I work in a quiet corner of a dodgy area in the Downtown Eastside. This offers both insight and entertainment on a daily basis. The neighbourhood never changes – 52-Push-Ups-For-A-Dollar hangs by the back of the library, Lobotomy-Lady hangs in front of the Blinding Light. I know if I ride my bike down Columbia to work, I’m not going to make the light at Hastings but there’s never any subversive action on the corner of Columbia and Hastings so I have nothing to worry about in my early morning fog.
But a month ago the cops started parking a cruiser 24/7 on the corner of Hastings and Main. They call this "Project Seinfeld" because they’re doing nothing, just parking at the corner. Sounds benign, right? Sounds like fun, like the Soup Nazi and the Pakistani restaurant owner and the virgin and the uncle with the velcro wallet are all wandering skid row, right? Wheeee! What it means is that the drug trade has moved from Hastings and Main to Hastings and Columbia. That’s a whole block, folks. The intention of the project was to stir up confusion, to keep the dealers on the move, to prove that a continuous police presence can clean up the streets. And as much as I’d like to cheer them on, Project Seinfeld just seems like a fruitless endeavor. They’d have to park police cruisers every five feet throughout this area to stop the drug trade. They’d have to park down the alleys. They’d have to park in every bar, every 24-hour convenience store, every hotel room.
I’ve owned one car in my life: a 1984 blue Buick Skylark given to by my uncle. The occasion? Half my move to Montreal, half his purchase of a brand-new 1995 Buick Skylark. At the time, despite being 11 years old, the Buick senior had not cleared 100,000 kms. This car, my car, took Chris and I across the country. It nearly died once on the Crow’s Nest highway from the weight of my belongings. We filled the radiator with beaver fever water taken from Kootenay brooks. It felt its first crush of cigarette when my Aunt Rosina rode in the back seat in Saskatchewan and definitely tested new shocks when Chris and I got bored with the never-ending expanse of trees in Northern Ontario. Nine months later, it delivered Dylan, Golda and I back across the country, the passenger window unable to close after being side-swiped on a narrow street in the Gay Village in Montreal. Mosquitoes snuck in, cigarette smoke snuck out, and Golda finally got the courage to learn to pass slow moving tractors on the highways of northern Minnesota. At the end of that summer, after a day faux-finishing "cabins" for the uber-rich in Whistler, after the Symphony of Fire gathering at my mother’s apartment in the West End, I, the designated driver, drove straight into the side of a speeding Jeep Cherokee. The Buick: minorly damaged. The Jeep: well, let’s just say I probably still couldn’t afford insurance after all these years. The Buick’s black eye was quickly fixed with a replacement headlight and hole-filler foam; a temporary hold until Chris and I finished roaming the Rockies. The car remained in Calgary while teenagers hammered out her grief. She brought me back to Vancouver once more, the AM-only radio carrying us from CBC station to CBC station.
Four years ago, when I decided I needed a new computer more than a car, my father bought the Buick off me and gave it to my brother. He traded her in this weekend. Though I’m inherently not a car-owner, I loved owning that car because of the life she took me to, and the life she brought me back to, and the places in between. May the road rise up to meet her.
I lied when the director whose project I’m story editing asked me if I’d ever dated anyone on the sole basis that he reminds me of someone else. We had been discussing Solaris and The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp, and I’d mentioned that this happens too: you surround yourself with familiar people. And it wasn’t so much a lie as a mis-remembering. I had, very recently, dated someone because he brought to mind someone else. Of course I never explained my motivation to the person I’d been dating. How could I have when the one he reminded me of was my dead friend John.
But I didn’t lie when a producer friend walked me to the washrooms in the bunker area of the CBC building on Friday night and asked if I’d ever felt a ghost. She’d worked on the Sherri Lewis show down those dank hallways and said she could even smell the ghosts in there. Sometimes, when falling asleep, or at a particularly good concert, I’ll feel his arms around my shoulders.
