WHO THE FUCK IS NORMAN YEUNG?

DRY

2012-01-05T04:40:00.003-05:00

I am naked for ten minutes after I shower. During those ten minutes I make the bed, fold clothes, and tidy the bedroom. Every day. That is my routine. When in Vancouver, in my family home since 1985, I have to adjust my habit by putting on underwear for the three-metre trip from the bathroom to my room. I shut my bedroom door, close the curtains, and doff the underwear. For ten minutes post-shower in Vancouver, I am naked and slightly nervous. My bedroom door has no lock. My parents never knock. It need not be said that I have never got laid in my childhood bedroom.

SERRATED

2012-01-04T00:27:00.003-05:00

Michael is a curious boy whose meat and vegetables are cut up into small chunks. He is six years old and my nephew.

MICHAEL: Can I cut your ham for you, Kow-Foo?

ME: Sure. Michael, you see these ridges on the knife?

MICHAEL: Yeah.

ME: You know what they're called, what this knife is called?

MICHAEL: Ummm... No.

ME: Serrated. This is a serrated knife.

MICHAEL: Okay why?

ME: Well... I'm not sure why it's called that but see how it makes cutting the meat easier? Like sawing?

MICHAEL: Yeah, I don't have to push down so hard. Daddy, look! I'm cutting Kow-Foo's ham with a serrated knife!

ME: Michael, it's always good to learn more words. Tons of words. The more words the better. Always. Do you understand?

MICHAEL: Yeah.

PURCHASE

2011-12-28T19:31:00.002-05:00

While standing in line at the cashier of the drugstore, about to pay for my USB key, and then dashing off with a quick start in the manner of epiphany to fetch some face wash, one could say I forgot something, when in actuality, I remembered something.

DETRITUS

2011-12-26T17:51:00.004-05:00

My new laptop is no longer so new. I got it in almost-October and now is almost January. But it feels new because it doesn't yet have the thousands upon thousands of files from my old laptop. It is a laptop without history or character. It is empty, like a five-year-old child who has so far learned nothing.

For three months my new MacBook Pro has been nothing but an advanced internet machine. It has allowed me to do Facebook and Twitter faster. That is all. For work, I've had to return to my old PowerBook G4, a workhorse that I have fed innumerable documents and projects and correspondence since 2005. My old laptop is a wise and frail partner. My new laptop is a sleek fling.

For three months I have put off transferring files from my old laptop to my new laptop because the task bores me. Moreover, the task overwhelms me. I am not simply transferring by bulk the guts and spirit of one computer to the other. No, I am going to clean. I am going to select which files to keep and which to discard into forgottenness. I do not want to clutter my MacBook Pro with unnecessary memories, the weight of refuse. I want to start anew.

You have moved apartments. You have moved furniture, which takes no time at all. You have sat at a banker's box overflowing with folders and papers and bills and contracts and newspaper clippings and letters and documents, trying to keep and trying to discard, which takes forever. Moving the sofa is easy. Curating information is hell.

And hell is now. Thousands of inane e-mails clogging my Sent mailbox where the entire body is simply "Yes" or "Hahaha!" or "Check out this link…". Thousands of files for projects while they were in progress -- Draft 02, Draft 03, Draft 04 -- which I consider valuable because they are records of my development, and which I might re-visit years from now -- which I have done. Thousands of pictures I have found on the internet, and which friends have sent me, because they are interesting and/or funny and/or sexy… But I have no idea where to put them. Everything simply remains. Everything has become "I'll take care of it later." If computers give us the opportunity to be organised more pragmatically and efficiently than ever before, then to that, I might have failed.

I want to be organised. I actually am, as my professional matters are handled swiftly and with great care, but as computers become more analogous to our actual lives, I see the wayside expanding as more and more things in my life have fallen. I absolutely can not keep up with casual correspondence. You will likely not hear back from me in a timely fashion unless you have hired me, or I have hired you, or we are thinking of hiring each other. I would like to change that and respond to everyone. I would like to clean up my life, which is why I would like to start with a clean, new laptop.

Why do I care? Perhaps because I am old enough to know what organisation/life means without the aid of a computer; I started e-mailing late, in my final year of university, and I remember telephoning someone to make plans with no texting as recourse to say one is running late. Perhaps because I prefer old technology to new; I still, and expect to always, use my uncluttered and concise paper Preference Collection daily planner, the same beige-page style I have been devoted to since 1995. Surely I care to have a clean, new laptop to reflect my increasingly ascetic lifestyle, where I am learning to discern what I want versus what I need. I have become quite fond of eating hard-boiled eggs with not one touch of seasoning.

And now… I am sifting through six years of Inbox and Sent and files and JPEGs and screen-captures and notes and vectors and bitmaps and drafts and I am daunted. I understand that my MacBook Pro will eventually get cluttered the same way that every household has a junk drawer full of "I'll take care of it later". I want to keep my virtual junk drawer tiny. I want to answer every e-mail, respond to every Facebook message, to force everything to be pat with a tyrranical fist. But as my laptops have sadly become inseparable with my life, cleaning up six years of my computer could prove to be as futile as cleaning up six years of living.

I wondered if my being overwhelmed is a response to technology. Yes, I believe that today we are over-stimulated and over-obligated, but in the case of feeling defeated by tidying up information, I believe we would be overwhelmed no matter what the technology. My old laptop is indeed a facsimile, a diary, of my past six years, but I can still systematically go through each file and delete. Imagine sorting through the last 2,190 days of actual life, itemising and examining every single memory without the option of deleting.

Perhaps I should accept the fact that the junk will grow and when I get my next new computer I will attempt yet another purge. Perhaps I should embrace the scraps as giving my computer character, the same way that a human is the sum of his and her ramshackle history. The e-mails you never responded to. The draft of the novel you abandoned. The relationship that evaporated without explanation years ago, and whenever you are at the same bar you cannot look each other in the eyes. Matters, though unfinished, remain as complete memories. We will accumulate more and they will make our character. My life is flotsam. Your life is jetsam. Our lives are a collection of detritus.

BIEBER

2011-12-07T07:26:00.005-05:00

Excerpt from an interview on December 2, 2011:

QUESTION:
How has social media changed how people perceive the arts?

ANSWER:
I wanna talk about YouTube. And MySpace and the other things that helped Justin Bieber, Lily Allen, Russell Peters, and others to get noticed. First of all, our attention spans have become nil due to the internet, and we have patience only for snippets. I’ve only recently checked out Chat Roulette, which is very unsexy, but it’s also analogous to how we use the internet. We give everything half-a-second of our attention, realise it’s yet another ugly penis, then click away to an uglier penis…. How do you make someone give you more than half-a-second? Well, on YouTube and MySpace and stuff, you make music or make people laugh. Music and comedy can be instantly engaging, and after you’ve heard one verse or laughed at one punchline, you’re hooked. And then you tell everyone on Facebook and Twitter. And then that musician and comedian and sneezing panda cub go viral. Boom. Celebrity. Social media goes hand-in-hand with music and comedy, and clever stuff, and oooh!-and-aaah! stuff, and weird images, and sexy images, because they are instantly engaging and quickly gratifying. The pay-off comes very fast: three minutes for a pop song, fifteen seconds to tell a joke, one second to look at a cool picture. Social media doesn’t seem to work for long-form narrative drama. How would Rohmer fare on the internet? Narrative drama requires time and investment from the viewer, but the internet is grooming us to crave shorter and shorter. Twitter isn’t helping. 140 characters and everyone’s trying to be the next Oscar Wilde.

For the record, I have absolutely no problem with Bieber, Allen, Peters and others who got noticed from the internet. In fact, I admire them because of their tremendous talent and ability to harness technology. Their careers fascinate me.

POLITE

2011-10-29T14:41:00.003-04:00

Fuck, Canadians, why're you so polite? I'm riding my bike down Queen Street and this 20s-couple, between cars and about to jaywalk, step back to give me space. As I pass them I say, "Thanks" and they say, "Sorry." What're you sorry about? I'm sorry I said thanks.

Fuck off, manners!

CONSTRUCTION

2011-10-28T12:50:00.003-04:00

Drills rat-tat-tat as I approach the intersection. Traffic is slowed amid the mild mayhem and I'm just gonna jaywalk this thing but oh shit, there's a cop. I'll wait. This fall morning is too refreshing for conflict. A teen in a toque bounds past me, zipping across the street, zipping by the cop. I don't have his balls. I wait. Green light's mine. I go.

YOUNG COP: Hey, I said hold on. You don't speak English?

I stand in the middle of the street and stare at him. I'm gonna say something... Terrible Cantonese? Gibberish Mandarin? Instead:

ME: I didn't hear you. Yeah I speak English but what if I didn't?

YOUNG COP: I told you to wait.

ME: Not everyone speaks English.

He waves a car past.

YOUNG COP: You might as well go, you're already in the middle of the street...

ME: You can't assume everyone speaks English, my friend.

The bearded hipster passing me smiles in solidarity.

Assuming everyone speaks English is insulting. The tyranny of English is insulting. The cop goes back to his job with outstretched arms. Either I'm not worth his trouble or he gets me. Both. His parents or grandparents probably don't speak English. He looks Portuguese.

I added "my friend" 'cause I'm not in the mood for fisticuffs and handcuffs.

GOO

2011-09-30T03:30:00.002-04:00

Just saying. Just saying. Just saying. If I am riding an elevator with you and your baby, do not expect me to devote my attention to the little one. I will neither goo-goo nor coo-coo to your wonderful gift to the world. Why? Because I am a carbon-hearted, misanthropic asshole who finds only adults, pandas, and Jon Stewart amusing. And because my niece and nephew are cuter than your kid, anyway.

ACRE

2011-08-08T23:06:00.003-04:00

Aaron's irony is ironic.

When looking over a bustling intersection teeming with cars, condos, cafés, and cyclists, he sweeps his hand and tells us, "I remember when this all used to be farmland."
When standing before a farm, he sweeps his hand and tells us, "I remember when this all used to be farmland."
They are crotchety, curmudgeonly, old-man words, and around-thirty Aaron loves uttering them with faux nostalgia and a grin.
When reclining in the sun room of the cottage, overlooking the trees and the boy in the life jacket cannonballing into the choppy lake, Aaron sweeps his hand still clutching Guinness and tells us, "I remember when this all used to be farmland."
I laugh. I always do. This time, though, it isn't his joke that makes me laugh -- it's the fact that he still tells this joke, again and again, with undiminished gusto and grin. His mere telling of this joke is now funnier to me than the joke itself. The joke has now become meta. Who else but Aaron would pack post-modernism with him to the cottage?

WE

2011-07-31T14:35:00.005-04:00

Burying our dead. Believing in gods. Making fire. Adding to the argument on what separates humans from other animals, I speculate that we are the only beast who is aware of our own beast's presence far away. We know we have a father in India, a cousin in Belgium, a grandmother in Guatemala. Of humans we have not met, we know Obama is in America and Hu Jintao is in China. We might never meet Obama nor Hu, yet we know they exist. We have not met Riel nor Napoleon nor Tutankhamen, yet we know they existed. It is not about the internet or newspaper -- an illiterate blacksmith in Rome could be aware of a Cleopatra in Egypt. Our awareness of the existence of a member of our own species transcends space, time, and technology.

Beyond running-, swimming-, and flying-distance, other animals are not aware of their own. The horse in Yukon does not know of the horse in Argentina, let alone the horse from 1511.

I suspect we are the only beast who creates mythology. Legends and lore that confirm, and disseminate the confirmation of, our existence throughout space and throughout time. History. Fame. Celebrity. Notoriety.

NERDS

2011-06-25T14:24:00.006-04:00

They are fifteen, maybe sixteen, surely not seventeen. The four boys flanking me on both sides of the streetcar, the two Caucasians sporting nifty glasses, the two Chinese strapping knapsacks on their backs. Foreheads riddled with red spots. Voices crossing the rickety bridge back and forth from boy to man.
"So you're saying each pixel is made up of a million parts?" says one.
"I'm talking about invisibility," says another.
"You can't draw what you can't see," says another.
"I want to figure this out," says another, then laughs.
They probably masturbate often. They probably are unaware that girls in their classes find them charming. They probably will do good with their lives. I want to tell them, "Keep it up."

KEY

2011-05-24T09:08:00.006-04:00

J was a latchkey kid. Yes, he did wear a key on a string 'round his neck. Something was always a bit different about J from the rest of us. He constantly had fresh gear, multiple satin Starter jackets, new Buffalo and Request jeans every few months. Almost every day, for lunch he would buy Chicken McNuggets, all white. That's like $3 a day, $15 a week, $60 a month. On McNuggets. How the hell could he afford that? I always suspected he had some kinda money despite living with his single mom in a bungalow on Victoria Drive near the 7-Eleven where our friend C stabbed a kid with scissors. J was a full-fledged member of the rough crew that I sort-of-maybe-sometimes wanted to be a part of, but I wasn't a fighter, nor was I Italian Greek Portuguese, nor did I wear head-to-toe denim (at that time) while moshing to "Enter Sandman". I'm rap and Chinese, and the only Asians in that posse were Indian, except for E the pale-skinned Chinese boy who seemed to get a lot of sex. J was more Too $hort than Metallica but still managed to be high up in the hierarchy, being a good-looking, funny kid who seemed to get all the ninth-grade girls. He always invited me to join him on his regular 12.10PM trek to McDonald's where I'd watch him drop dollars daily while I munched on my mom-made sandwich. He made me feel like a part of the crew of which I was a hardly-honorary member. He was a popular kid, and rolling with him gave this fourteen-year-old some confidence. I still have the Naughty By Nature self-titled debut that he lent me. He still has my Dre's "The Chronic", the first CD I ever stole from A&B Sound. I'd like it back.

Come to think of it, I too was a latchkey kid, but I kept my key in my pocket.

'BAGS

2011-05-15T06:13:00.004-04:00

Sausage McMuffin. That's what happens when you're walking home at 5.52AM in the drizzle from a friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend's house party, and the joint was full of young Latin people dancing to Latin house shouting "Hey, Macarena!" but I'm not sure if the song was actually a version of "Macarena" but I'm sure they know better than me, and the pound of coleslaw I'm munching from the 24-hour grocery store ain't filling me up near enough, and my night has become morning and the only thing open is McDonald's so I'm gonna get, what else, of course, Sausage McMuffin. I pay the teen my $1.46 and saunter to the side, awaiting my salty fat treat. I glance at the donation box in front of the cash register -- to help kids who need help -- and six pennies are scattered outside the box, their target missed. Now listen: I donate. I donate to earthquakes and tsunamis, public radio and polar bears, cancer and buskers. I give. And here are six rogue copper pieces absent from a child's happiness. I could have dropped those pennies into the box, I should have. I thought about it. But it's 5.52AM and I have a tub of half-eaten coleslaw and I'm too busy contemplating when the teen cashier's (Andrew's) voice will break. So I stand. In comes a gang of douchebags, ostensibly from the after-hours joint up the block. Five 'bags and a girl, rocking dress shoes and Christian Audigier, ordering McThis and McThat, one guy gets apple juice. ...It's all good, so did I, minus the apple juice. One of the dudes, without announcement nor show, casually, as if by habit of kindness, picks up the pennies and donates six times.

STICK

2011-03-18T02:40:00.003-04:00

September Saturday and Grade Nine is three weeks old. We're in the parking lot of the Korean church, you know, the one on Gladstone. Playing hockey, not ice. M and me taking a break to chew gum, sitting under a sign that says "Jesus" or "Seoul" or "welcome". The gum's pretty good, kinda small, super mint, popped out of a foil pack, it ain't Hubba-Bubba-grape good but we're growing up. Maybe I should start eating Corn Flakes instead of Froot Loops. M slams his stick onto the pavement and shouts real stressed, "All I wanna do is fuck a girl!"

WELFARE

2011-02-22T21:49:00.018-05:00

B was on welfare. We weren't sure, but she and her sister were being raised by their single mom, her clothes looked like Value Village specials, and her greasy hair was begging for bathing, so obviously she was on welfare. She was the punchline of all our jokes, both in and out of her presence. She was synonymous with ugly.

"I wouldn't fuck B in a million years!" we'd say when we began to dare swear. And, more damning, "You're gonna have sex with B!". The only proper response to that curse was a punch to the back and tackle.

She was our ultimate butt for years and it didn't help her case that she was silent, never told us to shut up. We were in school together from Grades 4 to 7 and I recall hearing her voice only a few times. I recall she had one friend, or maybe it was none. Probably it was none, otherwise why else would she get on stage solo for Air Band? It's Band. And what the fuck is this hippie-oldies "I Feel the Earth Move" shit that she's doing? -- it ain't The Bangles or DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince or Salt or Pepa. Every time B mouthed "I feel the earth move under my feet" we snickered because, obviously, she was fat. Elementary school kids might not be able to explain irony, but we knew when it was happening.

We did manage to envy B for one thing: she was among the first in our school to get a Sega Genesis. But our "I wish I had a Genesis like B" was matched by "Shouldn't they buy clothes and food first?". The thing about our neighbourhood in East Van is that you fit in the spectrum between poor and working class. Class is structured by who is less poor. We kids would flaunt whatever objects we could to avoid looking poor; if you wore Brooks instead of Nike, you had welfare shoes. We weren't sure that B was actually on welfare, but we wanted to believe that and she never said otherwise when we told her to her unwashed face.

