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.

I don’t regret a few movies I’ve seen that were critically dismissed as self-serving tripe, such as AVP: Alien vs. Predator which was decent, if not the greatest SciFi flick ever made by man. Or even, Mean Girls which was a masterful tale woven together by Tina Fey (screenplay). I enjoy those types of movies, if not to relieve this compelling obsession with aliens tearing shit up and high school drama in general.

The backstabbing, gossip, childish meandering and simple lives of these characters allows us (yes, you’re coming with me) to escape to a time where we could be carefree and hate and attack each other with inconsequential reprisals.

It was with great anxiety that I knew of Twilight long before the trailers hit, and long before people were buzzing about Cedric Diggory playing the role of Edward Cullen. Cedric who’s casting can only be explained by the singular requirement for an actor playing Edward Cullen: less talent, more dreamy.

Anxious to not tell my friends that I’d been waiting to see it, nor to tell them that in fact, I would probably be waiting in line with the other 18 year olds at the box office, I feigned much disinterest. Quoting reviews that read, “Twilight is a disappointingly anemic tale of forbidden love that should satiate the pre-converted but will bewilder and underwhelm viewers,” I hoped to throw them off the scent. No, this movie was definitely not for me. Much like Edward Cullen, I held my reservations in check and hid in the darkness so as to not reveal my true identity. I only came out when it was cloudy.

But tonight! I saw it, and Catherine Hardwicke did not disappoint. I am notoriously known for favouring so-called “bad” movies, but in this instance I would like to draw your attention to movies such as Lords of Dogtown, Tank Girl and even I’m Gonna Git You Sucka. Great movies that she either directed or was involved in some way or another.

This story unfolded like a giant origami masterpiece. Maybe even a giant origami crane. Each fold and crease blatantly narrated and wonderfully extricated to the audience as though we were all in their heads. Or at least, over their shoulder. I suppose it was more like piggy-backing.

A forbidden love story emulating the Romeo and Juliet tale, with classic lines like, “I don’t have the strength to stay away from you,” or “I’m afraid I might eat you, and you might taste like bacon.” I studiously noted these lines in my own notebook, saving them for later. You see, gentle vampires don’t drink human blood, because it will cause them to ravage all humans in a rabid state of inhumanity. These docile vampires prefer to live amongst us, and refer to themselves as “vegetarians” who secretly feast on deer blood while humbly trying to become another valuable member of society.

How wonderful and fresh to see them comparing drinking animal blood as being a vegetarian. As he remarked, “Its like eating tofu all your life, but never being satisfied.” Someone get this boy a steak! He’s been craving one all his 200 years of existence, and now there she is. A delicious young girl to devour if he so chooses. And then I began to wonder, have I ever fallen in love with a nice fat, ribeye steak before? Oh yes, I had one yesterday. It helped me to relate to his pain, of seeing a walking steak and not being able to pour some peppercorn gravy on it. How terrible!

Despite his failing will power, he is able to keep his distance, only to visit her while she sleeps. I also noted this down for future relationship advice: if you cannot be with a girl due to stupid species violation rules, quietly creep into her room and watch her sleep. She’ll wake up, see you then think she was dreaming about you. You’ll be like a vision of beauty at the foot of her bed, so long as you jump out the window before she reaches over for the pepper spray. And if you need to convince yourself that this is right, just remember — all you are really doing, is nothing so different than viral marketing.

So eventually, she becomes weak and tastes the forbidden fruit from Edward’s ice cold hands (at least, I think it was from his hands). Falling down the rabbit hole into an Eden-like paradise of generous, intellectual vampires who love Debussy and can play many musical instruments, she is hooked and wants in. She wants to be let into this exclusive country club of high society vampires. This fantasy played out over the span of 2 short hours, and resonated within the audience of 7 people in the theatre as we clapped our applause, thunderously echoing and reverberating against the walls when they finally did kiss and end up at prom together. After seeing enough of these movies, you’ll soon realize that all roads lead to prom.

