JOIN

I look after my friends' drinking and fun.  When I'm at a bar I'll send a mass text to tell them where I'm at -- a public service announcement in service to inebriation.  The mass text is sent to a carefully curated group of people, to friends who would enjoy this bar at this time, to friends I haven't seen in a while, to friends whose company I miss.  The subtext of my texts is, "If you loved me, you would join me." Usually no one responds.

THREESOME

Sitting in front of me on this streetcar are four girls, probably seventeen-years-old. Their easy banter and trusting rapport mean they are pals.
"But they're doing it as a threesome," says the one with glasses.
I am older than them, so to me, threesome means triple-decker sex sandwich. I listen, while gazing out the window through my sunglasses -- the best action and attire for proper eavesdropping -- for more sordid tidbits from these scandalous teenagers. Instead, they are talking about a friend going on a date.
"Threesome is an uncomfortable number," says the one in UGGs.

The point is, one girl is probably Jamaican, one girl is probably Indian, one girl is probably Filipina, one girl is probably British. I grew up multiculturally, I behave multiculturally, and I choose to live only in cities that are multicultural. This is harmony.

DRY

I am naked for ten minutes after I shower. During those ten minutes I make the bed, fold clothes, and tidy the bedroom. Every day. That is my routine. When in Vancouver, in my family home since 1985, I have to adjust my habit by putting on underwear for the three-metre trip from the bathroom to my room. I shut my bedroom door, close the curtains, and doff the underwear. For ten minutes post-shower in Vancouver, I am naked and slightly nervous. My bedroom door has no lock. My parents never knock. It need not be said that I have never got laid in my childhood bedroom.

SERRATED

Michael is a curious boy whose meat and vegetables are cut up into small chunks. He is six years old and my nephew.

MICHAEL: Can I cut your ham for you, Kow-Foo?

ME: Sure. Michael, you see these ridges on the knife?

MICHAEL: Yeah.

ME: You know what they're called, what this knife is called?

MICHAEL: Ummm... No.

ME: Serrated. This is a serrated knife.

MICHAEL: Okay why?

ME: Well... I'm not sure why it's called that but see how it makes cutting the meat easier? Like sawing?

MICHAEL: Yeah, I don't have to push down so hard. Daddy, look! I'm cutting Kow-Foo's ham with a serrated knife!

ME: Michael, it's always good to learn more words. Tons of words. The more words the better. Always. Do you understand?

MICHAEL: Yeah.

PURCHASE

While standing in line at the cashier of the drugstore, about to pay for my USB key, and then dashing off with a quick start in the manner of epiphany to fetch some face wash, one could say I forgot something, when in actuality, I remembered something.

DETRITUS

My new laptop is no longer so new. I got it in almost-October and now is almost January. But it feels new because it doesn't yet have the thousands upon thousands of files from my old laptop. It is a laptop without history or character. It is empty, like a five-year-old child who has so far learned nothing.

For three months my new MacBook Pro has been nothing but an advanced internet machine. It has allowed me to do Facebook and Twitter faster. That is all. For work, I've had to return to my old PowerBook G4, a workhorse that I have fed innumerable documents and projects and correspondence since 2005. My old laptop is a wise and frail partner. My new laptop is a sleek fling.

For three months I have put off transferring files from my old laptop to my new laptop because the task bores me. Moreover, the task overwhelms me. I am not simply transferring by bulk the guts and spirit of one computer to the other. No, I am going to clean. I am going to select which files to keep and which to discard into forgottenness. I do not want to clutter my MacBook Pro with unnecessary memories, the weight of refuse. I want to start anew.

You have moved apartments. You have moved furniture, which takes no time at all. You have sat at a banker's box overflowing with folders and papers and bills and contracts and newspaper clippings and letters and documents, trying to keep and trying to discard, which takes forever. Moving the sofa is easy. Curating information is hell.

And hell is now. Thousands of inane e-mails clogging my Sent mailbox where the entire body is simply "Yes" or "Hahaha!" or "Check out this link…". Thousands of files for projects while they were in progress -- Draft 02, Draft 03, Draft 04 -- which I consider valuable because they are records of my development, and which I might re-visit years from now -- which I have done. Thousands of pictures I have found on the internet, and which friends have sent me, because they are interesting and/or funny and/or sexy… But I have no idea where to put them. Everything simply remains. Everything has become "I'll take care of it later." If computers give us the opportunity to be organised more pragmatically and efficiently than ever before, then to that, I might have failed.

I want to be organised. I actually am, as my professional matters are handled swiftly and with great care, but as computers become more analogous to our actual lives, I see the wayside expanding as more and more things in my life have fallen. I absolutely can not keep up with casual correspondence. You will likely not hear back from me in a timely fashion unless you have hired me, or I have hired you, or we are thinking of hiring each other. I would like to change that and respond to everyone. I would like to clean up my life, which is why I would like to start with a clean, new laptop.

Why do I care? Perhaps because I am old enough to know what organisation/life means without the aid of a computer; I started e-mailing late, in my final year of university, and I remember telephoning someone to make plans with no texting as recourse to say one is running late. Perhaps because I prefer old technology to new; I still, and expect to always, use my uncluttered and concise paper Preference Collection daily planner, the same beige-page style I have been devoted to since 1995. Surely I care to have a clean, new laptop to reflect my increasingly ascetic lifestyle, where I am learning to discern what I want versus what I need. I have become quite fond of eating hard-boiled eggs with not one touch of seasoning.

And now… I am sifting through six years of Inbox and Sent and files and JPEGs and screen-captures and notes and vectors and bitmaps and drafts and I am daunted. I understand that my MacBook Pro will eventually get cluttered the same way that every household has a junk drawer full of "I'll take care of it later". I want to keep my virtual junk drawer tiny. I want to answer every e-mail, respond to every Facebook message, to force everything to be pat with a tyrranical fist. But as my laptops have sadly become inseparable with my life, cleaning up six years of my computer could prove to be as futile as cleaning up six years of living.

I wondered if my being overwhelmed is a response to technology. Yes, I believe that today we are over-stimulated and over-obligated, but in the case of feeling defeated by tidying up information, I believe we would be overwhelmed no matter what the technology. My old laptop is indeed a facsimile, a diary, of my past six years, but I can still systematically go through each file and delete. Imagine sorting through the last 2,190 days of actual life, itemising and examining every single memory without the option of deleting.