Around the time of Air Band, Nick and I had a secret. We shopped at Value Village. But just for board games like Master Mind and Clue, not for Bugle Boy and Nike because, god, that's so used and so poor. We refused plastic bags because, god, how could we be seen biking down Victoria Drive toting "Value Village" across our handlebars. Walking into a second-hand store gave us the same taboo titillation that we would experience later when we were fifteen and walking into our first strip joint. "Battleship for only a buck!" Nick shouted. The aisle of knick-knacks, games, and National Geographics was our clandestine budget wonderland. We steered clear of the clothes because, even as East Van almost-teens, we couldn't let ourselves look like poverty and there's nothing cool about wearing someone else's jeans.

Now I'm an adult and 80% of my wardrobe is used. I rely on vintage stores for my cowboy boots and jeans that no one else will be wearing, but even that's a bit easy -- I thrill at the challenge of saving coin and finding sweet André Michel jeans at Sally Ann. I wear sneakers that cost ten dollars. The brand: Sportek. Now I'm an adult and I adore Carole King and am proud that I discovered Rhymes & Reasons at Goodwill for only a buck. Among her other albums, I also own Tapestry, but B beat me to it by decades. I recall her dancing on stage without anyone backing her up, sweating through her shirt stenched by her mom's cigarettes, lip-synching with complete concentration "I feel the sky tumbling down" under the dinky strobe, and I understand that B was cooler than all us kids in the gymnasium. We just didn't know it yet.

BREAK

2011-02-13T18:12:00.005-05:00

It's like this. You don't know? It's like this. Spring Break in East Van and what am I gonna do? Wake up at 10, watch The Price is Right and The Monkees. Later, go play hockey in the alley. Naw, not on skates, don't be stupid. This is the inner-city and we don't skate -- we run. School's out for a few, what else'm I gonna do? Play fucking Nintendo at Nick's. That's it. Fuck around, that's it. Now it's summer and school's out for more than a few. What am I gonna do? I just told you: Wake up at 10, watch The Price is Right and The Monkees. Later, go play hockey in the alley. Buy a dilly bar at the Dairy Queen shack up the block. Ride bikes to Trout Lake to fish for toxic fish. Boost some porno mags from C&T at Kingsway and Nanaimo. Nintendo. What else? That's it. Fuck around, that's it. Now it's winter and school's out for a few. What am I gonna do? I just told you already. Same shit. Fuck around, that's it. If it's snowing we're gonna risk our thirteen-year-old limbs by bumper skiing up and down the block. If it ain't snowing we're gonna do Nintendo. Done. That's holiday.

The first day of class in September, woe be unto the naive teacher who says, "Welcome back. Did anyone go anywhere for the holidays?" Don't be clueless, you stupid fuck. You know ain't nobody gonna put up their hand. Maybe one kid, but it's always gonna be like this: "Yeah, my family went to Kelowna." That's just four hours away and that's your vacation? That's all you could afford? Whatever, good on you 'cause the farthest I went was fucking Burnaby.

Spring Break is coming. Ain't no Fort Lauderdale happening in East Van.

PISS

2011-02-07T19:43:00.003-05:00

The commercial features mothers voicing their disgust at the video game. If that inspires you to buy the game -- indeed, if any of your actions are motivated solely by a desire to piss off your mother -- then you are a child.

FORGIVE

2011-01-27T16:11:00.003-05:00

I have been humourless for many weeks. I have been brusque with family and friends and always felt guilty because I seemed, I believe, rude. I am not a rude man and if you've met me you would say I am not rude. But I have been lately. I have been gruff. My mind is all distraction and my typical mirth has been replaced by temporary melancholy. My patience has shortened as has my ability to suffer fools and foolishness, jokes, ribbing and barbs, and I will soon talk about aardvarks. Recently a cousin made a joke to me about something I don't care to tell you, and at other times this recurring joke would have lured a polite laugh out of me, but not this time. It's not a hurtful joke, normally -- in fact, it's extremely benign and tremendously insignificant, not dissimilar to an affectionate tug on the cheek. But because I am currently rude and humourless, the remark was met by my frigid frown and a subtext of "shut up" that was hardly sub. I did not want to be rude, I wanted to be polite. But let's say you usually find aardvarks funny. They are odd and begin the English dictionary. Normally you like aardvarks. Usually the subject of aardvarks would not make you rude. But then your friend pulls your leg with an aardvark remark, knowing full well that only last week an aardvark horrifically attacked your mother.

100%

2011-01-19T03:43:00.006-05:00

WOULD I GO THERE ALONE?

Bars: 100%

Sports bar to watch hockey: 100%

Sports bar to watch football (NFL): 0%

Sports bar to watch football (FIFA): 100%

Portuguese sports bar: 13%

Portuguese sports bar with a non-Portuguese friend: 13%

Portuguese sports bar with a Portuguese friend: 100%

Vietnamese karaoke bar: 3%

Korean karaoke bar: 4%

Gay bar because it's open until 3.00AM and every other bar closed at 2.00AM: 100%

Gay bar, period: 100%

Any place that will sell me booze: 100% generally

Dirty bar filled with ex-con alcoholics who arrive at noon and leave when they're dragged out twelve hours later, in Kitchener-Waterloo: 100%

Bar that charges $7 for a pint of beer: Fuck off

After-hours booze-can speakeasy with lots of drugs: 100%

After-hours booze-can speakeasy with no drugs: 100%

After-hours booze-can speakeasy with twelve people, four of whom are on clarinet, trumpet, double-bass, and guitar: 100%

After-hours booze-can speakeasy with people who can stay up later than me: Try me

Club playing X-Ray Spex: 100%

Club playing Taylor Swift: 1%

Club playing any Top 40: 1%

Standing and drinking and looking around at a dance club: 100%

Dancing at a dance club: 98%

Dancing to Joy Division or Duran Duran or Prince or Hall and Oates: 100%

Dancing to Wu-Tang Clan, A Tribe Called Quest, Showbiz and AG, Gangstarr, or Main Source: 0%

Head-nodding to Wu-Tang Clan, A Tribe Called Quest, Showbiz and AG, Gangstarr, or Main Source: 100%

Rapping along with Wu-Tang Clan, A Tribe Called Quest, Showbiz and AG, Gangstarr, or Main Source: 100%

Strip club: 100%

Strip club in Afghanistan: 0%

Afghanistan: 5%

Alabama: 23%

Albany: 100%

Porno shop to buy a thing: 100%

Porno shop to browse: 100%

Porno shop on a busy street at 3.25PM: 3%

Swingers club, to observe: 100%

Swingers club, to fuck: I dunno

Train ride from Vancouver, British Columbia to Happy Valley-Goose Bay, Labrador: 100%

Train ride from Lisbon to Moscow: 100%

Train ride from to Bangalore to Ulaanbaatar: 46%

Drive a car from Vancouver, British Columbia to Happy Valley-Goose Bay, Labrador: 8%

Bicycle ride at 4.14PM: 100%

Bicycle ride at 4.14AM: 100%

Restaurant to eat oysters: 100%

Restaurant to eat pho: 100%

Restaurant at 5.37AM: 100%

Restaurant to eat any meal, any time, alone alone alone: 100%

Dive that serves shit food and shit coffee: 100%

Filthy dive: 100%

Restaurant run by a fancy chef: Depends -- is there a dive nearby?

Starbucks: 0%, but I will meet you there if you insist

Mom-and-pop coffee shop: 100%

Tim Hortons: 100% with double-double hypocrisy, please

Big-chain book store to buy a book: 0%

Big-chain book store to use the urinal: 100%

Independent book store: 100%

Independent record store: 100%

Cinema to watch a film by Bergman: 100%

Cinema to watch a film by Bergman, and a friend wants to come along: Depends on which friend

Cinema to watch a Twilight film for full price: 1%

Cinema to watch a Twilight film for free: 100%

Cinema to watch a Twilight film for half-price: 50%

Art gallery: 100%

Museum: 100%

Theatre: 100%

Dance: 100%

Opera: 100%

Symphony: 100%

Sleater-Kinney concert (pre-2007): 100%

Sleater-Kinney concert (pre-2007), and a friend wants to come along: Depends on which friend

Church: 100%

Mosque: 100%

Temple: 100%

The Other Temple: 100%

The Other Other Temple: 100%

Me becoming religious while visiting the church, mosque, temple: 0% - 1%, but thank You, sincerely, for letting me spend some time with You.

GIVE

2010-12-25T01:24:00.004-05:00

You needn't give me a gift. If December 25 is today, or February 14 is tomorrow, or my birthday is coming up on some day that you shouldn't know because I never tell anyone my birthday is coming up, you really needn't give me a gift because, truthfully, I likely won't be giving you a gift. The act of giving should happen on March 3 or July 22 or November 8 or Saturday or because the sun has risen or because you're very hungry or because that swallow swooped so gracefully. Giving should happen any time, all the time, and not only on assigned days. When I see people panicking on December 1 because posters at the mall remind them they have twenty-four days in which to check off all the names on their list, and they agonise over how much money they don't have to accomplish that task, I think of one word: Hegemony.

A packed mall is torture. A sidewalk crammed with shoppers is not fun. There is little sanctity in scrambling like a rat with twelve bags strung across the crook of your arm, shoving your Master Card back into your wallet for the tenth time this hour, clutching a list of To Whomevers merely because The Day is in three days. There is much benevolence in making a sock doll for your toddler cousin, making dumplings for your sweetheart, taking your grandfather to Seattle for his first time. Making a gift and giving the gift of experience require time and involvement. There is more consideration. You give not only a thing -- you give yourself.

Spontaneous giving is the antithesis of obligatory giving; we are celebrating a moment when we decide to buy the next round of Guinness. Why? Because we are friends, because we are out, because we enjoy each other's company. Such improvised goodwill can be far more heartfelt than buying your son Call of Duty: Black Ops simply because, well, he wouldn't shut up about it since September. Giving under duress is not an act of goodwill.

When I hear of someone angered by not receiving a birthday gift, or a man scoffing at how the shoes his girlfriend gave him are cheap, another word is exposed: Entitlement. Occasions and assigned days, especially those that get Hallmark's CEO aroused, have made us kowtow to mainstream pressure and expect the generosity of others, whether we deserve it or not. We have become brats.

The act of giving on certain days can be customary, entrenched in tradition, a fundamental aspect of a culture. In my late teens, when my nihilism was developing at the same rapid pace as my politics, I would refuse red envelopes given to me on Chinese New Year and December 25 and my birthday. My feeling was that I didn't do anything in particular to deserve the lucky money, nor should the giver feel obligated to share some of her savings for the sake of custom. My refusal was never successful because I could sense I was becoming insulting. Now, my counter-culture impulses have entered a healthy debate with a respect for established culture, and I accept the lucky money with genuine gratitude. Upholding some cultural values can be worth it, monetarily and otherwise.

I am a hypocrite. I do not expect any gifts from anyone ever, but I will give them on occasion. On occasion, meaning once in a while because I feel randomly inspired, and on occasion, meaning I would be a horrible uncle if I didn't give my nephew and niece a thing for that day in December. As an anti-gifter who gives gifts, my hypocrisy rests in two reasons: I don't want to feel guilty for not giving anything; I don't want my nephew and niece to feel alienated in coming years when they will inevitably have to discuss with their friends on December 26 what they got on December 25. I remember feeling inadequate in the 1980s when my friends' trees were hardly visible behind the cascade of giant wrapped boxes, while the scant packages under my anemic tree hardly required the mystery of wrapping because they were, invariably, year after year, merely Pot of Gold chocolates and dried scallops.

I will continue to indulge in hypocrisy by giving to my nephew and niece because when he unwrapped the cylindrical box to discover Tinker Toys and cheered, I enjoyed creating that moment of happiness (my niece is sixteen months old and likely greeted my gift of a plush panda cub with equal parts happiness and indifference). I understand how the act of giving -- whether mandated by the calendar or not -- can bring fulfillment to the giver. When for my 1996 birthday Sarah gave me what I deemed the greatest object-gift I had ever received -- a name belt buckle -- I grabbed my face with both palms in utter shockgratitude. So did she. I had never experienced a moment of exchange so equally and oppositely explosive; Sarah's approach to giving is Newtonian. She chides me for not celebrating (let alone announcing) my birthday: "You're robbing us of the chance to celebrate you."

I have given myself a birthday party twice in my life. The most recent occasion was my 28th birthday, which I enjoyed sharing with friends and booze for the novelty of it being my champagne year. Aside from that relatively rare event, I would be happy to acknowledge my birthday privately and quietly year after year. It's not about secrets. It's not about hiding my age. It's about accomplishment. I enjoy being acknowledged/celebrated/smiled at only for something I've done. Otherwise, I'd be happy being invisible. Getting older by one year does not seem to me to be an accomplishment. All I had to do was stay alive, which can certainly be difficult for many -- including me -- but it's a relatively common event. My birthday is not an achievement. It is a default event. I don't feel a need to celebrate it. That being said, I love nothing more than drinking and celebrating the birthdays of others. Remember, I'm a hypocrite. Please continue to invite me.

If I were to hold my own birthday party and invite you, you would come for one of two reasons: You like me; you feel obligated. If you are the latter, I would rather you not come. The same goes for an invitation to a film or show of mine: Don't feel obligated to attend. I would love to have you there, but only if you are genuinely interested. That being said, I will still attend your event because I feel obligated (or because I am genuinely interested). I will absolve you of feeling obligated, but I myself am not able to escape obligation. I have a problem with guilt.

As many of my friends are artists, I am constantly tossing around in a vortex of internal conflict called Commitment. I often feel committed to attend an artist's event because that artist has attended mine. There are other words for this type of Commitment: Community. Support. Support your fellow artists because they support you. However, we all should understand that we can't attend all our fellow artists' events. We should be excused, and giving an excuse shouldn't be necessary. Colleagues regularly say to me, "I'm sorry I missed your show," and I say the same to them. Then I remind them that in these long careers of ours, we will surely have to miss some of each other's events, so let's just make a point to attend the next. I never make a person feel guilty for having missed my event. To guilt one into attending your own event is poor form. With guilt comes obligation. Obligation is synonymous with reluctance. Reluctance is the absence of sincerity. That is the word: Sincerity.

ME: Mom, Dad, I'm heading out now.

MOM: Are you going to your sister's?

ME: After I get some gifts...

It's December 24 and I have yet to get anything for my nephew and niece.

MOM: You don't have to get them anything.

ME: I've gotta get them something. I'm their uncle.

MOM: They don't need anything.

ME: I want to get them something. I'm gonna go to Commercial Drive to get--

DAD: You're supposed to already be at your sister's.

MOM: Now.

ME: I still gotta get some gifts for--

MOM: No you don't. There...

She wags her finger to a plastic bag on the kitchen shelf.

MOM: ...Your dad just picked them up the other day...

DAD: ...They're excercise books for writing Chinese...

MOM: A perfect gift.

DAD: A perfect gift.

MOM: You can give them to your nephew. We're going to give lucky money anyways, so you give him the books--

ME: No.

DAD: You give him the books.

ME: No.

MOM: You don't have to rush out to buy anything now.

DAD: It's two o' clock.

ME: No. I didn't--

MOM: The perfect gift.

ME: You got him the books, I didn't.

DAD: He doesn't have to know that.

MOM: He's five.

ME: But still, they're from you not me.

MOM: What difference does--? If you give them, they're from you.

DAD: You don't like the books?

ME: I love the books, but I didn't get them. If I give them, it's not real-- I didn't--

MOM: The books aren't real?

ME: ...I didn't-- Dad got-- It's not a real gift--

MOM: It's fake? How is it not a real gift?

ME: A real gift from me!

MOM: It's a perfect gift!

My left hand was clutched like talons an inch away from my chest.

ME: Mom, your heart isn't... doesn't work like mine. It's not... real. Real, real... how do you say?...

How do you say "sincere" in Cantonese?

ME: ...You know what I'm saying? Dad, you know what I'm saying! Real.

His brow was scrunched as he ate his noodles, annoyed.

DAD: Okay okay, don't give him the books!

MOM: Stupid!

ME: I'm gonna go get some gifts. See you tonight.

After all that, they still didn't say "sincere" in Cantonese.

FLAT

2010-11-18T04:42:00.005-05:00

After my beloved roommate Karen and before my beloved roommate Terri came this ad:

END OF AN ERA
November, 2006

Yes, it's true. After over four years of co-habitation with me, my roommate is moving out to live with her boyfriend. That means that I have a room available. Here are tons of details:

- Queen Street West, at Augusta
- spacious two-bedroom apartment
- two floors
- two bathrooms
- separate kitchen
- fully furnished
- you can move in soon or in January

WHY IS MY PLACE AWESOME?

- you can't beat the location. You really can't
- I live in the Fashion District (the city's term, not mine), so I'm surrounded by fabric stores, boutiques, and stuff like that. I'm also super close to Kensington Market, Chinatown, Little Italy, Portugal Village, and of course West Queen West and Parkdale
- I walk everywhere. Or bike, or occasionally public transit. This apartment is close to pretty much everything you need. Within a few blocks I can eat awesome brunch, shop for import records, enjoy fine tea, buy Digital Beta tapes, go see a play, buy Super 8 film, get Super 8 film processed, visit innumerable arts organisation offices, buy bok choy, buy a real Eames chair, browse antique books, repair my bicycle, visit Toronto's most progressive art galleries, go see an independent film or Hollywood gack, rent a 1927 Danish film, rent a 2004 Korean revenge film, eat cheap dinner, eat expensive dinner, check out the greatest bands, go drinking go drinking go drinking, dance dance dance, and stumble home... All within a few blocks
- 24-hour public transit outside my doorstep
- you can hail a cab within 15 seconds
- my big front windows overlook Queen Street, which is better than television
- I have a wonderful relationship with the landlord and we can do anything we want in the apartment. Imagine having a landlord who doesn't breathe down your neck. Go ahead and smoke, I don't care. Play super loud music... no one cares

RULES ETC.

