Grounded

High class, hot town, or dusty dive, it really doesn't matter where you go, you can't escape something that's inside you.

Monday I stood on a small patch of grass that I had not been on since I was thirteen. It was my grandfathers grave, and as I lowered my grandmothers urn of ashes into the black circular hole beside it, tears rolled down my face from underneath my dark sunglasses. This has been a difficult journey home.

Tuesday, I decided to cut loose a little bit, since the majority of the family had returned to their respective parts of the world without managing to engage me in any conversation that might bring up unpopular people. Sitting at Earl's apartment that evening, the phone ringing off the hook with the after work crowd looking for their nightly supply, I suggested that we go to Rae and Jerry's for dinner.

The Winnipeg steak house, unchanged since 1957. Although my experiences are limited at best, this dining room is unlike any I have seen before. The lighting is dark, matching the deep shade of wood paneling that covers the walls. The ceiling is low, and although the room is not very large, it projects a long sleekness that betrays the senses. All the chairs and booths are covered in the most lavish hue of red vinyl, accenting all that darkness. Although this is Manitoba, its still on the elegant side.

Back at Earl's, I started to get a little edgy when I realized that Cody was not planning on cleaning himself up from a day of vomiting and diarrhea induced from too many burgers the day before. Cody is skinny, but he can out eat anyone, but everyone has their limits, and earlier in the day Cody hit his, taking the day off work to be close to the toilet. On the way down to the restaurant, Cody decided it might be a good idea to order up a little coke for later on, which was fine by me until I heard Cody inviting the dealer in for dinner. This I had not planned on.

I announced my reservation to the host, who promptly gave us the once over, Cody, unshaven, ratty t-shirt, ripped up open toed sandals, myself, in some city slicker outfit that could be easily misinterpreted as too casual, and Earl, six two and somewhere around 280 pounds, in unassuming black slacks and printed golf shirt. Our impression on the host became clear once we were seated at the very back of the room, where no one else was dining. Expecting our fourth guest to arrive in god knows what I proceeded to drink black label scotch, on rocks, straight up.

Dante, big fish, little pond. Its all about location, and in Winnipeg's petty crime scene of bikers and the guys that run with them, Dante has a reputation. I knew what he was like, loud, crass, you name it, oh, and a coke dealer. We managed to make it through dinner without interruption, my compliments to the chef, the NY steak was perfect. Dante would finally make his arrival in the bar after dinner where we were waiting for him. He did not disappoint, after ordering a drink, Dante, pulled out a large bag of coke and started to cut out a line right on top of the table once the waitress had turned her back. My nerves were already bad, so when I decided that this would be an ideal time to visit the washroom for awhile, Dante was on me, loving the opportunity to make someone squirm. When I came back to sit down I noticed another line on the table, this time in front of my chair. "This ones yours," Dante announced. I refused, I was not going to be pressured to do coke off the bar table by some scumbag in a Canadian baseball hat. Dante didn't like the refusal, putting the pressure on me more by saying something about it having to sit there for the waitress, I said that was fine by me, I didn't want it. This went back and forth for awhile, until I just spun the table towards Earl, and he promptly put nose to table behind the cover of a appetizer menu. It would have been easy enough to appease Dante's wishes, but I don't like being told what to do. "Fucking guy still thinks he's in Vancouver at some chinese restaurant with a spinning table," Dante spit out towards the rest of the group, who sat idly watching the hockey game, they had obviously been through this on a regular basis. We were all getting a little antsy to get going back to Earl's place, and once I had my jacket on Dante gave me another once over saying, "What's your hurry meow mix." I have no idea what exactly I should derive from being called meow mix, I am still trying to figure that one out. We all got up and walked out of the bar, leaving Dante to finish his two rye and cokes by himself.

I have two days left in Winnipeg, I will try and make the best of them. Its been very different this time around. No trips down memory lane, I find myself spending most of the days hiding in my parents basement, no enthusiasm to go out and experience the days of my youth. Yesterday I took my daughter to her great grandmothers grave, the plot of land she now shares with my grandfather. It has only been a couple days since the funeral, the ground now repaired to cover up the sorrowful event that took place here only a couple days ago. Who knows when we will be back to this place, this small piece of earth that has united husband and wife in their final resting place. I know that I feel just as screwed up here as I did in Vancouver, maybe even more so, its time to go home and continue on.

