life

さくら　Cherry blossom

Join me as we go for a walk. The walk I take every morning from my house to work.

We start in Strathcona. Historically the first suburb of Vancouver. Colourful, century-old houses stand tall on every block. Each house uniquely painted. Some red, some green. Blue, yellow, purple. The streets are awash with colour, cherry blossom trees standing tall on each corner. They hang over the paths like pink clouds in the sky. The air smells fresh, the sound of children sliding along with the breeze. When the sun shines, it seems to shine a little brighter here.

Next Chinatown.

Old Chinese families open the shutters of their shops. Some placing red lanterns outside their doorways, some assembling tables covered with exotic delicacies looking strange and foreign. The smell of spices fills the air. My nose tingles with pleasure.

But soon, we find ourselves there. In Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside. The change isn’t gradual – it’s sudden. One moment an old Chinese shopkeeper is smiling at us, welcoming us to her store. The next moment a dishevelled man with dirty clothes and long greasy hair whispers in our ear “Marijuana? Cocaine?”

As we plunge deeper, those cherry blossoms seem so far away. The sky grows darker, the streets dirtier. Barely a thing is living here. No trees. No plants. No people. These people aren’t living, they’re surviving, some barely existing. On a street corner a man stands twitching, possessions at his feet waiting to be sold – for food, somewhere to sleep, more often than not drugs.

Dozens of sweaty bodies push together to form a line, waiting for a small cup of soup and a stale bread roll. Just another day in the endless struggle. A routine so far from my own:

Wake up. Survive.

Passing by alleys, I see people huddled in doorways, some selling drugs, some buying. Some using. In one alley, a man lies on the floor, screaming wildly into the air, two police officers stand over him, trying to calm him down. He mumbles at them, incomprehensible. His face is an old weathered ball of flesh, distorted by a long grey beard.

In the alley mouth, a man with a torn sweater and spit running down his cheek shakes an empty cup. He speaks so low that he’s barely audible, his old voice worn and defeated. I don’t hear his words, but I don’t need to. I know what he wants. My reply is a shake of the head and an apology, by this point an automatic reflex, my answer to all of the pan-handlers. Shake and apologise. Shake and apologise. Like I’m sorry.

But I’m not sorry, not really.

As I walk away the man mutters under his breath “fucking asshole.” I walk a little faster.

When I reach the end of the street I turn back to glance at the man, only to find myself walking into another. He wears a business suit and talks into his iPhone. He glares at me, continuing his own walk, muttering those same words “fucking asshole.”

Just as suddenly as we found ourselves in the Downtown Eastside, we have escaped. Skyscrapers shoot upwards piercing the clouds. Men and women hurry along, talking into their phones, sipping their Starbucks coffees, eating their croissants. Everybody has a place to be, some cubicle, on some floor, in some building. They jump off their buses and trains, scurrying like ants towards their buildings. More routines. More lives. So different from those lives a few streets away.

Eventually I find myself in my own cubicle, on my own floor. I wish I could say my journey ends there, but it doesn’t. I sit, staring out of my window at the street below where another man, almost dressed in rags, holds a cup. He waves it at the business people passing by. Some shake their heads. Most ignore him as though he’s invisible. Nobody gives him any money.

For ten minutes he waves his cup. With each passing minute the feeling in the pit of my stomach grows. The man gives up, leaves. But the feeling doesn’t leave with him. It continues to grow. It comes back stronger every time I walk to work.

Now this is a feeling so complex that I struggle to describe it. Some emotions are easy to explain, we can justify them with some real world evidence, or a little psychological analysis, but this emotion is so intricate that no matter how much I search myself for an answer to its riddles, I can never really conclude anything.

The feeling is a cocktail of guilt, anger, hopelessness, compassion, fear, pity, apathy, frustration and confusion. A mixture of emotions for the mixture of thoughts that pass through my head when I’m honest with myself. When I’m really being honest.

Let me start to be honest:

I’ve also started to ignore the homeless.

It’s all I can do to keep myself sane. I see people on the streets desperate for help and I turn the other way. I’ve seen teenage girls turning tricks and pretended they didn’t exist. I’ve seen half-starving men begging for help and I’ve not even sighed. Just walked on by. Shaking my head, apologising.

Yet, no. I’m not being honest. Not at all. Ignoring these people isn’t even the start of it. I’ve not only started to ignore the homeless but I’ve started to think of them as…well…not human.

The world of the homeless is so far from my own, that there’s no human connection for me to make. I can’t (or wont) empathise with the homeless at all. Not because I’m some massive sociopath, but simply because that’s the easiest way I’ve found of dealing with this strange situation which I can’t understand. I’ve fooled myself into thinking there is no connection between their world and mine. That we aren’t just different people, but a different species. I’m in denial. These people aren’t people, so why should it matter if they suffer to me?

One day as I was walking home, an old Japanese man tried to stop me, I just continued to walk, but he called “EXCUSE ME!” so loudly that I finally had to stop in my tracks. The old man looked up at me, and politely asked the way to the train station. Although the whole exchange only took a matter of seconds, it showed me how mistrustful I had become of people on the street. All people. I’ve become prejudice. Judging people not on who they actually are, but on how they look, or how they act.

Oh. I want to be honest. With myself and with you. I am not a perfect person, nobody is, but I’ve always felt that I was somehow good inside. I always thought that if I saw somebody collapse on the street that I would stop to help, but I’m starting to think that isn’t true. I’m instead starting to think I’m the type of person that would instead keep walking, pretending they saw nothing and fighting back the remorse with the words “somebody else will take care of it.”

