big wheels of cheese, revisited

Is it bad etiquette to say that a funeral was a raving success?

Probably, but the 300-odd attendees to my Opa’s funeral had positive things to say about it. Well, as positive as you can be about funeral quality. It was truly a ‘de Hoog event’ though, complete with music performed by family, speeches, a highly organised procession, and a slide-show of my Opa’s life to music. I wrote and presented a Eulogy that addressed the impact his false-teeth had on me throughout my life. . . Even directly after his life:

When my family and I were leaving his deathbed at the hospital they started searching through his various bags and belongings for something. I was extremely overtired having had not much sleep, plus the jet-lag of arriving from Ottawa the day before. This is why it took me several long moments before I realized that the thing they were searching for were his teeth.

This may seem a questionable theme for a speech at a funeral, but amongst my Dutch family it was quite normal. Maybe even appropriate. I think Opa would have enjoyed it.

My Dad and I raced to Holland after the call from his youngest brother saying that their father was very ill. 10 hours after the phone-call we were in an entirely different country. That’s two weeks after I arrived in Ottawa from Vancouver, where I had been for a month. Before that, Powell River as a short lived stint as a Radio guy. My reality had suddenly shifted again.

The idea was that my dad could be at his father’s side before he passed. And he was. There was a meeting of his brothers and sisters in the hall outside of Opa’s room a day (Or was it 12 hours? Two days? I can’t remember.) after we arrived in the Netherlands. It was decided that treatment would be stopped. It had been Opa’s request, and – showing a surprising amount of fortitude – my Oma’s.

So it was that my Dutch relatives and I embraced around the bed of the only Grandfather I knew as he slipped peacefully away. Within all the turmoil of flying, lack of sleep, a traffic-jam the entire two-hour length of the way between the airport and the hospital, and generally just being in a hospital, this was an amazingly tender and genuine moment. We were all truly occupying that space. We were all truly who we were. And who we are is a very funny bunch of people.

Here’s the thing; my Uncles and Aunts – my father’s sisters and brothers, four of them by blood, all younger – are hilarious. They all have a dark and acerbic wit that would shake the foundations of North American morality. Where else can you loudly wonder if your child is retarded, to their face, in a room full of people, and no one bats an eye?

People deal with grief in their own way. We dealt with it with merciless humour. Moments after my Opa died I was overcome with an incredible exhaustion so I started to lie down on the empty hospital bed beside him. That’s when I heard my Uncle Peter say, “You’ve better not do that, we may decide to stop your treatment.”

The evening before, as we held vigil in the tiny hospital room, an orderly came in and said something to my Aunt Leoneke. A strange look crossed her face and she laughed, “Do you know what she just said to me? ‘Have a nice evening’”.

At the funeral itself all the grandchildren were obliged to take a candle, light it, and place it around the coffin. I dropped mine. The fumble was quickly dealt with and I moved on. However, when mentioning this to my Uncle Mattijs he said, “That would have saved us a lot on cremation fees.” Then, gesturing with his hands, “Woosh!”

This is the same uncle - a renowned pediatrician - who requested that if a certain undesireable showed up at the funeral my large cousin Ted and I were to take him in the back and beat him up as quietly as possible so as not to disrupt the service.

The wake was an open casket. It was a sad affair, but for me I had already said goodbye to Opa. Although, I often still find myself saying goodbye to him. It was like a trip to the wax museum with my Grandfather as the leading exhibit. I suppose it was this emotional distance that caused me to offer taking a picture of everyone gathered around his body. Like a family holiday photograph around the Rodin statue – smiling and waving.

I have my Opa to thank for my sense of humour and my music. I have him to thank for suddenly bringing me back to this place I love so much.

Nick Cave, in an interview, said that everything in Holland works. And it’s true. Everything does. The day-to-day types of things - like buying stamps, or groceries, or simply commuting when the train system is shut down - happens smoothly and efficiently. I could watch every Canadian Olympic hockey game – albeit, often alone, and at 4am. I can even watch the Stanley cup playoffs. Single lane streets are used in both directions and nobody crashes. Calls to various entities to find out about student loans, or production jobs, are met with people who want to help. Emails of enquiry are replied to swiftly and informatively. As a matter of fact, the only snag has been myself picking my way around social nuances. Oh, and the Algonquin College Registrars Office based in Ottawa (Which is not Holland's problem anymore, if you know your history). When I called to ask if they had received my faxed request for official school transcripts this is what I got:

“I don’t know.”