Of course, there could not have been a more complete package if they had forgotten to include the set up for the sequel. The prerequisite setup was made for the sequel, as the tale of wolves from the forest (First Nations tribe) wove a backstory of a peace treaty between the vampires. One of those wolves, Jacob, has a tiny little crush on our heroine hottie whom she was too quickly brushed off as just another gay best friend. Get in line, chump. Too bad, Jacob, you’re just not as dreamy as Edward, and considering you’re probably a werewolf, you might want to look into getting an electric personal groomer. P.S. You’re ugly.

The love triangle is brewing, and looks like the sequel will provide more juice. Certainly these movies need to be made faster if they are still going to use the same cast. The problem with teen movies is that you can only get 2 or 3 out of them before they start getting old. Unless you’re the Harry Potter franchise, in which case you’ll see those movies until Harry’s a ripe old age of 52 playing a 20 year old Potter, still trying to escape his past, and still scratching his forehead at his, now sagging and droopy, lightning bolt scar. Someone please tell Mr. Potter that, yes, we get it. You’re an orphan. Some orphans do something good with their lives like become President of United States, so stop dragging your feet and get on with it.

They say twilight is the magical hour for photography, but they never realized how true this statement would be for film too until this one came along.

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.

When Captain Kirk noted in quiet reflection his feelings towards the Klingons, he said, “I’ve never trusted Klingons, and I never will.” This quote was used to convict him of murdering the Klingon Chancellor and he was exiled to a frozen wasteland. Nearly a decade ago, John McCain was quoted as saying something quite nearly as despicable towards the Vietnamese people. ”I hate the gooks,” McCain said in response to a question from reporters aboard his campaign bus. “I will hate them as long as I live.” Supposedly, he is allowed to do this because he was a POW.

He qualified his comment by saying, he only meant his captors. As one reporter noted, what if he had been captured by Nigerians? Would he call them “niggers” and then explain that his derogatory slander applied only to those Nigerians that captured him? How would that have gone over with the rest of the country?

His ignorance is further revealed in his choice of slur. The term “gook” is a bastardization of a racial slur against Koreans who in their native tongue refer to themselves as “Han-guk saram.” The bigotry in the USA continues to defy all intellect and reason without reprimand. All of this passes by without notice because of the passivity that minorities have afforded to their taskmasters coupled with the moral values that a nation of supposed Christians promotes. 

My family came across the waters on a boat, hounded by Thai pirates, chased out of country by our own people. Japanese war machines ravaged China and did unspeakable horrors to millions of muted victims of my own race. Yet we continue to rise above and become better humans for it. We don’t spread hatred, we don’t pass generalizations on a race and incite further violence. We evolve.

“What we need in the United States is not division; what we need in the United States is not hatred; what we need in the United States is not violence and lawlessness, but is love and wisdom, and compassion toward one another, and a feeling of justice toward those who still suffer within our country, whether they be white or whether they be black.” Robert Kennedy: Delivering News of King’s Death (NPR)

He is a master at public speaking, reaching near heights of Hallelujah-esque moments. I suppose he has learned his lessons well from the gospel churches of his youth. What Obama really needs, is a travelling choir of women who look remarkably similar to Whoopi Goldberg to follow him around wherever he goes. Some people need an entourage, others need a gospel choir.

It is no great surprise, the level of support McCain is still garnering, nor is it a great surprise the pundits who relentlessly defend his campaign tactics. The great nation of USA boasts a remarkable 29% of people with college-level education. The correlation between this is self-evident by their choice of the incumbent president for the past 8 years. So how can Obama win against the crooks and liars of American political system? I hope you are all just as excited to witness a true miracle take place in the next two weeks. Clouds parting, lightning striking, whatever form it may come in it will need to be a miracle of mass proportions for this unlikely candidate to take over a nation of sheep.

