A Hypocritical Diatribe

I write this from the gooey center of Abbotsford, British Columbia – if you don’t know it’s a lovely, nestled community about an hour outside of Vancouver. I’ve been living nomadically for the last week or so; the latest transient adventure was retreating out here when my Aunt’s house ran out of space. It all ends Monday however, when I finally move into the new digs and unpack and explore the city properly in the following seven days or so before work starts.

It’s kind of precluded me from getting funky and tripping the light fantastic this weekend, but hopefully when I trek back into Van tomorrow I’ll meet up with Skip and Jhen, et al. and catch a flick and maybe some tasty food. Which is so much better than shitty food.

SPEED FLASH!

Okay, I’m now back in Vancouver. Blog writing in Abbotsford was interrupted by my cousin’s return from work and need to get drunk on his back deck. It was fun. He has an amazing view of the mountains surrounding the town (which, horribly, is also where Dick Face McCurly Hair from Nickleback lives. Fuck, I wish I knew his address so I could egg the fuck out of his, no doubt, pathetically decorated house and gaudy sports car. I fucking hate Nickleback. I hope they explode.) It was interesting: just having scenery to look at made me so happy. It was a tangible feeling afforded to me simply by being present in such surroundings.

After the long talk and hangover I arrived back in the city and walked around downtown in an attempt to get comfortable with Street Names instead of numbers. I met Jhen and Skip in the affable Kitsilano area and we caught A Scanner Darkly and then the couple took me to my first hip eatery in Vancouver. It’s called The Eatery. I’ll take you there sometime. Good foodstuffs, ample desserts, deft musical selections – what more could you want?

It was great seeing those cats again, it is, indeed, a shame they’re leaving so soon, but I suppose it is for the best that I’ve aligned myself with people who ‘have goals’ and ‘ambition’ and want to ‘explore’.

But I wanted to talk about something. You see these truncated living situations have allowed me to get woefully bored at myriad of relatives’ houses and ruminate on what to write on my blog. A blog, which I must admit, I am becoming more and more obsessed over. You don’t want to know how long I spent organizing my Links…I’m lame.

I’ve been reading a lot of random blogs (like I said, they’re my new kick). Mostly of people roughly my same age with good taste, often pretty girls, and especially pretty girls with good taste. However, almost every time I’ve read one it has included at least one entry about how ‘fucked up’ people are and how no one ‘gets it’. About how the author is the sole possessor of the ability to step back and observe the putrid tragedy that is modern existence. Almost every single one. Is there an obsession (stronger than mine with pseudo-stalking via blogs) with wanting to be seen as deep or aware? I should preface the proceeding remarks with the caveat that I’m including myself in these observations. I, sadly, do not possess the eagle-eye critic, super-duper x-ray glasses. Anyways, I FEAR that we have submerged ourselves in the attractive quagmire of cliché. This particular tar pit: the cliché of not wanting to appear cliché or just another sheep.

In his novel, The Corrections, Jonathan Franzen mentions the thankless job done by the square, the patently un-cool to be the basis of comparison. They are, truly, under appreciated this sweatpants clad, fanny pack brandishing horde. They also have a distinct advantage. They have not been co-opted, they have not been packaged, and they are not a tradable, measurable commodity like those who are cool.

The profiles of the aforementioned redundant and pessimistic bloggers list favorite movies like Garden State, Being John Malkovich, and Amelie. Favorite bands like Death Cab, Coldplay, and The Strokes. And, hey, nothing wrong with any of that. I like that shit too. Dig what you dig. But I do wonder if those are listed because they’re the ‘right’ movies to like? The ‘right’ bands to be into? It is possible, downright likely, I’m completely off base here and mistaken, but I do wonder about it. It does cross my mind.

And that’s how I feel about these revelatory posts by my angry-for-no-reason peers. They are the ‘right’ opinions to have. It’s cool to feel that way. And when you’re North American, middle class and in your 20s cool is definitely something to aspire towards. They sell it. And the market’s a real bull.
So here I am, early in the morning, updating my blog about how fucked up people are and how I occupy the untrammeled wherewithal to perceive it and comment upon it.

My only defense is to state, again, that I don’t think I’m the only person who feels this way. I don’t think I’m the pioneer in waxing philosophical on this subject. And, moreover, I think I’m guilty of the behavior I criticize. I like being thought of as cool. It may not be selling out, but it is buying in. And I’m not sure if simply being aware that I’m doing it, justifies it. Or perhaps this subject is far too benign to require justification and I have saddled whoever reads this with my own trite, clichéd drivel.