“Well, I’m not sure if the fax went thr-“

“Look, we get over 200 faxes a day, How am I supposed to know? You want me to check through them all?”

“Surely there is somebody there who takes care of these requests.”

“Yes, but I don’t know who it is.”

“So, you’re telling me the only way to know if you received my fax is if and when the schools I’m applying to receive the transcripts?”

“Yup.”

“Wow.” click, bzzzzz

There are certain things that still confuses me here. For example, the Dutch LOVE of speed-skating. When Speed-Skater Sven Kramer (Holland’s golden-boy. Picture Sidney Crosby, but lanky, and dressed like an orange ninja) got in the wrong lane on the advice of his coach at the men’s finals in Vancouver the whole country started wailing like Bedouin women seeing their men off to battle.

(This caused me to not trust my relatives when they were directing me from the passenger seat of cars I was driving. My thinking is that if Dutch people don’t know the correct lane in the Olympics there's no way they know it in real life.)

They also like field-hockey. Not only are there many field-hockey fields around the country, and a sizeable league, but when I mention hockey I have to clarify that it’s ice hockey I’m talking about. You would think, easy; you combine field hockey and speed skating and you get hockey hockey. But no, like many European countries hockey doesn’t interest them. Maybe the problem is, as my uncle said, “The puck is moving too fast.” Still, I find it strange that a country with the dexterity to parallel-park two inches from a canal edge needs to collectively train their eyeballs to move faster.

The Dutch also love raw fish. Herring, and mackerel are the two major ones, but they love tuna too. Yet - and this blows my mind - you can’t find a sushi restaurant to save your life. You can, however, frequently find a vile candy named Dropjes (pronounced "drop-yus") which every Dutch person keeps handy. It looks and tastes like a rabbit turd. Morons may argue that the whole country is on pot. I would argue they're all on Dropjes, and that's far more unsettling.

And, do you like looking at yourself when you’re taking a piss? How about a crap? The Dutch do. Well not you specifically (that’s more the sporadic practice of their occasionally conquering neighbours). I’ve been to a few bathrooms here and there in Holland. More than once a full-length mirror has been placed right behind the urinal. This is strategically awkward because if someone is beside you using their’s you’re forced to make direct eye contact with yourself or risk seeing their unlevened tulip gun. Also, in some homes I’ve found myself staring into my own bloodshot veiny face because someone has positioned a mirror exactly level with my head when I'm sitting on the toilet.

Not to delve too deep into the topic, but are women used to applying make-up when they’re taking a dump? Personally, I can barely hold a book, let alone try to apply eyeliner. I can’t fathom any other reason for the mirror being there unless you’re afraid of someone sneaking up behind you.

All men in Holland are metrosexual. This always throws me for a loop. For a people that are so, well. . . Practical, the amount of time-consuming preening and slick-clothe-wearing makes me think I’ve wandered onto an MTV video. The colours are 80s, the pants are tubular and straight, and the shoes are pointy and polished – shoes that are frequently worn indoors and sometimes to bed. Their hair, to quote Warren Zevon, was perfect. If these people were North American I would be describing your average douchebag. Sadly, from my scruffy, unshaven point of view many of the qualities are there; the propensity to wear gold and have orange skin is rampant. . . Which, come to think of it, is kind of patriotic.

The Dutch even get dressed-up to walk the boardwalk at the beach. When I met my cousin at the seaside her fiancé was dressed like a Ralph Lauren model from the Autumn Collection Catalogue. The idea was clearly not about enjoying the fresh air of a brand new spring day. The idea was to have a battle of fashion with anybody you exchanged eye-contact with. I imagined them going to home and being asked, “So how was the beach?”

“Yeah, it was great. I looked really good.”

I must say that I have not remained unaffected by this militant fashionism. After intense pressure from three fronts, all of them female, I caved and bought a pink shirt. A colour, I maintain, that should never be worn by men. Unless they’re really into canal.

You probably know about the bicycle thing in Holland. Every street has a bike lane. As a matter of fact, it’s a lot easier to get around locally on a bike than a car. Everyone is bike-riding regardless of age or physical capacity. It’s all done without a helmet while family members are teetering on the handle-bar, and a week’s supply of groceries fills the saddle bags on the back. Environmentalists admire this kind of behaviour. Anal-retentive personal safety outfits do not. The Dutch themselves admire the Chinese who manage to balance several goats and chickens – and the food to feed them, and the barn they keep them in – on a single bicycle.