Perhaps I should accept the fact that the junk will grow and when I get my next new computer I will attempt yet another purge. Perhaps I should embrace the scraps as giving my computer character, the same way that a human is the sum of his and her ramshackle history. The e-mails you never responded to. The draft of the novel you abandoned. The relationship that evaporated without explanation years ago, and whenever you are at the same bar you cannot look each other in the eyes. Matters, though unfinished, remain as complete memories. We will accumulate more and they will make our character. My life is flotsam. Your life is jetsam. Our lives are a collection of detritus.

BIEBER

Excerpt from an interview on December 2, 2011:

QUESTION:
How has social media changed how people perceive the arts?

ANSWER:
I wanna talk about YouTube. And MySpace and the other things that helped Justin Bieber, Lily Allen, Russell Peters, and others to get noticed. First of all, our attention spans have become nil due to the internet, and we have patience only for snippets. I’ve only recently checked out Chat Roulette, which is very unsexy, but it’s also analogous to how we use the internet. We give everything half-a-second of our attention, realise it’s yet another ugly penis, then click away to an uglier penis…. How do you make someone give you more than half-a-second? Well, on YouTube and MySpace and stuff, you make music or make people laugh. Music and comedy can be instantly engaging, and after you’ve heard one verse or laughed at one punchline, you’re hooked. And then you tell everyone on Facebook and Twitter. And then that musician and comedian and sneezing panda cub go viral. Boom. Celebrity. Social media goes hand-in-hand with music and comedy, and clever stuff, and oooh!-and-aaah! stuff, and weird images, and sexy images, because they are instantly engaging and quickly gratifying. The pay-off comes very fast: three minutes for a pop song, fifteen seconds to tell a joke, one second to look at a cool picture. Social media doesn’t seem to work for long-form narrative drama. How would Rohmer fare on the internet? Narrative drama requires time and investment from the viewer, but the internet is grooming us to crave shorter and shorter. Twitter isn’t helping. 140 characters and everyone’s trying to be the next Oscar Wilde.

For the record, I have absolutely no problem with Bieber, Allen, Peters and others who got noticed from the internet. In fact, I admire them because of their tremendous talent and ability to harness technology. Their careers fascinate me.

POLITE

Fuck, Canadians, why're you so polite? I'm riding my bike down Queen Street and this 20s-couple, between cars and about to jaywalk, step back to give me space. As I pass them I say, "Thanks" and they say, "Sorry." What're you sorry about? I'm sorry I said thanks.

Fuck off, manners!

CONSTRUCTION

Drills rat-tat-tat as I approach the intersection. Traffic is slowed amid the mild mayhem and I'm just gonna jaywalk this thing but oh shit, there's a cop. I'll wait. This fall morning is too refreshing for conflict. A teen in a toque bounds past me, zipping across the street, zipping by the cop. I don't have his balls. I wait. Green light's mine. I go.

YOUNG COP: Hey, I said hold on. You don't speak English?

I stand in the middle of the street and stare at him. I'm gonna say something... Terrible Cantonese? Gibberish Mandarin? Instead:

ME: I didn't hear you. Yeah I speak English but what if I didn't?

YOUNG COP: I told you to wait.

ME: Not everyone speaks English.

He waves a car past.

YOUNG COP: You might as well go, you're already in the middle of the street...

ME: You can't assume everyone speaks English, my friend.

The bearded hipster passing me smiles in solidarity.

Assuming everyone speaks English is insulting. The tyranny of English is insulting. The cop goes back to his job with outstretched arms. Either I'm not worth his trouble or he gets me. Both. His parents or grandparents probably don't speak English. He looks Portuguese.

I added "my friend" 'cause I'm not in the mood for fisticuffs and handcuffs.

GOO

Just saying. Just saying. Just saying. If I am riding an elevator with you and your baby, do not expect me to devote my attention to the little one. I will neither goo-goo nor coo-coo to your wonderful gift to the world. Why? Because I am a carbon-hearted, misanthropic asshole who finds only adults, pandas, and Jon Stewart amusing. And because my niece and nephew are cuter than your kid, anyway.

ACRE

Aaron's irony is ironic.

When looking over a bustling intersection teeming with cars, condos, cafés, and cyclists, he sweeps his hand and tells us, "I remember when this all used to be farmland."
When standing before a farm, he sweeps his hand and tells us, "I remember when this all used to be farmland."
They are crotchety, curmudgeonly, old-man words, and around-thirty Aaron loves uttering them with faux nostalgia and a grin.
When reclining in the sun room of the cottage, overlooking the trees and the boy in the life jacket cannonballing into the choppy lake, Aaron sweeps his hand still clutching Guinness and tells us, "I remember when this all used to be farmland."
I laugh. I always do. This time, though, it isn't his joke that makes me laugh -- it's the fact that he still tells this joke, again and again, with undiminished gusto and grin. His mere telling of this joke is now funnier to me than the joke itself. The joke has now become meta. Who else but Aaron would pack post-modernism with him to the cottage?

WE

Burying our dead. Believing in gods. Making fire. Adding to the argument on what separates humans from other animals, I speculate that we are the only beast who is aware of our own beast's presence far away. We know we have a father in India, a cousin in Belgium, a grandmother in Guatemala. Of humans we have not met, we know Obama is in America and Hu Jintao is in China. We might never meet Obama nor Hu, yet we know they exist. We have not met Riel nor Napoleon nor Tutankhamen, yet we know they existed. It is not about the internet or newspaper -- an illiterate blacksmith in Rome could be aware of a Cleopatra in Egypt. Our awareness of the existence of a member of our own species transcends space, time, and technology.

Beyond running-, swimming-, and flying-distance, other animals are not aware of their own. The horse in Yukon does not know of the horse in Argentina, let alone the horse from 1511.

I suspect we are the only beast who creates mythology. Legends and lore that confirm, and disseminate the confirmation of, our existence throughout space and throughout time. History. Fame. Celebrity. Notoriety.

NERDS

They are fifteen, maybe sixteen, surely not seventeen. The four boys flanking me on both sides of the streetcar, the two Caucasians sporting nifty glasses, the two Chinese strapping knapsacks on their backs. Foreheads riddled with red spots. Voices crossing the rickety bridge back and forth from boy to man.
"So you're saying each pixel is made up of a million parts?" says one.
"I'm talking about invisibility," says another.
"You can't draw what you can't see," says another.
"I want to figure this out," says another, then laughs.
They probably masturbate often. They probably are unaware that girls in their classes find them charming. They probably will do good with their lives. I want to tell them, "Keep it up."