How odd, that we are so obsessed with American politics. Although Canadians aren’t included in that report, I can personally attest to the levels of quiet stalking we have done in waiting for Nov. 4 to come. Canada is just another one of America’s typical Facebook friends, scanning through your photos and monitoring your status updates, waiting for the twitter that reads, “America has a new president.” Hopefully, he’ll be smart enough to wear Kevlar® everywhere he goes.

“That’s what hope is. That’s what hope is, imagining, and then fighting for, and then working for, struggling for what did not seem possible before.” - Feb 19, 2008 Houston, TX

A Less Guarded Barack Obama

This is what I had the pleasure of waking up to the next morning:
Play

Have a safe trip back to England, Dom! Keep those incisors sharpened. I may need you one day.

Spotted: Serena in an Elf suit.

Oh my effing God, what is Serena wearing? She looks like she is missing some pointy ears, suede boots and a bow. I suppose I know nothing of New York “run-a-way” fashion, but seriously, the Elf look is so retro these days.

Of late, I’ve been immersed in Gossip Girl drama, mostly out of respite from Lost, Dexter and quite possibly even Mad Men. I caught up on GG Season One promptly after having had heard about this show from a friend and was hooked. Nearly as good as Laguna Beach circa Season 1, but not as good as The O.C., I was left with the impression that this show could be as trashy and vindictive a show as its California counterparts.

Season 1 was good, up until a point. I knew they could only recycle the already tired story of on-again, off-again lusting of awkward-boy Humphrey and the delicate diva Serena. But they started losing my attention when everyone– and I mean everyone — started having sex on the show. Upper East New York turned into a snooze town of harlots and wanna-bes.

Come on guys, start injecting more of that pseudo-reality TV spunk that LB had. I mean, really. Does anyone even seriously believe The Hills is truly nonfiction?

Season 2 is on its way with its 5th boring episode and still nothing to show for it. What this show could use is more diversity. The token Asian girl is a stereo-typical nerd that listens to Flo Rida. How cliche! Throw a few more Southeast Asians in the mix, and you can guarantee that comedy will ensue. Hey producers! Pony up for a cameo appearance by John Cho! Nothing makes for real entertainment like a few Koreans.

To those who have never bought a suit, your first plan should always involve research. Walking into Holt Renfrew, for example, and admitting that you have never bought a suit, but need 5, is a bad start. Luckily, I only ended up with 2, each costing me more than a plane ticket to Italy. I could’ve fed a small village for months with the amount of money I spent. That’s what I should’ve done. Flown to Sicily, given the entire village what I spent at HR and lived in a villa for a month while they sewed a dozen reversible suits for me.

The irony of my million dollar purchases was that I would not last that long in corporate Canadia and I still have a wonderful, unused, grey, pin-striped, D&G suit sitting my closet (tags still attached) where my friend so helpfully pointed out that it was getting wrinkled because of the humidity in my condo. I never realized suits were as high-maintenance as cigars.

I had always heard that incorporating yourself is the best way to stick it to the man. Capitalism was this rumoured Eden of tax shelters and there were words like “bonuses”, “dividends” and “hookers” thrown around.

Though my ambition has no bounds, my energy and youth nearly always drag their feet. I am not that doe-eyed, 21 y.o. tramp I once was anymore. I have expenses now and I need to put away for my retirement when I’m 65 and need an emergency colonoscopy.

With my thirtieth birthday looming ahead like the center of Ike, I knew I needed to take a shot at this self-employment game before rolling over to the less glamourous side of middle-age and calling it a night. Get married, get a mortgage, get TiVo, get a dog, get fat. I want to go into that inevitable death march with arms wide open and welcome it, like I would welcome a warm vasectomy.

Once upon a time, I thought this world was mine for the taking. I was bright, energetic, young and fearless. I once looked derisively at my elders as obstacles and frustrating barriers to me and my riches. I sneered, I glared, I disdainfully dismissed their warnings and apathy. I told these thirty year olds, their time was over and I was going to bring about change. It was going to be me and Obama. We were going to make things happen.