The Neo-cons can screech about the liberal drug laws, prostitution, and euthanasia in the Netherlands but they can’t escape the fact that their whinings are directed at an extremely advanced society. Holland is what the West is inexorably moving towards legally, socially , and politically. They’ve put deep thought into everything, unhindered by religious dogma and close-minded ignorance. They ironed out the glitches long before Canada legalized gay-marriage and abortion.

They are so advanced, in fact, you need to time-travel to understand basic things they take for granted. You need a PhD in Engineering to operate the average shower faucet. They have a cooking contraption from Star Trek. I have no idea what to call it. Regardless, it operates both as a stove and as microwave. It will bake a cake, and it will defrost your chicken. This technological marvel has two dials, three buttons, and not a single actual word. It’s so futuristic that I spent 20 minutes squinting at the meaningless symbols on its dashboard like they were Egyptian hieroglyphics – trying to discern their functionality. This was to defrost bread.

* * *

So now I’d like to introduce you to my cousin Liselotte (pronounced “lee-ZA-lawt). The reason she get’s kind of a starring role in this blog is to illustrate that teenage girls are the same the world over. Also, because she’s probably the person (I use “person” in the loosest meaning of the word) I’ve spent the most time with while I’ve been staying at my Uncle’s.

Liselotte is 15. She’s tall, skinny, and gawky (only a few inches shorter than me). She doesn’t have full control of her limbs. Often they betray her – her feet ignoring some steps, her hands refusing to grip objects. She is very, very, cute with stylish glasses and the obligatory braces that cause her to have to slurp saliva every time she laughs.

She seems to have more bones than the average person. They are sharp bones, and they are located in places like her elbows, shins, and feet. I’m learning this the hard way. In one sense I’m happy that she feels comfortable in physically abusing me, on the other hand my pain threshold is only so high, and she has no concept of her lanky strength.

It used to be she would just pile verbal abuse on me – picking words from her surprisingly extensive English vocabulary like: “stupid”, “wimp”, “idiot”, “dumb”, "loser" and the classic, and most often used, “weirdo”. Other times she threatens my life: “I will KILL you, you know it?”, “You are dead, man.”, “You better watch out, I will beat you to DEATH.” Sometimes these comments are made in passing, like she’s asking me the time, other times she’s nose-to-nose with me, eyeballs bulging.

Lately I’ve come to dread hearing, “What are you doing weirdo?” even though it’s plain I’m either looking for work, surfing the web, or cooking. Usually this question is followed by a flurry of punches, kicks, and growling. I have to defend myself with any available nearby object, or keep her at bay by snapping a twisted dish-rag.

I may have set the tone for this behaviour because I often find myself in hysterics laughing at her. Whether it be the instant and shocking turnaround in mood, her adorable Dutch accent, or the fact that she’s plain awkward, I find her endlessly amusing.

I once was sitting having breakfast when she started coming down the stairs from her bedroom. She was bleary-eyed and morning-grumpy with hair pointed in every direction. I started humming the Imperial March theme from Star Wars. She snarled at me, poured herself a large bowl of chocolate pudding (called vla, which to me sounds like only part of a word), covered that in chocolate sprinkles, and filled a mug with chocolate milk. She had created the most hilarious breakfast I have ever seen. There is probably a genealogical impetus behind this breakfast as the Dutch love sweet stuff (Yet there’s low incidents of diabetes, and obesity is very rare. Hmmm.)

In a flash she can go from dancing in circles in the kitchen to snarling like a rabid animal (probably from the frequent sugar-rushes and subsequent withdrawls). Most things don’t matter, and everything else is boring. She loves Justin Bieber and other ready-made plastic constructs. She like horses, sleep-overs, and instant-messaging with her friends. But hates vegetables. The house becomes incredibly quiet when she leaves it.

In short, your average nuanced teenager.

Here’s the thing though. She took one look at Fox News and was able to identify that, “These are stupid people.” She speaks English better than most people her age in North America. She is involved in fundraising, sports, and trying to learn the piano and German. She’s already studying theology and has discarded the dumb ones. She rarely watches television and takes constant trips to the library. It’s not that she’s extraordinarily driven, it’s just the way society is set up here.

One example is the lack of collegiate or academic sports, which means that kids her age find themselves doing other things to broaden their experience. It also means they won’t be excluded from sports because they’re not good enough. Sports are available outside of the school system, and anyone and everyone can play. If you suck, there is a league for you. The added self-confidence this lends you is free of charge.

Anyway, Liselotte is your average Dutch teen. Well not average, she’s my cousin so she’s awesome.