- please be appreciative of art and culture
- NO TOP 40 MUSIC except in the privacy of your bedroom with headphones
- interesting music encouraged
- this apartment is happily analogue. I hope you don't have a home theatre system with widescreen HD television and fifteen speakers etc. Oh, I have high-speed internet!

RENT

$650 + utilities

People from outside of Toronto are welcome. Americans, too. If you're not familiar with Toronto, be assured that my neighbourhood is fun, convenient, safe, and quite desireable.

Contact me.

-- Norman

AWAKE

2010-11-04T04:16:00.007-04:00

I try not to have bright ideas late at night -- inspiration keeps me up until 6AM. I'm like a mogwai: no epiphanies after midnight, please.

Forty-seven minutes ago I stepped out on the balcony to breathe and think about anything. Anything besides this shiftless dull weight that I've allowed to oppress me during this two-month-long stasis/sabbatical/bender. The moist, chilled air hit me with an answer I wasn't yet ready to receive. An idea. A key. The conclusion to a script that I haven't touched in one year, a Draft One that has cowered on my shelf waiting for me to expand its life with a sibling, Draft Two. I've avoided writing this script because there were other scripts more urgent, shows needing to be shot, many many many beers requiring my attention. But now, from the balcony, I've got the answer. I want to write this new draft now.

Immediately.

But it is 4.48AM. Write some notes if you must. Get started tomorrow. Please sleep.

GUN

2010-09-19T14:14:00.008-04:00

Excerpt from an interview on September 18, 2010:

QUESTION:
Many people say that non-white actors are often the "first to go" in horror movies and/or always the "non-important" role in such films. Tell us how you think Hollywood views Asian actors, where you think Asians in Hollywood are going and what you think about your character in the film Resident Evil: Afterlife.

ANSWER:
My fundamental belief is that we need to stop complaining and create the roles ourselves. That’s the main reason I started writing and directing films and plays. I’ve written characters named Jorge, Davinder, Safina, Giancarla, Shiraz to suggest they be played by diverse actors. My play Pu-Erh offers three huge, complex roles to Asian actors who speak both English and Cantonese. My goal is to create opportunities for under-represented actors. Instead of crying out foul, we should become creators and create the change we want.

In terms of Asians in film and TV, it’s getting better. I’m noticing a lot more roles for Asians, and the roles are getting better. I’m happy to see prominent roles being played by Sandra Oh, Grace Park, Maggie Q, John Cho, Ken Watanabe… the list goes on… It’s getting better but there’s still work to be done. Our screens still don’t realistically reflect the Asian and visible-minority numbers. Look at many North American cities, especially multicultural cities like New York, Los Angeles, Chicago, Toronto, Vancouver, etc. You stand on any street corner in these cities and you’ll see every race. Then look at what’s being represented in our movies and TV shows: an unrealistic ratio that is hardly diverse.

I appreciate the diversity in Resident Evil: Afterlife. The L.A. survivors are a myriad of races and authentic accents: a Korean, a Latino, an African-American, a Brit… Kim Yong never struck me as The Asian Guy. Paul (W.S. Anderson) never asked me for a bogus accent or for martial arts or anything stereotypical, and I appreciated that. Still, the issue of tokenism and stereotypes always comes up whether a movie, any movie, has few visible minorities or lots of them, and I can see how some people might be critical about Resident Evil: Afterlife’s diversity. I believe that one solution to stereotyping is to inject more humanity into the role. Stereotyping is merely shorthand to understand a character instantly, so to combat stereotyping, let’s make the character more complex, more nuanced, so that an audience has to spend more time considering the character rather than making instant judgement. That is how I approached Kim Yong: I gave him a journey. I start as an obedient lackey, then I make a decision on my own to not betray my fellow survivors, then I conquer my fears and decide to go down the tunnel. My journey with Kim Yong was to grow from timid submissive to being my own man, especially since my mentor, Bennett, has abandoned me. Kim Yong’s journey is one of maturing.

Paul did indeed write moments where Kim Yong was more forceful and commanding, and I created some moments myself. We shot moments where I kept guard (yes, with a big-ass machine gun) while Angel burned through the lock to the garage. We shot me discovering the disassembled engine and chastising Angel for not being able to put the engine back together. We shot me making the decision to defy Bennett, in the airplane, by refusing to betray my fellow survivors. We shot me performing my own stunt: Kim Yong versus the oncoming plane. Also, I do decide to go down the tunnel, albeit a split-second too late. But as is the case with almost every movie ever made, certain moments get cut out and we don’t see Kim Yong’s moments of bravery.

According to the script, it’s easy to pass off Kim Yong as simply “the scared guy”. So I tried to give as much depth to Kim Yong as possible in a small amount of space. His role among the group of survivors, and his role as a character in the movie, is simply human. Kim Yong is not a superhero. Kim Yong is a young man (only twenty) stuck in the wrong place at the wrong time in the wrong world. I wanted him to be a sympathetic and empathetic character, a point of access for the audience. Sure, it would be cool to be a hero like everyone else, but that’s simply not Kim Yong’s character. Yeah, it would have been fun to mow down zombies with expert aim, but we’ve already got Alice, Claire, Chris, Luther doing that. Kim Yong’s role – my job – is to contrast the many bad-asses in the group, and I remained faithful to that dynamic. Kim Yong is hanging desperately to some kind of hope, hanging on to his father-figure Bennett. When Bennett betrays him, his already-destroyed world becomes a lot more destroyed. And that is why he doesn’t have a gun.

While shooting the scene where we are ambushed by a horde of zombies after Bennett has stolen the plane, we all contemplated why Kim Yong doesn’t have a gun. Milla (Jovovich) was the first to say, “Why doesn’t Norman have a gun?” And we all stood there for a moment, Paul’s arms akimbo, considering. I looked at the given circumstances: my friend Angel was just murdered right before my eyes by my father-figure; my father-figure has just betrayed me; we are being attacked by an enormous mob of zombies; and while everyone around me is firing guns -- and my arms are up to shield me from Ali (Larter)'s shells, which are pelting my face -- I’m forced to confess that the vehicle ain’t working and Angel’s dead (this got cut out). …All things considered, Kim Yong is fucking terrified. And justifiably so. So he doesn’t get a gun.

Resident Evil: Afterlife is full of bad-asses and heroes. Kim Yong doesn’t have to be a bad-ass. He adds a different dynamic. He is simply human. And I believe that a character with some depth and journey – a realistic human – is the antithesis of a stereotype.

GAGA

2010-07-23T17:36:00.002-04:00

If I were Lady Gaga's manager, it would go down like this:

"Stefani, you need to be more queer friendly."
"But I already am," says Gaga.
"Good. Let's keep it up. After all, look at Madonna, Kylie, Liza, Bette--"
"Bette?"
"Bette Midler."
"Bette Midler?"
"You wanna sell ring tones or not?"

THESAURUS

2010-06-22T01:54:00.002-04:00

For "complain", the Oxford thesaurus says kick up a fuss. I thought it said fuck up the ass.

BOOK

2010-06-08T00:48:00.002-04:00

After standing in line for three hours breathing mall air, the boy finally got his prize. Clutching the iPad in his fifteen-year-old hands, he showed off to the news reporter: "I don't like to read books, so maybe this will make me read more."

I am sad.

BOOKS

2010-05-31T23:57:00.006-04:00

My first August in Toronto was sticky. Two blocks out the door and my back was so slick with sweat that my shower from ten minutes ago had come undone. I lamented that each shirt was good for only one wearing before it became salted by my perspiration -- the laundry room was seventeen floors beneath me in the pits of my St. Jamestown housing monolith, a journey for this young man who was used to chucking dirty clothes into a broken hamper and hours later they would magically* return clean and alley-fresh from the clothesline. (*Mom did my laundry). In July my hair was blown cool by the Pacific; in August my flesh was humming from the muggy stank staid Great Lake. I had moved to the other side of the continent with nothing but the promise of adulthood and two hundred pounds of books.

I'm a bit of a book collector. Not obsessively obsessive, but obsessive enough to have held out for eight years until I finally located a Bantam paperback edition of The Catcher in the Rye that is maroon with yellow titles. I do not like the Little, Brown and Company edition that is white with a rainbow in the corner. I prefer buying Grove Press editions of plays because they were often designed by Roy Kuhlman and he is the greatest, don't argue. I refuse to buy used books that have previous owners' notes inscribed because I don't want my thoughts to be sullied by another's. If the pages are dog-eared or -- god forbid and condemn -- highlighted, there's no way I'm taking that blasphemed book home. I've wrapped my Stanislavsky books in white paper to protect the beautiful seagull logo on the covers. I was devastated when the move across five provinces yielded crushed corners on a few of my (many) Ingmar Bergman books. I now avoid going into bookstores for fear of exiting with five unexpected purchases and a fifty-dollar dent in my money clip. Going into a bookstore means see-you-later for three hours.

That August I had to go to the bookstore. My fingernails had never sweat so much before. I had never inhaled air so steaming and stagnant. I needed an answer, and who else could enlighten me more sagely than that store on Queen Street West, Abelard Books, home of texts previously cherished and antiquarian. The bookseller accented his side-parted silver hair and neat white beard with black-rimmed glasses. He tucked in his shirt and spoke softly. He was an expert.

"I don't have an air conditioner. I'm from the west coast. Will my books rot?" I asked as I wiped the stinging drips from my forehead.

He shut his tome and crinkled his pasty brow. "No. You don't have anything to worry about."

PU-ERH

2010-05-01T18:44:00.004-04:00

There is always tea. One porcelain pot with steeped leaves. One porcelain pot with water the temperature of the kitchen. One urn with boiled water that remains hot throughout the day. You mix portions of the three liquids to your liking. All day long, whenever you want, there is tea. The pots and urn are among the first things I notice when I return to East Vancouver. After the greying eyebrows of my dad at the baggage carousel, after the more and more condos along Victoria Drive, after the bounty of chayote sprawling in our driveway, after the scent of stir fried ginger embedded into our kitchen walls since 1985, I see a pot, a pot, and an urn. They say, “Welcome home. Drink.”

I drop off my duffle bag in my bedroom, a tiny space fit for a child and bursting with secrets and discoveries. I am a man now; I’m no longer used to sleeping in a single bed. I return to the kitchen and eat.

It’s always been hours-old leftovers in the past few years. I try to book flights that will take me home just before dinner, but there’s always a delay. So I end up at the table by myself while my dad unwraps the innumerable dishes and my mom heats up soup at the stove. The leftovers are the tastiest things I have ever eaten anywhere ever. Salted fish, black bean spare ribs, driveway chayote… In a few days my sisters would come home for the weekly family dinner. They both live a twenty-minute drive away, so it’s easy for them to come home every Monday. I come home every two or three seasons. For the food, of course.

Dinner with the family. Our kitchen table, a round Italian marble behemoth complete with lazy Susan, a gaudy stone symbol that my parents have “made it”, is now too small. I’ve acquired two brother-in-laws, an intelligent nephew, and a niece who can now sit up on her own. We are elbow to elbow and our place mats overlap. So does the conversation. Dad and Mom speak Cantonese and Mandarin. Donna speaks English and Cantonese. Cindy speaks English and limited Cantonese. Ken speaks English and Mandarin. Brad speaks English. I speak English and horrific Cantonese but I choose silence because my parents are quiet and outnumbered. English dominates our dinners and if my parents are not able to join the conversations, then I will join them. We eat quietly and let others do the talking.

There is tea after dinner. When I come home, when there are family dinners, we have to make more tea a few times a day. My parents are no longer used to making tea for so many – the kids have moved out, moved away. When we're all together we upset their new routine. So let’s boil some water. I’ve come home and I want tea with my family.

: Playwright's Notes from the premiere production of Pu-Erh

LIU

2010-04-24T23:00:00.014-04:00

"Oh. Hi boys!" It's Mr. Liu at the door. He's holding two pizzas.

Mr. Liu, the first to arrive and the last to leave. Gotta get to the boiler room early, heat up the school so the four hundred kids don't get frostbitten while jamming their lunch boxes into cubby holes. Gotta take out the big folding rolling tables at 11.34AM, set them up in the gym so the kids can eat their lunch at 12. He was more important than simply being our janitor, more valuable than being our custodian. Even his glorified title of "Engineer" couldn't match his worth, no. He occupied a privileged position between student and teacher. He could neither scold us nor grade us. He was sympathetic and reliable. Mr. Liu was our pal. He was our daily smile.
He never looked angry or perplexed. He was always grinning and cool, and our school worked because of him. Whenever we walked by his boiler room -- the door was always open -- we wanted to run inside, run away from spelling class, hang out with him. But the boiler room was creepy. It rumbled.
Mr. Liu was with us during all our years at Cunningham. Maybe he was 33, but to a 10-year-old he might as well be 53. It didn't matter -- Mr. Liu was timeless. We didn't know how long he'd been in this country, but not forever long. We could tell because of his accent. We knew he had at least two kids, one a baby the other a toddler. We knew this because his wife brought their kids to visit him one day. They're all Chinese. They stood outside the boiler room. His kids were too young to go to school but one day they would. They probably wouldn't go to our school because their dad works there, and going to school where your dad's the janitor is pretty damn right embarrassing.

And that's all we knew about Mr. Liu. ...Also, he stayed way after school to lock up the dozens of doors. And that's all we knew about Mr. Liu.

Now he's standing outside Fab's door cradling an extra-pepperoni and a Hawaiian. It's our Saturday 3PM pizza party and we're watching Johnny Be Good on Beta. We're watching our hero Anthony Michael Hall and some weird guy named Robert Downey Jr. getting college yuks around some strange-hot girl called Uma Thurman and we're hungry and we want pizza and
"Mr. Liu!"
"Mr. Liu!"
"What the hell are you doing here, Mr. Liu?" Fab shouldn't swear like that. His home is Catholic.
"Hi boys!" Mr. Liu's not wearing either of his two uniforms: blue stained coveralls; jeans and plaid shirt rolled up at the elbows. He's wearing a decidedly uncustodian windbreaker.
"Why are you here?" asks Nick.
"I was in neighbourhood," says Mr. Liu.
"Do you live around us?" I ask.
"No no no no no..."
"Then why are you here?"
"You boys order pizza, yes?" Mr. Liu says with an effortful grin.
"Why are you delivering pizza?" squeaks Fab. "Are you poor?"
Mr. Liu licks his lips. "Hahaha! I just helping out friend." He chuckles again.

CHECK

2010-04-19T19:20:00.002-04:00

The most satisfying thing is crossing off a task from your oppressive checklist.

You agree with me.

Yes you do.

OOF

2010-04-07T03:44:00.001-04:00

This is fucking ridiculous. More and more I'm making sounds when I sit. It used to be "oof!". Now it's "uerghh..." with my hands on my lap as I bend at the waist.

This is age.

The first time I went "oof!" I was eighteen.

THERE

2010-04-02T03:53:00.000-04:00

YUKI: Right?

DAVINDER: Mh.

YUKI: Mh-hm.

DAVINDER: Right.

YUKI: Yes.

DAVINDER: ...Oh.

YUKI: Wherever you're not, the girls are hotter.

SPORT

2010-04-01T05:04:00.009-04:00

I fucking love sports. My childhood was an active one involving hockey in the alley, biking to suburbs to visit comic shops, jumping under bridges to hang out with freight trains. Physical activity was our culture, my pals' and mine, as we curved our plastic hockey blades over the stove, ordered parts from Ohio so we could custom-build our BMXs, befriended hobos and heroin addicts as we shouted over the rumble of Burlington-Northerns. I was a Junior Canucks Fan Club member -- the pennant that I got signed by Trevor Linden at a Safeway was pinned above my bed next to a poster of Kirk McLean, Patrick Roy, Ed Belfour, Andy Moog. I used to read stats everyday and I could tell you that Cam Neely weighed 185 and scored 51 goals in 1990-91. The climax of my sporting came around 1991 when I wrestled for gold, with a denouement in 1994 when I strolled Robson with my Pentax ME Super and fellow hooligans during the Stanley Cup riots. I seriously thought Canucks woulda got it. Besides near-daily jaunts in the train yards and the odd single windmill when I wanted to be a b-boy pretty hardcore, my physical activity stopped. I was learning that I suck at sports and have no business being near balls or sweat.

I became a snob. For the next ten years, if it wasn't written by Mamet or sprayed with a New York fat cap or directed by Bergman or produced by DJ Premier or riffed by Sleater-Kinney or theremined by Stereolab, I ain't havin' it. Fuck sports.

Then I got stressed out in 2004. I dunno how serious it was but I didn't wanna leave my crib. Being around people made me feel uncomfortable and all of a sudden I'd get way too warm and I'd start focusing on my breathing way too much. I felt like passing out and fixated on the horror of passing out in public which made me want to pass out even more. Thanks to Dr. Internet I figured out I was attacked by anxiety and blah blah and who fucking cares, it's the past. The point is, the Olympics were on.

It was summer in Athens just like it was summer in my living room. While people were outside doing fun things like walking, standing, whatever outside, I was happily sitting in my teak-legged armchair watching Olympics and breathing properly. If I was gonna pass out, no one was gonna see. And I never did pass out. I never felt anxiety creeping its nails around my throat. How could I when the only thing that mattered in any given moment was how far that discus was thrown, how high she would leap. It didn't matter that my student loans were evaporating and my relationship was breaking the fuck up. All that matters is-- Look: That javelin went really far. Everything is so simple.

I was soothed.