These days, as I frequent the local bars, I notice a new crowd in town. The younger, more energetic, and if possible, even less fearless crowd of 20-somethings doing things I wish I thought of first. They storm out of the gates of college and stake their claim. Marking their territory like dogs: nearly always missing the mark, but peeing over everything else. Its their world now, and my generation is what people refer to as ‘retro’. 

When you watch television, and you see your favorite music videos being played on MuchMoreMusic, then you know you’ve lost your youth. Seeing this, your only solace is a half-eaten bucket of fudge brownie Häagen Dazs®. The contestants on Don’t Forget the Lyrics know exactly as many songs as their iPod can hold. Their only defense is that they were born in 1987. 

It probably didn’t dawn on me that I was old until I overheard someone referring to retro style as the 90’s look. I nearly wanted to yell out, Retro?! Those were my teenage years, Junior! but then quickly realizing that admitting that, would probably have had various undesirable generalizations about me. Notably, ones of cowering in shadows and murmuring to oneself about the difficulty of opening child-proof vitamin bottles. 

If this whole new venture into capitalism doesn’t work out for me, I’ll need to work out my next plan. What is the next plan? Whatever it is, it’ll probably involve living in the Upper East Side of New York City, and working at Butter. Maybe I’ll run into some of NYC’s high-society socialites like Tinsley Mortimer. Even better, maybe I can become one!

My only gripe is that they did not even consider me; certainly not for lack of musk, but more because they couldn’t use an appropriate name that was marketable. How could “Jaundice Flava” ever compete with “Dark Temptation”? And they must have already discounted “Yellow Fever” or “Banana Boy” for the running.

I sometimes wonder what my scent might actually be compared to. Does it truly harbour that lingering smell of a bustling fish market as many have already kindly pointed out?

Ironically, with the amount of butter chicken I eat, I would undoubtedly smell a lot more like curry. Or at least, bay leaves.

Sadly, we are without snipers and rifles so killing yourself is limited to slitting your wrists with nicked off razor blades found lying in the alley behind the plaza. There’s a Mandarin restaurant in the same building that we share with the office.

Everyday at around 9:13 AM, I park my car at the back lot and enter the loading dock entrance behind the Mandarin restaurant. I walk through probably the most disgusting smell that has ever faced mankind and won. I tend to hold my breath when I walk by, but sometimes a gust of wind knocks me back by surprise. Generally, it gets worst as the day goes on.

As I pass by the gutted chickens, hanging pigs, and buckets of murky water, I acknowledge the peripheral stares from my Asian brethren. Squatting over chopping blocks in befouled aprons and smeared smocks, they glance up at me briefly and I return the looks: Yes, you too could wear a suit one day, I think quietly to them. Free yourselves from this mini-market of rotting flesh! Join the ranks of Deloitte consultants!

Through the sterile corridors, there are beams of white fluorescent lights fixed on the ceilings that lead the way to our windowless room. Here, we sit side-by-side in filings of cubicles. Rows of grey, fuzzy-walled cubicles; enough to seat 50 medium to large sized adults.

I sit at the end of the row of cubicles in the hallway near the entrance. My desk juts out at the end of the row of all cubicles, asymmetrical with no match or twin. A small laser printer sits atop a table beside my desk and two milk crates lay on the floor carrying packs of white paper (presumably for the printer).

I spliced the network cable, attached a switch and pulled another network cable to my laptop to give myself Internet. I have no phone, nor even dignity as it remains outside in the summer sun, smiling and laughing at me while I squeeze into my desk. There is no wall surrounding the desk, so it doesn’t really count as a cubicle — its more just a desk in the middle of the room loosely attached to a cubicle row.

I greet people as they walk through the door. I also take messages for my manager who sits next to me. Sometimes I leave notes on his Post-It™ Notes sticky pad. On Mondays and Wednesdays, he hangs his gym towel to dry on a hanger next to my desk drawer. Its usually damp.