KEY

J was a latchkey kid. Yes, he did wear a key on a string 'round his neck. Something was always a bit different about J from the rest of us. He constantly had fresh gear, multiple satin Starter jackets, new Buffalo and Request jeans every few months. Almost every day, for lunch he would buy Chicken McNuggets, all white. That's like $3 a day, $15 a week, $60 a month. On McNuggets. How the hell could he afford that? I always suspected he had some kinda money despite living with his single mom in a bungalow on Victoria Drive near the 7-Eleven where our friend C stabbed a kid with scissors. J was a full-fledged member of the rough crew that I sort-of-maybe-sometimes wanted to be a part of, but I wasn't a fighter, nor was I Italian Greek Portuguese, nor did I wear head-to-toe denim (at that time) while moshing to "Enter Sandman". I'm rap and Chinese, and the only Asians in that posse were Indian, except for E the pale-skinned Chinese boy who seemed to get a lot of sex. J was more Too $hort than Metallica but still managed to be high up in the hierarchy, being a good-looking, funny kid who seemed to get all the ninth-grade girls. He always invited me to join him on his regular 12.10PM trek to McDonald's where I'd watch him drop dollars daily while I munched on my mom-made sandwich. He made me feel like a part of the crew of which I was a hardly-honorary member. He was a popular kid, and rolling with him gave this fourteen-year-old some confidence. I still have the Naughty By Nature self-titled debut that he lent me. He still has my Dre's "The Chronic", the first CD I ever stole from A&B Sound. I'd like it back.

Come to think of it, I too was a latchkey kid, but I kept my key in my pocket.

'BAGS

Sausage McMuffin. That's what happens when you're walking home at 5.52AM in the drizzle from a friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend's house party, and the joint was full of young Latin people dancing to Latin house shouting "Hey, Macarena!" but I'm not sure if the song was actually a version of "Macarena" but I'm sure they know better than me, and the pound of coleslaw I'm munching from the 24-hour grocery store ain't filling me up near enough, and my night has become morning and the only thing open is McDonald's so I'm gonna get, what else, of course, Sausage McMuffin. I pay the teen my $1.46 and saunter to the side, awaiting my salty fat treat. I glance at the donation box in front of the cash register -- to help kids who need help -- and six pennies are scattered outside the box, their target missed. Now listen: I donate. I donate to earthquakes and tsunamis, public radio and polar bears, cancer and buskers. I give. And here are six rogue copper pieces absent from a child's happiness. I could have dropped those pennies into the box, I should have. I thought about it. But it's 5.52AM and I have a tub of half-eaten coleslaw and I'm too busy contemplating when the teen cashier's (Andrew's) voice will break. So I stand. In comes a gang of douchebags, ostensibly from the after-hours joint up the block. Five 'bags and a girl, rocking dress shoes and Christian Audigier, ordering McThis and McThat, one guy gets apple juice. ...It's all good, so did I, minus the apple juice. One of the dudes, without announcement nor show, casually, as if by habit of kindness, picks up the pennies and donates six times.

STICK

September Saturday and Grade Nine is three weeks old. We're in the parking lot of the Korean church, you know, the one on Gladstone. Playing hockey, not ice. M and me taking a break to chew gum, sitting under a sign that says "Jesus" or "Seoul" or "welcome". The gum's pretty good, kinda small, super mint, popped out of a foil pack, it ain't Hubba-Bubba-grape good but we're growing up. Maybe I should start eating Corn Flakes instead of Froot Loops. M slams his stick onto the pavement and shouts real stressed, "All I wanna do is fuck a girl!"

WELFARE

B was on welfare. We weren't sure, but she and her sister were being raised by their single mom, her clothes looked like Value Village specials, and her greasy hair was begging for bathing, so obviously she was on welfare. She was the punchline of all our jokes, both in and out of her presence. She was synonymous with ugly.

"I wouldn't fuck B in a million years!" we'd say when we began to dare swear. And, more damning, "You're gonna have sex with B!". The only proper response to that curse was a punch to the back and tackle.

She was our ultimate butt for years and it didn't help her case that she was silent, never told us to shut up. We were in school together from Grades 4 to 7 and I recall hearing her voice only a few times. I recall she had one friend, or maybe it was none. Probably it was none, otherwise why else would she get on stage solo for Air Band? It's Band. And what the fuck is this hippie-oldies "I Feel the Earth Move" shit that she's doing? -- it ain't The Bangles or DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince or Salt or Pepa. Every time B mouthed "I feel the earth move under my feet" we snickered because, obviously, she was fat. Elementary school kids might not be able to explain irony, but we knew when it was happening.

We did manage to envy B for one thing: she was among the first in our school to get a Sega Genesis. But our "I wish I had a Genesis like B" was matched by "Shouldn't they buy clothes and food first?". The thing about our neighbourhood in East Van is that you fit in the spectrum between poor and working class. Class is structured by who is less poor. We kids would flaunt whatever objects we could to avoid looking poor; if you wore Brooks instead of Nike, you had welfare shoes. We weren't sure that B was actually on welfare, but we wanted to believe that and she never said otherwise when we told her to her unwashed face.

Around the time of Air Band, Nick and I had a secret. We shopped at Value Village. But just for board games like Master Mind and Clue, not for Bugle Boy and Nike because, god, that's so used and so poor. We refused plastic bags because, god, how could we be seen biking down Victoria Drive toting "Value Village" across our handlebars. Walking into a second-hand store gave us the same taboo titillation that we would experience later when we were fifteen and walking into our first strip joint. "Battleship for only a buck!" Nick shouted. The aisle of knick-knacks, games, and National Geographics was our clandestine budget wonderland. We steered clear of the clothes because, even as East Van almost-teens, we couldn't let ourselves look like poverty and there's nothing cool about wearing someone else's jeans.