And if you ask me if I have regrets and if I answer with a laugh, "of course not", then you have most certainly caught me out in a lie. But I’m getting better. For instance, I’m slowly starting to trust in the fact that everyone around me won’t also commit suicide. For instance, I can’t remember now how many years have passed since John’s death – is this two or three? Yet, in a way, that doesn’t seem to matter so much because I still remember it was today. And I still miss him as much now as I ever did.
Listening to the new Sigur Ros, I can think of few things I’d rather be doing than hunkering down in a snowed-in Lapland log cabin for the winter months. Sometimes a Viking, other times a hermit. Today, though, the Viking must come out.
Saturday found me at my alumnus, feeling lost in the new junior school built on the grounds of the old boarding house where I’d lived for my first two semesters. The exits, thankfully, were still located in the same places. Always know where the exits are. I didn’t recognize anyone, but the ghosts were all there. The wicker chairs on the porch of the old residence building, the perpetually cold corridor that leads from the gym to the auditorium. The strain of "All Things Bright and Beautiful" still lilting from the empty seats. Then, on my way out, I ran into my old headmistress and housemother, the two women who used to read my mail and listen in on phonecalls to my parents and who would slap a protractor against my bed to make sure my sheet corners were at a 45 degree angle. But something had changed – they were old and frail and no longer hideously wicked. They were just two elderly women on their way to purchase crafts. I stopped to say hello and the housemother passed on her well-wishes to my mother, with whom she’d butted heads over my liberal upbringing (you know, like the fact that my mother let me spend my money on the things that I wanted to own...crazy shit like that).
Today I’m drawing Viking inspiration from the unlikeliest of sources: Eminem. Cause today you gotta own the moment, you have one shot and something something opportunity, do not miss your chance something something. Today I meet with the Big Canadian Broadcaster. Now, while they’ve forewarned me that they’re not in the business of producing 1/2 hour comedies despite the fact that they’ve developed my 1/2 hour comedy, I’m still keeping my fingers crossed for an order. At least a pilot. Something that’ll justify joining the Writer’s Guild because, I gotta tell ya, being a union chick is getting me down at the moment but I’m too locked in to get out. And too locked in to easily take on the non-union feature script writing gig with broadcaster backing that’s being dangled in my face. ARG! Let me succeed, already! Oh, wait, the onus is on me.
Seems everyone’s riding their huffy bikes around the world of animation these days. Writers, directors, actors – everyone is throwing Grade A temper tantrums and the negative energy is sucking out my spinal fluid. I have to stiff-upper-lip it, though, because I’ve agreed to go as KP’s plush one (so much more inviting than being a simple "plus one", though hopefully it’ll turn in to "lush one" later) to the party for the Mothercorp-produced show that didn’t hire me. There are, as always, the small blessings: the new haircut (not so much a haircut as a clean-up by a co-workers sweetheart of a girlfriend who’s just learning), a belly full of #13 from Pho Vancouver, and Tiger Balm. I’ve never been quite this busy with writing work and it couldn’t be more gratifying, so there aren't any hard feelings about traversing the hallways of the Mothercorp. Plus, I have a new crush, and that helps eliminate all the crappiness of temper tantrums.
A quick review of last night's show at the Commodore.
The Dirtmitts - he may be a lughead, but every girl in this city would bed Pete Bastard.
Engine Down - wow. I'm satisfied.
The Dismemberment Plan - horrifically bad. So bad, in fact, that the singer's non-ironic Wang Chung dancemoves became our comic relief for the night.
Hot Hot Heat - fun from Victoria? And without Birkenstocks? Huh. Why didn't this band exist when I lived there? It was all roots-rock bands playing benefits for the Carmannah. Correct me if I'm wrong, but the lead singer must be the love child of Gene Ween and Leif Garrett.
