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I did two good deeds today. Its inconvenient for us to think that we would only do such deeds during the holidays, but its certainly no coincidence that I’ve never felt more aware of my past guilt than during Christmas. I gave a reasonably well-dressed young man a subway token, when he at first asked for spare change (no, it wasn’t Liam, although I did give Liam a token too. I’m more or less use to him asking me for spare change and unwarranted high fives). 

Its been a few years since I’ve been a regular transit rider, and on the subway today, I grew fondly reminiscent. Mostly of the passing daydreams and secret TTC crushes, and less of the interminable waiting periods between streetcars. It is perhaps, if anything, comforting, embarking on this solitary travel by the companionship of a million strangers.

Taking transit gives us an opportunity to sit quietly and anonymously, sometimes overhearing odd conversations between passengers about their lives. I overheard one group as they discussed their friend’s recent abortion. The girl was 16 and already had two abortions, one caused by her boyfriend throwing her down a flight of stairs. I was certain that was just an urban myth, but apparently, it seems to work reasonably well.

In passing, I have seen the faces of dozens of remarkable and unremarkable people, knowing that I would only see them once, and nevermore.

In Vancouver, I rode the bus often, and just as often, slept soundly with head against the window (likely with gaping mouth and drool coming out of the corners). It was hardly a welcoming sight for people to sit next to me. I suppose when the bus is full, if anyone would sit next to the smelly, greased-up fat guy, that wears a wrinkled suit everyday on the #6 Davie bus, I would be a welcome alternative. Well, maybe that is extreme.

On one of those trips, I awoke and realized I was sitting beside a young girl about my age. She looked over at me as I roused. Feeling her eyes, I lifted my head and deftly wiped the tiny bit of spittle from the corner of my mouth. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and smiled at her. She had on a light blue tank-top with white trim and held a gym bag on her lap. The tank-top straps hung loosely on her shoulders.

She wore her strawberry blonde hair down (more blonde, than strawberry), falling lightly around her bare shoulders and framing her slightly rounded face. I can remember this clearly, and without much effort, even though this was more than two years ago.

Her figure was average, though she carried herself with a delicate grace and balance. She had bronzed skin, likely from being outdoors and her smile was spellbinding. She asked a quick question about the upcoming stop, and I gave a short reply. It hadn’t crossed my mind that she might be interested in having a conversation about more than just transit stops.

We continued to chat and have small talk. Having grown up in a relatively small town, I tend to relate better to other people from small towns, and she had grown up in Delta. While the conversation winded its way around friends, and hang-out spots in Vancouver, I noticed the bus was soon heading to its final stop. 

We got up and said our goodbyes. I walked away in the opposite direction, almost immediately regretting that decision. I knew I would never see her again. I turned around and nearly ran back, searching for any sign of her. I ran down the six-stories of escalators of Burrard Station, looking for her and uncertain what to say if I had found her. Of course, she had long gone by then. 

The regret then eventually dissipated. I began to take on a different perspective of these encounters. Are these moments regrettable? I think that these encounters are meant to be enjoyed for the time that they happen. Live that moment, remember it, and then let it go. You can’t cling to those moments anymore than you can contain it in a bottle. Otherwise, there will only be the unbearable heaviness of being.

Becoming light puts into perspective these moments and reveals their fleeting nature. Hold onto it, and you will grieve over it. Let it go, and you remain the victor, having received all its spoils. We shared that moment on the bus, and passed through each other’s lives as we were in transit from one point to another. That was the moment to remember, and that’s what it will always just be.

There are 5 stages in the Kübler-Ross model for dealing with grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. Where am I in this model? Somewhere in the abysmal ether between the intransitive verb form of balding and the adjective form of bald. Soon, I won’t just be balding, I’ll just be plain bald! I find this particular state not so unlike purgatory, begrudgingly waiting for that someone to conjugate this verb slightly; to shift the paradigm of my life with one phrase; to note in passing to a mutual friend as they point my way and say, “Who’s your bald friend?”

No, he’s not bald, my friends would defend. He has a shaved head! Surely, you can see the stubble that rouses out from his scalp, resolutely defying all resemblance to Lex Luther, Gandhi or (God forbid) Howie Mandel. But then again, denial is merely stage one and I’ve already come so far. No, there is no more denial or anger. There may be bargaining at hand though, depending on whether or not I can employ my seasoned bartering skills with God and have him, once more, bestow upon me that raven mane I once wore.