Now it's 2010 and I'm too busy to give a fuck about anxiety. But I still get stressed. Don't you? Go watch some sports. That is the answer. Since 2004 I've learned to love sports again. I've watched hours hours hours hours of play-off hockey with Owen at a bar and Jamie in a yard and Morgan in a basement. I've watched every Olympics since 2004 obsessively, to the point of repeat broadcasts at 3AM. Me + Jamie + The Embassy + beer + pints + World Cup = 2006 the greatest, mothafucka. That year was mad stress for me too, 2006, and three things helped me through: homeboys, booze, sports. Listen, I have nothing to do with sports. Whether Brazil slays Argentina or Crosby scores or China wins gold, no matter how much I get caught up in it, it means nothing to my professional life. Sports mean nothing to my career. And that is why I watch sports. I'm not thinking about my next gig or the deadline on a draft or when I'm gonna direct a fucking film again. I'm not analysing mise-en-scene and editing and lighting and narrative and actors' beat changes, which I do with every frame of film and moment of staging that I watch, and watching film and theatre exhausts me... All that matters is-- Hey: He scored.

I learn more from athletes than I do artists. Luongo is one of the best goaltenders around but he still has bad games. It's okay, he'll get up and play again in two days. Kim Yu-Na is poised and ready to skate, and the few seconds she is in tableau, underneath her fixed smile is a focus that we'd kill to have while waiting in the wings or waiting for action to be called. Elite athletes work their whole lives towards a singular goal, a single trophy; they require time and nurture and their triumph can only come after failures. Olympic athletes are the best and they compete amongst the best, perform at the best. Excellence requires discipline. If only artists were as serious about their craft as athletes are about their sport. Some are, yes.

I watch sports because athletes teach me what it means to be a champion. The simple and sincere joy of throwing that discus farthest is the result of one thing: hard work.

SPORTS

2010-02-16T01:33:00.016-05:00

Naw, I'm not traumatised from being picked 13th from a class of 26 kids when it was time to play Grade Five soccer. Sometimes I'd be picked 8th, sometimes 19th. Never 2nd or 3rd. I really don't give a fuck about my childhood of athletic mediocrity. But this whole choosing-teams thing is what led me towards wrestling and maybe hitting a tennis ball now and then: I'm not a team player when it comes to sports. I don't want to be responsible for my team losing in sports. My answer is to not play sports.

You know what's trauma? The kids who were picked after me. The pool dwindles and the candidates deteriorate from Biggest Jock to Semi-Potent to Flaccid n' Forgettable. Each kid that gets picked before you is another dagger in your self-esteem. As the pack of Unchosen and Unwanted thins out -- and you're still in that pack -- your anxiety quickly becomes desperation. Whenever I got picked, I never felt proud. I felt relieved.

Think about the remaining handful of rejects. Think about the final two. It becomes a competition about who doesn't suck absolutely the hardest. There's always a pause when it's the final two. The captains are judging carefully: Who sucks less, who blows hardest? They would rather not pick either of the Two Uselesses but they have to because this is elementary school and we teach fair play and all young students should participate in sports and be treated with equal respect and nurture. And so one kid is picked second-last, albeit begrudgingly. But PHEW! At least that kid wasn't picked absolutely last because the absolutely last kid will be picked by default, super-begrudgingly, and must super suck fat cocks in sports, obviously. I have a twenty-year-old memory of one captain rolling his eyes and complaining when he found himself stuck with the absolutely last kid who happened to be pale, bespectacled, and Malaysian. She was always always picked last last. She was very quiet in class. And that's why she was forced to take phys ed: Sports build confidence, you see.

Anyways, I'm not bitter or anything 'cause I was never picked absolutely last. But I've learned that sports fucking suck unless:

1. I am watching others play.
2. I am watching someone good play.
3. You are good at sports.

I ride my bicycle everywhere, I walk everywhere, I miss swimming. I think I'm pretty fit and I'm surprisingly agile at the age of no-longer-twenties. I'm spry. But no, I don't want to be on your team unless we're gonna make a film or put on a play.

The point of all this is, hey!, I've got a great fucking idea that you should start using 'cause it's fucking goods: When we have two teams, let's distinguish them as Team 1 vs. Team A.

MICKEY

2010-02-09T12:59:00.001-05:00

Mr. Guraliuk taught us in 1995 to spell "renaissance" to the tune of "Mickey Mouse". I still do.

CARIBBEAN

2010-02-02T18:33:00.001-05:00

The way to spell Caribbean is to think about a Carib bean.

STRONG

2010-01-12T03:47:00.007-05:00

"She's a strong actor."

That is an excellent compliment. When we call someone's ability strong, we are suggesting that we ourselves are equipped to assess -- we have knowledge in the matter and our comment is not naive: We are actors, we know acting, and we are qualified to say she is a strong actor. To call someone's ability strong suggests we are peers, that we have as much confidence in the person as we do in ourselves. No need for status games, let us be frank: You do some thing, I do the same thing as you, let us assess ourselves as equals... and I assess that you are strong. We have seen hundreds of performances -- or have painted dozens of canvasses, read hundreds of poems, played thousands of chords -- so we know how things fit in the broad context. To call someone's ability strong means we are exercising fair judgement. "Meryl Streep is the greatest actor ever!" Perhaps. Some might say Elizabeth Taylor. Some might say Eleonora Duse. Some might say the woman who acts in Burmese theatre and is known only in Rangoon. To say someone is the greatest is arguable. To say someone is strong is convincing. It is an opinion that lacks passion and emotion, that instead engages reason and consideration. To say someone is strong is to give them a sound, sturdy compliment that is fashioned from intellect, not blurted by the heart. In fact, it is not so much a compliment as it is a positive assessment. How bland, then:

"You gave a strong performance."

How middling. Perhaps. But no. To call someone strong does not take away from the compliment, but rather adds credence to the gesture, honesty to the intention. It is more sincere than "amazing".

"You were amazing!" someone tells you. And you reply, "Thank you," with downcast eyes to suggest modesty when in fact your eyes have turned inward with doubt to ask yourself, frightfully, "Was I really?"

But: "You were strong," someone tells you. And you can reply, "Thank you. I won't argue."

ORGANISE

2010-01-07T16:06:00.007-05:00

I returned from Vancouver two days ago and my guts are in knots. I'm overwhelmed by the amount of work I have and work-related news that isn't all favourable. Some sleep should help relax the nooses around my innards, but for an insomniac who is too stressed to snooze and whose jet lag has been complicated by a two-week bender of drinking with pals until 5.34AM at both Pacific and Eastern Standard Times, I am so dazed that I hardly know what's going on tomorrow. Or tonight. I don't even know when my next meal is. I wouldn't call it poor planning, this whole five-simultaneous-projects and unfavourable-news thing. Many of these events were unexpected, ~~unplanable~~ unplannable (whatever, it's not even a word). I'm horrible with unplanned events. Many friends -- wonderful hearts, all of them -- invite me to lunch with two hours notice... Ain't gonna happen. If someone asks me to commit to an event on the fly, my answer is always, "Let me check my book...".

My book. Some call theirs an organiser. Some call theirs an organizer. Some call theirs a Day Timer. I call mine "my book-organiser thing" or "my schedule". I don't have a proper name for it because it is many things. It is a diary of activity in pithy notations, volumes which I have collected since 1994. It is familiarity -- I only use Preference Collection, three-hole punched, ivory paper. It is aspiration -- I mark objectives for three days later to three years hence. It is documentation of penmanship -- from the tag-like scribbles of a fifteen-year-old to the tiny and meticulous printing of a man who has been alive in five decades. I was born in the '70s. It is an analogy of my attitude, as I evolved from exuberant teen who would schedule "No school today: CHILL!" to maturing adult who seeks Nordic austerity and simplicity: "Write Draft Three". It is a pillow whose brown faux-leather was regularly smeared by my cheek during innumerable university lectures, and was upgraded in 2001 to real leather and real black. When I was young, it could be brown. Now, it must be black. I refuse any colour. My book-organiser thing has grown with me; it used to feature a picture of Uma Thurman in the front vinyl pocket, and now it features a picture of... nothing. There is no picture. There is no vinyl pocket. It is serious.

It need not be said that I refuse to use a digital device of any kind to sort out my days. It need not be said that when travelling I protect my book with its own fabric satchel.

I guess I just said those.

The overwhelming. During this period of unexpected, unbearable busyness, I have only one friend to talk to: my book. We speak in writing. I tell it tasks and it replies, "Yes." I say Monday and it says, "No, look again. Tuesday." Currently my book is hardly touched because the year has just begun; I haven't scheduled anything and I just got back from fifteen days of drinking and I deserved that vacation and I have to write a draft of this play and a draft of that play and a draft of the other play and I'm attending auditions tonight and now I've got an audition tomorrow and I've gotta finish some designs and I must see every play in this festival starting now and what's up with the bad news about [something] and I can't sleep and didn't I just get off the plane? I told that to my book and it replied, "Tonight: Attend auditions. Buy soap, shaving cream, deodorant. Eat. Work on audition. Sleep. Tomorrow: Audition. Finish designs." My book patted my head and continued, "Begin draft January 11. Finish draft January 24. Begin other draft February 1. Finish other draft February 28. You'll be fine."

In our final year of film school, Adam and I were discussing the overwhelming. We remarked how for the next three months, every minute of our lives would be accounted for. Every minute of rewriting, every minute of storyboarding, every minute of dinner, every minute rinsing in the shower, every minute of crashing/sleeping had to be scheduled. During that year, as with every year, I survived only because I had my book. It makes things manageable, life bearable. It makes sense.

Tell a fetus:

You will come out feet first.
You will have nine fingers.
You will piss your pants during the field trip to the rodeo.
You will be humiliated about your hands and your acne.
You will be ugly.
You will consider surgery.
You will not start dating until you're twenty-six.
You will get a scholarship.
You will become comfortable about your hands.
Your acne will scar.
You will go to university in Europe.
You will go on your first date in Vienna when you're getting your Master's and you're twenty-six.
You will decide you don't love musical composition after all.
You will open a used bookstore in Montana.
You will meet someone in Jakarta.
You will marry her in Copenhagen.
You will have two daughters with your wife.
One daughter is ugly.
The other is selfish.
You will have an affair with a South Korean lesbian.
You will divorce your wife because she is religious
Among other things
And you thought it wouldn't be a problem at first but now...
And you had an affair.
You will return to Vienna and work as an usher at the opera house.
One daughter tells you she is homosexual.
The other hates you.
You will marry another woman ten years older than you.
She plays cello.
She will tell you to reconcile with your daughter
Not the lesbian because that was never a problem.
You will meet that daughter in Cairo.
She will forgive you
And embrace you with her nine fingers.
You will return to Vienna.
Your wife will tell you she has stopped procrastinating
And has visited the doctor
And has Alzheimer's.
You will watch her forget you.
You will place her in a home, against your wishes.
You want to take care of her
But you have prostate cancer.
She will die.
You will move to Kelowna
To be near your daughter and her wife and their son.
You will be sicker.
You will die with tubes up your nose
While listening to Wagner
Because your daughter forgot the Brahms.
Many of these events will be worse than expected.
Many of these events will be better than expected.

...and that fetus will be overwhelmed. But give that young thing an organiser or an organizer and it will be told: "Don't worry. You'll have eighty-three years to do all that. You won't have to start your Master's until you're twenty-four. You won't have to divorce until October. You won't have to reconcile until Friday. It's okay. You're all good."

NASIR

2010-01-06T19:24:00.007-05:00

I remember staying up to watch Arsenio. It was one of Snoop's earliest appearances, when his middle name was Doggy, last name Dogg. He was wearing a Toronto Maple Leafs sweater maybe. Yeah it was. It was blue. He was eighteen nineteen. Shy. Quiet. Doggystyle had yet to be dropped. Or maybe it had just dropped. I don't remember the details but I don't need to check my facts because the details don't matter, it's the memory as a whole that moves me. Yes, he was bashful. I probably taped that show too.

I remember watching Outbreak in the theatre and there's this guy. He's in the movie quite a bit but there's this one scene where he's operating. He's a doctor. There's an outbreak -- obviously -- and the patient's got it. The guy, the doctor, he's cutting flesh and slices into his own, through his glove and into his finger. Pause. Close-up on his eyes. He continues operating. Who the fuck is this guy, I gotta stay for the credits find out who this motherfucker is, it's a guy named Kevin Spacey.

I remember a photo in The Source. It's Tupac and someone else. I can't remember that someone else even though his name was in the caption: "Tupac and [someone] at [somewhere]. Photo credit: [another someone]." That someone was important enough to be chilling with Tupac all smiles and important enough to have that moment documented and be named in the rag, but I'm not talking about him. I'm not even talking about Tupac. I'm talking about that fucking pudgy dude in the background, a pedestrian who looked into the lens upon the instant of flash. I don't think his walking into the frame was an accident. 'Cause there's Tupac all smiles and behind him is pudgy dude scowling, maybe at Tupac, lurking around the rap show hoping someone will give him a listen. Hungry and anonymous. Soon we would know him by two names: Biggie Smalls and Notorious B.I.G..

I remember watching Boogie Nights in the theatre and there's this guy. He breathes through his mouth while lifting the porno boom and he's pudgy. The movie's not about him, not at all. But I could watch him grasp that mic, wheeze like a pug, be rotund and shove his tongue down Mark Wahlberg's mouth for hours. Here come the credits. Who is this fucking guy Philip Seymour Hoffman?

I remember a photo in The Source. This kid, he's reclining on his dingy bed in his sparse bedroom in his mother's apartment in Queensbridge. It's his apartment too, I guess, 'cause he was still living at home. I think. I don't remember the details. But I do remember everything looked poor. The kid was poor. He looked at once both humble and hopeful. He'd just dropped an album called Illmatic and his name's Nasir Jones, and now he's known as Nasty Nas and then, well...

DRAWING

2009-12-18T13:23:00.003-05:00

Womanmanmules
Ink on board
20 x 15 ins.

DRAWING

2009-12-17T17:45:00.001-05:00

Men and Donkeys
Ink on board
20 x 15 ins.

DRAWING

2009-12-16T21:29:00.002-05:00

Women and Horses
Ink on board
20 x 15 ins.

AWARE

2009-12-12T13:35:00.003-05:00

You see her stuffing her thin arms into the sleeves of her red woollen cardigan, and she is across the inlet. She shouts "I'll come over soon" but you hear "It will be over soon." She comes near and you smell the Gauloises in her hair. You warm her cheek with the back of your left hand as she grasps your right. Her Revlon lips taste like plastic, her tongue nicotine and spearmint.

AWARENESS

2009-12-11T12:29:00.003-05:00

The proximity of sense. To observe danger from afar to experience from within. The farthest distance to the nearest detail. The order of awareness. The distance of intimacy:

Sight
Sound
Smell
Touch
Taste

The ones to go, first to last; the ones to remain, last to first:

Sight
Sound
Smell
Touch
Taste

GRUMP

2009-12-07T18:12:00.002-05:00

I wear my sunglasses during the dark night for the following reasons:

1. I like to.
2. They are prescription, and if I've been out all day, and day fades into night, my sunglasses usually, magically, remain stuck to my face.
3. Fuck off.

All you strangers who pass me by and mutter Corey Hart, I am tired of you.

'

2009-11-06T10:45:00.006-05:00

Perhaps it was the messages on the road to look right and look left, or refusing to carry maps because she couldn't read them, or avoiding the Tube if Norman wasn't with her because how the hell would she know where to go and who the hell is she going to ask, or spending the past week in Shropshire in close communion with a dozen English speakers, or having taken a day trip to Aberystwyth where her son had exhausted his meagre capacity to translate between Kathy, himself, his father, his mother between Cantonese, English, and three words of Welsh, or finding Chinatown today where she could finally speak without effort, whatever it was that inspired grammatical clarity, at that moment, the mother used an apostrophe superbly.

HUÎTRES

2009-11-04T12:11:00.003-05:00

DÉJEUNER

2009-11-03T10:48:00.004-05:00

Two hours to eat lunch in France? Are you fucking with me? Who is fucking with me?

That's incredible. That's my kinda pace. I never once felt rushed while eating in France, at both restaurants and friends' homes. Those of you who grumble mutter when dining with me 'cause I take fucking fore-e-e-v-e-e-r to eat a-a-anythi-i-i-ing*, consider it my gastronomic ballad to the French. They do it right.

* I can make a Kit-Kat last a month.

SCHWARZE

2009-10-31T22:44:00.013-04:00

"Here is lemon." She placed a fresh half-lemon in front of me as she set down my coffee, which I didn't understand, but then, this was my first time in Germany. I put stupendous amounts of sugar and copious amounts of cream in my coffee, but never a single pulp of lemon. I frowned puzzled. She grasped the lemon hemisphere and dribbled a trail around my wooden bench table, the path of citrus encircling my bowl of muesli and yogurt. "...And if the bees still don't stay away, just...," she dripped sour onto the furry back of a nibbling bee, "like that."

The portions were huge. My mound of muesli alone would have been enough to smoothe this hangover from a 7AM-night of no food and much, much weissbier. Maybe I shouldn't have ordered a saucer of sausage, cheese, bread, fruit and salad. And an egg. More for the bees, perhaps. They must have felt invited, the way they honed in on my berries. If they knew they weren't welcome, they didn't care, the way they attacked my little packet of honey. The bees were crashing my Berlin brunch by the dozen and I was armed with half a lemon. I dotted my table with more juice and they walked over the drops like I do rain puddles. I dripped their backs and they didn't mind. More bee comrades arrived at the party zzzzzing across my face. I swatted. "No, don't swat. Waft." My bandana-pigtailed server undulated her arm. "Or drip."

