Fear of the Unique Object

Jim Carrey in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

I was just packing up my apartment. Its almost over, my two year stint in New Westminster. The power, phone, and cable will all be cut on Monday, the mail will be re-routed. I have hardly packed anything, and tonight I stopped once I hit the pile of sealed boxes in the storage room. No longer holding anything functional, these cardboard vessels, with the contents listed bluntly in black marker on the top, sometimes the side, terrify me. I couldn't resist opening a few, and it stopped me cold. If anyone else had looked in those boxes, they would appear to be nothing but junk. To me though, it was my life, or objects that represent my life, some unique, some utilitarian, each one triggering a memory, a moment. Drapes, toys, books, stacks and stacks of pictures, a set of snowman ears bought at a christmas parade, a deck of cards, each item belonging to a teleological progression of history that I am perversely attracted to. After I am dead it will all disperse, and become meaningless. It was unsettling looking at all those objects assembled together, neutralized by brown cardboard and the non-smell of dust.

I sat in a dark theatre one afternoon awhile back, a bucket of popcorn, large coke, and watched Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. The lead character, Joel Barish, played by Jim Carrey, deals with the evils of nostalgia, and the objects that can trigger it, by piling every memento from his broken relationship to his girlfriend, played by Kate Winslet, into a large black garbage bag. Avoiding the usual cliche of making a huge mound of letters, pictures, and gifts in the backyard and burning it, Joel takes it all to a doctor that specializes in removing memories from the mind. Each object is placed on a table and located in the brain, where it is later traced, and eliminated. Only in the movies is this possible of course. The rest of us must live with the past, and wrestle with its ability to be triggered unexpectedly at any moment, taking you to who knows where, an inferno of lust and anguish, or a warmth that comforts the future.

What my future holds, I have no idea. I run through excitement, terror, revulsion disparity, all in the space of ten minutes, and then it starts all over again. Lately, history is on heavy rotation. It all feels foreign.

My old apartment will not be erased from memory, instead it will fade, slowly over time. I hope that over the next year the painful memories of this place will seem like a shadow that is long, distorted, but ultimately harmless. I will be on hiatus for awhile as I get settled in my new digs, downtown, if you miss me don't hesitate to say so, your comments are welcome, and I will be posting early next week, if you feel lonely, or nostalgic.

Soft hands, Hard shoes, Raw Meat.

The Rocky video game would not be complete without the famous meat cooler scene.

So much for culture. I didn't quite make the train ride out to the authentic cafe's on Commercial Drive. Offering my seat to an old Asian woman on the train found me having to stand. After a quick survey of the situation I noticed I was the only one without a seat, this imbalance of unity started to make me nervous, so I bailed out at Metrotown. Here I am, Low's on Location in one of two Starbucks this behemoth of artificial trees and ambitious fountains has to offer. I am in the one that is inside a Chapters, the magazine rack is huge and organized, Science, General Health, Woman's Interest, the headings stretch across the wall. It is Sunday evening.

I have been trying to put last night into perspective, but there is none. I was all over the place, on foot. The sound of my thick wooden heeled shoes hitting dull pavement, one of the things I remember best. It was quite a tour. The Sidebar, The Whip, Video In, The Marine Club, and some weird pizza slice place that has a bar in the back of the room of which they serve Okanagan Spring Pale Ale at 2$ for a half pint. I always pass this place on the bus on the way home from work, looks a little rough. The front entrance is always littered with dealer type homies. I was walking from the bus stop, towards the block that it was on, and this odd fellow, that looked like an over the hill WWF superstar walked with me.

"Just don't go there, its a gangster ridden hell hole and they'll kill you if your gay," he warned.

"Actually that's where I was headed," says I.

"Well good luck," and then he yelled something on my way in that I couldn't quite hear, but sounded something like, "Be careful, you look like a homo." I walked out an hour later, unscathed, satisfied that I didn't look like a fag.