She’s part of the reason the Netherlands is where it is. She’s part of the reason I love this place so much.

Her, and Opa.

Danke Opa.

Chancouver

In Vancouver there is a store with 218 flavours of ice-cream. Many of them are normal flavours like vanilla, chocolate, and pecan. Others are questionable like wasabi, and cheddar and apple. Still others are crap, like balsamic vinegar, black pepper, and charcoal.

I can't tell you exactly where the store is located, only to say it's opposite a paint factory, which may account for the wide variety of colourful ice-creams.

This store is a fairly useful analogy when it comes to describing the city.

Anybody going into the ice-cream parlour is incredibly excited to be there. You sample the crap flavours, and you buy a scoop of the decent ones. I got a scoop of chocolate-peanut butter.

People in Vancouver are incredibly excited about living in Vancouver. And well they should be. It's got thousands of flavours, usually having to do with sushi. The weather – which, in fact, is not a straight drizzle throughout the winter months – beats the hell out of the rest of Canada. It's richly multi-cultural, and there are things to do.

Of course, coming from Powell River where there is absolutely nothing to do, I was just happy to see actual humans wandering around doing actual human-type things. The thought of sitting in a café made me very emotional in terms of it's high activity value.

Here are some things I did:

The Vancouver aquarium which contains, not only beluga whales, otters, and grumpy-looking fish, but the Northwest's only 4D movie theatre. Now, we've all become accustomed to 3D thanks to Avatar, so what is the fourth dimension in film-watching?

Well, as it turns out, it's a theatre that lulls you into a false sense of security, then suddenly attacks you with gadgetry. Someone tweaked a 17 minute clip of a BBC documentary to make it 3D. The theatre was then rigged with automated gadgets timed to squirt you with water when a whale exhales through it's blow-hole, whip your ankle when an octopus strikes, and pokes you in the kidney when an anemone gobbles a fish. I had a hard time focusing on the show because I was in a state of tense fear waiting to be zapped with 50 volts every time an eel moved across the screen. It's one of those ideas that seem great in theory, but ends up scaring the crap out of you in practice. Having to clean off your 3D glasses with your shirt because you've just been sprayed in the face with water is a little counter-intuitive in my books.

There is also the newly re-opened Museum of Anthropology, which could also be called "Hall of Elaborate Masks and a Few Weapons that Maoris Used to Brain People".

Also there is cross-country skiing on Cypress Mountain. An excellent place to wobble on skis while being repeatedly lapped by a fit guy wearing a body-condom.

Being a bit arty I also checked out the Vancouver Art Gallery – or VAG, –located in downtown Vancouver. Being new to the VAG I wasn't sure what to expect. I discovered that most of the VAG is empty aside from lots and lots of Emily Carr. Being a fan of abstract and surrealist art I wasn't particularly impressed. All the other artists featured seemed to be from BC featuring installations about BC. Which is fine; I get it, you love being here, and we should too. What was most interesting to me is that I counted the word "banal" about a dozen times in the little description plaques beside the pieces. Usually it had to do with the artist choosing a "banal" or "mundane" subject to show the "normalcy" of day-to-day existence in an "ordinary" context. I couldn't help thinking, with that sort of thing happening outside the VAG for free, why pay to get in? Mocking aside, though, the VAG was a nice experience. Particularly cool was a life-sized baleen whale skeleton done entirely with lawn chairs.

I also saw a beautiful woman take a crap in an alley-way, but I'm not sure it was an exhibit.

I attended a musical called Debt. It was nice to see a performance by professionals in close quarters. The singing was bearable, but the show was beleaguered by the very un-musical recitation of economic theory by a fatuous over-actor. I believe the show focused on debt in a Vancouver context, but early on I became distracted by one particular performer's magnificent legs and missed a large part of the plot.

Despite the fact that most of the population of the city is stoned all of the time it is a healthy city. People generally tuck in at 9pm so that they can get a start jogging at 5 the next morning. It is a rule abiding city. Everyone pays close attention to the cross-walk signals, and are easily duped when someone like me comes along and flagrantly ignores them.

I recall standing with a group of people at a cross-walk waiting for the light to change. I looked up and down the street, didn't see a car, so I proceeded across. Everyone followed me. Then I stopped because I saw a car approaching. Everyone behind me stopped. I turned around, cut through the confused melee, and returned to the corner. There was some milling about in the middle of the road and then everyone followed me back. No eye contact was exchanged amongst us. Not even sheepish.