I didn't want to drip. These German bees had grown accustomed to the lemon and dripping them was fruitless. I glanced at the other diners savouring this gorgeous August noon in the shade on Choriner Strasse; their conversations flowed uninterruped by bees. Some squeezed lemon nonchalantly, others wafted at the insects gently, as if drawing up the aroma of delicious goulash. I noticed these Berliners had learned how to enjoy their food in the company of friends and bees: by accepting them. And so too would I. I also noticed every woman pushing a baby carriage in Mitte was hardly twenty-five.

I accepted the bees. Moreover, I befriended them. There was no need for six of them to cram themselves together, yellow-black butts throbbing, suckling at the teat that was a packet of honey open a sliver, no. My muesli was honeyed enough, so the rest shall be for bees. Let me help. I tilted the packet to spill forth a golden pool. More bees arrived. I accidentally dowsed one. His wings were syrupy. He tried to cross the glossy pond but one leg was deep in the stickiness. Then two legs. Then all six. He tried to beat his wings but nothing. Every step he'd take would be followed by a stumble. He was drowning in honey. I approached him with the prong of a fork to scoop him out, but his languid thrashing enveloped him in more thickness. I dripped on him, not with juice but water. A wing sprouted away from his abdomen. I dripped more water and the free wing sagged from the drenching. How could I help the guy? First I tried to feed him, then I tried to clean him, yet I had done nothing good. I was concerned for him; I am not a bee murderer. His cleansed wing then vibrated and I rejoiced privately, tentatively. He was still mired in sweet muck, advancing sluggishly, each step a labour. He tried to stay upright as a topple to the side would be execution. I would have poured more water on him but he needed his wing dry. A step. A step. Vibration. A step. He was free. Six minutes to cross two inches of honey.

He was out of the swamp but still in a bad way. One wing was adhered to his body and he was toppled unto himself, a clump of viscous insect. His comrades nibbled at his saccharine limbs, mandibles munching on the fallen friend, freeing him from his coat of honey. But were they helping? The exhausted bee struggled across the wooden table, fleeing from the others as they ravaged his body. They stopped cleansing him, stopped eating off him, allowed him to escape. Was he banished? Was he now deemed too weak to serve the community, a liability? He was not dead but merely covered in honey -- surely his comrades would understand the folly and forgive him, no? If you give him a chance, he will fly. But the bees took no interest in him, only in the berries upon my yogurt and the puddle of honey inches away from my sausages. The unfortunate bee stopped at the edge of the bench. He was less sticky, but he was ostracised. Then he fell.

At this point I knew water was in order. I dribbled onto the concrete where he had fallen three feet yet remained upright and alive. I believed I was replicating rain, and bees know how to deal with rain, yes? He freed his adhered wing, which soon vibrated. Where his legs had been bound, the drops of water now provided him with six distinct, separate legs. He crawled with renewed ease to the plaster exterior of Schwarze Pumpe and climbed the side of the café. I returned with relief to my coffee and flaccid half-lemon. Ate some sausage. Ate some cheese. A mighty spoonful of muesli. Two twenty-three-year-old mothers gossiped while pushing perambulators. I looked at the plaster and the bee had gone.

KATZELMACHER

2009-09-30T01:48:00.002-04:00

Katzelmacher (1969)
Dir: Rainer Werner Fassbinder
West Germany

HAUPTBAHNHOF

2009-09-20T18:36:00.005-04:00

I almost caused a bomb scare in Berlin. I was mad hungry at Berlin Hauptbahnhof, waiting for my train to Amsterdam. My duffle bag weighed as much as five toddlers and the food joints were down the stairs. I also needed cash. The ATM was also down the stairs. I set my duffle on the platform and scurried to the floor below. I guess I didn't need to rush after all 'cause the guy ahead of me in the queue seemed to be consulting the ATM for mortgage advice. Or something. After a good five minutes of impatient huffing I finally got my chance to stuff some Euros in my money clip. I bought some food at LE CROBAG, which has a croissant in the logo but I didn't get a croissant.

Up the stairs. I recognised the back of the large female Hbf employee whose name tag read C. Wirtz and who had helped me earlier: "Ja, Platform 13 to Amsterdam." Now she was talking into a cell phone and still wearing her nifty cap. She was staring at the ground, a large perimeter of passengers' feet keeping clear of the area where her gaze fell. I walked straight into the middle. She hung up. "Is that your bag?"
"Yeah," I panted.
"You can't leave your bag!"
Um...
She thrust her head at me and exploded her arms, "It could be a BOMB!"
Shit. She's allowed to say that out loud?
"But my bag is so heavy and I am so hungry..."
"I called the police."
Shit. I showed her my LE CROBAG bag of packaged salad that had corn niblets nestled between tomato chunks.
"You can't leave your bag."
"Sorry. Danke," I pleaded. She walked away, leaving me alone with my duffle and the disdain from a horde of Germans tsk-tsking at the strange Chinese kid who speaks North American. I'm glad I was wearing my sunglasses. I heaved my sack over my shoulder with an exaggerated oof! to let them know I wasn't playing around when it came to heavy duffles. I trudged down Platform 13, down down down, far far far from them all. At least I'd managed to get my salad for the ride, and it had corn.

The Hbf woman approached me on her surveillance beat. She gave me a pursed smile and wagged her finger. I smirked back, sheepish and foreign. Her name was probably Claudia.

PONG

2009-09-07T22:46:00.009-04:00

[Words in bold are in English. Everything else is Cantonese.]

My mom is a ping-pong champion.

ME: Mom, in Berlin they got ping-pong tables in the park. You just bring your own balls and paddles.

MOM: We have that all over China.

ME: I never seen that in Canada.

MOM: The tables are concrete.

ME: Yeah, that's what I saw in Berlin. How do you say "Berlin"?

MOM: Berlin.

ME: What?

MOM: Berlin.

ME: Berlin.

MOM: It's the city that was divided...

ME: Yeah...

MOM: East... West...

ME: Yeah.

MOM: ...the Wall came down...

ME: ...Twenty years ago.

MOM: Now it's all West.

She means non-Communist.

ME: The city feels new, all the buildings... new. During the war--

MOM: Yes.

ME: During the war it got flattened. The British... how do you say "bombed"?...

MOM: Bombed.

ME: Seventy percent.

MOM: [scowling] The British are the worst with that...

ME: Mmh...

MOM: Look at New Zealand, Australia, Hong Kong... all these places they forced themselves on...

She sips her soup.

ME: India.

MOM: India.

I eat some noodles.

MOM: You just wait. Soon China will be on top.

STRAAT

2009-09-06T13:01:00.004-04:00

Sex was slowing down on Monday 2.03AM in the RLD. I wanted to bid adieu to Amsterdam with swan song seedy exploration, but the windows had grown tiresome and every shop boasting Flesh Lights was rolling down riot screens. Even the peep shows were blocked off for their bleaching. So I said, "Fuck this sex stuff, I'd rather eat."

I went to Kebab House of Halal Food. Man that salad tasted great.

PANNEKOEK

2009-09-05T16:02:00.003-04:00

The Dutch are the tallest people in the world. After stuffing myself with 3/4 of a pannekoek for brunch in Amsterdam, where I wanted to order a glass of milk but forgot, I had to use the urinal on tip-toe.

SASKIA

2009-09-03T13:34:00.003-04:00

They were Chinese dudes, probably. Asian some-sort. Five of them clustered on the slick cobble of a wet night under Amsterdam's red lights. American maybe. Maybe Canadian. The accent.

"...So how long did it last?" said one.

"Ten minutes," said the tallest.

"TEN MINUTES!?"

Pause.

"That's how long I paid for."

Pause.

"...So what else happened?"

10W-40

2009-07-27T22:56:00.005-04:00

I sell brake pads for Ford F-150s and tires for Toyota Corollas. Naw, you'll want 10W-40, not 10W-30 'cause the... uh... viscosity something um. Trust me. I have a computer that tells me these things. I got WHMIS.

At our training session the mechanic -- who looks like a Tamil Wheels (Degrassi, Jesus...) -- tells us to treat the battery lovingly, and don't connect this connector to that connector or the battery will lose its charge "dramastically".

It's 1996 and I'll be graduating high school this year, what. I've got a job at Canadian Tire, word. I've got a job selling you auto parts. At the end of the night, if you peep me while I'm restocking shelves with motor oil, you'll see me I'm in the stock room curling boxes of 10W-40 as I carry them out to the floor. At least 20 pounds, those boxes. At least 10 reps. I've got a mad crush on this cutie from another school and she likes biceps.

Me. Selling YOU. Auto parts.

CHOKE

2009-07-15T12:52:00.007-04:00

Naw, it's gotta go, man. It's just not cool anymore. It hasn't been cool in mad long. That whole I'm gonna drink this drink and you're gonna say something shocking and I'm gonna choke and/or geyser it outta my mouth onto your face like a spritzer... and the audience is gonna laugh... Naw man, it's gotta go. Like in (500) Days of Summer, when Zooey Deschanel says she was known as "Anal Girl", and guy next to her chokes on his Long Island iced tea or whatever... tasty lemonade or whatever... I didn't laugh. Shit's supposed to be funny but it's played out. Cliché. Look, no one chokes when in mid-drink, no matter how shocking the news. You know what you do when you're sipping Snapple and someone says, "'Sup, I'm Anal Girl"? You stop sipping. You pause. Process the information. Proceed. Not spit up, you baby. That joke ain't funny anymore. Stop it. Jack Tripper mastered that joke in 1982 and no one does food gags better than Jack Tripper. It went to comedy heaven with him.

WAFERS

2009-05-28T02:35:00.011-04:00

I don't remember his name but he was a good ol' Canadian kid with lots of Richard Scarry books and lived on William Street with his good ol' white family. Anglo-Saxon. Maybe Protestant. He was an early friend and maybe his name was Chris. That's a good name for someone like him. He knew me as Norman, which of course is my name but I'm also Lup-Man. Four years before I met him, I was pooping my cloth diapers in a village in China. I met him in kindergarten.

Chris was having a birthday party, the first birthday party that I'd ever been invited to. What is this "birthday party"? What do we do? "Mom, my friend up the block is having a 'birthday party' and I think I'm supposed to give him something."

"That's nice. What are we supposed to give?"

"I dunno, but it's gotta be soon. The party is now."

"Oh. Well..." My mom searched the kitchen cupboards. I guess we could have given him fruit, but that'd be the bummest gift of all bum gifts. I guess we could have given him money in a red envelope but he wouldn't understand, and besides, we didn't have money to give. "You can give him this," my mom beamed triumphantly as she pulled a package of wafers from the top shelf. "They're very good." It was Garden brand. It was strawberry. It was unopened.

My mom escorted me up the block as I clutched the wafers at my chest, wrapped in a plastic bag with the slogans of an herb store in Chinatown. Not even wrapped, just... bundled.

As we walked up the steps the shrieking of jubilant five-year-olds got louder. I knocked, the door opened, and the squeals were intense. Chris's mom greeted us with a smile, "Are you Norman?"

"Uh-huh. We're here for the 'birthday party'. This is my mom."

"Hello!" my mom said in the broken English she had just learned.

I held out the crinkly package proudly, with both hands. "This is for Chris."

"Oh!" the mom said with modest, if not fake, surprise. "Chris! Your friend is here!" Chris came bounding to the door, his head sweaty. "Norman and his mom brought you a gift!"

"What is it what'd you get me?" he panted. He unravelled the bag -- the easiest unwrapping he'd performed -- and pulled out the treat.

"Ooh, cookies!" his mom chimed. Chris dumped the wafers back into the bag, handed it to his mom, and ran back into the house to join the squealing. "Thank you," she said politely.

SCOUNDREL

2009-05-27T02:49:00.001-04:00

At fifteen he is mischievous.

In his twenties he is an asshole.

In his thirties he is spiteful.

In his forties he is malicious.

In his fifties he has no friends.

In his sixties he is regretful.

In his seventies he is forgiven or murdered.

The murder may happen earlier.

EAT

2009-05-26T01:34:00.005-04:00

Just so you know, I can out-eat almost anyone.

...And you can quote me on that, but do mind your syntax, you saucy buggers.

LIP

2009-05-25T00:44:00.001-04:00

...something mundane, like, "What happened to your lip? There's blood. Did you cut yourself? Did you get-- You didn't get hit, did you?" And all it is is that you yawned mightily while your lips were dry.

NEWS

2009-05-24T19:20:00.004-04:00

The bad news: Complacency kills ambition.

The good news: Ambition kills complacency.

CAPRICE

2009-05-19T13:55:00.003-04:00

The radio-show debate is about whether or not a certain rapper is still relevant.

When we call someone irrelevant we are not saying he is no longer important -- we are saying he no longer matters. His very existence is not necessary to us, currently. He is ineffective.

How fickle of us.

To be deemed irrelevant is to be damned.

FLIES

2009-05-15T01:03:00.009-04:00

It is spring and warm. Tiny flies have returned. They provide me company and annoy me from darkness to sun's peeking. Those that are alive dash themselves into my lamp, their bodies tapping against the paper shade like the slightest hail against skylight. Those that are dead cluster themselves in piles in every crevice by the bulb. Those that are between death and life writhe, wings quivering wavering with the gentle sway of bonito flakes on rice. They'll be dead soon. While their legs twitch their last twitches they are in ecstasy. The incandescent bulb is their heroin their coke their Gauloises their absinthe their music. Dying from what they lived for. Knowing the light will kill them. Spasms of passion. Purposeful end. Happily dead. I should get a screen for my window.

REDREAM

2009-05-14T00:05:00.006-04:00

A LIST OF WHAT WILL NEVER HAPPEN - Draft 1
A black prime minister of Canada.
A woman prime minister of Canada.
An openly gay prime minister of Canada.
An atheist prime minister of Canada.
A Jew prime minister of Canada.
A Muslim prime minister of Canada.
A Chinese prime minister of Canada.
An aboriginal prime minister of Canada.
An immigrant prime minister of Canada.
A disabled prime minister of Canada.
A left-Left prime minister of Canada.
A hockey legend prime minister of Canada.
An intellectual celebrity prime minister of Canada.
A caribou prime minister of Canada.
Another Trudeau.

A LIST OF WHAT WILL NEVER HAPPEN - Draft 2
A black prime minister of Canada.
An openly gay prime minister of Canada.
A Jew prime minister of Canada.
A Muslim prime minister of Canada.
A Chinese prime minister of Canada.
An aboriginal prime minister of Canada.
An immigrant prime minister of Canada.
A left-Left prime minister of Canada.
A hockey legend prime minister of Canada.
Another Trudeau.

A LIST OF WHAT WILL NEVER HAPPEN - Draft 3
A left-Left prime minister of Canada.

A LIST OF WHAT WILL NEVER HAPPEN - Final Draft

UNDREAM

2009-05-13T17:42:00.006-04:00

A LIST OF WHAT WILL NEVER HAPPEN - Draft 1
A black president of America.
A woman president of America.
An openly gay president of America.
An atheist president of America.
A Jew president of America.
A Chinese president of America.
A dog president of America.
A disabled president of America.

A LIST OF WHAT WILL NEVER HAPPEN - Draft 2
A woman president of America.
An openly gay president of America.
A Jew president of America.
A Chinese president of America.
A dog president of America.

A LIST OF WHAT WILL NEVER HAPPEN - Final Draft
An openly gay president of America.
An atheist president of America.
A Chinese president of America.
A dog president of America.

PORK

2009-05-09T03:36:00.013-04:00

The thing about racism is that sometimes it's funny. And that's the thing about growing up in the inner city like I did (yes, I officially did, like, civic designation. I'm not just saying that to be hardcore). Sure, the horror about living in the city is that tons of races get mashed together so gangs get formed based on ethnic camaraderie and then all of a sudden you can't wear purple to Metrotown unless you're Latino, and you're gonna look don't-belong in a Lee Storm Rider unless you're Italian Portuguese Greek White, and all of a sudden you're gonna get swarmed 'cause the Chinese and Vietnamese dudes don't fight one-on-one. Remember Asian Youth Gangs? Don't fuck with them. But the beauty about living in the city is that tons of races get mashed together and you become tolerant. You become so sensitive to the minutely detailed, subtly layered, colourfully nuanced, innumerable variations of racism that in fact, you become desensitised. Tough, colourful skin. You learn quickly the fine degrees between what's sincerely offensive and what's merely clowning. Growing up where I did, going to the schools I went, it was easy to not get offended. The thing wasn't about deep-seated hate -- it was about affectionate aggravation.

So Nick called me a chink and Sunny a pun. And Sunny called me a chink and I called him a pun. We didn't know what to call Nick besides Fuck Off. As retaliation we would give each other the beats. Not hardcore beats, just a medium-deft fist to the back and a noogie and "Don't call me chink, you pun!" Then we'd return to Nintendo. We were buddies. But that's the thing: among pals you can be racist 'cause there's an understanding that we're not really racists. It's the way we talk, and it's special. We also knew discretion, and not to call any random guy a chink 'cause you'd get swarmed. Remember Asian Youth Gangs? Selective, affectionate, non-racist racism. That's the thing when you grow up on a block where every household speaks a different language for reals. It was our vernacular.

It wasn't always fair. Nick knew full well that saying "chink" and "pun" in the wrong company would get him shanked, so when he called me and Sunny those flammable names, he'd digress with a point to his Benfica t-shirt and say, "It's okay. Go ahead and call me pork-and-cheese."

WOUNDS

2009-04-28T18:52:00.007-04:00

When we were eight, Stephen-who-was-always-grounded scraped his palm pretty awful. He stuck out his hand to let his Weimaraner lap up the blood and gravel. "It'll heal faster," said Stephen-who-sat-atop-his-wooden-fence-to-chat-with-us-when-grounded. I doubted him but never cared to investigate his medical procedure. I surely never tested his treatment on myself. I didn't really understand Stephen-who-peed-in-a-girl's-mouth sometimes, anyway. Twenty-two years later, as moments ago I pondered the San Jose Sharks losing to the Anaheim Ducks and licking their wounds, I finally get Stephen.

