Poil-Mel

Question: Is a person too old for a faux-hawk if he has to taper it off into his bald spot? This was foremost in my mind this evening as I carefully crafted a landing-strip of my own. It is only the second time I've done this. The first time was on a birthday, my 33rd, I think, and it was clearly a dry-run at midlife crisis. It was effective, though, in making me feel different, if not necessarily younger, lifting me for a brief time out of a place into which I felt I was settling. The same is true of my present motives. I am hoping to disturb the state of affairs, hoping to cause a tiny jolt in the automatic movements of my life, force some surprises. I don't imagine it will last long; its effect or lack thereof will be made in a day or two, and it will become redundant. Truth is, I'm not sure how I feel walking around with my head looking like the mons of a mid-90s Playmate...

...which brings non-sequentially to mind the recent antics of that perennial charmer, Mel Gibson, whose recent tequila-fuelled joyride around Malibu ended in an anti-Semitic diatribe against a pair of arresting officers, one of whom, a female, Mel affectionately dubbed "sugar tits." Ah. Religion earns yet another glowing poster boy.

W--k

Work is out of bloody control. I am expected, for what amounts to a pittance, to put in hours that a Siberian salve-labourer would object to. Actually, I am not really expected to do so; I was just wisely hired by people who suspected I was the sort of person to do the job, whatever it takes. "Work ethic" is, I believe, the euphemism. Middle-class drone-mindedness is rather more accurate. Urgh. And yet, am I dissatisfied? Not truly, so deep runs my middle-class streak. My job is quite challenging, and in a not always expected way, fairly noble. Noble? Well, ethical. I mean, we do good things for vulnerable people. Is that noble? I am not convinced nobility is a characteristic to aspire to.

In other news, my bicycle already needs a tune-up. Canadian Tire, the purveyor of said vehicle, has been working on it since Sunday. Apparently this is still not sufficient time in which to check its gears. Chris, the youth to whom I delivered my faulty conveyance, had a certain not unattractive surliness which precluded excessive questioning. I meekly accepted his vague assurances that a day or two would yield results. The more fool me.

More extaordinarily, we, that is my spouse and I, seem to be playing reluctant host to at least one mouse. Yes, you read correctly. Never in my life have I encountered such a thing, and now, all of a moment, I am housemates with one. I say at least one, because, though I have yet to see it in the flesh, I have T's reports of multiple sightings, in one particular spleen-crimping case where the offending rodent ran in swift flight from our kitchen counter to disapear through one of the burners on our stove and take refuge in the innards of the oven. The prospect of finding a fully-cooked mouse perched on my next tofu-meatloaf causes some dismay. Yatsu, of course, is currently nodding his head in smug vindication, having heard suspicious rustlings on the final night of his stay chez nous. Yatsu, my apologies are manifold, should I have sniffed in wounded denial. T, embracing his heritage, has slipped into battle-mode, deploying a sonar device which emits an inaudible sound hated by mice, as well as glue-traps, diabolical inventions that lure the quarry to a pad of super-glue from which it can never escape, there to be scooped up and disposed of by the victor. These innovations T has adorned with tasty niblets of cracker and peanut-butter, and already one bait has successfully yielded prey. Fortunately, I was nowehere nearby to witness its disposal, however I can't honestly say I experience too much pity on its account. It now remains to see if it was the only offender, or if, in fact, its entrapment is followed by that of comrades. I am hoping not; one mouse is exceedingly less objectionable than a battalion thereof. I suspect - and hope - and will encourage all prospective visitors to join me in this inclination - that this represents the end of our pestilence. Updates will follow. (Is it only me, or do I detect a trend of myself waging war against the animal kingdom?)

I am to be found presently at my desk at work, sipping 12-year old scotch from a bottle of Glenfiddich I keep stashed in a drawer for after-hour solace....

Sites I like

The current issue of The New Yorker calls to mind two websites I like, and a third that has no affiliation whatsoever with the aforementioned self-important publication:

Wikipedia
http://wikipedia.org/
Yes, I know, no great revelation here. Wikipedia's about as commonplace as Google now...but still. I continue to be awed by this auto-didact's paradise of polygnostic pleasures. And in Polski, no less!

Jackson Pollock
http://jacksonpollock.org/
No great fan of his work, I nevertheless take frequent gleeful refuge in this site...perhaps because it slyly supports my theory that Pollock's geniuses were those of size, timing and willingness to waste paint.