My experience at Video In is only now starting to resonate with the insanity that it fully deserves. It was an all ages show, they served pop, donuts and Hostess cakes. Here's a very blunt recap of what I saw in the short time that I was there. Ivan Hrvastska, began the evening by jumping out from the back room in black leather pants, a t-shirt with the arms cut off, and a classic mullet hair style. Although I have no idea why, his hair was all wet with sweat. He played polish music over a cheap cassette stereo, and did some sort of hoppy polish dance all over the room, singing "Its an all ages party!" Next was Steve Steveston, who was actually David Yonge dressed as an ICBC representative. With cheap brown slacks, beige tie, and a beat up briefcase, he sat in front of the small crowd and talked about insurance coverage. Then he got up, with his back against the wall he bent over and began hyperventilating. Quickly standing upright, he had his assistant asphyxiate him with his own tie. Needless to say, Steve Steveston passed out, when he regained consciousness he got up, put on his glasses, and walked of the stage to a sparse applause. Next up was Baby Jesus, very overweight and completely naked except a for a satin loin cloth, he strummed the guitar singing a song about god, followed by a karaoke number that forbids description. You simply had to be there to fully grasp just how strange a large naked man looks while playing the guitar. It would have been good if you were there, no one else was. And although it added to the discomforting aspect of these performances, more people should have seen this. I had been looking forward to this show for weeks, once I found out that Rock'N, another one of David Yonge's projects, was headlining the show. But once I found out that everyone was over at the Marine Club, I couldn't resist a crowd, and a drink. I sheepishly snuck out of the room, hoping no one would notice.

I watched Rocky over the weekend and the scene where a very determined Italian Stallion pounds a side of beef on national television brings to mind something that happened last night at the Marine Club. It was the last show The Neins would play, as half the band has decided to call it quits. I walked in just as they were finishing up, I couldn't get near the stage. I can't remember her name now, or what she looked like, only that when our hands met in a shake, she commented on how soft my skin was. I am not sure how I feel about this, aren't man hands supposed to be rough and rugged? You know, so you can punch out dead cattle! My dad had soft hands too, he's a butcher, and my mom used to say it was from handling meat all day, everyday. Whenever a woman, thankfully men have never mentioned this to me, comments on the smoothness of my hands this is what I relate, that my dad is a butcher, and that handling meat all day makes your hands soft. This has nothing to do with how my hands got this way though, I think I better stop doing this, it makes me out as some kind of creep. I mean, I am not a butcher, and I don't hit beef in a cooler, so yeah, I think I better stop talking about meat when my hands are noticed.

Hanging out with Rick, the very recent former Niens bassist, at the back of the bar, things were winding down. It was approaching last train time, and Rick commented that this would be the last time he would see me having to leave early because of the train schedule. I am moving downtown next week. The train is starting to drive me crazy. I was back on it this morning, and I just couldn't make the long trip all the way downtown. So this Starbucks, in the mall, will have to do as my source of inspiration for today's entry of Low's, as I sit here typing with soft hands. Is it working?

Busted...

Is British journalist Sarah Champion the smartest whore on Blogspot?

Yeah, I thought so. Although its not confirmed, pop culture journalist Sarah Champion has been identified as the author of the thinking woman's smut that is known as Belle de Jour. Belle de Jour, a blog with a shitty default blogger template about a UK call girl, and her sexual exploits, is making headlines around the world. This NY Post article has me pretty convinced. Regardless of whoever is behind Belle de Jour, its not likely she looks the way I pictured her in my mind or, ahem, my fantasies anyway.

No, I knew it was crap all along, I just didn't want to believe it, the writing is just too damn good. Stir up that much excitement, get too many people reading, and next thing you know, you have the guy who outed the author of Primary Color's on your ass. I expect de Jour to last about 6 more months. Her and Angele Yanor would make good company right now.

I for one will not want to read Belle de Jour anymore, how can I? The image in my head of the sophisticated, sexy, brunette with high heels, tight and tailored black skirt with a crisp blouse, oh and the heels with stockings, my god don't get me started, its all a wash now. How am I supposed to read Belle de Jour with the image of riott grrrll Sarah Champion shattering my expectations of what I thought Belle really looked like. I knew it! I bloody well knew it, thanks a lot Don Foster. Your literary detective skills are appreciated by millions, you schmuck.

I don't think I have to worry about Mr. Foster trying to track the man of mystery behind low's, you see no one cares. I am just a guy, a little lonely, pretty insecure. I don't post enticing pictures of myself, roping in cyber loners, no hot erotica going on here, just self deprecation, which I have taken a break from today mind you. Although everyone is mildly interested in my train wreck of a life, I am a guy, and guy blogs just don't get much attention in the cyberworld. I have talked about this before and my attitude towards women and blogs has not changed much. They post attractive pictures of themselves and rope the lonely guy into their world of, know me, love me, but understand, you don't have a chance, you are simply here to feed my ego. Well, you throw a few sex stories into the mix and next thing you know you have a book deal. Obviously Sarah Champion knew this when she started Belle de Jour three years ago. She knew men and women would eat this stuff up, and they did, her plan worked, obviously a little too well. I for one am not giving into this crap. I will remain anonymous I tell you! No matter how many people demand to know my true identity, yeah, right. Now that we have broken the mystique behind Belle de Jour, who is next? I say we sick Dan Foster on the Dirty Whore!