Sorry.

Black Men in Tight Pants and Meeting the Almost Famous

Downtown Vancouver is where I feel the most moved away. I haven’t done extensive traveling in the USA so I can’t tell you if Portland, Oregon feels different from Seattle or if Birmingham’s disposition varies greatly from Memphis’. But I do know Toronto is not the same as Edmonton and neither is like Vancouver. And downtown is where it hits most markedly. Perhaps it’s due to Canada’s epic size, geographic diversity or small population, but as I walked around Canada Place with all its tourists snapping pictures of the harbor, down through Gastown, up Robson Street I was aware that I wasn’t home anymore. Oddly enough, I was wholly comfortable with that. It was a happy realization, and I strode down metropolitan avenues cheerfully (what if I lived in an earlier decade might be called ‘gaily’.)

However, one thing I will say is there aren’t very many skateboarders in this burg. I thought it would be overrun with Sk8r Bois and Goils, but there were way more boards around the U of A this past year than downtown Van City. Furthermore, where are all the comely girls with All Star sneakers, thick glasses and Expo ’86 t-shirts? Call me superficial, but I don’t mind a little indie eye candy as I explore town. Mad props to Edmonton for being more hip per capita.

I visited and got orientated at the ESL school I’m working at in August. Seems great and very well run. I’m looking forward to it. Teaching English has been, so far, the most enjoyable job I’ve had and something I think I will always view with a lot of fondness. Smiles all around.

Last night, Themba’s cousin Steven (Stephen?), who somehow makes wearing tight purple pants workable, invited us out for a throw down at some club called Ginger 62 or something. I like him; he’s friendly and keeps interesting company. He’s married (are they married? Maybe not) anyways, he’s WITH an Emily Carr instructor and is a musician – his noise rock band is called Cock Fang – and appears to be plugged into the art scene here. Anyways, he got us into the bar for free which impressed me, and it turned out it was an after party for a show that night. I got to meet K-OS, who is actually pals with Ste(v)(ph)en from back in Toronto and I also met Sam Roberts who is refreshingly cordial and also some cats from Broken Social Scene. I don’t know their names, and I know there are a billion people in that band, but it wasn’t Kevin Drew, it was…the other guys. I got compliments from both K-OS and Roberts about my Bob Dylan t-shirt, which made me like them more. Themba, jokingly, asked Roberts if the young Dylan on the shirt was indeed him and Sam just said, “haha, not quite, man.” I kind of wanted to follow up with, “you got that right.” But I think that would’ve been funnier to me than to him.

I know, meeting a celebrity isn’t a big deal or whatever, but it was funky and I enjoyed myself. The best part was hanging out properly with Pat, Nig 4000 (Themba), his cousin and his friend Ian who is also an artist and has done some instillations at galleries around town, and just drink and act foolish on the dance floor. It was like Taiwan. It was sweetly nostalgic.

I found the night also reassuring. Looking around and seeing 38 year olds (Themba’s cuz and Ian are on the ‘mature’ side) busting a move and dressing like they were going to Halo maybe should make me feel sad or irascible, but I liked it. You can age and still care about music, nerdy movies and art. So, I guess there are hipsters in Vancouver you just have to look harder for them.

K-OS gave a shout out to Ste(v)(ph)en from behind the decks at the DJ booth, which was rad, but I must say I was a little disappointed in the set. He did play some hard shit: “Scenario” by Tribe, “Strobe-Light Honey” by Black Sheep, “Gin and Juice”, but a lot of it was not fun to dance to or just downright baffling. Hollaback Girl? C’mon, man….

That’s not the point, though, is it? What matters is I got to go out to a nice bar, get drunk for the first time in my new home with some of my best friends, meet some rock stars, stare at some cute girls with wicked shoes and fall asleep to Anderson Cooper discussing Israel’s possible deliberate targeting of UN outposts in Lebanon and dream, appreciatively, of my new life and how fucking lucky I am.

Call me Cabana Boy.

Okay, I am myself again. I have not been sleeping and stressing and snapping and using alliterations far too frequently lately, but now I am finally able to let my shoulders drop and enjoy myself. Why? Thanks for asking. I finally found a home.

It’s in West Vancouver. If you don’t know, it’s the swankiest place in town (and, historically, the most expensive area in the most expensive city in the country). So how did country mouse Jag, who has only 12 cents in his checking account and a potato and an ice cube in his savings, do it? This is hilarious. I am renting a one-room cabin/guest house on some rich dowager’s property. No, seriously.