Another Roadside Attraction

It was sunny, but I still managed to find some shade...

The roads are flat and the concrete has a dull sheen to it, polished by heavy traffic and extreme cold. This is Winnipeg. Standing seven floors above the eight lane wide monstrosity of grey ribbon known as Portage Avenue, I can see the boundaries of the neighborhood in which I grew up. St. James, marked in the west by the spotlights of the Assiniboine Downs race track, to the North, the huge open doors of the Air Canada hanger, and in the east, the spire of the St. James Hotel. So much of my life has been lived here, it looks small and vulnerable.

I flew in last night, and within an hour was flying down Ness Avenue at 80kms an hour in my moms Honda Prelude. What is it about being in a city that you don't live in that makes you think you can do whatever you want. I had to hurry, it was already midnight and The Constantines would be getting on stage at the Pyramid Cabaret. I managed to get in there just in time to see the last few songs of Jim Guthrie, a former member of one of my favorite bands, Royal City. The Constantines were up next, and I stood right up front. It was fantastic, the lead singer has one of those deep, wood house voices. The band rocks hard, with a bass driven sound that can be heavy and wild, or sensitive and introspective at a moments notice. Later, on my way out I reminisced with a couple guys that were my age and we talked about how we hung out here as teenagers, when Brad Roberts from the Crash Test Dummies used to work the door. I got home at 230am and quickly passed out, only to be awoken by my brother at 530, visiting home at the same time as me. "Let's go to Nicks!"

Within 20 minutes we were on our way to Nick's Inn, a roadside eatery that has stood on the outskirts of Winnipeg for over 25yrs. My eyes were red, I was tired, but when I hit the open expanse of the perimeter highway and could see the open flat of the prairie, we were in awe. It is flat here, like a northern desert, or an ocean of open land. The sun was rising, bacon and eggs would soon follow.

Saturday was windy, dry, and grey. Winter has just finished seven months of punishment and the earth is recovering. Sand is piled up an inch thick in the street gutters, the trees are barren of any leaves and the grass is matted from the weight of the snow. There is no green here, only brown and grey. We rented a sleek black Volvo sedan, within moments our car was full, picking up Cody and Earl, we loaded the back seat and headed off for the pub in Osborne Village. The weed smoke from Cody and Earl in the back seat was endless. Joint after joint was lit and consumed, with cigarettes in between. Racial slurs were passed with raised eyebrows, and sexist comments were thrown forward from the back seat. The mobile party. With the weather the way it is here in Winnipeg, endless hours are spent this way, just driving around, with intoxicants.

We are getting older and our cars are getting nicer. Graduating from small compacts to comfortable sedans. Saturday night, Earl, Jack, Cody and I went to the bar, then a pit stop at Earl's apartment for some more weed afterward. Cody, firing whip smart insults about someone's sister while smoking and picking his nose. Jack and Earl in the corner praising the 2 pound bag of pot that had just been pulled out of the freezer. Myself, rambling about things that they could care less about. So many nights I have spent with these guys, just like this. It never changes, but we do. Its just not exciting like it was when we were 19. As Jack drove Cody and I home, I noticed his car, and thought about how much it looked like his dad's car when we were younger and used to drive it around on the weekend. Jack's signature chuckle erupted as he put the pedal to the floor, taking the Oldsmobile down Parkhill Street at 110kms an hour, which always gets a rise out of Cody and I. It was a good night.

I still have five more days here. Many more diners to visit, and several streets to race down. I don't drive anymore and getting suspended, or receiving a ticket doesn't bother me. I am removed from my reality. I don't live here, I can do what I want. Winnipeg is all about the car. I hate cars.

On Location

there's an oasis on the westside, but I'm not welcome anymore
- big dipper

I will be in Winnipeg for a week and will report on the happenings in that exotic locale here. I should touchdown just in time for The Constantines show at the Pyramid, which also has Jim Guthrie in the lineup, should be fun.