Now I'm an adult and 80% of my wardrobe is used. I rely on vintage stores for my cowboy boots and jeans that no one else will be wearing, but even that's a bit easy -- I thrill at the challenge of saving coin and finding sweet André Michel jeans at Sally Ann. I wear sneakers that cost ten dollars. The brand: Sportek. Now I'm an adult and I adore Carole King and am proud that I discovered Rhymes & Reasons at Goodwill for only a buck. Among her other albums, I also own Tapestry, but B beat me to it by decades. I recall her dancing on stage without anyone backing her up, sweating through her shirt stenched by her mom's cigarettes, lip-synching with complete concentration "I feel the sky tumbling down" under the dinky strobe, and I understand that B was cooler than all us kids in the gymnasium. We just didn't know it yet.

BREAK

It's like this. You don't know? It's like this. Spring Break in East Van and what am I gonna do? Wake up at 10, watch The Price is Right and The Monkees. Later, go play hockey in the alley. Naw, not on skates, don't be stupid. This is the inner-city and we don't skate -- we run. School's out for a few, what else'm I gonna do? Play fucking Nintendo at Nick's. That's it. Fuck around, that's it. Now it's summer and school's out for more than a few. What am I gonna do? I just told you: Wake up at 10, watch The Price is Right and The Monkees. Later, go play hockey in the alley. Buy a dilly bar at the Dairy Queen shack up the block. Ride bikes to Trout Lake to fish for toxic fish. Boost some porno mags from C&T at Kingsway and Nanaimo. Nintendo. What else? That's it. Fuck around, that's it. Now it's winter and school's out for a few. What am I gonna do? I just told you already. Same shit. Fuck around, that's it. If it's snowing we're gonna risk our thirteen-year-old limbs by bumper skiing up and down the block. If it ain't snowing we're gonna do Nintendo. Done. That's holiday.

The first day of class in September, woe be unto the naive teacher who says, "Welcome back. Did anyone go anywhere for the holidays?" Don't be clueless, you stupid fuck. You know ain't nobody gonna put up their hand. Maybe one kid, but it's always gonna be like this: "Yeah, my family went to Kelowna." That's just four hours away and that's your vacation? That's all you could afford? Whatever, good on you 'cause the farthest I went was fucking Burnaby.

Spring Break is coming. Ain't no Fort Lauderdale happening in East Van.

PISS

The commercial features mothers voicing their disgust at the video game. If that inspires you to buy the game -- indeed, if any of your actions are motivated solely by a desire to piss off your mother -- then you are a child.

FORGIVE

I have been humourless for many weeks. I have been brusque with family and friends and always felt guilty because I seemed, I believe, rude. I am not a rude man and if you've met me you would say I am not rude. But I have been lately. I have been gruff. My mind is all distraction and my typical mirth has been replaced by temporary melancholy. My patience has shortened as has my ability to suffer fools and foolishness, jokes, ribbing and barbs, and I will soon talk about aardvarks. Recently a cousin made a joke to me about something I don't care to tell you, and at other times this recurring joke would have lured a polite laugh out of me, but not this time. It's not a hurtful joke, normally -- in fact, it's extremely benign and tremendously insignificant, not dissimilar to an affectionate tug on the cheek. But because I am currently rude and humourless, the remark was met by my frigid frown and a subtext of "shut up" that was hardly sub. I did not want to be rude, I wanted to be polite. But let's say you usually find aardvarks funny. They are odd and begin the English dictionary. Normally you like aardvarks. Usually the subject of aardvarks would not make you rude. But then your friend pulls your leg with an aardvark remark, knowing full well that only last week an aardvark horrifically attacked your mother.

100%

WOULD I GO THERE ALONE?

Bars: 100%

Sports bar to watch hockey: 100%

Sports bar to watch football (NFL): 0%

Sports bar to watch football (FIFA): 100%

Portuguese sports bar: 13%

Portuguese sports bar with a non-Portuguese friend: 13%

Portuguese sports bar with a Portuguese friend: 100%

Vietnamese karaoke bar: 3%

Korean karaoke bar: 4%

Gay bar because it's open until 3.00AM and every other bar closed at 2.00AM: 100%

Gay bar, period: 100%

Any place that will sell me booze: 100% generally

Dirty bar filled with ex-con alcoholics who arrive at noon and leave when they're dragged out twelve hours later, in Kitchener-Waterloo: 100%

Bar that charges $7 for a pint of beer: Fuck off

After-hours booze-can speakeasy with lots of drugs: 100%

After-hours booze-can speakeasy with no drugs: 100%

After-hours booze-can speakeasy with twelve people, four of whom are on clarinet, trumpet, double-bass, and guitar: 100%

After-hours booze-can speakeasy with people who can stay up later than me: Try me

Club playing X-Ray Spex: 100%

Club playing Taylor Swift: 1%

Club playing any Top 40: 1%

Standing and drinking and looking around at a dance club: 100%

Dancing at a dance club: 98%

Dancing to Joy Division or Duran Duran or Prince or Hall and Oates: 100%

Dancing to Wu-Tang Clan, A Tribe Called Quest, Showbiz and AG, Gangstarr, or Main Source: 0%

Head-nodding to Wu-Tang Clan, A Tribe Called Quest, Showbiz and AG, Gangstarr, or Main Source: 100%

Rapping along with Wu-Tang Clan, A Tribe Called Quest, Showbiz and AG, Gangstarr, or Main Source: 100%

Strip club: 100%

Strip club in Afghanistan: 0%

Afghanistan: 5%

Alabama: 23%

Albany: 100%

Porno shop to buy a thing: 100%

Porno shop to browse: 100%

Porno shop on a busy street at 3.25PM: 3%

Swingers club, to observe: 100%

Swingers club, to fuck: I dunno

Train ride from Vancouver, British Columbia to Happy Valley-Goose Bay, Labrador: 100%

Train ride from Lisbon to Moscow: 100%

Train ride from to Bangalore to Ulaanbaatar: 46%

Drive a car from Vancouver, British Columbia to Happy Valley-Goose Bay, Labrador: 8%

Bicycle ride at 4.14PM: 100%

Bicycle ride at 4.14AM: 100%

Restaurant to eat oysters: 100%

Restaurant to eat pho: 100%

Restaurant at 5.37AM: 100%

Restaurant to eat any meal, any time, alone alone alone: 100%

Dive that serves shit food and shit coffee: 100%

Filthy dive: 100%

Restaurant run by a fancy chef: Depends -- is there a dive nearby?

