Since my last rant, I have been verbally attacked by more than a few latte-drinking lululemon-wearing fake-blondes. It seems that Vancouverites, when attacked, become very passionate about defending their city. In a sense, I am relieved. Any opportunity to see a Vancouverite express a genuine emotion is cause for celebration in my books. Everybody who doesn't live here thinks that I am crazy for criticizing Vancouver because apparently it is such a wonderful place to live. Well, I guess they are right to some extent. I am sure that even the inhabitants of Mount Olympus got bees in their bonnets (or crowns of olive leaf) from time to time... Maybe Zeus was crimping their style. Deities can do that in the most ingenious ways, I have found.
Which brings me to the subjects of religion. The other day, I was having coffee with my friend Angus, and I was spouting off as I normally do. He told me my opinions had a lot in common with Nietzsche, which surprised me because I have never read any of his works. The only thing I know about him is that he said "God is dead", which makes perfect sense. Of course God is dead. God was never alive. Unless you are a Christian. For them, God is merely hibernating. We are, apparently, in the midst of a bleak midwinter. Duh.
And speaking of Christianity ('tis the season), I was talking with my roommate Mike and my friend Pablo after consuming a bottle of port. Both of them are lapsed Catholics. Have you ever noticed how nobody will admit to being a Catholic? Would you? Half the people I know, when asked about their religious persuasion say that they were "born Catholic". In fact, I think I only know one person who still admits to practicing Catholicism. Brave soul. Anyway, we were talking about transubstantiation, which is the belief that the bread and wine in communion become the blood and body of Christ. So, naturally, I wondered aloud why Catholics want to eat God. Is cannibalism a sacrament? Are Catholics anemic? Maybe the early Catholics had a low-protein diet and an active imagination. Nevertheless, I was confused. I mean, if you eat God, but God is dead, does that make you a pervert or just a potential victim of food poisoning?
There are just so many unanswered questions!
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Saturday, October 14, 2006
Rant
Sometimes I just don't get Vancouver. In fact, I wonder if Vancouver had anything to get in the first place. I mean, take away the mountains and the oceans you are pretty much left with Edmonton. Except we have attitude and statues of orcas. I was talking to my friend the other day, and he whispered excitedly that Vancouver is becoming an "international city". Whatever that means. All cities are international. Nations barely exist anyway.... they have been replaced by corporations. But, if living in an "international city" means that you have to wait a half an hour for the bus, or if it means that there are more homeless people, then Vancouver is definitely on its way.
I can't blame my friend for being excited. He is from Vancouver, and I am not. When he was growing up, Vancouver was pretty much a Britsh colony. Goodness knows it is better now, but this city is full of small minded repressed petty people. They cry over the felling of a tree in Stanley Park and then walk over the man sleeping in the bus shelter at the bus loop. It is full of snotnosedhalfcafskimextrahotsugarfree latte drinking vapid barbies who strut around in the rain and worry about nothing more than wondering if their cardio-striptease class will interfere with brunch (poachedeggonbrowntoastnobutterfruitontheside...ohmigoddidyousaythatyoudopoledancing? yeah,umwaiteress,i orderednohashbrowns...doesitLOOOKlikeIeatcarbs?) with the "girls".
All you have to do is look in one of the many free daily "newspapers" and see the "night out" section to realize that the entire movie industry, when combined, has the intellectual capacity of a piece of seared ahi tuna (which is oh-so-ubiquitous in this town. Take a slab of meat, grill it, put it on a square plate, give it to an anorexic high school student, and serve it forth in a room where you can't hear yourself think. That is not dinner. It is the putrid remains of marketing campaigns and "image".)