80s Videos
http://www.thebestlegaladvice.com/
Cognoscenti, rejoice! I could barely believe my luck when I stumbled on this one. Guilty pleasure finds a home in this collection of 1,500 (were there ever so many?) of your favourite videos from the 80s. Have a fast connection or it will soon get tedious. After overcoming my initial horror at seeing only one Flock of Seagulls number (and not their undisputed chef d'oeuvre), I wallowed in the particular pleasures of Barbra Streisand's "Woman in love" (a production so impartial, the diva herself couldn't be bothered to turn up for it), and the post-Magritte art-school hokiness of ABC's "Look of Love." Tell me your faves...

The Heat Is On

Remember that song? I don't know if it was actually called "The Heat is On," but that line certainly composed a significant part of its message, repeated ad infinitum to the accompaniment of synthesizers and the inevitable stray saxophone. It was some sort of theme song, I think, to a movie or TV show, or perhaps to a particularly ignoble episode of my early-mid teens, when I was determined to be a fashion designer, and spent hours seated importantly at my desk, perfecting fussy little doodles of Dynasty-inspired gowns, which invariably sported inflated shoulder-pads and frothy immense headgear that would make even Cecil Beaton demur. I remember I created a moniker for myself, convinced that I could never enjoy success in my destined field without an acccent and a hyphen somehwere in my name, and hence was born "Vasz-Don" (sadly the anglocentric limitations of Blogger forbid the critical flourish, the accent grave perched languidly over the "a", but pray imagine it), and it was this thrilling foreign-sounding signature (as if my name needed any help at all in that department!) that adorned in a flamboyant swoosh the cover of my "portfolio" - a weak assemblage of eight or ten derivative "creations" - stapled together into a folder and held at the ready for proud display to any unsuspecting dinner-guest who foolhardily engaged me in conversation. My poor parents. I think they actually attempted an evincing of pride at my endeavours, but could they really not have been quaking in the pits of their puritan souls for the eternal jeopardy of mine? Needless to say, the career of Vasz-Don was brief and unmemorable, failing to blaze any streaks at all across the Parisian springtime night.

The foregoing was an unplanned tangent to the somewhat less personal declaration that the heat is on: summer has started with a slowly-building vengeance. Cold showers yield immediately to clammy sheeny sweat. Everyone, everywhere looks moist, all the time. Humidity, like rain, is one of the flaws in the cosmic design. One of those last-minute oversights, unavoidable glitches that every major project must endure and learn to work around.

The Table

Did I mention I bought a drafting table? No? Well, I did. From a perfectly delightful lesbian, with exquisite tats up and down her forearms and warm green eyes. She was moving out of her partner's home, not really splitting up, just taking space, and needed to get rid of the table. Why? Long story: change of creative focus from plastic to electronic. Drafting tables don't lend themselves to desktop editing systems, blah, blah. What does she have to do with this posting? Nothing really. A diversion so I don't have to admit the truth that one can stumble on the most beautiful of tables - and it really is a beaut, with its old-style tilting wheels and real wood surfaces textured already with the act of art - but no amount of money or lucky timing will turn up inspiration. Yep. Dry as bone. I sit at this lovely thing and wait. Still, I'm not particularly worried. I suppose it will come if it must. Why shouldn't I be barren for a year or more? There's no rule that says otherwise. Expectations are fairly unsettling. T occasionally mentions how he's waiting for my artwork to make us millionaires. He's sort of joking, I know - but just sort of. The minute you identify yourself as an artist - of any kind - expectations arise. And judgements. I hesitated to describe myself as an actor when I was one; I hesitated to describe myself as a writer when I was fiddling with that; I hesitate to describe myself as an artist now. (What's that? Hesitation has been the only constant in my creative life? Yes, you make a good point.) Why bring it up at all then, if I'm so conflicted? I just wanted to tell you about my beautiful new drafting table, that's all....

Google Earth

Have you seen Google Earth yet?

Oh. My. God. Pure cyber-crack, folks. My employers need to start worrying about this. My loved ones need to start planning intervention.

Developments...

