work out and, no, I wouldn't be calling him. Heartbreakingly honest, but it did the trick. The guy is romantic and charming though, so I hope he finds a lovely girl somewhere along the way.

Valenzo

2010-02-07T21:32:00.000-08:00

What follows are epic tales of dating in Montreal. Starting with the most horrifying and disheartening of tales.
Tuesday night: I had met this Italian fellow named Valenzo at the bookstore a couple of days earlier, and I had mentioned that the Canucks were going to be playing the Canadiens and I really wanted to see the game. Despite the fact that this guy was wearing pointy toed leather shoes and clearly older than the 28 he claimed to be, I reluctantly gave him my number after he persistantly asked for it. My thinking was that maybe a fun night out was in store and at the very least, I would get some insight into the Montreal Italian scene. Being a brand new resident of Montreal, I'm endlessly curious about all the other people who live here and why they have come to call Montreal home.
Valenzo, true to his Italian nature, starting calling and texting and finally, a couple of hours before the game, he convinced me to come to Le Cage aux Sports with him to watch the game. Le Cage aux Sports, incidentally, is the lamest of sports bar and as I found out later, a chain that can be found throughout Montreal. And also, is like a 25 minute drive away from my house, but conveniently located right around the corner from his house. So completely against my better judgement, I gave him my address and he picked me up and took me way out to the suburbs to the horrible sports bar with its giant plates of fried food and watery beer . I expressed some concern about how I was going to get myself home, but he said that it would be no problem to drive me home again later. So, predictably, after drinking a couple of pitchers, midway through the second period, he asked me if I wanted to go to his house and watch the third period there. This guy was really creeping me out, so I said no thanks, but maybe another time, hoping that we could peacefully watch the end of the game and then he'd drive me home, as promised. Nope. Instead, he got really angry, and started ranting about girls putting out in exchange for having drinks bought for them, he went completely out of his way to pick me up, I led him on, blah blah blah. Seriously, even as I recount this now, I can barely believe the story myself. Horrified and unable to sit next to this guy for another minute, I asked the waitress where the nearest subway station was and RAN there, really upset about the whole thing. Forty minutes later, I was home, recounting the story to my roommates and munching out on coffee ice cream. Shame on that man for living up to the reputation of the sleazy Italian.