A friend tells me that Vancouver was a very pedestrian city. This is no longer the case. . . On second thought maybe Vancouver is walking-friendly, but because no one knows how to drive (possibly because they are stoned) the normal rules for pedestrian right-of-way become moot.

This is a slightly scary concept when you consider that every single person in Vancouver has a car. This can be illustrated by the commuter lane (which only requires one passenger to qualify) being practically empty while the other two lanes of HWY 1 are parking lots. The movement during rush-hour in these lanes is so scant I find it hard to believe that anyone goes home when they've finished work. I suspect they park on the highway (one of the only places you can park without getting hassled) and then turn their cars around the next morning to head back into the city.

Except back-tracking in Vancouver is like trying to return to your spot at an AC/DC concert after you've gone for a beer.

While I was house-sitting in North Vancouver – the part of Vancouver containing white people – I had access to a car. I decided to head a short distance down the road to pick up some food from a drive-thru. My attire was unfit for a long sojourn. On my way back to the house, perhaps five minutes away, I missed a poorly indicated merge and found myself on a long bridge heading into Vancouver proper. Immediately my highway instincts kicked in and I tried to determine where to get off and use that information to go back the way I came. Undeterred by the lack of on-ramps corresponding to the off-ramps I pulled off on a promising street. I believe it was Pender, or possibly Hastings. Not that it mattered because when I got off the highway I promptly found myself stuck in a Gordion knot with no means of escape. Cursing and sweating I did an eventual U-turn and the highway had disappeared.

It turns out there is one major highway in Vancouver. Sadly it is nowhere near Vancouver. It starts on the North Shore and barely brushes the centre before abruptly turning east. To further complicate things Vancouver is criss-crossed with rivers, inlets, and estuaries with very few means of crossing them.

Now, not only was I far from North Vancouver and all it's white people, but I wasn't sure if I had just gotten off a highway in the first place. Not only that, but signs were telling me that I was in some place called "Burnaby". In the end, a trip that should have taken 5 minutes took 2 hours.

People familiar with Vancouver will read this, chuckle smugly, and say, "Oh, I see what you did there." And you probably do. But for a city that's inviting the world to come see it's games, having M.C. Escher design your streets and putting up vague and confusing road-signs seems a little like smacking the audience in the head when they enter the circus tent. Also, choosing about six different names – aside from provinces, and numbers – to call all the streets in the GVA is confusing and somewhat cruel for the uninitiated.

I don't know how many "Main Streets" I saw, but it immediately seemed like too many considering not even Ottawa doubles up on street names.

For the most part I lived on Alberta St. Alberta St. is parallel to Yukon St., which in turn is parallel to Columbia, Manitoba, and Ontario streets. You see where this is going? These are provinces in the dominion of Canada. There is a even a Quebec street. A clever naming-scheme as any. And you can almost ignore the fact that there are no PEI, Nova Scotia, or Newfoundland and Labrador streets. That's fair, the Rockies are high and it's difficult to perceive existence that far Eastward. But no Saskatchewan street? But they're so close! Practically on your doorstep, and far closer than Quebec.

The message here is clear; while BC laughs at some provinces, they find others too hysterical to even mention. Particularly the flat ones.

Ethnically Vancouver is as diverse as Hong Kong. As a matter of fact, perhaps Vancouver is Hong Kong. Whole portions of the city is entirely in Cantonese. The other ethnic groups include South Asian, and people from Port Coquitlam. I counted 8 black people, which hardly qualifies as a "group"… More of a "session".

Regardless, everyone was very healthy-looking and shiny. Even the homeless people looked okay. It was easy to find them, because, when they aren't all congregating around Main and Hastings, they can be found giving life-lessons in front of the London Drugs. Here are some life-lessons I received:

"Hey man, can you spare some change?"

"Why are you all dressed in black?"

"Man, you gots to feel it happen."

"It's a beautiful day, get your smile out."

And, "Your face! Your face! Heeeeragh!"

I'm still not sure why they all gather at Main and Hastings, but I got the distinct feeling of a corral.

Port Coquitlam, by the way, is very much like an old, better-looking Kanata. It is where they filmed the latest Twilight movie and nobody there is embarrassed about it. It also seems to be common policy to swerve at pedestrians in it's suburbs when they wear stupid hats.

Speaking of stupid hats, there is also a proliferation of hipsters in Vancouver. These are the skinny, hairy, ironic-handle-bar-moustache, tight-pant wearing denizens of a sub-culture that severely needs to have their faces adjusted. Luckily they all congregate around Davie St. so can easily be found for beatings.