After finding $20, I quickly circulated it back into the economy when I grabbed Engine Down's disc. We were starting to feel like the matriarchs and patriarchs of the room until I spotted 2/3 tenners by the merch table, along with the standard Railway crew. Staring down at my feet lest I wipe out on the hard wood floor, I didn't realize I'd strolled right past an old shag-mate until he stopped me for a hug. He's gone all goth and, I gotta say, he's wearing it well.
But the lesson of the evening was this: streeters suck. I usually avoid the camera -- hell, that one reporter completely misquoted me during the Referendum rally in Montreal years ago. I was tired, and hungover, and had to meet my mother, who'd just flown in for the day on the cheap "save Canada" seats. A woman next to me said she was moved to tears. I didn't say this. Everyone knows I would have said I was moved to sneeze. I don't cry in these circumstances, I sneeze. Sad movies? Sneeze. Long-distance commericals? Sneeze. Still, there was the quote there on the printed page: I was moved to tears.
So I should have run fleeing to the loo last night when Grant Lawrence appeared with his MP3 recorder, gathering soundbites for next week's Radiosonic. Instead, all fingers pointed to me as a starting point. The question: "Who's your favourite singer of the past 25 years?" Someone who's voice has moved you, some voice that you instantly gravitate to. Holy shit!? How would anyone even begin to narrow it down to one?! I blanked. I competely blanked. Then I thought, well, given consistency, and whatnot, how about Madonna? I don't even own any of her music, I've never been a big fan, but it seemed like on okay answer. But of course, when the record button is pressed, I jam. Here's what I said "She's by no means my favourite, but I think in terms of what she's done for the women's movement, and for putting herself out there, I'd have to say Madonna."
Let's dissect this. 1. The Women's Movement?! What the hell was I thinking? Okay, this is probably true, but I've never been a big "women's movement" crusader until last night. 2. Putting herself out there. This is hockey lingo. I used hockey lingo. Someone kill me now.
The most popular answers? Thom Yorke, Tom Waits, Bjork. All good answers. The #1 though was Morrissey. And,of course, as soon as Grant walked away a thousand singers came to mind. Stina Nordenstam. Hope Sandoval. Bob Mould. Elliot Smith. Sinead O'Connor. Sade. But it's a tough call -- there are bands that I love but I couldn't name the singer. Jason Spaceman. Dave Gahan. Then it came to me. Leonard Cohen. He ranks in as my favourite singer of the past 25 years because the guy can't even sing.
There was that other time, the penchant for spotting bands, in the lobby of the Magic Hotel during Grammy week. Two simple Frenchman in search of phone instructions quickly became Daft Punk.
Then, last night, as Paul and I were grabbing quick and dirty sushi ("Excellent Sushi"), the only other table in the place was occupied by four scruffy hipsters of a genre not quite particular to these parts. The look was more Easterner hipster, yet with a hint of prairie twang. My heart told me this was Low. Thankfully, we didn’t discuss the tracks Paul had grocked off kazaa to get up to speed before the show. [In all honesty, I didn't know where Low was from, but now I know it's Duluth. I drove through there a few summers ago with Golda and Dylan (because Dylan wanted to see where his namesake was from) and we breakfasted in a downtown diner. The waitress offered us our choice of the following types of toast: white, brown, rye, raisin, pumpernickel, sourdough, sourdough rye or Texas toast. Being that we were in America, we went Texan.]
My instincts were confirmed when the band took the stage, and raved about our cheap and plentiful sushi. "What was the name of the place…Exceptional Sushi? Amazing Sushi? It’s just up the street. Check it out."
By the third song of the encore, though, the yummy yam rolls were sitting unfairly with both Paul and I, so we split. I hailed a cab and, like always, told the cabby how many people were at the venue, what his chances were of getting another fare if he returned immediately. "Oh, and there’s the big Guns’n"Roses show at GM Place, too! There’ll be thousands of people there."
My cabbie chuckled. "Oh no," he said, "I will most certainly be avoiding GM Place this eveing."