Starbucks: 0%, but I will meet you there if you insist

Mom-and-pop coffee shop: 100%

Tim Hortons: 100% with double-double hypocrisy, please

Big-chain book store to buy a book: 0%

Big-chain book store to use the urinal: 100%

Independent book store: 100%

Independent record store: 100%

Cinema to watch a film by Bergman: 100%

Cinema to watch a film by Bergman, and a friend wants to come along: Depends on which friend

Cinema to watch a Twilight film for full price: 1%

Cinema to watch a Twilight film for free: 100%

Cinema to watch a Twilight film for half-price: 50%

Art gallery: 100%

Museum: 100%

Theatre: 100%

Dance: 100%

Opera: 100%

Symphony: 100%

Sleater-Kinney concert (pre-2007): 100%

Sleater-Kinney concert (pre-2007), and a friend wants to come along: Depends on which friend

Church: 100%

Mosque: 100%

Temple: 100%

The Other Temple: 100%

The Other Other Temple: 100%

Me becoming religious while visiting the church, mosque, temple: 0% - 1%, but thank You, sincerely, for letting me spend some time with You.

GIVE

You needn't give me a gift. If December 25 is today, or February 14 is tomorrow, or my birthday is coming up on some day that you shouldn't know because I never tell anyone my birthday is coming up, you really needn't give me a gift because, truthfully, I likely won't be giving you a gift. The act of giving should happen on March 3 or July 22 or November 8 or Saturday or because the sun has risen or because you're very hungry or because that swallow swooped so gracefully. Giving should happen any time, all the time, and not only on assigned days. When I see people panicking on December 1 because posters at the mall remind them they have twenty-four days in which to check off all the names on their list, and they agonise over how much money they don't have to accomplish that task, I think of one word: Hegemony.

A packed mall is torture. A sidewalk crammed with shoppers is not fun. There is little sanctity in scrambling like a rat with twelve bags strung across the crook of your arm, shoving your Master Card back into your wallet for the tenth time this hour, clutching a list of To Whomevers merely because The Day is in three days. There is much benevolence in making a sock doll for your toddler cousin, making dumplings for your sweetheart, taking your grandfather to Seattle for his first time. Making a gift and giving the gift of experience require time and involvement. There is more consideration. You give not only a thing -- you give yourself.

Spontaneous giving is the antithesis of obligatory giving; we are celebrating a moment when we decide to buy the next round of Guinness. Why? Because we are friends, because we are out, because we enjoy each other's company. Such improvised goodwill can be far more heartfelt than buying your son Call of Duty: Black Ops simply because, well, he wouldn't shut up about it since September. Giving under duress is not an act of goodwill.

When I hear of someone angered by not receiving a birthday gift, or a man scoffing at how the shoes his girlfriend gave him are cheap, another word is exposed: Entitlement. Occasions and assigned days, especially those that get Hallmark's CEO aroused, have made us kowtow to mainstream pressure and expect the generosity of others, whether we deserve it or not. We have become brats.

The act of giving on certain days can be customary, entrenched in tradition, a fundamental aspect of a culture. In my late teens, when my nihilism was developing at the same rapid pace as my politics, I would refuse red envelopes given to me on Chinese New Year and December 25 and my birthday. My feeling was that I didn't do anything in particular to deserve the lucky money, nor should the giver feel obligated to share some of her savings for the sake of custom. My refusal was never successful because I could sense I was becoming insulting. Now, my counter-culture impulses have entered a healthy debate with a respect for established culture, and I accept the lucky money with genuine gratitude. Upholding some cultural values can be worth it, monetarily and otherwise.

I am a hypocrite. I do not expect any gifts from anyone ever, but I will give them on occasion. On occasion, meaning once in a while because I feel randomly inspired, and on occasion, meaning I would be a horrible uncle if I didn't give my nephew and niece a thing for that day in December. As an anti-gifter who gives gifts, my hypocrisy rests in two reasons: I don't want to feel guilty for not giving anything; I don't want my nephew and niece to feel alienated in coming years when they will inevitably have to discuss with their friends on December 26 what they got on December 25. I remember feeling inadequate in the 1980s when my friends' trees were hardly visible behind the cascade of giant wrapped boxes, while the scant packages under my anemic tree hardly required the mystery of wrapping because they were, invariably, year after year, merely Pot of Gold chocolates and dried scallops.

I will continue to indulge in hypocrisy by giving to my nephew and niece because when he unwrapped the cylindrical box to discover Tinker Toys and cheered, I enjoyed creating that moment of happiness (my niece is sixteen months old and likely greeted my gift of a plush panda cub with equal parts happiness and indifference). I understand how the act of giving -- whether mandated by the calendar or not -- can bring fulfillment to the giver. When for my 1996 birthday Sarah gave me what I deemed the greatest object-gift I had ever received -- a name belt buckle -- I grabbed my face with both palms in utter shockgratitude. So did she. I had never experienced a moment of exchange so equally and oppositely explosive; Sarah's approach to giving is Newtonian. She chides me for not celebrating (let alone announcing) my birthday: "You're robbing us of the chance to celebrate you."

I have given myself a birthday party twice in my life. The most recent occasion was my 28th birthday, which I enjoyed sharing with friends and booze for the novelty of it being my champagne year. Aside from that relatively rare event, I would be happy to acknowledge my birthday privately and quietly year after year. It's not about secrets. It's not about hiding my age. It's about accomplishment. I enjoy being acknowledged/celebrated/smiled at only for something I've done. Otherwise, I'd be happy being invisible. Getting older by one year does not seem to me to be an accomplishment. All I had to do was stay alive, which can certainly be difficult for many -- including me -- but it's a relatively common event. My birthday is not an achievement. It is a default event. I don't feel a need to celebrate it. That being said, I love nothing more than drinking and celebrating the birthdays of others. Remember, I'm a hypocrite. Please continue to invite me.

If I were to hold my own birthday party and invite you, you would come for one of two reasons: You like me; you feel obligated. If you are the latter, I would rather you not come. The same goes for an invitation to a film or show of mine: Don't feel obligated to attend. I would love to have you there, but only if you are genuinely interested. That being said, I will still attend your event because I feel obligated (or because I am genuinely interested). I will absolve you of feeling obligated, but I myself am not able to escape obligation. I have a problem with guilt.