I have learned to frown when I sit there in my hallway desk scowling as dark as a thunder cloud. I’ve learned this well as I’ve tired of the smiles, waves and taps on the shoulders from passers-by. Most people are able to deftly avoid my desk by a sidestep to the left as they come through the door and proceed to their own desk.

I’ve tallied up the total hours that I’ve spent in small talk and chit-chat with people wandering or waiting or needing information and it amounted to approximately 5 years of my life.

Often people ask me for directions to the washroom as though there were a giant sign above my desk that read, “Information”. I look up above my desk to check everyday, just to make sure.

There have been times that I’ve given serious thought to bringing in a monkey and an organ. Perhaps more to amuse myself than anything else.

One day, a Dell computer workstation appeared on my desk. My desk! A desk no one else wanted and yet there it was, a computer waiting to be turned on had found its way to my desk.

I hid behind the file cabinet for a week, waiting to see who it would be that would appear at my desk. How dare they take the one thing I had? Violating my home, as easily as one would move their shit into another man’s space. Was I to move to the furnace room next and have my stapler confiscated?

No one appeared.

I waited, situating myself in concealment, and still no one appeared. Its entirely possible that I may have blacked out for brief intervals.

I went back to my desk and moved the workstation to the floor, piled the milk crates on top of each other, fashioned a bridge, and moved the 17″ monitor over slightly to be my second monitor. I felt like a hobo collecting unwanted goods and turning them into my own treasure.

This carried on for another few weeks until today.

Today, a giant Xerox printer appeared. I left for two hours to a meeting and returned to find a 4′x5′x2′ all-purpose scanner/copier/printer/coffee maker directly in front of my desk. As people began using the printer, I breathed in the fresh, warm toner only to see my dead grandma dancing in front of me. Cheap highs and condensed quarters were not included in the job description.

I am hoping tomorrow, they bring in the large “Kinko’s” sign and when I show up, there will be a freshly pressed Kinko’s uniform waiting for me. At least, I won’t have to spend $1500 on another suit.

“Never hold discussions with the monkey when the organ grinder is in the room” – Winston Churchill

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 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.

The accent was difficult to understand at times, but I found my generic response of saying Harry Potter! in a high-pitched voice and lilting accent, worked out quite well. I ended up spending my birthday on the plane while I returned home. Nothing like a catered meal by Cara; some beef stew TV dinner and a glass of soda (not a full can, mind you) to ring in the 29th year of your existence. Luckily, it happened twice thanks to the time zone difference. Once in London, and then again when I was somewhere above the Atlantic Ocean.

Right away, I flew out to Vancouver for a week of work, and then a few days of vacation. The vacation involved a three day stay up at Whistler, where we snowboarded and snowmobiled up and down Blackcombe and Whistler mountains. The vacation time, though short, afforded me some space and time to evaluate where I am and where I’m going.

For certain, I will be looking more aggressively for my own place in Toronto; I won’t be moving back to Vancouver yet. I briefly flirted with the idea of living in a loft, but then realizing how completely unaffordable they are for me. I’ve taken a more realistic look at what I can afford and where. If only I had a spouse to share the burden of the mortgage.

My family had left one week prior to Vietnam, while I was to meet up in Saigon on my own. I flew out on an early Friday morning before the sun had risen, ready and eager for the 24 hour journey.

While I was stuffed in the plane, I spent the precious hours learning key phrases. It is always a benefit to learn the language of the locals before destroying their habitat, and then taking photos of the destruction in the process.

Going on vacation with your parents leaves for two unfortunate consequences: 1) No binge drinking and 2) no random hooking up with live-in house servants. Though aside from my perfunctory duties as a morally righteous and law-abiding son, I have had opportunity to enjoy a secret beer or two, while winking at the occasional toothless sweetheart.