Those words are the words that most people in Vancouver must use to sleep at night. “Somebody else will take care of it.” One person ignoring the homeless isn’t a problem, but the majority of the city ignoring it – hoping that something will magically sort it out? Pretending there is no problem. That’s a problem. It scares me shitless. Living in a society where everybody is completely in denial about what is around them.

Still. I try to be honest. Because I feel like honesty is the one thing that can save me. Admitting my faults is the first step towards slowly changing things for the better. Maybe all we need to do is change a little. But I feel that admitting I’m wrong is the smallest step, and every step afterwards is harder, and no matter how many steps I take it wont matter, because no matter how much I change, the world wont change with me.

There’s a hopelessness I feel, knowing I can do almost nothing about this situation. One less person ignoring the problem means nothing if everybody else in the world is pretending nothing is wrong.

People find it so hard to admit they’re wrong. Why can’t we all just say: Yeah, we’ve fucked up, there are people in our city, our community that need our help and we’re turning a blind eye and it’s time to change that.

Maybe it just takes too much courage, to stand up and admit to yourself that you’re not as good a person as you’d like to believe. Maybe it’s just too easy to live in denial, to stay at home in your nice warm house and think “yeah, I donated a little to charity this year, they’ll sort it out…I’m doing my bit.” But all the money in the world can’t solve a problem that’s being ignored.

My dad has a saying he always uses. When it’s especially cold outside he’ll shiver and say “I’d hate to be homeless tonight.” At no point in saying this does he actually consider the words. The implication – that there’s another human being out there on the streets possibly freezing to death. Instead it’s just a thing he says, never really caring to ponder the full meaning. We all do it.

I feel like I might be coming off as high and mighty. But that’s not my motive. I don’t know what my motive is. When I write, and when I think, I try to come up with some reasonable conclusion. I try to find out why things are as they are. I try to understand.

This time though, I can never understand. No matter how much I search. Why we do what we do. Why we are what we are.

I used to think that the homeless just made a wrong decision at some point. That I could so easily have made the same decision, that I could have ended up in their shoes. I used to think that it was nobody’s fault, that some people just fall through the cracks and we can’t pull them back out again.

But that’s not it. Not it at all. I want to be honest. Those people fall, and they scream. They cry for help and we hear their calls. Yet we ignore them. And we wont pull them back out again.

No matter how loud they scream. We wont pull them back out again.

We just shake our heads and apologise.

____________________
Photo is Cherry Blossom by kiuko on Flickr.

Tasting Garlic Ice Cream

By Dan B

February 5, 2012

canada, humour, life, me, opinion, travel

38 Comments

As soon as I heard that there was an ice cream parlour in Vancouver that sold garlic ice cream, I knew I had to go. I’m pretty adventurous in my tastes, and I love to try new crazy foods – even if they do sound disgusting – so off I hopped to La Casa Gelato with a spring in my step.

If Willy Wonka ever decided to expand his candy business to ice cream, he’d have a tough time competing with this place. Upon entering, I let out an immediate groan. There before me were an amazing 218 different flavours of ice cream, all lined up in a row. Some people might think this is a good thing, but personally I think so much choice is a bad thing. It means going through the horrible process of deciding what you want. Who the hell likes deciding stuff?

Often I’ll end up spending 20 minutes looking at a menu in a restaurant, staring at a number of choices, wishing I was a cow with multiple stomachs. “Should I have the steak…or the hamburger. Hmmm. I’ll have the hamburger. But…but…the steak looks sooo good. Ok, I’ll have the steak….but what if that hamburger is juicy and tasty? Ok. I’ll have the hamburger…” Usually, I can never actually decide and I instead have to flip a coin. This is never fool-proof though, and often I’ll still end up changing my mind again. And again. And again. As I said – who the hell likes deciding?

So there I am, trying to decide, strolling along the many flavours (and I mean strolled, 218 flavours in a line last for about half a mile!) noting down the most interesting varieties, trying to make my decision.

First there were the classics of the ice cream world, your Strawberries and Vanillas. Then there were the more modern flavours, your Rocky Roads and Cookie Doughs. After that there were what I’d like to refer to as the “awesome flavours”, the types that make you shout “OH MY GOD! YOU PUT NUTELLA INTO ICE CREAM! I LOVE YOU!” These would be your Nutellas (obviously) and, your Candy Canes.

Then there’s the disturbed ice creams. The types that were clearly thought up by some deranged psychopath, hell bent on making you vomit. The types of ice cream that could barely even be considered ice cream to a sane individual. I’m not lying to you when I say I saw the following flavours: Cheddar Cheese and Apple (really!), Pear and Gorgonzola (honest!), Jalapeno (no lying!), Bacon (seriously!), Dog Poo (ok, that’s a lie). Then, one of my personal favourites. Corn. Yup. Corn. Not Corn and Strawberry. Not Corn and Vanilla. Just Corn. Good old reliable Corn in ice cream… yum.

But let’s not forget the tastiest ice cream of all: Garlic.

With my heart set on the smelly stuff already, my decision was easy. But I also had to decide on a second flavour. Something that complemented Garlic. Hmmm. Strawberry and Garlic? Nope. Liquorice and Garlic? Bleurgh! Corn and Garlic?! Tempting…but…no thanks.

I ran along the flavours, trying desperately to find something to complement Garlic. Then I saw it. Right there in front of me, glistening in the sun. Pineapple. Good old reliable Pineapple. Pineapple goes with EVERYTHING. Pizzas, curries, desserts – pineapple is everywhere. I’d hit the jackpot here. The perfect flavour combination.