As many of my friends are artists, I am constantly tossing around in a vortex of internal conflict called Commitment. I often feel committed to attend an artist's event because that artist has attended mine. There are other words for this type of Commitment: Community. Support. Support your fellow artists because they support you. However, we all should understand that we can't attend all our fellow artists' events. We should be excused, and giving an excuse shouldn't be necessary. Colleagues regularly say to me, "I'm sorry I missed your show," and I say the same to them. Then I remind them that in these long careers of ours, we will surely have to miss some of each other's events, so let's just make a point to attend the next. I never make a person feel guilty for having missed my event. To guilt one into attending your own event is poor form. With guilt comes obligation. Obligation is synonymous with reluctance. Reluctance is the absence of sincerity. That is the word: Sincerity.

ME: Mom, Dad, I'm heading out now.

MOM: Are you going to your sister's?

ME: After I get some gifts...

It's December 24 and I have yet to get anything for my nephew and niece.

MOM: You don't have to get them anything.

ME: I've gotta get them something. I'm their uncle.

MOM: They don't need anything.

ME: I want to get them something. I'm gonna go to Commercial Drive to get--

DAD: You're supposed to already be at your sister's.

MOM: Now.

ME: I still gotta get some gifts for--

MOM: No you don't. There...

She wags her finger to a plastic bag on the kitchen shelf.

MOM: ...Your dad just picked them up the other day...

DAD: ...They're excercise books for writing Chinese...

MOM: A perfect gift.

DAD: A perfect gift.

MOM: You can give them to your nephew. We're going to give lucky money anyways, so you give him the books--

ME: No.

DAD: You give him the books.

ME: No.

MOM: You don't have to rush out to buy anything now.

DAD: It's two o' clock.

ME: No. I didn't--

MOM: The perfect gift.

ME: You got him the books, I didn't.

DAD: He doesn't have to know that.

MOM: He's five.

ME: But still, they're from you not me.

MOM: What difference does--? If you give them, they're from you.

DAD: You don't like the books?

ME: I love the books, but I didn't get them. If I give them, it's not real-- I didn't--

MOM: The books aren't real?

ME: ...I didn't-- Dad got-- It's not a real gift--

MOM: It's fake? How is it not a real gift?

ME: A real gift from me!

MOM: It's a perfect gift!

My left hand was clutched like talons an inch away from my chest.

ME: Mom, your heart isn't... doesn't work like mine. It's not... real. Real, real... how do you say?...

How do you say "sincere" in Cantonese?

ME: ...You know what I'm saying? Dad, you know what I'm saying! Real.

His brow was scrunched as he ate his noodles, annoyed.

DAD: Okay okay, don't give him the books!

MOM: Stupid!

ME: I'm gonna go get some gifts. See you tonight.

After all that, they still didn't say "sincere" in Cantonese.

FLAT

After my beloved roommate Karen and before my beloved roommate Terri came this ad:

END OF AN ERA
November, 2006

Yes, it's true. After over four years of co-habitation with me, my roommate is moving out to live with her boyfriend. That means that I have a room available. Here are tons of details:

- Queen Street West, at Augusta
- spacious two-bedroom apartment
- two floors
- two bathrooms
- separate kitchen
- fully furnished
- you can move in soon or in January

WHY IS MY PLACE AWESOME?

- you can't beat the location. You really can't
- I live in the Fashion District (the city's term, not mine), so I'm surrounded by fabric stores, boutiques, and stuff like that. I'm also super close to Kensington Market, Chinatown, Little Italy, Portugal Village, and of course West Queen West and Parkdale
- I walk everywhere. Or bike, or occasionally public transit. This apartment is close to pretty much everything you need. Within a few blocks I can eat awesome brunch, shop for import records, enjoy fine tea, buy Digital Beta tapes, go see a play, buy Super 8 film, get Super 8 film processed, visit innumerable arts organisation offices, buy bok choy, buy a real Eames chair, browse antique books, repair my bicycle, visit Toronto's most progressive art galleries, go see an independent film or Hollywood gack, rent a 1927 Danish film, rent a 2004 Korean revenge film, eat cheap dinner, eat expensive dinner, check out the greatest bands, go drinking go drinking go drinking, dance dance dance, and stumble home... All within a few blocks
- 24-hour public transit outside my doorstep
- you can hail a cab within 15 seconds
- my big front windows overlook Queen Street, which is better than television
- I have a wonderful relationship with the landlord and we can do anything we want in the apartment. Imagine having a landlord who doesn't breathe down your neck. Go ahead and smoke, I don't care. Play super loud music... no one cares

RULES ETC.

- please be appreciative of art and culture
- NO TOP 40 MUSIC except in the privacy of your bedroom with headphones
- interesting music encouraged
- this apartment is happily analogue. I hope you don't have a home theatre system with widescreen HD television and fifteen speakers etc. Oh, I have high-speed internet!

RENT

$650 + utilities

People from outside of Toronto are welcome. Americans, too. If you're not familiar with Toronto, be assured that my neighbourhood is fun, convenient, safe, and quite desireable.

Contact me.

-- Norman

AWAKE

I try not to have bright ideas late at night -- inspiration keeps me up until 6AM. I'm like a mogwai: no epiphanies after midnight, please.

Forty-seven minutes ago I stepped out on the balcony to breathe and think about anything. Anything besides this shiftless dull weight that I've allowed to oppress me during this two-month-long stasis/sabbatical/bender. The moist, chilled air hit me with an answer I wasn't yet ready to receive. An idea. A key. The conclusion to a script that I haven't touched in one year, a Draft One that has cowered on my shelf waiting for me to expand its life with a sibling, Draft Two. I've avoided writing this script because there were other scripts more urgent, shows needing to be shot, many many many beers requiring my attention. But now, from the balcony, I've got the answer. I want to write this new draft now.

Immediately.

But it is 4.48AM. Write some notes if you must. Get started tomorrow. Please sleep.

GUN

Excerpt from an interview on September 18, 2010:


QUESTION:
Many people say that non-white actors are often the "first to go" in horror movies and/or always the "non-important" role in such films. Tell us how you think Hollywood views Asian actors, where you think Asians in Hollywood are going and what you think about your character in the film Resident Evil: Afterlife.


ANSWER:
My fundamental belief is that we need to stop complaining and create the roles ourselves. That’s the main reason I started writing and directing films and plays. I’ve written characters named Jorge, Davinder, Safina, Giancarla, Shiraz to suggest they be played by diverse actors. My play Pu-Erh offers three huge, complex roles to Asian actors who speak both English and Cantonese. My goal is to create opportunities for under-represented actors. Instead of crying out foul, we should become creators and create the change we want.