It's hard to find bitter people in an ice-cream parlour with 218 flavours to choose from. Similarly it's hard to find bitter people in Vancouver. On a scale from Rage to Joy most Vancouverites hover around Smug. Mostly people there are just plain nice. Ignoring my natural distrust of utterly nice people there is an element of the Davidian Cult going on. Of course, they have a lot to be nice about. The city sits in the shadow of many glorious mountains which can be seen on a clear day. Practically everywhere you go in the city affords you a breath-taking view of old-growth forest and the glassine towers of the downtown core. The modestly named Seymour Creek gushes green water through a crevasse in which kayakers furiously stroke in the middle of January.

It is definitely an outdoorsy city. Vancouver begs to be walked, biked, paddled, skied, rolled, swam, waddled, and limped. Which begs the question; if practically nobody is ever in their house why is the real-estate so damn expensive? That's the thing. They've designed the city so that new-comers find it impossible to get out again, yet living there is like living in Manhattan while working at the 7-Eleven. This is a real downer if you've gone in blind trying to find work

As a friend put it, "There must be millions of millionaires." Personally, with all the houses, I couldn't figure out where everyone worked.

I say, let the nature reclaim the land and give all the Vancouverites massive Mountain Equipment Co-op backpacks stuffed with tents, sleeping-bags, and hibachi stoves. They'll be fine. Trust me.

It's also a city buzzing with human life and activity – until 9pm. I didn't really get a bead on the nightlife in Vancouver; either because I was belting out My Way in a karaoke bar, transfixed by the enormous busts on some mannequins in a shop window on Granville, or stuffing my face with pizza near Robson – sometime all three at the same time. I did see nightlife in Port Coquitlam thanks to some dear old and new friends. Nightlife in "PoCo" consist of a bar called "The Fox and the Fiddle".

Sitting here, with a perforated ear drum, and a brutal cold, (A friend asked me today how my cold was doing. I said, it's doing great, very successful, it's kicking my ass) it's easy for me to be bitter about the place. . . What? Who am I kidding? That's my modus operandi, I'm bitter about every place. But here's the thing. I'm really not. Vancouver is pretty damn cool. Even with a black cloud hanging over my head when I got there I could still appreciate the city for being great. I had the benefit of some very good friends and family to show me around and get me to the heart of the thing. I think to myself, "Would I have liked it as much without them?" The answer is yes, but I wouldn't nearly have had as much fun.

See? Just like and ice-cream parlour with 218 flavours to choose from.

square zero

I'm not sure whether "not being a good fit for the company image" is grounds for dismissal.

But then again, when you're five days short of the end of your probationary period you're not entitled to much of a reason at all.

It's hard for me to get a bead on a lot of what was said to me last Tuesday when the GM called me into the office. I do know that I was called in right after he indoctrinated the new Sales lady. I heard something about the company hemorrhaging money. I heard something about me not being involved in the community enough. I heard something about receiving a letter of recommendation – "glowing" is the word I believed he used.

I'm fairly sure I mentioned the fact that I carried the radio station on my back – single-handedly, inexperienced – for two months. I didn't mention dealing with the power outages, missing board operators, and screaming up to Port Hardy at the last minute.

Or the ridiculous task of trying to produce commercials while live on the air at the same time. How about recording an entire six hour show for The Port 1240 every day, while getting interviews for the news guys in Courtenay, and working on a diabetes fundraising event?

How about weekends spent in the studio working on production pieces for the hockey team, or voice-tracking for the Sunday so that the weather reports would sound a little more authentic if they were closer to the date? I never bothered filling out overtime cards because I felt the experience was payment enough. Also, having use of the car would have equalized the money due to me.

The twelve hour days, the fact that I was just starting to get comfortable behind the mic despite getting very little guidance – despite constantly asking for guidance.

I did every thing they told me. Some things I got right away, other things I improved over time. That's how it's supposed to work when you first start out, right?

Christ, I hauled my ass all the way across the country for this job. Frankly, if I had known this was going to happen I would have continued waiting tables until something more secure came along.

I didn't menion these factors, because he knew. Why put him on the defensive when I knew I couldn't talk him out of it. I know this because I said, "I can't talk you out of this can I?"

So ultimately all that work was for nothing except a few references, and not enough experience to make me hireable in the industry.

"Keep your chin up." They say.

If you're at the bottom of a hole…Again…It's hard for your chin to be facing anywhere else.