With a smile on my face I strutted over to the girl behind the counter. “I’ll have a scoop of Garlic and a scoop of Pineapple, please.” The girl gave me an evil smile. The type of grin that lets you know there’s a joke that you’re not in on. I should have known then that I was in trouble, but I’m never one to back down, so I paid up and she started to scoop my ice cream.

First she placed a scoop of Pineapple on the cone. Then she moved onto the Garlic. The tub was almost entirely full. “It’s probably so full because so many people buy it and you need to replace it all the time, because it’s delicious, right?” I exclaimed. The girl simply replied with her grin, before handing me the ice cream. “Enjoy” she said before cackling wildly into the air. I cowered from the shop, a little scared and as I left I’m pretty sure I saw her turn into a bat. (Which was weird, I thought, why would vampires be selling garlic ice cream?)

As I exited the shop, I realised the time to taste my glorious concoction was at hand. I brought my tongue up to the garlic ice cream, closing my eyes to increase my sense of taste. In slow motion, the creamy scoop touched my tongue and it was then, that I knew.

I had been duped

It tasted DISGUSTING. Imagine, if you will, that you are licking a giant wet garlic clove! Not the most tasty of things, I assure you. It tastes almost like a sweaty shoe (which funnily enough is the next flavour they’re going to make…)

Realisation quick set in, I was just another stupid tourist. Trying disgusting foods, just to say I’ve tried them! I felt pathetic. But that’s ok, I thought, the pineapple will still be enjoyable. But no, I’d been duped again! Now I knew, why the girl grinned so evilly. Now I knew the joke. To get to the pineapple, I had to make my way through the entire scoop of garlic. I cringed my way through it, belittling myself for being such a moron.

Thankfully the pineapple ice cream was almost good enough to make up for the punishment. But all day afterwards the smelly taste of garlic lingered in my mouth, reminding me that sometimes you shouldn’t do things for the sake of doing them. Especially if you know you wont like them. And especially if they take a whole packet of Tic Tacs to relieve.

Emergency Contact Emergency (E-mail #2)

By Dan B

January 22, 2012

humour, life, me, opinion, travel, vancouver

7 Comments

Hello again,

Has it been a week already? Man, does time fly when you’re sitting on your arse doing nothing – which is what I’ve been doing mostly this week. I’ve already got into the old, productive routine of waking up, then checking my emails for 12 hours straight. I tell myself I’m looking for jobs, but who am I kidding, I’m mostly just looking at cat videos.

Thankfully, I have managed to fill in a few job applications and have signed up for a couple of recruitment agencies. Applications aren’t usually a problem for me, but recently I’ve been struggling with one section a lot, the good old emergency contact.

Back home, my emergency contact is usually my mam (awww), but over here I’ve come to the horrible realisation that I don’t know anyone. You can’t exactly meet somebody for 5 minutes then say, “Hey, by the way, I’m putting you down as my emergency contact!” It’d be a bit awkward, wouldn’t it? It’s almost like proposing marriage, you need to find the right person first, somebody you can trust, somebody you’re close to, somebody that doesn’t mind if you fart aloud in bed.

If you’re in an accident at work, and you’re in hospital about to die, who would be the person you’d want to see before flying into that tunnel of light? Your emergency contact, of course!

But, I have no emergency contact. I’ve met a few people, sure – but I’m still at the stage with most of them where I tend to forget their name and what they look like. Hardly emergency contact material. I can hardly write, “That tall dude with the brown hair who might be named Bob or Rob” on application forms. Plus heaven forbid that I’m actually in an accident and they turn up to the hospital, look at me and say, “Sorry, have we met?” I’d look completely pathetic! Especially when explaining, “Yes, of course we’ve met! Don’t you remember? You’re my best friend. I held the door open for you at the supermarket that one time…and you said ‘thanks’…”

So for now my emergency contact is myself. I’m hoping nobody notices and just thinks I’ve got a friend with the exact same name and phone number. God help me if I’m in an actual accident, I’m the last person I want to see before death.

In other news, you may remember last week that I swore off meat due to its expense. Rather predictably, my vegetarianism only lasted around a week. My friend mentioned to me that I’m here to have fun, not to live like a hermit and I managed to see some sense. I’ve decided to say FUCK IT. Even if meat is too expensive, I’m going to eat it regardless. With that in mind I headed straight for Japadog – a fast food restaurant that sells Japanese hot dogs.

Now you may be wondering, what exactly a Japanese hot dog is. I can tell you that the hot dogs themselves are NOT Japanese, just normal hot dogs. It’s what they put on top that is Japanese. Take a look:

Yup, a hot-dog smothered in sea-weed. Very Japanese. It was surprisingly tasty and the perfect way to break my meat fast (although I guess it was only technically meat, since it was probably made of cow anuses.)

After finishing my hot dog, I thought a little dessert might be in order, which is when I looked up and saw this:

I decided the sea-weed hot dog was enough adventure for one day, and went on my merry way, happy to be back to my meat-eating ways. But I’m unfortunately still not allowing myself to buy one thing due to its expense. Beer. At around $8 (£5!) a pint it’s $8 more than I’m willing to spend. Finally a good excuse to stop drinking the damn stuff!

Anywho, that’s enough for now! Have a good week everybody.

Dan

An Email Back Home (E-mail #1)

By Dan B

January 13, 2012

humour, life, me, travel, vancouver

Fear of Freedom

By Dan B

October 18, 2011

canada, life, opinion

20 Comments

Skydiving

My flights are booked. My visa approved. It was the easiest-tough decision of my life. In 9 weeks, 1 day and 14 hours, I will begin a journey, turning over a new page in my life.