A Sunday Afternoon

Seurat's, A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte, a moment frozen in time and absolutely still.

My thoughts this weekend are of Paris and the urban stroll on a public street. Most of my weekend was spent amongst the gray and endless sidewalks that send a steady stream of imagery into view. Friday I walked Broadway, towards a screening of films at a funeral parlor. I got drunk, went for dinner and ate nothing, finally arriving at a packed OR gallery for the opening of Hurry Slowly. Saturday, it was Granville, gritty, wide, and just a little stinky. I walked Granville street from one end to the next, cutting through the approaching crowd with side long glances. So much can be exchanged between two people in the breath of a quick arrival and departure, which the avenue so often orchestrates. I ended the night at Tonic. I tend not to frequent places that require a weapons check upon entry, but we knew a friend that worked there, and that's the only excuse we needed. I was generally impressed with the amount of liquor being pounded down the young open throats, sprayed with too much cologne, but was disappointed in the women, who all seemed the same. Not only dressed alike, but too familiar with what girls looked like the last time I was in a place like that. Very little has changed in bar slut chic, and I think that's just atrocious.

Sunday was spent on Granville street's alter ego, Robson street. Less on freaks, more on a big eccentric, misplaced, and often tacky sense of lifestyle on display. People were sitting outside drinking Stella Artois in the sun, we get summer early here in Vancouver, it was nice, very leisure. Then I arrived at Denman and Robson, and time stood still for a little while. It was not past, it was not present, it was undefinable, a mixture of the two. It was lovely. Later, after a stroll through Stanley Park, idle, and relaxed, I lazed on a piece of IKEA furniture in a confused state of familiarity, and the unknown. I took chances and was rewarded, but with caution, I don't heed warnings, probably not smart.

I am reading Henry Miller, can you tell? I am making plans to visit Paris, where the arcades are beyond legendary. I simply want to share some karma with the hero's that have lived there. Miller said everyone who is anyone has lived in Paris, and that no one dies there. His writing is very macho, and reading it often makes me feel weak.

The day, and the weekend, ended in a vision that has not left my mind yet. It is Denman street once again, although this time I am departing. It is crowded, and there are people milling about, waiting for the bus, hurrying along with groceries. I dart my eyes around the obstacles while my feet clumsily shuffle sideways to accommodate my twisted torso, and for a second I lock in on my target, milk glass skin and pink hat, then it gets folded back into the crowd, faded from view. Time begins again.

St. Patrick. ...Shit.

Martin sheen in Apocalypse Now, is that the sound of choppers, or just my bathroom fan?

Ever have one of those moments? A pause in activity, and you think, how did I ever get to this point? I have them all the time. Today it was when I was bent over the bath tub, naked, lathered in the stink of Veet, frantically scrubbing the porcelain clean with a white facecloth. I stopped to stare at the facecloth which had turned to a festive shade of green, stained from the Comet I had just dusted the bathroom with, and was now happily inhaling from the bottom of the tub. Happy St. Patrick's day...

I guess I should have known. I awoke content enough this morning, but started to slip soon after. I remember lying on my side looking out the window at the city beneath me, knowing what I would be handed as the hours wore on. The scene from Apocalypse Now of Martin Sheen doing drunken Karate in his underwear came to mind. I thought of Sheen's character, Benjamin Willard, and the only dialogue in that fantastic montage, "Saigon. ...shit."

I showed up at the office late and left early for a marathon session of Sponge Bob Square Pants on the X-Box with F. I am a dedicated employee and worth every penny, trust me. I was well on my to insanity before I left, but I think it must have been the endless train ride home which afforded me too much time to think and finally did me in. Its amazing what the imagination can accomplish when given a little time to ferment. However, the process does rely on something to rot, and there is plenty of waste running through the course of my days, believe me.

My landlord called earlier in the evening to announce that he would be hosting an open house to show prospective renters my lovely accommodations. The condo, with the exception of my bedroom and attached bathroom, is pretty much empty. I want all evidence of my connection with this place hidden from view. So I spent the night taking all the pictures from the walls so they are empty and void of any personality. I don't want anything revealed to the strangers who will pass through this place and glance around with discomfort.

Once the walls were cleared I guess it was just a natural progression to move onto the body. Which brings us to the manic make-over. While I was waiting for the hair on my chest to fall off me like a matted carpet, I might as well clean the bathroom too. So there you have it, it all makes perfect sense now. If only I could put this ingenuity to better means. Carry on...