Stay tuned...

On The Art of Losing

Not a loser, Freddy Garcia, the proof is in the numbers.

I am on the most incredible losing streak. I bet from time to time on professional sports, I think the last time I won was sometime last year. I collect the little tickets that display, not a winner. Tell me something I don't already know. My losing streak almost came to a dramatic end when I wrote down my picks for the day, intending on placing my wager later that evening at my local Seven Eleven. Fate, that bastard of a virtue, unwilling to be my friend, even though I treat it with such respect, saw to it that I did not make that bet. I would have won over $200.00. I am amazed. I am a loser.

I was busy, sidetracked if you will, playing another game, gambling all the same, and losing, although the stakes were much higher. The evening was a crushing blow, which of course is now getting the full treatment here for your reading pleasure, registering elsewhere as a comment on pizza. Nobody's fault but mine, don't feel bad.

Baseball. Its critics are right, a stupid game, I mean really, throwing a ball so another person can hit it with a stick. But the history! Each game, from pitch to pitch, minutely recorded, analyzed, scrutinized, compared. You can read box scores all the way back to the 1900's and find out which way the wind was blowing, how many people were at the game, the time it took to complete it, and of course, who won, and who lost. Its intoxicating. Probably one of the most underrated websites in cyberspace is mlb.com its a living, breathing, overload of content and information. Every pitch that is thrown, every swing of the bat, recorded in realtime, photographed, broadcast, written about, as it happens, an incredible marriage of representation and reality. The ballpark, for the 2 or 3 hours in which the game is in progress, becomes a magical space where every detail is recorded as it passes into history. Will it go on forever, baseball? I think so...

Success has always alluded me, I always thought that things would get better. With the passing of each bad year, I would declare, "this one will be mine!" I stopped saying that years ago. I know better now, and obviously other people do too. I had one thing that set me apart from total loserdome, now that's gone too. So here I wallow, please allow me this. I seriously wonder why I even continue. Oh that's why, suicide requires conviction.

Swinging a stick at a ball is stupid, but doing something, anything, and doing it well is not. When I see a batter step into the box, eyes on fire, confident even though he might be down in the count, able to think clearly under pressure and perform, this I am attracted to. All I have ever wanted in this life is to do something well, really well. I do many things, play music, write, art, graphics, and have tried just about everything, sports, drugs, petty crime, cycling, dirtbikes, kung-fu, even joined the reserves for awhile, it all winds up equally mediocre.

After the events of the past few days it appears that I have finally found my true skill. Everyone is put here for a reason, and mine seems to be crafting loss to perfection. This I am good at.

After Party

I left quite a mess behind...

Why, at my age, do I think its cool to come home at three o clock in the morning and pass out while sitting at the kitchen table? This is my contribution to the Vancouver art scene. My drunkenness, in places without televisions. Saturday night I went to a party hosted by some UBC students, no TV, oblivious to the fact that the entire city was enraptured in a triple overtime nail biter with the Calgary flames. We would acquire regular updates by piling into a friends car on the street, listening for the score. Ahh, the northern lifestyle.

I wore a shirt with a flower pattern, I was convinced to buy it one afternoon, several years ago. Its quite feminine looking, and I have never really been too sure about it. One of those garments that you never really like wearing, but for some reason keep wearing it, hoping each time you put it on it will look different, only to realize it doesn't. The whole process repeats itself a month or two later.

Back to the party. I spent most of the time at the end of a large kitchen table, curious to see how many people would come and sit with me. I did alright, within a half hour I had a large group of people watching me weigh things with a scale that for some reason was sitting in the middle of the table. A small package of dry pasta, photographs, a can of tuna, and a screw driver, each item scrutinized for their weight in this world. My audience was amazed at my skill with the scale, its all about balance.