At 25 years of age, I will move to Canada. For 8 months, maybe longer, I will move to Canada. Alone.

I have no real plan. Nowhere to stay. No job. No friends. Just a vague itinerary and the ability to put off thinking about most problems until they face me.

Yet, still, I am shitting myself.

It’s strange how our first reaction to freedom is to be scared. People are planners. We love to be comfortable with our tomorrows – we love to see around the next corner – we love to know.

A fear of the unknown is something most people share. We hate mystery, it pulls at our stomach and wont let go. If something is unknown to us, our imaginations can take over, and nothing can be more damaging than our brain on the loose. We can think up such terrible situations that could never possibly happen in real-life, yet we convince ourselves they could.

The best horror movies play on that fear – involving monsters that we never fully see, only glimpsing the features, making up the horror with our minds. When we do eventually see the monster, usually the movie stops being scary. Once you know what that great horror really is, once it can be understood, it’s no longer a threat. When we can compare the reality to what we imagine, we realise that our imagination was far scarier.

This fear of an unknown future is what stops most people from making drastic changes in their life, even when the changes will eventually be better for them. When the future becomes a blank void, everything becomes scary. We look forward and all we can see is series of ‘what-ifs’ with no pre-determined path. Anything could go wrong. Anything could go right. We can see no reality, only the imagined. We never know what will happen. Scary.

Most people don’t take the leap. They just stay in a comfortable bubble, they know what will happen tomorrow, some know what will happen in 10 years, some have their whole lives planned til their death. There’s no problem with that, but to me there’s something boring in that inevitability.

A book is no longer fun to me when I can tell what’s going to happen. It feels like I’m just going through the motions, reading for the sake of reading. Life with a huge plan is like living for the sake of living. You already know what will happen, so why bother at all?

I’d rather live for the unknown plot-twist. But to do that I will have to conquer that fear. I will have to jump head first into the unknown, with nothing to protect me but the briefest of hopes that everything will turn out good. Knowing that the future is a blank canvas, that I can do anything with it.

Knowing that I am truly, completely free.

——

Photo is titled Skydiving by Kaipullai(கைப்புள்ள)

I Was A Superhero

By Dan B

August 2, 2011

humour, life, me

5 Comments

For the past 6 months I have been leading a secret double life. I am a superhero.

I wake in the early hours of the morning, while the world sleeps, while evil stirs. I stand before my mirror, slip on my costume – a sleek fitted red shirt, blue tights, a cape. I stretch my muscles, ready to roam the streets.

My super-powers?

The power to make dogs go wild on sight. The power to make small children jump up and down with delight. The power to quietly sneak onto private property with stealth. The power of above average-health.

My friends know me as Daniel Baird. But when I suit up, when I put on that red shirt. When I don that cape. I am no longer Daniel Baird. I am no longer weak – I gain the strength of at least TWO 9 year old boys. I am no longer an idiot – I gain intelligence at least comparable to that of a dolphin. I become my alter-ego. I become…

Postman

Do you need a letter delivered apathetically by somebody that doesn’t give a damn? Postman is there!! Do you need a large package delivered sometime between 7am and 5pm, but probably at the exact moment you step into the shower? Postman is there!! Do you need somebody to wake you up at 8am on a Saturday morning because a packet wont fit through your letter box? Do you need junk mail? Shopping catalogues? Pizza menus? Do you need a torn birthday card? Postman is there!!

Whether rain, snow, heat or gale. Postman is there!!

Or rather. I would have been there, because eventually reality set in. I realised I wasn’t a superhero. I wasn’t Postman (upper-case “P”), I was a postman (lower-case “P”). I didn’t have any super powers. I didn’t have a costume. I had an uninspiring job delivering mail.

The word uninspiring is apt. Inspiration has to come from somewhere, and posting mail through doors for 4 hours each day isn’t that somwhere. Monotony destroys creativity. The more monotonous your life, the less your need to think. The less you think, the more challenging it becomes to do those things that require thinking. Thinking becomes tough.

From the moment I started the job I stopped thinking. My enthusiasm for pretty much everything started to wane. I was Lazyman. My superpower was laziness. I didn’t want to get out of bed, I didn’t want to go out with friends, I stopped doing all of the enjoyable things I liked to do. I didn’t read a book in months. My attention span was at an all time low. My energy was gone.

I only had enough energy for miniscule tasks, like posting mail. Anything else was too much, making a full meal was too much, I ate nothing but sandwiches for months. I didn’t think all day at work, so my mind wasn’t ready to think afterwards. Worst of all I stopped writing – you possibly noticed – because writing was too taxing, too much work. I became a zombie. I clicked into my routine, my life was barely conscious. I would drift to work, drift through my day, drift home, drift to sleep. Everything I did was subconscious. My life was a one without thought.

Then one day I ran out of elastic [rubber] bands.

Rubber Bands

To a postman, the elastic band is more than a simple piece of stationery. Each day the Royal Mail goes through 2 million red elastic bands, all used to bundle up mail. But despite this they are still a rare commodity. Postal workers hoard the bands in secret stashes to ensure there’s always a steady supply so that they never run out. I started my own stash. Elastic bands became valuable to me. I always had one eye on my bands. I started to cup them in my hands and purr the words “my preciousssss.” Until the day I snapped too many and I ran out.

Now the only way to get more elastic bands if you’re a postman, is to steal them off somebody else. While a co-worker is away from his desk, you need to sneak over, grab as many bands from his stash as possible, then run back to your own desk.