And yet, I ask myself, will I ever be able to walk into a hair salon again and ask for a haircut without being faced with suppressed mirth and sly grins?

Recently, I needed to find some oil for my clippers and I wound up in Zellers wandering aimlessly down fluorescent aisles looking for some kind of mythological oil product that no one seemed to know about. If you’ve ever owned clippers, you will know how difficult it is to find replacement oil.

As I was ready to give up, I stumbled upon a large, red, neon sign that read “Magic Cuts” right there inside this vast and sterile discount department store. Should I continue my interminable search for clipper oil or just pay the requisite $20 for a quick trim? Laziness seems to always prevail.

The moment I walked in, the entire staff of barbers and stylists paused and glanced up from their work chairs, simultaneously turning off their noisy clippers. The silence, broken only by the stereophonic muzak coming out of the ceiling’s speakers, caused me to consider turning and fleeing in the style of Road Runner.

“Can I help you,” asked the middle-aged, jerry-curled receptionist.

“I need a haircut.” Why else would I be at Zellers?

She smiled and looked up at what remained of my youth atop my head: hair soft as goose-down, clutching to my scalp like dying leaves in autumn.

Yes, I thought. I really do need a haircut. I’ve got a hot date with a gorgeous Turkish webcam girl and no amount of high-contrast, blurring or pixelation would spare her the unsightly wreath of shag around my ears. My clippers were rusted, and I had no salad bowl. Perhaps I should be glad that I still need clippers to cut my hair, rather than being sufficiently equipped with a pair of tweezers.

And so, I sat down and she proceeded to work her so-called magic cut. It took approximately 6 minutes and I was whisked out with a wave and good tidings.

I’ve considered skipping one of the stages of the model, and move forward. I mean, why waste time being depressed about this loss? I would much rather move past that stage, and side-step into the Fünke model with the help of some plugs. Or… should I say 4,000 plugs?

Living on my own, has me resorting to just eating butter.

The hardest part of growing up is telling your parents that you are moving out. Typically, this is a problem people face at 18 years old but for me its more likely to happen 12 years later. I’ve lived at home for far too long since coming back from Vancouver. They call us the boomerang generation.  We leave for college, come back and live at home, leave for a few years then return home again to get our bearings. Mostly for financial reasons, but in my case, because I’m really lazy.

I wasn’t sure how I’d break it to my parents that I’d rented an apartment and secretly started moving small boxes out during the week. It wasn’t easy explaining the missing furniture, emptying bookcases and even my own often random disappearances.

It came down to a head one morning when the night before, I had packed up a few boxes and lined them up in the hallway while my parents peacefully slept. But I was so tired, I lied down to rest, and awoke the next morning. Crap, I thought. I didn’t move those boxes last night.

I walked out of my room and my mom and dad were sitting at the breakfast table talking quietly. Here it comes. They saw me and started asking, what is with those boxes. Surely they figured it out. My mom already knew, but my dad took a deep sigh and had to sit down. His only question was, who’s going to pay for the cable bill now?

I got ready for work, with them talking and walking around asking if I needed boxes. Surprisingly, they got over it pretty quickly. My dad called out to me as I was putting my coat on and said, “Before you leave can you move my TV into your old room?” He’s already planning out how my old room is going to look.

My parents were reasonable and very supportive. A far cry from the last time I tried to move out; not only move out, but move 3,000 kms away. There were no tears or guilt trip this time, just questions concerning logistics and how we were going to get a cable outlet into my old room. My dad had already started packing up his stuff to move into my old room. We ended up pulling about 40 feet of cable through the condo’s air duct and draping down the wall, held together by a twist-tie, to his digital cable box. Decor is not a main concern for my dad. Making sure the Fairchild channel still works, that was his paramount concern.

This, taken just before I wrapped it in Saran wrap.

It took a week of not very stealthy preparation, but I’ve finished everything relatively quickly. I started with a naked apartment, and now, thanks to the Brick, I have a queen-sized bed, a nice TV and a couch that I have seriously considered wrapping in Saran wrap. Most Asians will understand this oriental tradition of wrapping things in plastic. Certainly not for fear of dust mites, but more for preserving furniture until long after you are dead and gone.

I never thought I could love anything more than my Mac laptop, but as it turns out, I love my new couch! I hesitated for a few days on making the investment, but after dreaming about lying on it on a lazy Sunday sometime down the road, I walked into the Brick and asked them to wrap that baby up.