It was consensual and they were kindergarteners, the peeing.

I really like cats. I wish I weren't allergic.

I used to be a hockey fan like really bad.

LA RÈGLE DU JEU

2009-04-26T13:42:00.007-04:00

La règle du jeu (1939)
Dir: Jean Renoir
France

WIMP

2009-04-16T03:28:00.007-04:00

Chinese boys. I see you. Hanging on to your Chinese girlfriends. I walk by an ATM today and there you are, your arm 'round the waist of your girlfriend while she's taking out money. Are you protecting her? You're inside a vestibule. You're the only ones in there. I think she's safe, guy. I turn my head and behind me, as we cross the street, there's another one of you with your arm 'round the waist of your girlfriend. I don't think she needs help crossing the street, guy. She's nineteen. Do you need support? I don't think so: You look healthy. Yo, I seen you latched on to your girlfriend like a knapsack as she's trying to walk, and she's trudging laboured 'cause she's got a 145-pound human attached to her back. She's dragging you. She don't look too pleased. And you? You look like a baby. You are abscess. You are The Weak. You are The Emasculated. That's wrong, guy. You are an almost-adult. In some cases, you are an adult. Take your arm off of her. Let her walk. Let her be.

...Chinese boys...

DRAWING

2009-04-09T00:17:00.004-04:00

Untitled

Printed in Eye Weekly, April 9 - April 15, 2009

POETRY

2009-04-05T12:01:00.006-04:00

Can you create poetry? No. You can only guide a person, suggest some words, present some images, offer a few melodies. That person will tell you if the pieces amount to poetry or if you have merely recommended words, images, melodies, moments, fragments. You can only lead a person to what you hope will be poetic. Poetry is determined by the recipient.

Saying you created poetry is like saying you created an epiphany. That is impossible.

POETRY

2009-04-04T03:44:00.005-04:00

...but I don't mean poetry in the literary sense. I mean communication that transcends the limitations of the medium. Lyricism with the camera, a moment on stage that makes you ache. Seeing the invisible. Listening to images. Speaking what words can not. Marcello Mastroianni shouting to the girl on the beach in the final moments of La Dolce Vita.

That is the poetry for which we can strive.

STRENGTH

2009-04-01T02:24:00.010-04:00

My Speedball pen remains dunked in the jar where Unico olives once nestled. The black water is still, undisturbed, keeping mum the two-week secret that the C6 nib no longer holds ink, encrusted in rust.

Greasy dishes teeter in precarious mismatched stacks, the Lee Kum Kee sauces now impenetrable, some flaking. No clean cutlery. I must reach into the bowels of the drawer to yank out third-string forks, undesireable because of their ostentatious design. I prefer simple. The dishwasher is empty.

Lying on cool tiles gazing at the toilet. On my side. On my back is too many spins. Four glasses of shiraz and three Dos Equis too many.

I tell myself: You've done worse. You've been worse. The dishes will get scrubbed. The nib will get replaced. You will wake up not on the floor, but in your bed. You can sleep in if you want to.

BAR

2009-03-27T01:58:00.001-04:00

Two of my favourite words are "open" and "bar". When used separately those words mean little to me, but when used together they equal magic.

DRAWING

2009-03-19T02:27:00.004-04:00

Untitled
Ink on board
11 x 8.5 ins.

Printed in Eye Weekly, March 19 - March 25, 2009

INDIA

2009-03-12T19:02:00.014-04:00

Dear India,

I love you. I love your culture. I love your people. They have a deep and influential place in my life. I can not, and would not want to, imagine growing up without Indians near and dear to me. My second friend of all time was Daljit. I was four, he was older. We were friends when I lived on William Street in East Vancouver. He lived a block away. We kicked a soccer ball around lots. Daljit had a red pleather jacket with tons of zippers and I was so impressed that he could Beat It. I ate laddu at Daljit's. He was an early buddy. I'm talking '82, '83. At that time, the plot of land next to my house was being built upon by Indian house-builders. They didn't speak English, my mom didn't speak English, and I could hardly speak anything intelligible. My mom made Chinese lunches for them and we would all sit in the sun eating dumplings together, talking in smiles. And then I moved to another neighbourhood in East Vancouver where I became buddies with Sunny. Now, he was a pal. He lived up the alley and if you total up the amount of hours we spent together, we're talking months on end. The trio was me, Sunny, and Nick. Sunny was way ahead of everyone 'cause he had a Commodore 64. He introduced us to California Games and taught us that in order to erase a 5 1/4" floppy disk, you could stomp on it. His grandfather didn't speak English but he welcomed us into his basement workshop where we watched him make gold jewelery. His grandfather served us chai from a pot, so deliciously authentic and untainted by the words "bar" or "ista". We boys would watch Beverly Hills Teens together. Sunny played for us a wicked bhangra tape called Beat the Rap by Dal. He taught us how to say "come here" in Punjabi. Our friendship was based on camaraderie and torment. Nick and I ceaselessly did dumb shit to Sunny, like sneaking up the back stairs to his bathroom window, which was open a crack while he showered, and we'd throw garbage in. One time, Sunny's relatives were visiting and parked their car in the back driveway. The hood ornament was hooked up to the horn to prevent theft, so Nick and I tied super-long twine to the shiny chrome piece, unraveled the twine across the intersection and half a block down our alley, and pulled. Nick and I did way more dumb shit -- both to Sunny and with Sunny -- but if I recounted all that dumb shit I'd be writing more pages than Paradise Lost. My only excuse is that we were young. Sorry, Sunny. You were a great pal. We were pals for years.

I had tons more Indian buddies after Sunny. I had crushes on Indian girls. Up my block are tons of Indian businesses: jewelers, grocery stores, restaurants, clothing shops, video stores. I played pinball under images of Ganesh and a cloud of incense. I was always impressed that the only Vancouverites I'd see wearing traditional clothing were Indians. I grew up among a whirlwind of saris. One of my favourite filmmakers is Satyajit Ray. One of my favourite accents is Indians speaking English. India, I love you.

But you're making my arms go akimbo and I'm grumbling hmmmm... You see, many years ago I started seeing change. When I was watching In Living Color, Martin, Roc, Living Single, and Arsenio in the same season, my adolescent heart cried out, "Yes! The Blacks have made it!" Then I watched House of Buggin' and I was all, "Yes! The Latinos have made it!" Then I watched All-American Girl and I was like, "YES! The Asians have made it!" ...Okay, I might have fudged the details a bit there 'cause Margaret Cho's show aired before John Leguizamo's, but nonetheless, Nielsen ratings and open eyes support my argument: in terms of prevalence in mainstream American and Canadian media, the list goes White, Black, Latino... then maybe Asian. Maybe.

True, that hierarchy might not be so accurate with Canadian media because we don't have the same Hispanic population as America, but since we're fed so much American stuff, I'll work with that list and continue... SO, the Latinos started looking familiar on screens. That is, I stopped noticing that many actors in movies and on T.V. were in fact Hispanic. It's now a non-issue. From my Chinese-North American perspective, the Latinos have made it. Who's next? Asians? Maybe. Maybe I mean East Asians. I'm not so sure anymore.

From unbiased observation, I noticed an East Asian presence sprouting up substantially in the mainstream. Thanks, Lucy Liu and Ming-Na Wen. If East Asians hadn't yet made it in the mid-late-'90s, I could sense those sprouts getting ready to bloom. Now, ten years later, we can add Sandra Oh to that mainstream echelon (all women, but let's talk about that next time), but still, East Asians on screens are not a non-issue. They are noticeable: "Hey, lookit her on screen: She's Chinese." We probably don't say that out loud anymore, but we make note, even if briefly. No, ethnic invisibility is not a mark of making it, but East Asians certainly haven't made it as ubiquitously as the Latinos have. Not yet. I've been waiting... waiting for a Chinese J.Lo... waiting for a Japanese Denzel... waiting for a Korean The Wire... waiting... small... steps... yellow... head... hurting... glass... ceiling...

...and now: INDIA! You're EVERYWHERE! Since when how hmmmm... I don't see a Little Shinto Temple on the Prairie. Where's the Taiwanese Russell Peters? Beijing has slums, some dogs, and plenty of millionaires. Remember "China Rising"? That was the headline across the world everywhere a few years ago. The CBC made a documentary called China Rising. Now it's got one called India Reborn. What gives? We Chinese have been patiently pushing the boulder up the hill, the rise no longer so steep, nearer and nearer the top, and I have a feeling you're already there on lunch break eating the world's biggest democratic roti. We will ask you, "How'd you get here so fast?" And you will reply, "We worked smarter, not harder. We have tech support. Would you like a hand, China? Or should I say... Sisyphus?" India, you're turning me into a big wonton ball of chagrin and I don't want to roll backward.

The lightning had etched it into the sky: China Rising. Thunder was nigh, a boom so mighty to rumble away the giant's slumber. Just as the Middle Kingdom was to wrap up its last R.E.M., the thunder will be reported missing. At that moment, the world will say, "So... What's up with China?" And at that moment, a billionaire IT mogul riding his private Learjet from Beijing to Mumbai -- to check up on his latest pet project blockbuster movie -- before his final destination in Delhi to deliver a powerful package, will whip out his BlackBerry and text to the world: "I've got the thunder." Then he will go vote.

India, I should have seen it coming once you guys reached one billion. Your people at home and abroad make amazing art, film, and theatre. Your authors are incredible. Your music is sublime. I've seen Indians on Coronation Street. You've made it. ...Well, almost. I now see South Asians all the time on American and Canadian mainstream media, but you are as noticeable as East Asians: "Hey, lookit her on screen: She's Indian." It would be a shame for your ethnicity to become invisible, but wouldn't it be nice to have a South Asian Sean Penn -- in America -- and no one remarks that he's brown? No, America does not yet have an Indian In Living Color, but neither does it have a Chinese. We both have to get our House of Buggin' first.

As much as China and you, India, are the world's most popular kids and everyone wants to be our friends, and though our economic thunder is shaking up the globe, we are but mere shouts on American and Canadian screens. We are still only lightning to the western mainstream, our presence comes in flashes, and I am waiting for our rumble.

We are 1/3 of the world. Let's join our billions of hands together, teach each other how to say "superpower" in Hindi and Mandarin. I'll remind myself that it's not a competition. Our cultures are older than hell. We've both been "inconvenienced" by the British. We have similar struggles. In America and Canada, your success is my success. I love you, India. I love your people. You've been a good friend all my life. I shake my head at you not in dismay, but in amazement. How do I say "I am jealous" in Punjabi? Does it sound anything like "I am intimidated" in Urdu?

DEAD MAN

2009-03-09T20:28:00.001-04:00

Dead Man (1995)
Dir: Jim Jarmusch
USA

SMILE

2009-03-08T14:34:00.014-04:00

Fuck you. You piece of shit stain I wish you'd been aborted. :)

But not really. I don't really mean "Fuck you", more like "Dang you!" or "Grrr...You!" And I'm quite happy you were born. Don't get offended. If I'd really meant to hurt you I wouldn't have smiled. "Fuck you. You piece of shit stain I wish you'd been aborted." ...Wow, that looks so mean. Maybe I should put the smiley back in to take the edge off so you'll understand that I'm only mildly annoyed, and my attack was actually meant to be an aw-shucks punch in the arm. Don't you see the irony? Are you getting confused? Maybe I shouldn't have made that statement in the first place.

Yes, that is the answer: Don't say anything unless you mean it. Indeed, adding :) ;) :( :| or :\ colours the statement to clarify our tone, but it's a lazy form of clarity. Emoticons attempt to approximate the nuances of speaking in person, where what we say is finely adjusted by how we say it: "Fuck you" with a wink means something different than "Fuck you" with furrowed brow; we can express that through typing as "Fuck you ;)" or "Fuck you >:|". But really, who wants to read that? Has this pesky phenomenon infiltrated us so deeply that our handwritten letters are a combination of text and drawn happy faces? Oh wait... who writes handwritten letters any more? I fear the day when students riddle their academic papers with :). I fear that that day has already arrived. I urge teachers and editors to reject the use of emoticons in written materials unless that material is casual and on MSN, lest hell run rampant. But really, we've been in hell since we learned to txt how r u 2 each other, and all I can do is LOL. IMHO. We now have a zeitgeist malady known as BlackBerry Thumb, where people's fingers, hands, and necks are aching from too much texting. To combat this ergonomic epidemic we've been advised to forsake proper spelling and use abbreviations. I'd rather break my thumbs.

There was a time when our written communication was more considered, more precise and deliberate. Irony was expressed through careful and artful rhetoric instead of emoticons. We relied on our proficiency with plain speak rather than short-hand trifles. We were less lazy not long ago. We now lack conviction, where we add :) after "I look forward to seeing you" for extra enthusiasm, as if the :) suggests a deeper level of sincerity. Another form of this thin profundity is !!!!!!!!!!, which suggests extra extra extra excitement. Whether it's :) or !!!!!!!!!! the intention is the same: we want the reader to understand that we are excessively thrilled to see them. In practice, the appendages suggest a mistrust between writer and reader; the writer attempts to narrow the risk of misinterpretation and believes the emoticon and abundant punctuation will clarify their attitude. On the other hand, a statement stated simply honours the intelligence of the reader and trusts that interpretation will be accurate. How lovely: "I look forward to seeing you."

As much as the computer has evolved our language, keeping it vital and adaptable, it has also drained our confidence. Word processors have plunged us into a cut-and-paste purgatory, where a final draft is produced only after thousands of strokes of the delete key. When we write with a word processor, we are performing a textual hem-and-haw. Time and effort is wasted as we labour endlessly with on-the-spot revisions. We doubt ourselves. We suffer from indecision. Why? Because we can. We have no risk. Computers have made our actions correctable; we approach tasks with a wish-washy attitude. One analogy of how technology has corrupted our conviction is filmmaking. When we make movies with film, we shoot fewer takes because film is expensive. When we make movies with digital video, we are tempted to shoot innumberable takes because tapes are (generally) cheaper than film. When we use computers for writing, filmmaking, drawing, designing, photographing... we feel less pressure to get it right the first time. Oh, Undo, you are our best friend and best fiend.

The overwhelming majority of the world's great literature -- and horrible literature, too -- was written by hand and pen on paper. Certainly handwritten works also undergo numerous drafts and revisions, but the process of writing by hand -- rather than by word processor -- affords a clarity, an efficiency, a concision that computers have befuddled. Douglas Coupland stated that he enjoys writing by hand because he considers himself lazy, and using a pen requires physical effort. In order to avoid crippling his hand, he would rather write as few words as necessary. This so-called laziness forces his mind to think clearly so that he can write concisely.

Writing by hand means making visible, often indelible marks. There is permanence in writing by hand, which means the stakes are higher. When we write "I didn't mean to offend you :)", the emoticon behaves as a delete key, providing the writer with a safety net so as to really not offend the reader: Here is a smiley-face to delete any remnant of offense in case you are still offended (even though "I didn't mean to offend you" should be clear enough, but y'know, I don't really trust your interpretation of my statement so... here's a smiley-face. Just in case). The same occurs with "Fuck you :)" -- the smiley-face deletes sincerity. Emoticons and computers encourage passive aggressiveness, where we say something impassioned but undermine it (or overcompensate) with superfluous icons and abbreviations. I would rather receive "I love you" than "i luv u".

It's far too easy to send texts and e-mails. The act of communication has become disposable; therefore, our words have become disposable. Moreover, our actions have become disposable. We have become aggressively passive. We lack conviction in our actions and have weakened our determination. I admit that I now socialise with less effort than years ago. When I go to a party, I no longer feel the same pressure as before to make the best impression (whatever that is) or have the fullest conversation (whatever that is) with a person. And if I leave without saying goodbye, or that person leaves before I can say farewell, I am not worried. I can find them on Facebook the next day to say goodbye or hello or punctuate an encounter that was left elliptical. You do it too :(.

TOKYO STORY

2009-02-26T03:24:00.003-05:00

Tokyo Story (1953)
Dir: Yasujiro Ozu
Japan

USAIN

2009-02-14T01:25:00.009-05:00

"She's a force of nature."

That is the ultimate sweeping compliment. What about a person warrants the praise of all praises? Her ability to listen? Her generosity? Her charisma that detonates every one of our senses, like a supernova, when she enters a room and offers a mere smile? When we call someone a force of nature, we cannot determine exactly why we compare her to the very state of being, the very idea of being alive. The statement itself glorifies generality: She is beyond definition. Nothing is greater than nature.

It is easier to understand the statement when we remark on someone's physical excellence. Usain Bolt is a force of nature because he is faster than wind. He is a natural phenomenon like tectonic plates shifting three millimeters beneath our feet, and everything, absolutely everything, must succumb. Perhaps all elite athletes are forces of nature because they are stronger, they are healthier, they are more determined, more indestructible than you and me. Everyone else.

Then what about artists whom we describe as forces of nature? Do we praise them on their corporeal achievements, as if Hemingway's ability to type and Pollock's elbow arc are qualities to celebrate? No. Hemingway's words, Pollock's drips, Gehry's forms, Joni Mitchell's lyrics... The things they make are what awe us like Vancouver's backdrop. And when it is Joni's voice -- certainly a bodily wonder -- that moves us, still, we are celebrating the melodies she makes. Forces of nature who are not athletes elevate that compliment to extreme conceit; James Dean may not run faster than the wind, but his performances wrench our insides like cedar snapping in a gale. Ozu may not grapple with the strength of a grizzly, but his films calm us like a lone shrub in the midst of desert. There is specialness to an artist being called a force of nature because we do not usually associate one with the physical and the natural. Artists make things, even intangible things like a moment on stage or an emotion on guitar. When we say one artist is a force of nature, we are saying her work is beyond normal human ability, beyond human manufacture, worthy of being on par with the clouds.