It was still early in my elastic band stealing career. I didn’t know the tricks. So I watched as a co-worker beside me walked away from his own fitting. I snuck over. I quickly started to search for his bands, and when I couldn’t see any in immediate sight I started to deepen my investigation. Each desk had one drawer, I opened his and started to rifling through it, finally finding the treasure: hidden under a piece of paper, the largest collection of elastic bands in the world. I wanted to jump into the bands and swim in them. But no time! I filled my hands as quickly as possible, then I heard a loud voice behind me.

“WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING!?”

I turned around. My co-worker was standing in front of me, a thin middle-aged man with thick glasses and a buzz cut. The type of guy that looks like he was once in the army but got kicked out for being too crazy (which is pretty crazy). He pushed himself right up into my face. I was scared and I fumbled an excuse “I – um, I just, I needed some elastic bands…” He sneered at me “WELL YOU’RE NOT TAKING ANY ELASTIC BANDS OFF MY FUCKING DESK! THOSE ARE MY FUCKING ELASTIC BANDS! FIND YOUR OWN ELASTIC BANDS SOMEWHERE ELSE! YOU’RE NOT HAVING MINE!!!”

I squeaked an apology, putting the bands back on his desk and slumping away. For a few moments I filled completely with rage. I swore at my co-worker in my mind. Why should he have all the fucking elastic bands? What the fuck was I supposed to do? Why did he have to be so fucking mean? Fuck him. I called him everything I could think of. Fucking this, fucking that.

Then I caught myself in the anger, a short moment of self-realisation. I was shocked at what I could see. My life had degenerated to the point that I was feeling genuine, deep anger over elastic bands. I started to laugh to myself. The whole thing was absurd. They were just elastic bands.

I realised I was no longer in control of myself, I had subconsciously just become like everybody around me. Not focusing or thinking. I was becoming petty, mean and angry about insignificant things. Soon I wouldn’t want to share my own bands. My preciouses.

As the days went by I started to really look around me at my co-workers. I realised that the longer they had been working there, the more they had lost sight of reality. They no longer knew what was and wasn’t of importance. They had stopped thinking of elastic bands as something to tie up mail. They thought of these little pieces of rubber as a sign of power and authority. If you had the most bands, if you could protect your bands against everybody else, then you had some small piece of power. Nobody else.

None of this was conscious, no thinking was involved, it just happened. Like the children in Lord of the Flies, we didn’t become crazed elastic band hoarders overnight. It was gradual. Slowly creeping onto you until it seemed like normal behaviour.

I have seen grown men swear, out-loud, in a rage, because somebody else has told them they have to deliver one more package. I have seen postmen throwing packages against the wall because their elastic bands kept snapping. I have seen men – actual adults, with children – almost get into fist fights over having to deliver a few more letters. And I have seen how the majority of people I was working with thought this was all normal behaviour, I even thought it was normal behaviour myself for a while.

But it’s only normal when you don’t think about it, when you lose your life to a sub-conscious routine. When you no see the world rationally, and you give importance to unimportant things, like elastic bands.

Millions of people do this their whole life. Drift through life subconsciously. Never thinking. Never knowing they aren’t thinking. Losing sight of so many important things. Becoming attached to so many insignificant things without knowing why.

Then one day they hang up their cape. They look around them. They look at themselves. They wonder why those rubber bands were so important. And they quit.

_______________________

Photo 1 is titled Now All I need is a Cape by Zach Disner on Flickr.
Photo 2 is titled Rubber Bands by mattscoggin on Flickr.

A Hoodlum Spat In My Face

By Dan B

July 19, 2011

humour, life, me, opinion

15 Comments

Hoodlum

Yesterday a stranger spat in my face. Literally, not metaphorically.

I was sitting with a friend at the time – waiting for the bus – when a group of hoodlums walked by. One of these ruffians turned to me, shouted the word “BISCUITS” and spat in my face. I don’t know why he shouted “BISCUITS”, possibly because he knew that I would go back to this word in an attempt to find some meaning within it. Perhaps he knew that word would keep me up at night, constantly questioning me, forever making me wonder “Why?! Why did he say biscuits?! What does it all mean?!”

Immediately after the spittle hit my face, I felt nothing. I did not feel angry or sad, just apathetic. I was apathetic, precisely because the entire scene didn’t mean anything. He didn’t do it for any reason I could fathom and without a reason, how could I have a reaction?

Later, I searched for meaning, part of me wishing that there was a little drama to the event. That I had somehow wronged this man in some way. That we were part of some tragic Shakespearen tale. I’m not completely against spitting if the scene calls for it. If the spitter minces their way over dramatically, shouting the words “I spit on thee and thy house for the wrongs thou hath done me *hawk-spit*” At least that spitting means something. Spitting in disgust. But I’m not disgusting. Give me some meaning if you’re going to spit on me dammit!

But NO, this spit meant nothing. Not spitting for feminism, or spitting for socialism. Just spitting for the sake of it. What a waste of spit. Spit that was on my face. Spit that I barely cared enough about to wipe away.

Yet, I must regress, I am perhaps being a little misleading. When I say he spat on me, I know what you’re thinking:

You’re thinking it was in slow-motion. (Such things always happen in slow-motion.) A weasel-looking youth, with a small moustache, looking down on me with a crafty flash in his eyes.

You’re thinking of the sound he made as he built up the spit. A low rumble of phlegm in the throat.

You’re thinking of the quick instant when he shot the saliva out of his mouth. You’re thinking that I watched it slowly gliding through the air towards me as I screamed one long “NOOOOOOOOOO!”

You’re thinking the spit hit me on the eyebrow, my head kicking backwards like I’d been hit by a gun. You’re thinking the ruffian smiled slyly in my direction, so happy with all he’d accomplished.