I am utterly devastated.

I'm not a manic-depressive, but the depressions I'm occasionally lapsing into can only be described as "manic". We're talking acid-trip bouts of psychotic misery and horrible dread when I'm bad, and generally despondent and distracted when I'm good.

It's not just the fact that I was canned so abruptly. Or the fact that it's a hell of a thing to happen right before Christmas. Or that after three months I was starting to get a handle on things. Or that it was an incredible opportunity that I never took for granted. Or the fact that I took all the steps to keep my karma in balance (which sounds weird, but makes sense if you're me).

It's the fact that I have been again set back light years in terms of getting my fucking life somewhere stable. It was bloody hard landing this job in the first place. The months of sending out audition packages and following-up was endless and tiring. It's hard to face this reality again without the taste of bile in my mouth.

I feel like I've been climbing this beast of a mountain – still in the woods, but the pines are thinning, and I can smell the snow – when some anonymous malevolent force plucks me off its side and dumps me back in the valley. I felt I could start chasing goals because I was on the right path to create the groundwork on which they would have stood.

Perfect, a goddamned mountain analogy. This place is disturbing me.

And the malevolent force is not so anonymous. I know who "terminated" my employment, as he put it. The thing is, he seemed to genuinely feel bad. He was quick to offer himself as a reference, as were other's near the top of Vista Radio. That would seem to indicate that losing this job wasn't completely due to incompetence on my part. That's how it's supposed to work, right?

He said that he hoped the experience wouldn't stop me from pursuing radio. Platitudes from a well practiced manager, or sincere thoughts from someone who really cares? I suppose when (and if) I recieve that letter of recommendation, I'll know.

So here I am in Vancouver, staying on the floor of my cousin's kid's room. I'm living out of my suitcase again with no prospects and a dim view of the future.

Right now I'm remembering what my professor told me when I said I landed a job in Powell River. He said, "You'll like BC".

Despite the valiant efforts of a couple friends and family in Vancouver showing me the grandeur of the place I remain deeply, deeply, unimpressed.

Of course my glasses are not exactly rose-tinted. They smell, and are obscured by shit.

I feel that I've made a lifetime of sacrifices, only to land back in the tar-pit.

There is no justice. There is no reprieve. There is no balance, and nothing matters no matter what I do. There is, however, this – an email I got from the head of the United Way in Powell River:

I hope you won't turn your back on us, but I do want you to know that you have been incredibly supportive in casting out the net of info re United Way and other things that really screamed to be shouted about. I hear practically daily "I heard you on the radio", and you did that. For that I am very grateful. You may have lost your job, but you have helped me keep mine. Thank you.

Janet

Sigh…You're welcome Janet.

apropos to nothing

Welcome to my secret blog.

It has become secret– or as secret as anything can be online –because of a person I don't know.

Imagine that, huh? A person who I have never met, whose face I could not pick out of crowd, whose opinion would normally be useless to me has caused me to lock down my blog.

It was Wednesday when I got the email to my work account. At first read it was fairly rational; this person had taken exception with my portrayal of Powell River in my blog. He did this by cutting-and-pasting things I had written onto the body of the email with his own little comments like: "I like how you generalize people here", and summarizing what I was saying into neat little points like, "…about the people", and "…things to do here."

He said if I didn't like it here, I should leave. Which is a fair, but clichéd argument, usually attributed to morons.

All in all he thought I was denigrating a great and wonderful town, and I was wrong about everything.

Here's where it get's a little less rational.

He said that he showed my blog to his peers and seniors. Seniors? That would involve finding seniors, calling up my blog and showing it to them. Maybe the Senior didn't know how to operate email. Did he help them get online so that he could illustrate how I didn't like the community as much as he does? Maybe the Senior couldn't see too well. Did he read it to them?

Let's call this guy "Kevin Allen", because that's actually his name. At least that's how he signed the email. . . I figure if I was the kind of guy who worked hard at pointlessly angering Seniors using someone else's steam I wouldn't want my actual name known.

Anyway.

Somehow or another Kevin found my blog – which is no mean feat, I have enough of a hard time getting people to find it when I want them to read it – and worked himself up into a righteous enough fury that he forwarded his email– with all the bits he'd stolen of my writing –to everyone he knew. And some people he didn't, like my GM.

As soon as I got the email from him I locked the blog down. But I guess not before the GM had read through it.

He asked, "So what's with the blog?"
I explained to him that I write to vent, and it's always meant to be in humour. I told him that I would stop writing it.
He said, "No, you shouldn't stop writing it, you're a good writer."
He said I should just be careful of what I say, and who can read it.