It was as a house party should be, crowded kitchen, loud music, furniture was broken, drinks were spilled. It went late into the wee hours.... I arrived home completely fine, until I decided to smoke some pot, which I usually like to have as a night cap, always makes the hangover a little easier to take the next day. Within minutes my head was on the table, in front of my g4 laptop. I woke up on my bed, still dressed in my floral print shirt, jeans, and shoes. At least I didn't have to think about what I would wear for my trip to IKEA, I rather like awaking pre-dressed. I went over to shut the lid on my laptop which I had left open and noticed that before I passed out I was google image searching the key words das boat, I have no idea why.

Each night this weekend I walked from the west end, along Robson street, to my final destination. Since moving downtown, walking busy avenues has made quite an impression on me. Strolling the arcades, after a couple drinks, cigarette in hand, music blaring in my ears, its a fine thing. Everyone out, eating dinner, drinking on the patios, wearing sunglasses even though its dark, silly, but its the city. One of the many things I love about my new urban neighborhood is that I can wear whatever I want, floral shirts, flooded pants, yes, even sunglasses at night, if I so choose. It goes largely unnoticed, this is a good thing. I belong here.

Summer is coming, I suspect it will be a good one.

Legs

Bresson's Martine's Legs, 1968.

Thoughts are complex, but the words that share them are simple,
no need for butterflies, just branston pickle
crossword puzzles and dust beams lit by sunny skies

There is not much time
you don't believe me, but I know
my life is half gone, I ramble, still wasting it

I drew a picture of you once, it looked like shit
like most things, the effort was there and the moment stays with me
you were on the couch, reading a book you still recommend
I started with your legs, the edge of the paper slicing your neck
relieving me of the pressure to complete your face
tonight I will dig through the stuff and find that picture
it will speak, but only to me

it was smoky, they used to let you smoke in bars back then
the music was loud and by the end of night my throat was cooked
perhaps then that is why I did not hear the voice saying,
"she will hurt you"

Obsessive Repulsive

No room overhead...

I have another website you know, its optimistic, full of all the good things that happen to me, although most of my time is spent here, in the Low.

A really bad week, so let me begin...


Its all gone.
money, hope, assurance.

It has arrived.
anxiety, uncerainty, the unknown, and fear.


My grandmother died. I will not be at the funeral, the car she gave me, my K car, from K, towed out of the garage, decrepit, the flat tires bringing the cold metal of the rims that much closer to the oil smeared concrete where she lay the past couple of months.

Created a fantasy in my head the past couple days. I knew it was unrealistic, too soon of course, but when, if ever? I was righted last night, it hurts. Here I am again. Seems so hopeless. There is romance, I am sure, just doesn't involve me.

Tried to further my career aspirations on monday, it ended in complete disaster, nothing lost really, but certainly nothing gained, I will remain entry level. Its been three years.

Said goodbye to my old home, that unlucky place with so many lucky 9's in the address. It had one last bit of shit for me though. The truck I rented to finally clear it out, I scratched the side all up, taking from me what little security I had saved up in the bank. Plans are non existent now. My focus is survival, rather than conquer.

Smoking too much this morning, all fagged out, I stink. Time to quit after this pack, my defiance is over, lasted three days.

The Long, Long Weekend

The man about town, living in the shadows....

A long weekend, that one extra day makes it hard to jam it all into a few quick notes. Seems like a whole week has went by, so much has happened. My late night walks over the Cambie street bridge is where I want to start. Coming home from parties on the west side, the words Pacific Central reflecting in the water beneath me, straight ahead is Davie Street cutting through the thick crop of high rise condo's. On my left I can see the Granville Street bridge, stretching across False Creek. Twice this weekend I have enjoyed this walk, late, drunk, the odd car blowing past with a gust of dust and breeze, this is my new neighborhood.

I also ventured into the recesses of the east side on more than one occasion this weekend. Hastings street, the war zone. People there are young, but they look old and unhealthy, might be all the crack. Most of them have some kind of limp, they wear dirty sneakers. I got lost looking for Heatly Street and was actually a little spooked doubling back, up and down Hastings Street, I looked very out of place, perhaps it was my Diesel sneakers. So many hookers on each corner, I practiced my refusal as I approached each one, but they said nothing to me and I was almost disappointed by their disinterest. I finally found the place I was looking for and after getting a can of beer I stood at the entrance smoking, watching the freaks role by, one of which was a 7 foot transvestite prostitute that looked like some kind of sex cyborg, he/she had so much make-up on, nice legs though.