In terms of Asians in film and TV, it’s getting better. I’m noticing a lot more roles for Asians, and the roles are getting better. I’m happy to see prominent roles being played by Sandra Oh, Grace Park, Maggie Q, John Cho, Ken Watanabe… the list goes on… It’s getting better but there’s still work to be done. Our screens still don’t realistically reflect the Asian and visible-minority numbers. Look at many North American cities, especially multicultural cities like New York, Los Angeles, Chicago, Toronto, Vancouver, etc. You stand on any street corner in these cities and you’ll see every race. Then look at what’s being represented in our movies and TV shows: an unrealistic ratio that is hardly diverse.

I appreciate the diversity in Resident Evil: Afterlife. The L.A. survivors are a myriad of races and authentic accents: a Korean, a Latino, an African-American, a Brit… Kim Yong never struck me as The Asian Guy. Paul (W.S. Anderson) never asked me for a bogus accent or for martial arts or anything stereotypical, and I appreciated that. Still, the issue of tokenism and stereotypes always comes up whether a movie, any movie, has few visible minorities or lots of them, and I can see how some people might be critical about Resident Evil: Afterlife’s diversity. I believe that one solution to stereotyping is to inject more humanity into the role. Stereotyping is merely shorthand to understand a character instantly, so to combat stereotyping, let’s make the character more complex, more nuanced, so that an audience has to spend more time considering the character rather than making instant judgement. That is how I approached Kim Yong: I gave him a journey. I start as an obedient lackey, then I make a decision on my own to not betray my fellow survivors, then I conquer my fears and decide to go down the tunnel. My journey with Kim Yong was to grow from timid submissive to being my own man, especially since my mentor, Bennett, has abandoned me. Kim Yong’s journey is one of maturing.

Paul did indeed write moments where Kim Yong was more forceful and commanding, and I created some moments myself. We shot moments where I kept guard (yes, with a big-ass machine gun) while Angel burned through the lock to the garage. We shot me discovering the disassembled engine and chastising Angel for not being able to put the engine back together. We shot me making the decision to defy Bennett, in the airplane, by refusing to betray my fellow survivors. We shot me performing my own stunt: Kim Yong versus the oncoming plane. Also, I do decide to go down the tunnel, albeit a split-second too late. But as is the case with almost every movie ever made, certain moments get cut out and we don’t see Kim Yong’s moments of bravery.

According to the script, it’s easy to pass off Kim Yong as simply “the scared guy”. So I tried to give as much depth to Kim Yong as possible in a small amount of space. His role among the group of survivors, and his role as a character in the movie, is simply human. Kim Yong is not a superhero. Kim Yong is a young man (only twenty) stuck in the wrong place at the wrong time in the wrong world. I wanted him to be a sympathetic and empathetic character, a point of access for the audience. Sure, it would be cool to be a hero like everyone else, but that’s simply not Kim Yong’s character. Yeah, it would have been fun to mow down zombies with expert aim, but we’ve already got Alice, Claire, Chris, Luther doing that. Kim Yong’s role – my job – is to contrast the many bad-asses in the group, and I remained faithful to that dynamic. Kim Yong is hanging desperately to some kind of hope, hanging on to his father-figure Bennett. When Bennett betrays him, his already-destroyed world becomes a lot more destroyed. And that is why he doesn’t have a gun.

While shooting the scene where we are ambushed by a horde of zombies after Bennett has stolen the plane, we all contemplated why Kim Yong doesn’t have a gun. Milla (Jovovich) was the first to say, “Why doesn’t Norman have a gun?” And we all stood there for a moment, Paul’s arms akimbo, considering. I looked at the given circumstances: my friend Angel was just murdered right before my eyes by my father-figure; my father-figure has just betrayed me; we are being attacked by an enormous mob of zombies; and while everyone around me is firing guns -- and my arms are up to shield me from Ali (Larter)'s shells, which are pelting my face -- I’m forced to confess that the vehicle ain’t working and Angel’s dead (this got cut out). …All things considered, Kim Yong is fucking terrified. And justifiably so. So he doesn’t get a gun.

Resident Evil: Afterlife is full of bad-asses and heroes. Kim Yong doesn’t have to be a bad-ass. He adds a different dynamic. He is simply human. And I believe that a character with some depth and journey – a realistic human – is the antithesis of a stereotype.

GAGA

If I were Lady Gaga's manager, it would go down like this:

"Stefani, you need to be more queer friendly."
"But I already am," says Gaga.
"Good. Let's keep it up. After all, look at Madonna, Kylie, Liza, Bette--"
"Bette?"
"Bette Midler."
"Bette Midler?"
"You wanna sell ring tones or not?"

THESAURUS

For "complain", the Oxford thesaurus says kick up a fuss. I thought it said fuck up the ass.

BOOK

After standing in line for three hours breathing mall air, the boy finally got his prize. Clutching the iPad in his fifteen-year-old hands, he showed off to the news reporter: "I don't like to read books, so maybe this will make me read more."


I am sad.

BOOKS

My first August in Toronto was sticky. Two blocks out the door and my back was so slick with sweat that my shower from ten minutes ago had come undone. I lamented that each shirt was good for only one wearing before it became salted by my perspiration -- the laundry room was seventeen floors beneath me in the pits of my St. Jamestown housing monolith, a journey for this young man who was used to chucking dirty clothes into a broken hamper and hours later they would magically* return clean and alley-fresh from the clothesline. (*Mom did my laundry). In July my hair was blown cool by the Pacific; in August my flesh was humming from the muggy stank staid Great Lake. I had moved to the other side of the continent with nothing but the promise of adulthood and two hundred pounds of books.

I'm a bit of a book collector. Not obsessively obsessive, but obsessive enough to have held out for eight years until I finally located a Bantam paperback edition of The Catcher in the Rye that is maroon with yellow titles. I do not like the Little, Brown and Company edition that is white with a rainbow in the corner. I prefer buying Grove Press editions of plays because they were often designed by Roy Kuhlman and he is the greatest, don't argue. I refuse to buy used books that have previous owners' notes inscribed because I don't want my thoughts to be sullied by another's. If the pages are dog-eared or -- god forbid and condemn -- highlighted, there's no way I'm taking that blasphemed book home. I've wrapped my Stanislavsky books in white paper to protect the beautiful seagull logo on the covers. I was devastated when the move across five provinces yielded crushed corners on a few of my (many) Ingmar Bergman books. I now avoid going into bookstores for fear of exiting with five unexpected purchases and a fifty-dollar dent in my money clip. Going into a bookstore means see-you-later for three hours.