This Is A Message...

Johnny Depp as Mort Rainy, probably wondering who's calling.

Booth 6. The tiny sticker on the wall beside me annotates my location. I am at the Royal City Cafe for breakfast and a last look at the paintings that hang here. Its Sunday, and with another weekend passing my days in New Westminster are numbered. These fine examples of civic painting are one of the few things I will miss.

I don't know what the deal is with this city, but New Westminster has to be the screaming trash capital of Canada. Two different apartments, on opposite ends of the city, and not one of them exempt from the insanity you hear coming from the streets at any given moment. This weekend was no exception. Late Friday night the voices were from a drinking party coming from this vacant space beside the sky train station. It went on for hours. I was half asleep and thought I was in a David Lynch movie, the hick tinged cackles bouncing off the other hi-rises and into my subconscious. This morning though, about 6-am, it was just one guy going ballistic and screaming "You Fuckin Nigger" at the top of his lungs for a half an hour. These are my fellow citizens.

Despite the intermittent screaming from the streets, the weekend was quiet and comforting. I started early of course and went to the CAG
Thursday night for Supernatural, new work by Neil Campbell and Beau Dick. Friday I went to another opening at the Grunt Gallery, never did figure out who was showing there. Saturday was spent walking Granville St. during the St. Patricks day parade. God the sound of bagpipes makes me well in tears. It was hilarious, each time the band would kick up so would the mist. What a wreck. After lunch I ducked into the shade of the Granville 7 for the 130 showing of Secret Window, written by Stephen King and starring Johnny Depp.

Like most Stephen King films the lead character, played by Depp, is a writer. He has recently suffered the break up of his marriage, due to his wife's infidelity, Now it is six months later and Mort Rainy still has not recovered. He is hiding away at his cottage on the lake supposedly writing a book, but he has written only one paragraph in 6 months. His hair is a mess, he sleeps on the couch all day, smokes, and eats doritos while he stairs at the phone. I know the feeling all too well.

My relationship with the phone has become quite complex as of late. Although it seldom rings, I still carry it around with me everywhere. It is my connection with the world outside my bedroom and that connection is minimal at best. I want to get away from my phone but its hard, I am a slave to the phone, good thing its cordless. Johnny Depp's character in Secret Window would often unplug his, I tried this too, in an act of defiance, but defiance doesn't work when it goes unnoticed. I wait for a call, and when it happens I am apprehensive to answer it. The phone keeps a record of all calls, incoming, outgoing, whatever. I wouldn't say its a healthy relationship, but at least I can trust the phone.

At least for now, in booth 6, I am away from the phone. It won't last though, I will find my phone again and it will give it to me straight. For now though, the Royal City Cafe and its framed paintings of various government achievements provide me with a necessary diversion, civic painting. New Westminster, I will not miss this place.

I Must Admit, As They Say

John Landis, foreman of many 80's classics

Please bare with me here. This post is going to be all over the board so get ready.

There is a parasite infecting someone I care for very much, and there isn't a damn thing I can do about it except sit by and watch it slowly erode away the things that are most dear to me. Last weekend was awful and I managed to get even lower than what I thought was rock bottom two weeks ago.

Incidentally I watched 2 John Landis films, Into the Night, starring Jeff Goldblum and Michelle Pfeiffer, and Coming to America with Eddie Murphy and Arsenio Hall. I am hypersensitive right now, and you know your fucked when you find an Eddie Murphy film is commenting on your life.

I drank all afternoon with a 77 year old retired dock worker named Henry one day. We were two lost souls. I had the Heineken on tap, while Henry drank double Brandy's with a stack of twenty dollar bills on the bar. Expensive taste. By the time Sunday rolled around I was an emotional basket case and it all boiled to the surface in one heaping, retarded phone call that I of course regretted within minutes. The damage has been done however, but really it makes no difference, I am doomed as they say. I really thought there was hope, but I know I am being spared the final details of what has become the final act of a nightmare vision I have had for years. I must now turn my back and allow the feeding to continue, otherwise I am going to suffer a crash that will do me serious harm.

My internet was cut over the weekend, due to a certain parties lack of interest in my situation. I think its a good idea not to have the net for a little while at home, I need to gain some self control. I have been a bad boy.