We are talking about a very reasonable man here.

This was not the reaction Kevin was hoping for. Kevin was trying to get me fired. That's why he chose only certain bits to bring to people's attention.

Kevin, apparently, is also trying to get me lynched. Word of what I had written (through Kevin's filter) had spread to the audience of a hockey game that same evening.

I don't know how he did it; whether he stood on a pulpit like a religious degenerate, or distributed pamphlets, or went from person to person to talk about me. Whatever he did, I was the topic of conversation at that game.

A game that was abruptly cancelled because Powell River had it's first of two power-outs. Luckily, I guess, the audience were able to occupy their time in the utter blackness by talking about me.

How do I know? because I got emails from people. One girl, named Jenny (who may have also been Kevin), sent a message which said basically, "I heard at the hockey game you said bad things about Powell River. Say it ain't so. And if it is so, why can't I read it?" I wrote back asking that she respects my privacy, and invited her to the studio to get her on-air saying why she loves Powell River. I offered her a hockey ticket to the next game if she showed up.

This, by the way, was something Kevin didn't do. He railed and ranted about my writing and failed to tell me what he likes about the place. Although, I suspect what he likes about the place has something to do with being somebody by blind-siding someone else.

When you swish the gravel at the bottom of an aquarium all its occupants notice.

Another email from someone had an entirely different angle. It said basically that they'd heard about me at the game and not to worry, because some people are tools.

It was a breath of fresh air. I've been around enough here to know that great people exist. Most of the people I meet are fantastic, even given my general cynicism towards people that are too nice.

This guy's email essentially said, it's hard being new, find an activity you like doing and do it. Chin Up!

It doesn't change the fact that he overheard stuff about me at the rallying point around which most Powell Riverites find themselves: a hockey game.

This is unnerving to me and probably doesn't help dissuade you folks from the perception that I've been painting of this place all along.

If Kevin's goal was to change what he believes is my perception of Powell River he is doing a really crap job of it. Because now all I can think is, a) many people here trust rumour to form an opinion of someone, b) many people take themselves too seriously, and b) many people here don't a have anything else better to do.

At least the people here who actually listened to what he had to say. Which at that point would be entirely word-of-mouth, because it became even more difficult to read my blog then than it was before.

You see, what Kevin did was take what I was generally commenting about the place he lives and using it to fuel a very personal attack.

Basically Kevin is in love with me.

Why else would he devote so much time to doing something so pathetic? The kind of frenzy he was trying to whip up is a labour of love, of passion, of freakishly obsessive behaviour. All directed at one person, me.

He is a throwback who can't accept someone else's opinion if it doesn't jibe with his own. He is the slap in the face to free speech. The fact that he was creeping around in my writing to try to find things he didn't like speaks volumes about his character. Volumes that don't go much beyond zero.

And "creeping" is the operative word.

I am reminded of Fox News which selectively edits real information so that it can give it enough gravitational spin that it attracts other like-minded sycophants who then commence tea-bagging each other.

Probably even now he is trying to figure out a way that he can read my blogs and expose me as the dastardly person I am. Truth is, if he tries hard enough he will find this and he will read this. And he probably still won't get it.

Nor would he understand that I say enough positive things about Powell River that I really mean on air, that my blogs become the counterweight that keeps me from turning into somebody like him.

He wouldn't know about that though, because he doesn't listen me on the radio. That was his parting shot, by the way, he and his friends are no longer going to listen to Sun FM. They are going to go to the competition.

Okay then Kevin.

But if you're half competent as my censorship committee you'll pay close attention to everything I do, not just write. My observations are broad and take many forms. The stuff in my camera, for example, would make you blubber with delight. And, of course, what I say on the air needs to be taken in account as well. Otherwise you're not doing your job.

Also, mate, there are people here who read it and really enjoy it. That means it's witch-hunt time. Although, I've locked those people out as well as a safety measure. But hey, a good old-fashioned witch-hunt doesn't need anything weighty like actual evidence does it? You should have no problems continuing to live out the stereotype I've created for you.

But, whatever.

I bet you the guy hasn't listened to radio since the advent of the iPod. He doesn't fit the demographic. And I don't think Goebbels' machine is still broadcasting.

Besides, to quote the great philosopher M. Jagger, "Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke."


And that's why the blog is now locked.

I've devoted entirely too much time to this.



You may now return to your regularly scheduled propaganda.