That August I had to go to the bookstore. My fingernails had never sweat so much before. I had never inhaled air so steaming and stagnant. I needed an answer, and who else could enlighten me more sagely than that store on Queen Street West, Abelard Books, home of texts previously cherished and antiquarian. The bookseller accented his side-parted silver hair and neat white beard with black-rimmed glasses. He tucked in his shirt and spoke softly. He was an expert.

"I don't have an air conditioner. I'm from the west coast. Will my books rot?" I asked as I wiped the stinging drips from my forehead.

He shut his tome and crinkled his pasty brow. "No. You don't have anything to worry about."

PU-ERH

There is always tea. One porcelain pot with steeped leaves. One porcelain pot with water the temperature of the kitchen. One urn with boiled water that remains hot throughout the day. You mix portions of the three liquids to your liking. All day long, whenever you want, there is tea. The pots and urn are among the first things I notice when I return to East Vancouver. After the greying eyebrows of my dad at the baggage carousel, after the more and more condos along Victoria Drive, after the bounty of chayote sprawling in our driveway, after the scent of stir fried ginger embedded into our kitchen walls since 1985, I see a pot, a pot, and an urn. They say, “Welcome home. Drink.”

I drop off my duffle bag in my bedroom, a tiny space fit for a child and bursting with secrets and discoveries. I am a man now; I’m no longer used to sleeping in a single bed. I return to the kitchen and eat.

It’s always been hours-old leftovers in the past few years. I try to book flights that will take me home just before dinner, but there’s always a delay. So I end up at the table by myself while my dad unwraps the innumerable dishes and my mom heats up soup at the stove. The leftovers are the tastiest things I have ever eaten anywhere ever. Salted fish, black bean spare ribs, driveway chayote… In a few days my sisters would come home for the weekly family dinner. They both live a twenty-minute drive away, so it’s easy for them to come home every Monday. I come home every two or three seasons. For the food, of course.

Dinner with the family. Our kitchen table, a round Italian marble behemoth complete with lazy Susan, a gaudy stone symbol that my parents have “made it”, is now too small. I’ve acquired two brother-in-laws, an intelligent nephew, and a niece who can now sit up on her own. We are elbow to elbow and our place mats overlap. So does the conversation. Dad and Mom speak Cantonese and Mandarin. Donna speaks English and Cantonese. Cindy speaks English and limited Cantonese. Ken speaks English and Mandarin. Brad speaks English. I speak English and horrific Cantonese but I choose silence because my parents are quiet and outnumbered. English dominates our dinners and if my parents are not able to join the conversations, then I will join them. We eat quietly and let others do the talking.

There is tea after dinner. When I come home, when there are family dinners, we have to make more tea a few times a day. My parents are no longer used to making tea for so many – the kids have moved out, moved away. When we're all together we upset their new routine. So let’s boil some water. I’ve come home and I want tea with my family.


: Playwright's Notes from the premiere production of Pu-Erh

LIU

"Oh. Hi boys!" It's Mr. Liu at the door. He's holding two pizzas.

Mr. Liu, the first to arrive and the last to leave. Gotta get to the boiler room early, heat up the school so the four hundred kids don't get frostbitten while jamming their lunch boxes into cubby holes. Gotta take out the big folding rolling tables at 11.34AM, set them up in the gym so the kids can eat their lunch at 12. He was more important than simply being our janitor, more valuable than being our custodian. Even his glorified title of "Engineer" couldn't match his worth, no. He occupied a privileged position between student and teacher. He could neither scold us nor grade us. He was sympathetic and reliable. Mr. Liu was our pal. He was our daily smile.
He never looked angry or perplexed. He was always grinning and cool, and our school worked because of him. Whenever we walked by his boiler room -- the door was always open -- we wanted to run inside, run away from spelling class, hang out with him. But the boiler room was creepy. It rumbled.
Mr. Liu was with us during all our years at Cunningham. Maybe he was 33, but to a 10-year-old he might as well be 53. It didn't matter -- Mr. Liu was timeless. We didn't know how long he'd been in this country, but not forever long. We could tell because of his accent. We knew he had at least two kids, one a baby the other a toddler. We knew this because his wife brought their kids to visit him one day. They're all Chinese. They stood outside the boiler room. His kids were too young to go to school but one day they would. They probably wouldn't go to our school because their dad works there, and going to school where your dad's the janitor is pretty damn right embarrassing.

And that's all we knew about Mr. Liu. ...Also, he stayed way after school to lock up the dozens of doors. And that's all we knew about Mr. Liu.

Now he's standing outside Fab's door cradling an extra-pepperoni and a Hawaiian. It's our Saturday 3PM pizza party and we're watching Johnny Be Good on Beta. We're watching our hero Anthony Michael Hall and some weird guy named Robert Downey Jr. getting college yuks around some strange-hot girl called Uma Thurman and we're hungry and we want pizza and
"Mr. Liu!"
"Mr. Liu!"
"What the hell are you doing here, Mr. Liu?" Fab shouldn't swear like that. His home is Catholic.
"Hi boys!" Mr. Liu's not wearing either of his two uniforms: blue stained coveralls; jeans and plaid shirt rolled up at the elbows. He's wearing a decidedly uncustodian windbreaker.
"Why are you here?" asks Nick.
"I was in neighbourhood," says Mr. Liu.
"Do you live around us?" I ask.
"No no no no no..."
"Then why are you here?"
"You boys order pizza, yes?" Mr. Liu says with an effortful grin.
"Why are you delivering pizza?" squeaks Fab. "Are you poor?"
Mr. Liu licks his lips. "Hahaha! I just helping out friend." He chuckles again.

CHECK

The most satisfying thing is crossing off a task from your oppressive checklist.

You agree with me.

Yes you do.

OOF

This is fucking ridiculous. More and more I'm making sounds when I sit. It used to be "oof!". Now it's "uerghh..." with my hands on my lap as I bend at the waist.

This is age.

The first time I went "oof!" I was eighteen.