SADNESS

2009-02-08T20:05:00.015-05:00

I am sad
that when I say to kids
born in the 90s,
The Karate Kid*,
they will respond
WTF,
or more damning:
:|

*This is a multi-purpose poem. To suit mood and taste, like the day of the month advancing in the little window upon an analog watch face, The Karate Kid can be substituted with Alfonso Ribeiro, A.C. Slater, Punky Brewster, "Did I do that?", Brian Orser, import CD, Freedom Williams, encyclopedias, Ramona Quimby, Consumers Distributing, Colgate pump, The Zit Remedy, Danny DeVito, Amiga, Max Headroom (freaked me out), Grace Jones (freaked me out), Launchpad McQuack, Greg Louganis, Arsenio Hall's signature, Bugle Boy, Mike's buddy Boner, Bobby McFerrin, "Don't be ridiculous!" (you wish, Balki), newspaper classifieds, Bo knows everything including your mother, "Cut...it...out", Huxtable anything, the Fly Girls, cooking entire meals from scratch with microwave, My Little Pony, VCRs, Kevin Arnold, Jimmy's beef jerky, Rodney King, film developing, Leisure Suit Larry, Jack's buddy Larry, Tom Hanks in prime-time drag, anonymity, Sade, Ikeda overalls, pen pals, pagers, privacy, and ColecoVision.

YOUTH

2009-02-04T19:16:00.009-05:00

I often got confused when I was sixteen.

"Yeah, so the guy called me a Pun and went into the Sev. So we waited outside, 'round the corner, like, you know, on 37th, waited for the guy to come out. Comes out with a fuckin' Slurpee and we pound him, fucker. I got him like this, right, like this, holding his head down and kneeing him in the face. C. takes out his little scissors, you know the little Chink scissors, folding?, we use for weed... So C. takes 'em out and shanks him. But just a little bit. Few holes. Not too much. Pink Slurpee all over the sidewalk," D. says, rocking his heels while seated on his BMX. "So now C.'s gotta do YDC."

I don't get it: Why would he sign up for Young Drivers of Canada?

D. spits on the grass. "He'll get out in a few months."

Oh. Youth Detention Centre.

CITY

2009-01-30T21:36:00.026-05:00

Open.

The Vietnamese restaurant by my Vancouver crib is always open, twenty-four hours. They weren't always. Many years ago they were open regular boring hours, then experimented with being always open on weekends, then for the last few years have remained open always. When I was eating there on a 3AM Thursday January morning, customers were arriving every ten minutes, welcomed by the Euro-thump techno that is commonplace at such restaurants; I finished my No. 10 to a Chipmunks-on-methamphetamines-in-Ibiza version of "Funky Town". The music is appropriate because in this restaurant, any time is a good time for a pho dance party. 3AM might as well be 3PM.

The moment this restaurant decided to go twenty-four hours was the moment they contributed to Vancouver's status as a real city. A real city is always open. A real city is a gathering of un-like-minded people. A real city understands that although the majority of its inhabitants are forced to (unwillingly) wake up at 7AM, an enormous minority put their heads to bed at that same time. The key is population. Let's say 10% of human beings -- regardless of their occupation -- prefer going to sleep at 5AM. These late-night prowlers need cafés to write their manifestos at, grocery stores to buy gai-lan at, pharmacies to buy lubricant at. In a town of 10,000 people, the 1000 owls aren't reason enough to stay open past 10. But in a city of 1,000,000 people, there's gonna be 100,000 stragglers needing Astroglide and Chinese greens after writing their own private Das Kapital at 5AM. And in a city of 10,000,000... There's a city-within-a-city of people who ain't sleeping. Their night-time economy flourishes. Their stimulation won't rest.

Big cities don't only offer late-night eats; there are treats for people of every hour. Let's say 10% of a population want to see a ballet. 10% of a population want to see a low-budget film in a cinema. 10% of a population want to buy a Modernist credenza. 10% want Suicide albums on vinyl. 10% want to see a Kandinsky two inches from their nose. In a town of 10,000 people, the demands of a discerning 1000 simply aren't enough to warrant supply. And really, the percentage of a population that wants to listen to Suicide is more likely 0.5. So where does a person go to choose between Giselle or Mutual Appreciation after tweaking out on teak and digging a copy of -- yes, Suicide's 1/2 Alive -- out from the bin? The city. The bigger the better. The more.

More choices. More audiences. More tickets. More art supply stores. More book stores. More skin tones. More religions. More anti-religion. More languages. More homosexuals. More others. More debates. More tolerance. More styles. Of shoes. Of produce. Of performance. Of congee. Of tags. Of pop music. Of haircuts. Cyrillic and Braille. Urdu and Hebrew. Calypso and No Wave. The Chinese grocers who speak in a Trinidadian accent.

Don't give me no "Transit stops at 2AM." Don't give me no "Open 'til midnight." ...No. Always Be Open. This is a city.

But. I love visiting small towns. Like when we went to Owen Sound (pop. 21,753) and convinced Jamie to take us to Smugglers, where the Quebecoise dancer (one of only three dancers that night) promised to give us a group lap dance -- half of us were women -- but reneged when a dude offered her money for post-last-call private time... That shit was outta sight. And when we were in the farmers' market eating lovingly made sandwiches, the town crier pulled a chit from his basket and bellowed, "And the winner is... Carol the potter!" We cheered.

Like when we spent the night at a motel in Armstrong (pop. 4531), and Hartley's Amateur was playing on the TV, and the pony-tailed biker proprietor was bigger than me and my Vietnamese friend and my Indian friend combined. We were a rare trio in that town.

Like when I strayed from my buddy's crib in Novato (pop. 49,500) and wandered into my first California trailer park experience. It was night, I was an old teenager, she was a young teenager, no we didn't do sex, no we didn't neck nor pet. She didn't know who Bruce Lee was. She was very sad. She didn't like her step dad.

I love small towns and want to spend more time in them. Learn from the culture of a community in the hundreds or thousands rather than millions. Feed my insatiable hunger for anthropology and sociology and I'msocuriousabouthumansology. Looking out Jamie's window in Owen Sound, the dark veins of tree branches poking through the endless duvet of undisturbed snow... I fancied the thought of sitting there and writing by pen and typewriter until spring. I could spend a season in the country, isolating myself from the distraction and chatter of the city. Assess how to be a better person. Quiet my mind that is so manic in the city that I often go to sleep after the sun rises. If not a season, then at least a month. At least a week. At least a few days until my hand shoots up by its own volition, wanting taxi. At least a few days until my body goes into fits of carbon-monoxide withdrawal, crying out for another dose of rush hour. At least a few days until I can get trapped in a subway car full of ring tones. Then I'm back in the city, where I belong, where I can jaywalk eight lanes of traffic look out for the streetcars breeze by the opera house zip past the hot dog stands try to run through yet more condo hoardings that constrict the sidewalks like trans fat arteries... But what's the rush? It's 5AM and the noodle houses are still open, as always.

GEORGE

2009-01-22T18:45:00.013-05:00

George Walker Bush had a good thing going. His good thing was going out a door held open by Obama. Even though George was thanked at the top of the inaugural speech and then got totally owned for the subsequent eighteen minutes, he has shown no animosity toward his successor; indeed, he must sincerely appreciate being bailed out. As the Bushes and Obamas stood for their poignant photo-op just before boarding the heli, the former president and former president-elect shared some words. Michelle O. was gracious enough to write on my wall, telling me what they said:

GEORGE: Well, Barry, it's all yours now.
BARACK: Was I too harsh?
GEORGE: It's all good, yo.
BARACK: Keep in touch. Text me, k?
GEORGE: Aight.
(waves to cameras)
GEORGE: Hey Barry...
BARACK: 'Sup?
GEORGE: Thank you.
BARACK: Don't be silly.
GEORGE: No, for reals. Thank you.
BARACK: Peace in the Middle East?
GEORGE: Peace out.

And then he choppered the hell outta Dodge Chrysler. George reclined in his La-Z-Boy aboard Marine One and exhaled, "God bless America. Allah be praised for Obama." He shut his eyes for a daydream, reflected on how much the world hates him, his faint smile exposing his new-found relief: He did not renege, he was not impeached, he did not abdicate. He admitted mistakes, but Obama helped him save face.

Surely, over the years, as his war cry got drowned out by cries of protest and shrapnelled Iraqi babies, George must have re-considered. Even if fleetingly. A flash of doubt. He seems genuinely confident that answering terror with terror was the right choice, but even though he might be the most deluded and naive of men, he is not oblivious to the reasons why he is hated. During eight years of being counselled on actions affecting billions, George must have pondered, at least once, "Am I right?"

Perhaps his flash of doubt had exploded into a fully illuminated epiphany, when one cold crisp night on Pennsylvania Avenue, Jesus told him, "No, George, you are wrong."

GEORGE: Fuck.
JESUS: I know.
GEORGE: I've been wrong all along.
JESUS: Word.
GEORGE: FUCK!
JESUS: Ssssshhh...
GEORGE: Now what do I do?
JESUS: Lay low.
GEORGE: How? I'm the fuckin' President of the United States of America, for Your sake!
JESUS: Ssssshhh...
GEORGE: ...I'm wrong...
JESUS: But don't tell anyone you're wrong. Keep mum.
GEORGE: And just keep saying that I'm right?
JESUS: Right.
GEORGE: For how long?
JESUS: Be patient. You will soon be succeeded by a black man.
GEORGE: For reals?
JESUS: Dude, I don't front.
GEORGE: You've shown me the light...
JESUS: That's my thing.
GEORGE: ...and you want me to keep lying?
JESUS: Be strong. You're a Republican.
GEORGE: Aight. I won't recant I won't recant I won't recant...
JESUS: Good boy. Good wrong boy.
(George sighs)
JESUS: He's also white.

And so George kept mum for the good of his nation. He knew that if he admitted to being wrong, he would let the troops down. Osama would release another video, a three-second clip: "Man, you got hardcore served." Ahmadinejad would turn gay with joy (like, happy). Mostly, he kept mum for himself, to cobble together whatever scraps remained of his defunct legacy. He knew in his soul, with the help of J.C., that he should have shut down Gitmo, let the waterboards dry, brought the troops back home to their families, but he had to remain resolved behind the lectern. George had a mulatto ace up his sleeve. All he had to do was keep his doubts silent. Let Obama execute what George learned he should have done but was not able.

GEORGE: (by BlackBerry) barry, thank u. thnk u 4 being the greatest thing 2 ever happen 2 me. now im free

MICHELLE

2009-01-19T01:23:00.006-05:00

I saw news footage of the concert happening in Washington for Obama. During Stevie Wonder's set, Michelle Obama was clappin' and groovin' along, lips pouting and chin jutting out, on beat, all bad ass. It was the first time I'd seen a First Lady move to the music and not look stupid. It was so right.

MEAD

2009-01-17T20:28:00.004-05:00

April 10, 1999
People seem to have too much faith in gravity, walking around with their satchels unzipped.

June 3, 1999
What differentiates between a real hip-hopper, and someone who isn't, is which person jumps up with delight as soon as any song by Young MC is played.

June 5, 1999
He's annoying. Always annoying me. A real annoyance. All he does is annoy me. But he's sitting on the edge of the bench, sitting pigeon-toed, nursing an old plastic salsa container housing his lunch, fettuccine and jarred spaghetti sauce. His cheeks are stained tomatoey-orange.

How could I hate him? I hate myself for hating him. Then I hate myself for caving in.

February 5, 2000
Such an unpleasant, unwelcome, and inconvenient surprise -- like jury duty.

September 23, 2000
During my shower Saturday
cooing of pigeons
hoping it's moaning of woman
masturbating

DOWN BY LAW

2009-01-14T17:16:00.003-05:00

Down by Law (1986)
Dir: Jim Jarmusch
USA

CANDY

2009-01-10T05:06:00.014-05:00

Up my block is a newspaper box for The Georgia Straight. It never used to be there. It wasn't there when the building behind it was Buy-Low Foods. It wasn't there when Buy-Low became a Chinese supermarket. It wasn't there when the Chinese supermarket became a Vietnamese supermarket. The box is new, just like the gang of hott young things waiting at the bus stop across the street -- rocking tight black jeans, toques, tattoos, channeling Chrissie Hynde and M.I.A. -- who until recently had never been this far south or east. Only a year ago, you would never find The Straight in my hood, which is, let's say, around Victoria and Kingsway. For years immemorial The Straight's "Best of Vancouver" best neighbourhood has been Kitsilano 'cause everybody in Kitsilano can read -- and therefore vote in -- the rag. But in my hood, if your paper wasn't in Chinese, Portuguese, Italian, Punjabi, or Vietnamese, ain't nobody gonna read you. By the way, my Vancouver crib is in Kensington/Renfrew-Collingwood, but you've never heard of my neighbourhood because no one cares. Or cared. Maybe you do now. Now you can pick up a copy of The Straight as you purchase your rice vermicelli and pound of tripe.

There was a joint called Candy Bar on Kingsway that I went to once in 2005. It replaced the ancient E&B Restaurant that was open twenty-four hours and featured the owner clipping his toenails by the front door, leg perched high atop the counter. Across the street is the McDonald's where I spent countless high-school lunch hours watching Joey order Chicken McNuggets and how the hell did this fellow East Van kid afford McNuggets every day, those shits were mad expensive. Look to the corner and there's Pho Bich Nga, which blew up for all the wrong reasons. Half a block down is where I did my first timid tag, in the three-feet-wide space between two buildings for the viewing pleasure of absolutely nobody. Go up the alley and there's Derrick's crib for daily doses of Rap City. Go up a bit more and you're at Brewers Park where rumbles were regular and children got drunk on Labatt Ice every Friday and our classmate mugged an old Chinese lady and I'll tell you more next time. But Candy Bar. It was new. Bands played there. Hot girls with black hair were there. Boys whose jeans were getting progressively tighter were there. You were served wine from a carton there. Finally, a venue that had cheap booze, dope music, hot girls with guitars, all a mere four blocks from my home. I hadn't been so excited about that chunk of Kingsway since getting my wicked undercuts at Cut 'N Blow.

But something felt wrong. Candy Bar was too close to the coffee shop where Nick's dad would join other Portuguese husbands escaping their wives to watch Benfica play in Lisbon. Candy Bar was too close to Midland Liquidators where Cos and I would hoard their new shipments of vintage Krylon. Candy Bar was too close to where W. got shot in the leg and N. almost got shot in the head when the Chinese dudes did a drive-by on our high school at 3.30PM. My neighbourhood wasn't cool. The only thing cool about it was the people who had lived here for decades, quietly building our existence as the anti-Kitsilano. All we wanted to do was raise our local status by adding another lion statue to the gate of our Vancouver Special. We didn't want to be a destination -- our businesses served mostly us and that was enough. And now we were being invaded by Others from Elsewhere because we're cheap and novel.

At Candy Bar, while I was enjoying my boxed merlot (just kidding, it was boxed "red"), my heart welcomed all the young folks while my bitter tongue chided, "This ain't Main Street... You're so far east that you're half-way to Burnaby...". I was proud that these Terry Richardson worshippers were trekking out to my hood. I was disdainful that they wouldn't come here if not for Candy Bar. Mostly, I was disgusted to realise that I too am one of these young folks, that I too prefer drinking in the poorest neighbourhoods in the shittiest bars because they are so uncool. And that is why we are cool.

I wanted to visit Candy Bar again but they closed not long after my only time. Perhaps saying, "Zoe, I'll see you at Kensington/Renfrew-Collingwood!" isn't as cool as saying, "Zoe, I'll see you on Main!" My neighbourhood has continued to change since the end of Candy Bar, and if the Straight newspaper box and American Apparel girls at the bus stop are any indication, there will soon be stacks of Vice in the dozens of pho restaurants around my way. If the young folks truly want to honour my old hood/their new hood, they'd better make sure those copies of Vice are in Vietnamese.

KNOW

2009-01-08T18:16:00.004-05:00

I didn't wanna know. But I did wanna know. Like how some people don't wanna see their doctor 'cause they fear finding out they're positive, but still, they gotta know, you know?

He's the kindest, most open-minded, liberal man I know. My own politics are based on how he raised me. But I couldn't assume anything, take his values for granted. If I asked, would I be plunging our relationship into a frigid ocean of lost respect? I had to know. I rehearsed the question in my head at the dinner table. I was about to say it but he got up for another bowl of rice and ruined my rhythm. He sat down. I re-phrased the question in my head. Pause.

"America's gonna have a new president soon. Do you like him?"

Without hesitation he said, "Yes."

Phew. I can still be my father's son.

JOHN

2008-12-29T23:25:00.008-05:00

John D. was the man. We were thirteen and he was having sex. Actually, he was fourteen when we were thirteen -- that's how man he was. Failed a grade or two, bouncing from school to school, hanging out at Ray-Cam*, selling drugs, boasting faint 'stache, being all Portuguese and pudgy-faced and polite. That's why he got the girls: he did dangerous manly things while saying "please". He'd hold the door open for a customer coming into the corner store he just shoplifted. John D. was the nicest thug to ever take your sedan for a joy ride.