She’s a kind woman, the renter (I reminder her of her son apparently. Thank you Hilltop High School Drama club for all my ersatz charm) and showed me around the neighborhood. I can’t wait until some of you visit. It’s fucking beautiful out there. Lush trees everywhere, I’m an 8-minute walk to the ocean. A nice little strip mall with a mom and pop produce shop and a coffee place that sells spinach somosas is the next block over. There are a lot of Lexuses (Lexi?), Mercedes, Beamers and Jaguars around which made me feel agitated and lily-livered. But at least I saw a few brown people around the landlady is an Iranian refugee and, forgive my generalizing, any immigrants who achieve such noteworthy ascendancy in a new land usually appreciate it more and garner more respect from me, certainly.

It’s 650/month. Which is a lot for a room. But it has a full bathroom in it, a kitchen, a bed, a TV, a table, two chairs and a couch. The rent also includes utilities and cable and Internet, so all in all I think I did the best I could do for the time being. I’m happy. Come visit, we’ll fuck up some trust fund babies and spray paint the walls of the Yacht Club.

What else?

Hooked up with my boys Themba and PATRICK “FUNKMASTER” LUBON: the king of rock. There is none higher. Sucker MCs should call him sire.

It was fucking great to see those cats again. We grabbed a beer; and saw some of the Chappelle lost episodes, also we booted a bottle of vodka for two underage girls. No need to thank us. Just doing our jobs, ma’am. They live in a nice area (Kitsilano, for the Vancouver-philes who are taking notes), walked around for a bit. It’s a rare and tenurial thing to have those friendships that after a year apart you can pick up instantly where you left off. I’m exceedingly fortunate to have more than one or two friends who I can say that about. Today after I meet them fools for lunch, get orientated at school, then hit up Cap College (I’m now ensconced enough to use the abbreviation) to pay some fees, I think we’re going out and throw down properly. I could use it.

Oh! I saw Jhen Pabilablillanioo on the bus yesterday and we had a brief chat. Would you look at that! Only a few days in the city and I’m already running into people. I belong here.

INTERESTING VANCOUVER FACT: sometimes when you allow a girl in a car to pass before you at a crosswalk she’ll invite you to a nearby bar flirtatiously as she drives away. What a place.

Which way the wind blows....

When you cross over the border from Alberta, the sign greeting you claims BC to be "the best place on earth." I've never cared for that type of hyperbolic, aggrandizing self-assessment from anyone besides Mohammed Ali and certainly not from the province which voted in Gordon Campbell.

Although, in hour 11 of my drive from Edmonton, with the 39-degree heat haranguing the rust colored pine-beetle afflicted trees, I did feel at home in this Lower Mainland. I guess people do respond to confidence. I've never lived here before, but I visited often and I think I might love Vancouver. The bridges are metropolitan and impressive; the refulgent downtown is beckoning and teeming. The mountains. The ocean. I just think it's pretty. I wanted to be here for a while and I feel vibrant knowing I'm citizenry.

I’ve visited (briefly) my campus for the first time. It seems liberal and insular. The large park surrounding Capilano College suffuses it with detachment. You can forget you’re in a city. The Film Centre looks like a barn, but that’s okay. My life has lacked a little ghetto-ness of late.

It hasn’t all been peaches and cum (a Mike line) however. Finding a place has been taxing. It looks like I’ll have no choice, financially, but to live in another area than North Vancouver where the college is. Did major apartment (AKA basement suite) hunting this weekend, made more frustrating by the blanketing temperature – I thought this fucking place was known for its rain? My t-shirt soaked and my sandals melted, I have a few promising leads. I shall let you know.

Not too much to report. Mostly family visiting so far. The usual. Beer. Hugs. Barbeque. Arguments. My mom crying. Indian melodrama exists far outside the sheathed breasts and choreographed dowries of Bollywood, you know.

Tomorrow I visit my workplace for the next month, explore downtown and the campus again and the search continues for dwellings. I’ll also rendezvous with my boy Themba again. It’s been a long time, nigga. Prepare thyself.

This isn’t very well written. I apologize. I’m on my cousin’s computer and had to wrap this maiden post up quickly. Figured I should get this out here before I forgot I started this damn thing.

Geography can breed dissonance. Moving away is a jangle. A kiss on each of your prairie-bred cheeks, your well wishes keep me warm in this despotic heat.

I use too many parentheses when I write.