There is good news, remember I said I would have some exciting news? Well I am moving. I recently rented an 800sq ft. live/work space. I will begin painting again and lord only knows what the hell will come of it. I am terrified though, I have never lived on my own before. I am worried about the high rent and my motives for renting a space like this. Am I just trying to desperately appear attractive in someone's eyes, renting a place that is way out of my league? Am I a poser? I must admit that I have zero confidence in my art making abilities as of late.

For some reason I can't stop thinking about my experience as a football player when I was 9 years old. One day at recess, I was playing football with my friends and I somehow managed to score a touchdown, I think it was the one and only touchdown I ever scored. Well that settled it. I wanted to play football. Well, I didn't dream of working hard, learning the game, etc. No, I dreamed of the uniform. The shoulder pads, the cool short capri pants with the built in pads. The helmet! Well I begged my parents and next thing you know, I received my uniform. I think I was number 16. Guess what I was for Halloween that year? After that I wasn't much interested in the football playing part of it. The hard work required, the discipline. It didn't help things much either that I completely sucked and I don't think I made one contribution to that team in 40 games. So is this apartment I rented just another fancy uniform to impress the ladies with? We'll see, but I am worried, I must admit.

Reading back my first entry of low's I can remember how I thought that everything would work itself out. I remember saying something like "Its the last of many lasts" it truly was. Although I didn't believe it at the time, many things have happened for the last time since then, and the melancholy I feel at the reality of my situation has caused me to become a different person. Well now is the time to set things right again. As I said then, I will say it again, read on my friends, read on...

The Short Weekend Begins with Longing...

Harvey Pekar walks the streets of Cleveland in American Splendor

No one was waiting on me today. So, time to wander, and wander I did. I was going to pass the time by doing what I do best, drinking and smoking. I couldn't get a table at the Lennox so I decided to browse movies across Robson St. at Future Shop. It was there that I stumbled upon the movie American Splendor. I had heard about it when it was first released, but knew nothing of the comic book that shared the same name. I paid the cashier, checked the Lennox for a table again, still no room, and was on my way. To where I did not know. So I just started walking through the Pacific Centre mall. I looked at some clothes at Holt Renfrew that were so ridiculously exspensive it was truely cruel. I didn't think clothes like that even existed, only in a magazine as they say. Oh their out there allright, but only for the select few that can afford it. Time to go somewhere that fits my limited budget.

Arby's. Yeah, pretty sad. I sat there with my 2 beef and chedder sandwiches for 5 bucks, eyeing the other shoppers with the sound of a large waterfall in the background. I finally gave in, this killing time was killing me. So I grabbed the train home to my emptied apartment and took up my usual position in bed with my laptop. Roll movie.

I knew I was headed for trouble when the opening scene featured a down and out soul pacing the city streets, complaining about his life. I was tempted to shut the bloody thing off when Harvey, the main character and subject of American Splendor, comes home one afternoon to his wife moving out. This is a great end to a lousy evening I thought. Morbidly interested though I kept watching.

Unfortunately I think I have a lot in common with Harvey Pekar. The sequence of him walking the streets, going home, lying in bed, reading books to kill time while a narrative explained just how awfully lonely he was at this period in his life struck just a little too close to home. I thought of the weekends I have been living as of late. Full of people I don't know that well and too many drinks, but empty all the same. Am I Harvey Pekar? Is Low's just another version of American Splendor online, sans illustration? The casting in this film was amazing, they intertwine footage of the actors with interviews of the real people, and mix that up with images and animations from the comic book. A very unique viewing experience. I had a real affection for the wife of Harvey, his third, Joyce. The way the two met in real life and in the film mirrored my own experience. Her devotion to Harvey was intoxicating, and she was kind of cute. I knew someone like her once, so long ago it seems now.

I don't know how comfortable I am comparing myself to an angry, obsessive compulsive loner. But I think back to my time in the mall, just a few short hours ago, and the similarities are quite terrifying. The weekend is upon us again, and I know mine, except for the 4 or 5 hours in which I can attend a party here or there, will be spent alone. I will lie in bed, I will pace the streets, I will think of how screwed up my life has become, I will wish for splendor.

Low's Presents...

Another Hotlink Album

Track 1 - Lali Puna - Everywhere and Allover >Listen

Track 2 - Barcelona - I Have The Password To Your Shell Account >Listen

Track 3 - Ex Models - Pink Noise >Listen

Track 4 - Manishevitz - Hate Ilene >Listen

No post since Sunday. Forgive me, the past couple days have been pretty rough as I gasp for the last little breath of what was the past. I am still coughing a little though, so I will be back on the weekend with exciting news! In the meantime I leave you with a few songs out there in netville.