"...she wiped her mouth and then we fucked," he told me with a shrug of his shoulders and flick of his cigarette.
"No way!"
"Totally."
"You had sex?" I shrieked.
"Yup."
"How long?"
"Like, with making out or actually fucking or when -- "
"Sex."
"Sex sex?"
"Sex sex."
"'Bout twenty minutes..."
"TWENTY MINUTES!"

*Rough community centre in East Van don't front

NEIGHBOUR

2008-12-25T04:43:00.033-05:00

There are experts in the Indian family across the alley. They own a dump truck, a hulking pick-up truck that's too industrial-strength for consumers, and a Bobcat. And they fit them all in a driveway that would normally suit a Corolla and a Civic. Every evening is beeping when they back their giant machines into the squeeze. One of them stands in the alley as the guide, shouting in Hindi. They usually clog up this mid-alley and require some maneuvering in our driveway and another neighbour's, but no one minds because this is East Van and that's what we do. The shouts that I don't understand and the beep beep beep and the roar of diesel go on for five, ten, fifteen minutes... then silence. I look out my back porch and there are two trucks and a Bobcat neatly nestled like loaves at the baker's. The men say some more things in Hindi and I'm sure it's not "Good job veering to the left." They're probably saying, "Did you remember to bring the potatoes?" You see, experts don't need to congratulate each other or draw attention to their expertise -- they dust off their hands and get ready for dinner.

I've been amazed with their skill since they moved across from us about seven years ago. I would watch them do their evening machine exercise regularly as we ate dinner by our big glass patio doors overlooking the alley. Throughout the years and now still, my mom and dad and I like to utter our awe. It's entertaining.

When they first moved in I wasn't sure about them. They seemed to be two families -- linked by brothers -- who lived in one house, grandparents included. They had young children, including a kindergartening boy whose pipes were manly; my mom would footnote his shouting by saying to me, "Wow, that kid's got a mighty voice." The boy would often shout directions over the beeping -- he's got a practical voice. I liked that they were labourers. I liked that they had enormous machines. I liked that they were multi-generational. I liked that they had limited English. ...In this neighbourhood they would be one of us. But they seemed insular at first, as any family would be when moving to a new neighbourhood where we are familiar with each other's crappy underwear drying on laundry lines. And yes, some of those boxers and panties are home-made (or maybe it's just my family). The Indian family kept to themselves and their hard work -- we had little access to their personality and zero access to their history. And one night I called the cops on them. They had been living across from us for only a few months, so we certainly hadn't developed trust. They might have been throwing a party -- maybe it was a house-warming. Their driveway had cars rather than trucks that night, and some male guests were hanging out. Probably in their late-twenties. Probably drunk by the way they were jostling and laughing too loud. It was maybe 1AM and I'm not sure my neighbours -- the ones who lived there -- were in the scrum of men. Hard to tell and I didn't know them yet. Nonetheless, the gang of dudes were representative of my new neighbours. When they started arguing, I turned off all the lights so I could spy without my silhouette. When their laughs transformed into snarls, and jostling grew into shoving, I grabbed the cordless. When one of them waved a black object in the air with his fist, I called the cops. I made sure that our gauzy kitchen curtains didn't quiver when I parted them to peek. I kept a finger over the phone's red "on" light. I was kept on the line to describe what I was seeing: eight to ten men, maybe party, maybe drunk, definitely arguing, definitely about to scrap, definitely thing in man's hand. Most of the men were trying to calm down the adversaries. The operator told me that I would hear a knocking at the front door and then the door knocked. A female cop in plain clothes was there and instructed me to keep the front door unlocked in case they needed access through my house. She disappeared down the stuccoed side of our Vancouver Special to observe. No sirens rang and no cop cars drove into the alley. Pure stealth. The operator told me there were police in the vicinity and she let me get off line. I went back upstairs to spy some more from the patio glass. The men were tense but calmer. Lots of talking. More talking. Then I got bored. I'm not sure the cops ever confronted the men. I'm not sure they did more than keep watch. The men sorted themselves out. Good thing no one got killed.

After that night the family returned to routine and wove their way seamlessly into our neighbourhood's fabric. I moved away before getting to know them, but whenever I was back home I would rejoice that their young children were tricycling and playing basketball in our alley, as I had. Their youth had been missing from our block for years, as all the kids I grew up with traded in hockey sticks and rollerblades for compact cars and degrees. They were the new blood, the kids across the alley, alternating between shouts in English and in Hindi. On one spring visit I recall the boy with the pipes kicking a ball around with my two-year-old nephew. The boy and his little sisters were likely among my nephew's first friends. Every time I visit I find myself standing at the patio glass watching the men's expertise, their beep beep beep signalling to me that I'm home. A few days ago I was watching and my mom said to me, "They're really nice."

Today I saw my neighbour come out of his garage holding a beat-up broom. I wondered what the hell he was gonna do with that dinky thing when our city was completely whited out with impossible snow. Moments later he and two men -- one was probably his brother who lived there -- were digging their monster vehicles out from the snow with diesel pumping and Bobcat scurrying. I had just spent over an hour with my Dad digging out our Sentra -- which I had got stuck only ten metres from our house -- simultaneous to a mini van up the alley that eventually freed itself after thirty minutes of burning rubber. And here were our neighbours, Bobcatting that snow away like my mom parting flour to make cake. Amid our blank white block was this black patch of asphalt that was their driveway. Then the patch of driveable land grew as they cleared the bit of alley that we shared, and then they cleared a neighbour's driveway. The boy with the pipes joined them. He's now thirteen and man-sized. They loaded the Bobcat onto the truck and re-arranged their vehicles back into their de-snowed yard with much beeping, all items once again tidily organised with a white dusting on top like icing sugar. At this point my mom was admiring our alley view and said, "Look at the roofs, so white, so beautiful. Let's take a picture," which of course means a picture with her in it. She darted to her closet to pick out an appropriate hat. She came out with a beret. With glowing smile she chimed, "Make sure you get me with all the rooftops behind." When she got to the patio glass, her smile became mixed with frown and her cheeks hummed red. She slid open the patio door and shouted, "Thank you!" and waved. Our Indian neighbours were clearing our driveway with shovels. My mom turned to me and mused bashfully, "We can't be taking pictures right now. That would be rude."

LA DOLCE VITA

2008-12-19T14:11:00.003-05:00

La Dolce Vita (1960)
Dir: Federico Fellini
Italy

CONVERSATION

2008-12-08T15:01:00.009-05:00

At the stag last Saturday I found myself standing next to our hostess. She seemed a foot taller than me, was lithe and probably getting her Bachelor's. With her black miniskirt and black boat neck she could have been spraying perfume at The Bay or bringing out my cheekbones at M.A.C.. We stood by the wall outside the washroom, me being drunk, she watching us dudes, making sure our fists were never without an $8.75 bottle of Blue. The dancers pranced in and out of doors, leading dudes by the hand. I glanced at our hostess and noticed a moment of lucidness -- or maybe it was fatigue -- emanating from her blank face. "Do you ever differentiate between being a server or dancer?" I asked upward to her ear. Her blankness crumpled at the brow. "Like, some of my friends who've worked at these clubs, they made a point of like saying, 'I work at For Your Eyes Only. But I'm a server, not a dancer...'"
She paused as a dancer passed. "...Well... I don't have a mortgage and no kids to worry about, so I'm in a different situtation..." Her eyes never left the table of booze and she didn't intend on continuing my interruption. Even in the champagne room, or especially in the champagne room, it's best to never discuss opinions or anything requiring honesty.

Must keep it lite. Ten minutes earlier a Pink look-alike strode up to us dudes on the couch, arms akimbo, announced, "So I heard you're a bunch of rock stars."

Um. Maybe.

MAUDE

2008-12-06T16:35:00.012-05:00

I just saw some photos of hott things in Vancouver. They're wearing lots of flowing silk-sheen fabric, all Gucci and Pucci. Purple explosion. Delicate but ostentatious necklaces that reach their navels.

They're hott. For real. But they're also probably underaged when in America.

I care about fashion. I care about style. I'm certainly not involved in the fashion world but I do keep my eyes open to what people are wearing. And I do advocate impracticality for the sake of looking good -- I got mad blisters from my favourite Rieker boots and split them at the seams 'cause my feet were too wide for these women's boots and yes, they do have a prominent square heel I said too much...

Those hott young things look great, and I applaud them for wearing whatever the hell they want because I believe in wearing clothes with confidence whether or not you are in fashion. Actually, as has been the trend among the youths (I desperately want to say "us youths" but I think my membership has been revoked), the surest way to be in fashion is to look horribly unfashionable. I applaud the youths' attention to clothes (carelessness in dress is a shame because it means laziness) even if they end up looking like the textile version of the opening credits to Saved By the Bell. So, I'm not saying those girls in the photo are unfashionable -- therefore, fashionable -- I'm saying that their influence is so ironic, their source so unexpected, that I want to be the first to encourage them.

I won't show you the photo of the girls because I don't want anyone to mistake me for dissing them. I'm totally not. I like what they're wearing. For you to get a visual understanding of the style I'm talking about, just check out a party photo blog. Or go to any bar where the cool kids are listening to The Cool Kids. Or maybe you already know what I'm talking about, and you've noticed that, recently, 20-year-old girls look like 62-year-old Upper West Side ladies named Lynda and Babz.

In completely related news, I hereby declare that I used to have a hardcore crush-on for Rue McClanahan, god bless.

MEAD

2008-12-05T03:01:00.004-05:00

April 24, 1999
I phoned someone today on the cordless telephone. As soon as the receiver's line rang, I got connected to a conversation between two women. I listened intently, nary breathing aloud (so as not to alarm them), obviously waiting for details of sex. I listened until their conversation ended. Their conversation was quite ordinary.

May 4, 1999
I wonder how many times a day the security controllers, viewing through the cameras in the ante-room of the parking lot elevators in the downtown library, get the middle finger from bored patrons, waiting, for no reason at all.

June 2, 1999
Guy has enormous amount of work to do, but he distracts himself: He eats, finishes eating, and stares at his empty bowls, rather sad. He phones his friend and complains about the amount of work he has. He distracts himself by being on the phone talking about being distracted.

October 20, 1999
Taking one's medicine with Guiness. I mean, Guinness.

January 18, 2000
There is nothing worse for a highschool kid than getting beat up publicly by another kid in a lower grade.

January 30, 2000
Aunt Number Two: "You must marry a Chinese girl. Who are you going to call on when you want to eat a bowl of rice? Who's going to cook for you? Not a white girl. A white girl's not going to cook you rice -- she'll make you a sandwich, or serve you a hot dog."

BITING

2008-12-01T02:40:00.028-05:00

I used to bite. I tried not to. Maybe I still do. I try not to. In the quest to find our own style, we usually start with someone else. We can't help it. That's how style grows.

I don't mean style like do you rock your knotted shoelace loops on the outside or tuck them behind your tongue -- I mean style as in voice. Authorship. Every time we hear a "fresh new voice" we have to remember that voice came from an earlier place that might now seem stale. And that earlier place? Well, it was also fresh and new in its own time. Voices are echoes. Style is regenerated. Where would Mamet be without Pinter? Interpol without Joy Division-or-The Smiths-let's-not-argue? Picasso without Africa?

We all have to be influenced by another. No idea comes from nowhere. Even when a synapse occurs that seems completely random, say like, I dunno... you see a married couple being violent to each other at Carl's Jr. and you get inspired to make a film about it, what form would best communicate your idea? You could, I dunno... ask yourself, "How would Cassavetes do it?" So you go and jerk the camera around and say you were influenced by Faces. Even if you refuse to admit having watched that film, other people will admit for you and accuse you of biting Cassavetes. Or Lars von Trier. You can't hide. It's okay. That's how you find your voice.

Biting is a rite of passage. It's also a right of passage and you deserve amnesty for being unoriginal. Biting is good when you are young. Biting shows respect for those before you; it shows an understanding of lineage. It shows that you are learning. But A: don't be a Xerox and B: don't do it for too long. If you bite too long you'll commit an unforgiveable sin: being derivative. You'll get accused of being all up on someone's jock and who wants to feed on someone's jock forever? You will suck.

If you are young and biting, you will get dissed. That's okay. You have to get dissed. Welcome the dis. Check it out: Even if you are trying hardcore to be original, you will still get dissed. You can't win. You will be a dis bullseye. Getting dissed builds callouses. If you persevere, the skin of your confidence will become rough, and eventually, you'll be so good at what you do that you will become ruff. And when you become ruff, you will have found your voice. As your newfound ruffness grows, your voice might become the standard. People often say a play's dialogue sounds like Mamet when they could dig a generation earlier in their analogy and just as accurately say the dialogue sounds like Pinter. It's cyclical, the idea of influence: How he did it becomes how I do it becomes how you do it. You too could become influential. Welcome to their club. Prepare to get ripped off.

Style is an amalgamation of many influences, and if the influences are disparate, the resulting voice could be so much stronger. Monarchs learned a long time ago to mix up the blood so their precious heirs don't end up looking like the Prince of Wales. Diversity creates strength and originality. You'd better believe Mad Lib wouldn't re-gift the hott new gamelan album you crate-dug for his birthday. Would David Byrne refuse to listen to a recording of Inuit throat singing? Imagine if Robert LePage experienced no noh. The more diverse your influences, the greater chance that you will be unique -- no one can replicate your complicated alchemy. A singular voice is composed of a Lead Belly song, The Old Man and the Sea, Gangstarr's Hard to Earn, the Koran, Miuccia Prada, pork bone soup, L.A. Gear, Zach Morris, Emilio Estevez, Max von Sydow, Chan-wook Park, Talladega Nights, Bell Biv Devoe, Toblerone, Patti Smith, getting arrested, surviving a divorce, Chrissy Snow, a miscarriage, Chungking Express... If you allow yourself to be influenced by myriad experiences, if you pay attention to how unrelated events shape your sensibilities, if you respect others' tastes as being legitimate and valuable and learn from them, then your voice will become fresh and deserve our attention. You will excite us with your uniqueness because your roots are from everywhere. Hello, Mr. Obama.

In my own lofty quest to paint dope shit on walls (as opposed to becoming President), I used to bite. I looked to older, more experienced graffiti writers as a resource. How should I connect my letters? How can I kink my "S" to give it more flavour? How can I be more avant-garde so I'll get noticed? By studying the work of others. I didn't want to bite, but how else do you learn when you don't have enough of your own experience to adapt? Graffiti writers have a blunt way of calling your bluff and accusing you of biting: they cross you out with "Biter". I stayed committed nonetheless and after four years of being insecure in public (such is the masochistic thrill of painting in the street where you will be judged by everyone), I finally started painting stuff that felt comfortable. A few more years of growing comfort and I finally felt confident enough to say, "Hey, I think I've got my own style now". But the street-life of a graffiti writer is short and the learning curve is quick, so it's common for graffiti writers to find their style well within a decade. I've never heard of a novelist finding her own voice in a mere ten years. [When I started out, I had access to only two graffiti magazine titles and one VHS, and you couldn't talk about modems without saying "baud". I got to witness an international explosion of slippery glossy magazines, innumerable DVDs and websites, and the strange phenomenon of a graffiti industry; we now have over-exposure to the work of graff heads from everywhere. It's no wonder that younger graffiti writers today find their own style in a few years]. After half my life shaking spray paint cans (I admittedly regrettably paint seldom now) I've learned that it isn't even about finding your own style -- style comes to you. If you keep speaking, your voice will find you.

I'm not a biter in graffiti anymore. But to this day, when I grasp for inspiration, I return to the same source I've been relying on since I was thirteen -- opening Subway Art is like stepping back into grammar class -- and I ask myself, "How would Dondi do it? How would Seen flip his 'S'? How would Lee speak politics?"

Biting is the pattern of humanity. How do babies learn to speak? How does an apprentice learn to build a violin? By doing what the mentor does when the mentor says, "Do what I do." Take the mentor's lessons and run. After years of trudging down the path paved by your mentor, your legs will have grown strong enough to veer you off on your own direction, cutting a fresh path in your own gait. And as your calloused feet tread grass that had never before been trampled, as you dash miles upon miles away from where you started, you'll still be able to hear your mentor's voice echo: "Now you're dope!"

CONTROL

2008-11-25T03:21:00.004-05:00

Control (2007)
Dir: Anton Corbijn
UK, USA, Australia, Japan

BLACKLISTED

2008-11-18T19:43:00.003-05:00

It's like this:

I was Googling my name to see how Google-able my website is (call it quality assurance) and I discovered that a certain Norman Yeung is blacklisted. National Blacklist Deadbeat Registry: Serving the Escort Community. After some sleuthing I learned that the blacklist website is a directory of bad johns. I tried to check out the New York listings but they don't go as far back as the dates stated on the Google entry. Plus, you gotta be a paid member to read the listings. So I have no idea who that Norman is and what he did. But I do know the following thing:

It ain't me.

During the dates on the Google entry I was being a loving son to my loving family in Vancouver, flying back to Toronto, then getting sun stroke while painting a garage near Queen West and Beaconsfield. Gareth remembers having beers with me. Kathy remembers mopping my vomit. Stay hydrated when it's hot out: the sun is for real.

Am I being paranoid? Yes. Who wants to be mistakenly identified as a blacklisted deadbeat john?

DRINKING

2008-11-14T03:19:00.005-05:00

I love using a drink. I love using another drink even more. Drinks are far more useful than any salad. Drinks are far more practical than any soup. Or steak. Or Buddha's Feast. When's the last time you used a salad? Never. "I could have a salad." Maybe even "I could have another salad." But never could you use a salad. Nor could you use a steak. You have a steak.

No:

I could use a drink.

I could use another drink.

Drinks are important. You will make progress while using drinks. They are purposeful, like sleep.

"I could use some sleep."

Yes you could. But only after "I could use another drink."