But let me tell you, you’re thinking wrong.

It all happened so quick that I barely had time to realise it was happening. It wasn’t slow-motion, it was fast-motion. Suddenly this man was in front of me, he was shouting “BISCUITS!”, he was spitting.

And the spit was weak. There was no conviction behind it. It was apathetic spit. It was spit that said “meh, I don’t really feel like doing this, but I’ve got to.” It was like the piece of homework you leave until the night before deadline. Lousy, half-hearted and lazy. Just plain rubbish. I was the teacher that received that lousy homework, shaking my head and thinking “come on now, we both know you can do better than this! You’re underachieving. You’ll never make anything of yourself if you go through life like this.”

There was no build up of phlegm, there was no force behind the release. In fact, the lousy little shit didn’t even have the common decency to open his mouth! He instead spat through his lips. It was half spit, half accidental raspberry. His spit dispersed into a number of minute, micro-spittles. It was like when somebody tells you a funny joke, just at the moment you’ve taken a swig of cola. We’ve all been there right? The instinctive laugh that we try to hold in at the last second, which shoots a mist of cola onto our friend. (Or in my case, laptop, because I have no friends.)

That’s how his spit was. A short, shallow mist. If spitting were a sport, then my grandma could have beaten this guy. When the spit hit me I was barely aware that it actually had. When my friend asked seconds later “did that guy just spit on you?” I suddenly started to wonder whether he actually had or not. Had he just spat on me? I felt like running down the street after him. “Erm, excuse me, sorry to bother you, I was just wondering… did you spit on me back there? Just, I’m not sure if you did, which means I don’t really know how to feel about the whole thing. Oh. Oh, right. Oh, you did just spit on me. My mistake. Didn’t mean to trouble you. Oh, wait. Wait, wait, wait! Just one more question before you leave. Uh, soooo… what was that you were saying about biscuits?”

Perhaps I’ve got it all wrong though. Perhaps his friend had just told him a hilarious, long-winded joke. The type of joke that goes on and on, and is all building up to one, perfect punch-line. A punch-line like “BISCUITS!” Perhaps upon hearing this punch-line the ruffian was forced to also exclaim “BISCUITS!” Because after that long build-up the punch-line was so obvious, but also so hilarious. “BISCUITS! HAHAHAHA! MAN THAT’S GOOD!” But maybe all he could do was exclaim “BISCUITS” before trying to hold in his laugh. And maybe that laugh turned into an inadvertent raspberry of spittle in my direction. Maybe he didn’t spit at me. Maybe he just accidentally spat in my direction. Maybe he felt really bad about it, but he didn’t apologise because, well, that’d have been really awkward, wouldn’t it? Apologising to the stranger you just accidentally spat on. Maybe he was just being polite by not bringing me into an already awkard situation. How kind of him.

Maybe he had a medical condition that prevented him from controlling his lips? Maybe he thought I was on fire and was trying to put me out? Maybe he didn’t like my jacket? Maybe, he spat on me for no reason at all. No no. That can’t be right. Ridiculous! It must have meant something! Surely!

Maybe. Just maybe, I reminded him of one thing. The one thing he hated more than anything else in this rotten world. A thing that had haunted him since the day he’d been born. A thing that chased him down long corridors in his nightmares. A thing that had killed his mother, his father, and his pet goldfish. A thing he feared, but a thing he also one day vowed to destroy:

BISCUITS.

__________________________

Photo titled Hoodlum by carbonnyc.

The Dating Game.

By Jamie

May 16, 2011

jamie, life, love

7 Comments

By Jamie

Jamie (Mobile)
Sent: April 22, 2011 3:31:34 PM
Are we still on for dinner plans tonight?

The Guy I like (Mobile)
Received: April 22, 2011 5:11:28 PM
Oh, that’s right. That was for tonight.
I forgot I have to stay late at work.

The Voice inside Jamie’s head: What the hell?! First off, it took him… (uses fingers to count out the math)…an hour and forty minutes to even respond back to my text! Secondly, he forgot!? So, you know what? I won’t even respond back. Or if I do, it will be three hours from now.

–

If Life were an exam, the above scenario* would be question number 34. The above example should feel quite familiar to most (at least I can speak on behalf of women). And if not, I guess I’m alone here and hopefully, you the reader, will continue following along anyway.

[*This scenario did not actually happen to the writer.]

After reading the said scenario on the exam, this question would follow:

What do you do next?

Tell him that you’re disappointed in him forgetting, but arrange for another night. He suggests breakfast instead, you oblige, and live happily ever after.
Call him, immediately, demanding to know why it took him so long to respond. Also make it known that you’re starving, and it’s all his fault.
You refuse to text him back until three hours later, feigning disinterest about the fact he completely forgot about dinner plans.
Other (Please write comments in the appropriate space below.)

However, this isn’t a question on the Life exam. We don’t have the time to clearly think about what we should choose. We don’t have the opportunity to study for it. It just….happens. We more than likely choose to do the first thing that comes to mind, regardless of how silly, crazy, and ridiculous it sounds at the time. (More than likely it sounds brilliant to you, anyway.)

Thus, irrational, crazy side ensues.
Thus, playing games occur.

And no, I am not talking about those games. I am not talking about a game of Scrabble, an episode of Jeopardy! or a game of Hide-and-Go-Seek. As those are quite fun. I am, however, talking about the games we play while in relationships.

The said scenario in which I keep referring to is an example of playing mind games in a relationship. The Voice Inside Jamie’s Head was contemplating what should she say to him, what should she do, or should she even do and/or say anything at all?! But why? Is it because playing games are inevitable? If so, when are they initiated?