A brief summary of recent developments:

• Bought owl (see previous post, Winged Vermin); with much delicate engineering, rigged item to end of wooden dowel suspended out of bathroom window. There swings menacingly. Pigeons non-plussed. Continue as if fearsome bird of prey were poorly-painted plastic knock-off...which it is. Actually witnessed pigeon landing on end of dowel to contemplate putative mortal enemy at close quarters. Bedroom window will now remain shut overnight. Airflow unsatisfactory, but slept past 9:30 two mornings in a row. Had forgotten how lovely such a thing can be.... If such sleeps are once again possible, gladly concede defeat...
• Bought bicycle. Close acquaintances, please take moment to pick selves off floor. Bike-riding endemic in these parts; flat city, relatively compact downtown area. No end of encouragements from locals to procure one of own and discover joys of Toronto-living. Thom bought last weekend; purchase-envy gnawed at soul all week. Actual purchase day (Friday) fraught with misadventure. Not worthy of repetition; suffice to say, nearly held bicycle aloft as offering to appease gods. Went on fairly long date-ride yesterday with Thom. Riding in traffic somewhat blood-curdling; need practice; meantime, careening down sidewalks must do, pedestrian imprecations in wake. Must admit, Toronto much nicer from seat of bike. Went down by lakeshore and then up trail along Humber River. Quite delightful; lush, green, peaceful; helped immensely by shirtlessness of other gentleman riders. Bottom somewhat tender this morning...nothing to do with gentleman riders...
• Took Thom to oysters last night. Lovely to watch him enjoy them, analyze their flavours... Not me; though raw fish in sushi/caviar form delights, something about salty, phlegm-like nature of oysters repels. Had fish and chips, lovely crunchy batter: sound of diet collapsing...
• Saw Devil Wears Prada. Enjoyable froth, though La Streep and Stanley Tucci elevate proceedings. La Streep in particular; no histrionics, no scenery-chewing; finely-calibrated, lethal performance. Like watching deadly snake sunning itself on rocks. Oscah smiles.... Mr Tucci as refreshingly real gay-man-in-fashion; flamboyant, but not swish. Toothy ingenue serviceable as clothes-hanger. Clothes mostly uninspiring. Granted, have little sense of couture...but still. Thought a lot about Davida...
• Sunday today...all day. Thought I would go to work for couple of hours...then thought better of it.

À bientôt.

Joys of Soccer

Pursuant to my comments in previous posting re absurdity of World Cup fervour: by pure circumstantial accident, found myself witness to the climax of the recent England-Portugal game, witness to the exultant victors peeling off sweat-drenched t-shirts, witness to their exquisite torsos in moist, delirious embrace, further witness to the losers crumpled, weeping, breathtakingly tragic, comforting one another with hands placed against cheeks, gentle gazes, foreheads pressed together in virtual kissing-distance and tender wiping away of tears. Think circuit party meets E.M. Forster novella. So why the forlorn faces of the English spectators, devastated, dumbstruck, betrayed, bereft of hope? Is that all really necessary? Seen from my perspective, we're all winners, so long as someone takes off his shirt.

Canada Day

Today is Canada Day, my second ever and the country's 127th, although it was known as Dominion Day until 1982. The following conversation took place in my earshot between a Canadian and an American:

American woman: What is Canada Day?
Canadian man: It's like our Independence Day.
American woman: But you're not independent.

Not sure what I think about all this. For the first time in my life, I am poised to potentially feel a sense of belonging in a country, not simply geographical but social and political too, and even, dare I say it, pride. And yet, it is still a mere abstraction, an abstraction of an abstraction. I find nationalism in most forms absurd. What others see as nationalistic pride, I see as geographical accident. Perhaps this is the refugee's perspective.

Based on the above conversation, I have some thoughts: Can it be dismissed as quirky Canadian contrariness that the Queen's face still adorns the currency and her regent still holds office? Can any society claim egalitarianism with a straight face while maintaining monarchical ties? As for the American, I think she places too much value on her country's independence from a colonizing force whose sway has long since diminished, and pays not enough attention to her country's dependence on foreign economics and internal moral imperialism. The hard-fought Constitution that sits at the heart of American pride is under daily attack from the very politicians that run her country. Arguably the same can be said of many other countries, too, Canada included, whose own Charter of Human Rights sits now in the cross-hairs of Prime Minister Harper's beady aim.

(I think I may be confusing "country" with "government" - again, perhaps unavoidable for someone for whom geography has always been politicized - so please forgive me if my questioning seems oblique.)

So, what do we celebrate when we celebrate national pride? All this World Cup nonsense, people waving flags, losers weeping, territorialism, ascendancy, feudalism, on and bloody on? I'm really asking here. Tell me, if you know. Are we proud in the sense of somehow participating, even peripherally, in a successful venture? Are we giving props to those who made sacrifices to make the venture successful? Or are we simply expressing gratitude that we live in relatively free, harmless societies?

Here's my last thought: I think the genius of certain governments is to have co-opted basic human rights, like health, dignity, freedom. They have branded these things, turned them into products which only they can dispense. But they are rights, not benefits. We wouldn't have to fight for them if they weren't withheld in the first place. And who's doing the withholding?