On the west coast summer is approaching, the necklines plunge and the shorts get shorter. On Friday I watched a girl in a sundress break into a trot to cross the street before the walk light turned to a solid red hand. With each step her skirt flew half way up her back as she bounced along giving everyone on Granville street a full view of her nude ass. It seemed like a routine, some kind of desperate plea for attention. I wanted to indulge, but couldn't for fear of falling into the same trap as the idiot in the pick up truck across the street, his eyes all over her, waiting for the green light, his cue to slam the gas peddle and get home to his wife.

Two nights of Indie rock, six bands in total, the best of which was Notes from Underground, one night spent at an art opening followed by a good ol house party. Sunday night was hot, the hottest this year, I was at a big dinner hosted in a living room, at least 15 people were seated at the table. It was fun, but a few comments made towards the end of the evening sent me into self doubt, uncertainty, unhappiness, all the usual suspects. I escaped, and spent the rest of the evening on the west end, comforted by a large console television. No residuals here, just something that has changed, who knows what it is. It will certainly take longer than a long weekend to figure it out. Good thing the whole summer is ahead.

Painting, Eating, Smoking

Painting, Eating, Smoking, by Philip Guston. A vision of the future

I have no money, no resources, no hopes. I am the happiest man alive. A year ago, six months ago, I thought that I was an artist. I no longer think about it, I am.

-- Henry Miller Tropic of Cancer, 1934

Its funny. Well, actually its not funny at all, how things can take on different meanings at different times in your life. The above passage by Henry Miller spoke to me very clearly seven years ago. Back then, it was a declaration, that the beauty of art lies in the fact that it is undefinable. Therefore to be an artist one only has to call themselves so. I found out very quickly that while it might be easy to say the words, its not so easy living up to them. I used that Miller qoute on the front page of my portfolio which got me into artschool, and on my way to what I thought would be greatness. Instead what I got over my 5 year stint in the artschool system was a heavy dose of reality and life, of which I have still not fully recovered.

Lying in bed last night, pondering my future, I returned to those powerful words written by Henry Miller so long ago. Although now I understand what he was really saying. That at the age of 45, having gone through life as a husband, a worker at a telegraph company, and as a father. After leaving his wife, his child, and his job, and loafing around for years, drinking, bumbing money, screwing as many women as he could, only now was he at a point where his romantic visions as an artist meant nothing. He was to define what an artist is, and not the other way around.

Now, moving into a yaletown warehouse live work space is hardly shedding away the neccesities of life to make great art. I am certainly not making a direct comparison between my situation and Miller's. I am though, at a point where I just don't care anymore. Do I care if I am successful. Not in the least. My only concern is to avoid eviction from the insane rent that I will be paying. Am I happy? I don't know yet.

I had secretly, well maybe not so secretly, desired the life that I will be living. The studio, the artist, living alone, left to the devices that fuel art. It was what I was introduced to at an impressionable age. Images of Jackson Pollock in his studio, a cigarette hanging from his mouth, covered in paint. Of course these images gave later generations of artists loads of ammo to rebel against, but that imagery has still found an audience and I suppose it always will. What I didn't understand was the desparity, loneliness, and utter hopelessness that Pollock, and the countless others like him suffered to be able to produce. I am at that point now, and I am scared.

I will miss being read snippets of the morning paper, with intermittent requests for answers to crossword puzzles, even though I never knew the answers. I will miss making breakfast with the music on before anyone wakes up. I will miss the long drives on Sunday to the suburbs of the lower mainland. Most of all I will miss lying in bed with my treasure, which no longer belongs to me.

I have spent many years convincing myself that I am not cut out for a life like this, and now there is nothing left to do but to forge ahead with a dream that has gathered much dust and seems a little out of date. Do I want this? I have no choice...

I have money, I have recources, I have hopes. Seven years ago I thought I was an artist, now I don't really care what it is I am. This is a good place to start. I will paint, I will eat and drink, and god damn it, I will smoke.