After much thorough thinking, I have come to believe there are different games played while at different stages in relationships. I have provided some examples below. (Age, sex, and IQ can also be factors when it comes to choosing what game to play.)

A five-year-old boy teases a five-year-old girl. He pushes her on the ground to proclaim that he thinks she is cute. She is crying and never wants to speak to the boy again. [Note: The games are physical.]

There are two people, right now, unaware of how the other person feels about them. These two people are probably playing hard-to-get because one must never come off as needy, desperate, and readily available. EVER! [Note: The games are now mental.]

The aforementioned two people are now in a relationship. It has been three years already! However, they fight, a lot. They also threaten to break up with each other, and if they do, they come crawling right back to one another. They continue trying to make the other person jealous by going out, taking pictures with “good-looking” strangers and posting it on their facebook. They both are miserable.

There could also be another two people, right now, where one person is aware of the other being completely smitten with them. This person finds it flattering, and takes advantage of the smitten one. I don’t know the name of the game, but the person playing it is an asshole. They take comfort in knowing someone, right now, finds them fascinating even though they have no intention of getting with this person. (Namely because they already have a significant other.) But it’s a a nice stroke to their ego, and so it continues.

For the past few months, I have begun to like someone. Fortunately for me, the feelings are mutual, which basically means I don’t have to play hard-to-get. Yes! However, there could still be other games that will be played along the way. (You know, like naked Scrabble.)

But the thing is, I don’t feel like I need to. (Yes, there have been times when I felt I needed to. Don’t you remember the miserable couple from above? They believed getting one another jealous would prove to themselves that their significant other cared about them.) I feel quite all right with calling him or messaging him anytime I please without asking myself, “Am I being too…much?” (It also helps that he responds within a reasonable time frame.) But it could simply be because it hasn’t been long enough. We are still at the point where everything the other person says is fucking fascinating.

I’ve already discussed when the best time in a relationship is: the beginning. Right now, we are both on the equal-playing field. The trust is still intact. It has not been lost, forgotten, abused, or abandoned. Namely because I have put it in a safe spot, under my bed, wrapped in plastic, bound by a chain.

–

Jamie (Mobile)
Sent: April 22, 2011 5:23:14 PM
I can’t believe you forgot! When can
can we reschedule then?

The Guy I Like (Mobile)
Sent: April 22, 2011 5:25:09 PM
How about breakfast instead?

Jamie (Mobile)
Sent: April 22, 2011 5:26:27 PM
Doughnuts?

The Fear of Public Speaking

By goldfish.

April 17, 2011

crystal, life, opinion

3 Comments

By Crystal

Like most people, I’m terrified of public speaking. As a terribly shy, quiet person, speaking to a group of others goes against the very nature of my existence. I mean, talking one on one with people I don’t know makes me nervous enough. How am I supposed to carry on in front of several people at once?

Having graduated from college and settled into my newspaper job, I thought my days of public speaking were essentially over. That is, until my colleague happened to be a professor, who wanted me to speak infront of her class. Cue panic.

I can’t quite remember when I started to be afraid of speaking in front of others. All I know is that eventually, it happened. In fourth grade, I was the teacher’s pet and was therefore asked to assist him with a skit he was doing for a school meeting.

Let me back up a bit. In our elementary school, we had “school meetings” where the entire school would pack itself into the gym and sit on a dusty floor that hadn’t been cleaned for decades. You’d go with your class and your teacher and listen to the principal and Other Important Figures discuss things that I can’t really remember now because I spent most of my time staring dreamily at my crush and talking with my friends about which Spice Girl was better.

The one thing I recall about the weekly meeting was Safety Man. Safety Man was my teacher. Only, he had a cape and wore an orange cone on his head. Oh, and he took off his glasses. This was obviously a seriously convincing disguise (since, as anyone who has ever watched a 90s teen film will know, taking off one’s glasses makes said individual unrecognizable and, usually, hot — though Safety Man was far from that).

Safety Man would stand in front of the school and explain to us the importance of being safe. No running in the halls! Always carry scissors face down! Never stick a cat in an oven! To this day, I am not sure why Safety Man existed. But he did.

For the end-of-the-year meeting, Safety Man wanted some of my classmates to assist him with a demonstration. I was the first person asked. I declined. Then, I was not only terrified of being in front of a huge group of people (the entire school), but I knew that being associated with Safety Man would ruin me socially.

Later, at the school meeting, I realized that all of the students who had volunteered to help Safety Man received CANDY for doing so. I was seriously pissed that I’d declined. I was willing to debase and humiliate myself for some motherfuckin’ CANDY. HE DIDN’T MENTION CANDY.

Nevertheless, the following year, when I won a spelling bee , I refused to compete in front of other people and forfeited my title. Obviously because no candy was involved.
I do think it’s sad (and maybe even sort of tragic) that we’re all so terrified to speak in front of others because we’re afraid of being judged by our peers, being laughed at, or of making a mistake. In some people, the fear can be crippling; in others, it can just make them very nervous beforehand.

Either way, you’d think, by now, someone would have come up with some really great way of coping, ASIDE from the asinine suggestions of “practicing” (nobody wants to practice speaking in front of people because that means you have to speak in front of people more than you had to in the first place, okay?) and of trying to picture the audience naked or in their underwear (which is just plain creepy).

In high school and college, public speaking usually meant my voice would be really shaky and I’d laugh nervously and awkwardly like Natalie Portman at the Golden Globes:

(For the record, her laugh is WAY extended in that clip, but it makes the awkwardness much more palpable and, of course, funny.)