My parents will insist and swear that the intention of bringing me to Vietnam was not to find me a bride (or even a not-so-distant-cousin that couldn’t find a suitable husband), but in fact, for me to witness the site of my birth. I have yet to find evidence to the contrary. No sooner had I landed in the jungles of ‘Nam that my aunts and uncles were arranging a meet-n-greet with the neighbour’s daughter which they would be more than willing to part for no less than one ox, two dozen chickens and a papaya.

I was not amused by this arrangement, and sought refuge in the kitchen, where I found the kitchen staff preparing dinner. One in particular, a cute Cambodian girl, was busy washing fruit and scrubbing her feet at the same time. I offered to help, to which she looked up at me with an expression I can only describe as chagrin and disdain all at once. I suppose being ridiculed by the help does not inspire heroes’ songs, but for some reason, it fueled my chase.

I barely slept that night, wondering what could possibly go wrong, if I were to sneak off into the maid’s chamber and steal a midnight kiss. Would I be disowned? Or worse, force-fed Hepatitis-carrying ice cubes! I resisted the urge, but stayed awake nonetheless, in case she had the same thoughts and came through those doors either snuggle-ready or ready to serve me tea and crumpets. I surely wasn’t one to turn away crumpets.

My pursuit ended shortly after a few days as we were to continue our journey to my birth site. I left, bade farewell to the help, and made off like gallant Odysseus, on just another ordinary day, on my way to Ithaca. The prospective brides trailed behind hoping to catch me on an off day, when I would be weakest and accept their offer to marry them and bring them to the promise land. Luckily, we were in a mini-van so they gave up chase after a few short miles.

Of things to note, the value of vacationing in an impoverished or third-world country does have its due merits. For one, the price of a beer (like Heineken) is 20,000 VND which translates to about $1.25 CAD. Oh the irony, that I would be in a country where beer was pennies a glass, and yet I could not have a single drop. A bowl of Pho is about 7,000 to 10,000 VND which is about 0.50¢ to 0.75¢. The cost of contracting Typhoid or Hepatitis, however, cannot be measured in any currency — but 0.50 cents a bowl! Obviously, I was willing to take my chances.

Pho is generally eaten in the morning for breakfast. Yes, pho for breakfast! In my early college days, I had always considered myself brilliant for discovering that pho tastes better in the morning after a night of drinking and debauchery, however, it is now clear to me that I must attribute that to my genes; somehow, I always knew when the right time was to eat pho.

The village where I was born is called Gia Ria — a sparsely populated town without the facilities or amenities of which we take for granted. These people have never seen a computer before, so imagine how difficult it was to explain what I do for a living. No, I don’t go fishing at 3 in the morning; no, I don’t sell housewares or dried cuttle fish on the side of the road; yes, I really do brush my teeth every day. What amazes me is the level of sanitation that they can go without.

The streets were narrow and cobble-stoned. There was definitely a lack of any improvements in the town’s infrastructure. I’d always imagined my hometown to be more like Harlem or the Bronx, which would then explain my hard-knock life, but it wasn’t much more than a modest fishing town. The shops and houses lined up against an eroding riverbank where fishing boats would coast up and down to the yawning sea out of the Mekong delta. I was glad to have seen it, but I found I was more emotionally moved when I had gone back to Barrie recently to see the house I grew up in, then to see the house that I was born in.

We left without much fanfare, much the same way that we left 30 years ago, only this time in a mini-van.

With the few remaining days in Vietnam, we spent them touring the South-East coast of Vietnam, ending up at the resort town called Mui Ne in the province of Binh Thuan province. This province is known for its mountain range of sand dunes — white and red sand — throughout the land. Its a beautiful province, and the coastal scenery is breathtaking. Virgin beaches stretch for miles, while an unimaginable oasis called White Lake appears a few miles inland. This area is not known very well at all, and so there is very little tourism here. It is most likely, Vietnam’s best kept secret.

I found out many things about the history of Vietnam and the people that live there. I know the sacrafice my parents made to get us here to Canada, and for that I will forever be indebted to them.