The sales team at the Brick have recently discovered their new paycheck in the form of this striking young Vietnamese man. Generally, Vietnamese people are dauntingly hard-nosed when negotiating sales. This, I was told by Ahim the Brick Sales Guy. “Most Vietnamese people are really tough,” he said. “But you, you are the easiest sale ever.” I couldn’t decide if it was a compliment or a slight, so I just said thanks.

Not only do Vietnamese people fight for every penny, they would rather sell out their own relatives to avoid paying more than 50% of the ticketed price. Its a cultural thing. So when I went in and bought a bed, tv and couch and was going to pay full price, instantaneous in-fighting broke out. I was pretty sure I heard someone get on the PA system and said, “Sucker in Aisle 5″.

And here, I had to make sure each sales guy got their fair share of commission on each of the sales. Like hyenas scavenging over a dead gazelle, they clamoured over the cash registers hurriedly pressing numbers and telling me about these wonderful accessories for my TV like a wall bracket or a $50 Obama bobble-head that would make a great addition to any living room. I respectfully declined the wall bracket, but did briefly consider the bobble-head.

After my warm carcass began cooling down and they realized they couldn’t get much more out of me, I walked out of there admittedly feeling a little bit ravaged. Well, at least delivery was free.

Unfortunately, I’m just not that good at bartering. In fact, not only did I pay full price, they up-sold me on a 5-year extended warranty plan for my couch (which I love). I also bought two memory-foam pillows for another two bills and a dust-mite killing mattress cover. It’s no secret that I will go to any lengths to kill dust mites.

I suppose there is a course I can take that will arm me with negotiating skills when embarking on purchasing outings. I don’t know how my parents could be proud of me without these skills. How could I ever face them, knowing I have been paying full price for big ticket items all my life? Luckily, I’m very good at hiding things from them.

Generally, colonoscopies do not sneak up on you. They are very much not like, Oh, hello. When did you get here? Colonoscopies do enjoy a certain amount of silent horror as the long snake-like tube with the headlight-tipped end approaches closer and closer, aiming to penetrate your most sacred orifice. If you don’t know what a colonoscopy is, let me just say that there’s a giant machine, a 20 foot tube and a large glass jar involved.

I took my father to the doctor’s today to provide manly comfort, while he had this procedural examination. Sitting in the same room as this went on, had me wince, recoil in horror, and feel more empathy for a man that I’ve only been able to communicate through a series of grunts and hand gestures.

In all sincerity, I told the doctors this was required as a routine check up. His blood pressure was a bit high, so they opted not to administer the sedatives and gave me a heads up that there would be slight discomfort, to say the least. I will spare you wonderful readers the gory details, but you should be confident in knowing that, should you ever be presented an option, take the freakin’ sedative!

To date, I’ve heard my dad swear a lot. Usually to me, or any other unfortunate child that didn’t find his missing left slipper in 10 seconds or less. But I think in one hour, he managed to break all those records and called the doctor who was busy jamming that long tube up his… colon, various wretched things; things not even I could translate.

Seeing this I felt sorry for him immediately. Poor guy. Eighty-eight years old and having to have this done to you. So close to living a full life, free from anal penetration. I know that is my goal (as it should be yours). And then I got home and talked to my mom. It turns out that my father, in fact, volunteered for this.

So here we go. Try to follow along, yes?

My dad loves Tim Horton’s. He loves the coffee so much he will suffer for it. He is of course, lactose intolerant as are most Asians. But he will be damn to admit it! Defying all symptoms, signs and advice from those around him, he refuses to admit that he is lactose intolerant. He is adamant, that there is something in his colon that is preventing him from enjoying his warm, tasty, creamy coffee. “One more sip, and then to the washroom,” such is the mantra of those who suffer from lactose intolerance.

We told him about this wonderful invention called Lactaid™ pills that he could take with his coffee, but no! That is a waste of money! What about coffee with no cream? No! That is complete bullshit! I will have cream in my coffee, thank you very much.

He instead heeds his backstreet Mahjongg crew’s advice. What did they recommend? Why, a good ol’ colonoscopy of course! Upon hearing their testimonials of how amazing it was, he was set on it. Typically, you would not hear the words “amazing” with “colonoscopy” but in this circle of friends (though I would use that term loosely), this was the case.