Since being really awkward hasn’t actually worked to my benefit (shocker!), I had to find a new way to deal with public speaking. That’s where my college friend comes in. As someone who blushes profusely when put on the spot, she came up with the ingenious idea to bring in baked goods, which she would strategically pass around at the start of her speech, hoping delectable chocolate brownies would be enough to distract people from noticing her flaming red cheeks.

And guess what? It worked. Every time. It even worked when she and I were partners for a class project.Know why? Because people fucking love treats (as illustrated by my fourth-grade self who was full of regret for not embarrassing herself in front of the school for some Now and Laters!). They suddenly don’t care if you’re in front of the class pretending to be a cheetah or curing cancer; they just want to know if there’s enough for a second helping.

So, my bestie at work wants me to speak to the class that she teaches. I’m not sure I’ll accept, but if I do, you can bet your ass I’ll bring in a batch of cookies. Or brownies. Or cake. Or maybe a whole dessert table.

The Upgrade

By Jamie

April 11, 2011

jamie, life, love, Uncategorized

4 Comments

by Jamie

If I had a conversation with someone, and he or she were to ask me to describe a potential mate, the following dialogue would occur:

“So, Jamie, what do you look for in a mate?”

“Ah.. well, I seem to always look for the same characteristics in a potential boyfriend. I believe Mr. Almost Right must be attractive, intelligent, and funny.

“How… broad and unoriginal.”

“Okay, he must be a quick-witted, cynical, adorkable, and charming man, who plays Scrabble.

After exchanging the above conversation with the voice inside my head, I couldn’t help but wonder: if we look for the same qualities in a potential mate, are we just dating the same person over and over again? (Just in a different body with a different last name?) At first glance, yes, I was certain that I was dating the same person. Everything seemed to be the same: their mannerisms, their music tastes, their quirks, and even their noses. At giving it a thirty-second thought, I believe that we are just dating an improved version of the former mate.

Also known as an upgrade.

I have heard that people can sometimes be like fine wine because we typically get better with age: our wisdom, our patience, and even our confidence. We improve in our every-day relationships, including the romantic ones: what we look for, what we will and will not put up with, and (hopefully) develop a better sense to detect if he or she would be good for us. Which ultimately means we are one step closer to meeting that someone who is willing to put up with our shit, and find it completely endearing.

As adults, (normally) we throw out the superficial must-haves: He must be tall, dark, and handsome. We do this for a couple of reasons. Firstly, they’re undoubtedly unrealistic and shallow. I, a woman who stands at five feet, three inches, am coming to terms that wanting a man who is over six feet isn’t going to love me anymore than a man at five feet, nine inches. (He still needs to have dark hair, however.) Secondly, what we found attractive four years ago may not be so appealing now. I’m fairly certain the only prerequisites for a boyfriend I had in high school were that he should be good-looking, on the baseball team, and not in the Anime club. Who cares if he couldn’t hold a conversation? He was hot and I could flaunt him on my arm. You know, like he was an accessory.

Of course, I never managed to acquire the popular baseball player and wear him like a handbag. The only (and first) boyfriend I managed to get in school was during my senior year. He was tall, lanky, and musically inclined. He lived at home (his mom cooked us food), worked at Abercrombie and Fitch (Hello, discounts!?), and could get alcohol in my hands (Need I say more?). He was Mr. Almost Right to seventeen-year-old Jamie.

However, he would not be Mr. Almost Right to twenty-two-year-old Jamie. I wouldn’t be too thrilled to learn that a man over the age of 26 was still living at home. Sure, it would be nice that his mother could cook for us every time I came over, but it wouldn’t be so nice having to worry about a mother coming into the room, uninvited. And I wouldn’t be too delighted to learn that anyone out of high school is still buying clothes from Abercrombie and Fitch.

Like most good things, it came to an end. He shattered my heart and left me on my own. I was devastated. After all, he was my first everything: kiss, love, the one to see my naked body in all its glory, and now.. breakup. The inevitable thought occurred: I will never be able to do this again with someone. But after the seventy-second time of him dismissing my pleads and cries, I did the only thing a desperate seventeen-year-old girl would do: I went for an upgrade.

It didn’t take long to find my upgrade. I didn’t even research my options. In fact, I went with the first one that I saw that made my stomach flip-flop. That one, right there!

So, let me get this straight: You live on your own? You’re actually tall, dark, AND handsome?! You really ARE bigger and better.

Of course with every upgrade, come the risks. The risk that the upgrade may not be entirely compatible with the user. The risk that the upgrade could actually worsen the product. And it did.

I’ve developed a habit since. A habit where I (subconsciously or not) compare and contrast the past and present boyfriends to one another and to the ideal boyfriend who lives inside my head, rent free.

I must ask myself: (If yes is said, I move on to the next question. If I say no, I abort immediately.) Is he attractive? Does he know the difference between your and you’re and other homonyms? Does he make me laugh until I cry? Does he play Scrabble? Does he like cats? Does he read? Does he vote left? Does he find it funny that people believe in an imaginary man in the sky? Does he have good taste in music? Does he dress well? Does he cook? Does he like pulp in his orange juice? Which inevitably leads me to:

Is he worth the upgrade?

Unfortunately, most cannot seem to pass the homonym question.

—Das Bloggen

Archive

life

Walking Through Vancouver

Tasting Garlic Ice Cream

Emergency Contact Emergency (E-mail #2)

An Email Back Home (E-mail #1)

Fear of Freedom

I Was A Superhero

A Hoodlum Spat In My Face

The Dating Game.

The Upgrade

Follow “Das Bloggen”