I kept thinking, perhaps they had actually confused “enema” with “colonoscopy”. The only difference of course is that with an enema, stuff comes out and the law of nature is preserved: that particular road is a one-way street!

To top it off, they told him it was free. Free! Imagine that. And so now, I understood why he was so amazed that there was no line up for this at the doctor’s office.

“We have to get there early, in case there’s a line,” he said. Why on earth would there be a line-up for one of these? I wondered. Well, of course — because its free! Why wouldn’t there be a line-up?

My sister had tried to convince him not to do it the day before, and warned him how painful it would be, but true to his nature, his only response was, “Even if its that bad, at least it was free.”

Ironically, his colon was cleaner than a test-tube. I am sure that he will head downtown tomorrow to knock out that guy’s teeth who told him how amazing this procedure would be, right before promptly heading over to the local Timmy’s and ordering a medium double-double.

I have brief and uncertain memories of being about 7 years old, and running around a playground. I went to a small, private Christian school where they had converted a barn-like structure into a gymnasium. The playground was off to the side of this barn, separated by a parking lot converted to a basketball court. There were swings and monkey bars, and they all seemed so enormous at the time.

I remember running up the silver, shiny side of the slide as I was being chased by those wretched annoying girls (prepubescent years as a boy dictate that girls were annoying). As they’d catch up to me midway up the slide, I distinctly remember two small hands firmly planted on my buttocks, violently pushing me forward, causing me to slip and lose my grip, consequently slamming my face down on the metal surface and hearing the chink of my front tooth bounce off the slide and onto the grass. This was before I had braces.

I blacked out, not before seeing some stars and awoke lying on the grass with my hands in a fist. Opening my hand, I saw the piece that should’ve been attached to my front tooth. I considered using some kind of cementing glue to put it back on, but was concerned my tongue would remain permanently stuck to the roof of my mouth giving me a lisp that would undoubtedly endanger my future as a heterosexual male.

That chipped tooth has since then prominently stood out in front as the vanguard of enamel, reminding me of that day and of my childhood. Some twenty years later, that tooth has begun to show early signs of darkening and decay. It turns out, my tooth has been slowly dying, all these years. Well, just the nerve endings I suppose. Meanwhile, all this time, I thought I just had coffee stained teeth.

Don’t be mistaken, the rest of my teeth are pretty yellow too, its just this one is much more apparent in its discoloration. My trip to the dentist today uncovered this truth. It was decided that I may need a root canal, or in the worse case scenario, a fake tooth to replace it. Worse case is a fake tooth? I would’ve assumed a root canal was the worst case scenario.

I can’t imagine a fake tooth being that bad, particularly if it was made of gold. Or even perhaps with a tattoo of a lightning bolt emblazed upon the front of the tooth. Maybe an implanted microchip and some WiFi receptors so that I’d be a walking hotspot.

Going to the dentist is becoming more and more like going to trial. Have you been flossing? Am I under oath? If so, the answer is still yes. I can’t floss, I have all kinds of wires behind my teeth. It’s like a circuit board back there. As a result, I have about six inches of tartar build up from two years of avoiding the dentist, and lately its been killing me. I can’t stand it. I’ve tried unsuccessfully to clean my own teeth just to avoid this guilt-ridden visit. I’ve tried a Swiss Army knife, a hammer and chisel, even a ice pick. To no avail!

Luckily, my hygienist was a really cute blonde girl, probably fresh out of dental school. Tall, slender, and dark eyes; flawless olive skin and a gentle disposition. Our first encounter was spoiled, as for some odd reason, I couldn’t control my saliva while she was prodding around in my mouth. Is it inappropriate to start salivating uncontrollably when a cute girl pries open your jaws like its a bear trap?

I nearly confessed to her, about my attempts at cleaning my own teeth at home, and the makeshift dental equipment I’d fashioned out of elastic bands and paper clips. Apparently, we’re not at the stage in our relationship yet. This particular appointment today was just an assessment, and no scaling was to be done. No scaling until the next appointment which is in… four weeks! Four weeks! How am I going to last that long? I am running out of paper clips!

Why hasn’t any dentist invented a home scaling kit yet? I wanted to ask her to come over tomorrow, for perhaps a romantic night of candlelight dinner, movie and a full scaling. Or screw it, just slip me the tools, and I’ll do it myself. Some people wash their hair on Friday nights, I do my own scaling. There is nothing quite like a glass of red wine, a game of Scrabble and a good old fashioned tartar scraping to finish out a hard week at work.