There they are, rows and rows of people with identical photo shopped smiles out for a night on the town- hair perfect, tits out, (and the men have them too... either implants, or FAR too many hours in the gym. Have you ever noticed that people in Europe don't go to the gym? That's because when you, prototypical Vancouverite, are doing squats, they are eating good food and drinking wine and living their life. They eat their perfect morsel of cheese, and then they walk to work. In great shoes. So take that you idiot miniranchricecakedietpepsi-for-lunch Vancouver morons). And you look at them and think " I hope that your next botox treatment kills you. I hope that the botox enters your pharynx and renders you mute so you won't talk on your cell phone when I am waiting in line at Shoppers. You know, just once I want to pick up the paper and read about people with bad attitudes who don't give a shit about the environment and smoke, and drink and don't wear yoga pants. I want to read about people who swear and cry and laugh and enjoy life and don't count calories. I want to see people whistling when they walk down the street. I want to see people getting into passionate arguments about stupid things. But the time for this is past. Now we are online. Now we are hooked-up and plugged in. And boring as hell.
And
And you can't get a cab in this city because they are having delays. You see, there are a higher number of requests for cabs because it is RAINING. Of course if is raining. IT’S VANCOUVER. I called for a cab the other day, and I was told that calling for a cab is not a guarantee that I would get one, even if I called ahead. And the only reason I called a cab was because I was sick of watching busses pass me by because they were full.
And it is like that here; because Vancouver is largely populated by aging moneyed white people who still think of this city is their own private playground with pretty trees and immigrants on the periphery. They want to maintain something quaint and charming and I can't fuck stand it. Get it together Vancouver. I have learned by now that you have no soul, but at least get some more busses for those of us who are not offshore investors buying up all the condos downtown, driving lexuses and forcing ordinary people to move out of downtown.
Postscript:
It has rained so much that we can't drink the water without boiling it. This means that all the Starbucks are not serving coffee. Which means that any moment, Vancouver will cease to function? What will people do without their lattes to hold on to as they walk down the street? Maybe they will reach out and lend a hand. I doubt it.
I can't blame my friend for being excited. He is from Vancouver, and I am not. When he was growing up, Vancouver was pretty much a Britsh colony. Goodness knows it is better now, but this city is full of small minded repressed petty people. They cry over the felling of a tree in Stanley Park and then walk over the man sleeping in the bus shelter at the bus loop. It is full of snotnosedhalfcafskimextrahotsugarfree latte drinking vapid barbies who strut around in the rain and worry about nothing more than wondering if their cardio-striptease class will interfere with brunch (poachedeggonbrowntoastnobutterfruitontheside...ohmigoddidyousaythatyoudopoledancing? yeah,umwaiteress,i orderednohashbrowns...doesitLOOOKlikeIeatcarbs?) with the "girls".
All you have to do is look in one of the many free daily "newspapers" and see the "night out" section to realize that the entire movie industry, when combined, has the intellectual capacity of a piece of seared ahi tuna (which is oh-so-ubiquitous in this town. Take a slab of meat, grill it, put it on a square plate, give it to an anorexic high school student, and serve it forth in a room where you can't hear yourself think. That is not dinner. It is the putrid remains of marketing campaigns and "image".)
There they are, rows and rows of people with identical photo shopped smiles out for a night on the town- hair perfect, tits out, (and the men have them too... either implants, or FAR too many hours in the gym. Have you ever noticed that people in Europe don't go to the gym? That's because when you, prototypical Vancouverite, are doing squats, they are eating good food and drinking wine and living their life. They eat their perfect morsel of cheese, and then they walk to work. In great shoes. So take that you idiot miniranchricecakedietpepsi-for-lunch Vancouver morons). And you look at them and think " I hope that your next botox treatment kills you. I hope that the botox enters your pharynx and renders you mute so you won't talk on your cell phone when I am waiting in line at Shoppers. You know, just once I want to pick up the paper and read about people with bad attitudes who don't give a shit about the environment and smoke, and drink and don't wear yoga pants. I want to read about people who swear and cry and laugh and enjoy life and don't count calories. I want to see people whistling when they walk down the street. I want to see people getting into passionate arguments about stupid things. But the time for this is past. Now we are online. Now we are hooked-up and plugged in. And boring as hell.
And
And you can't get a cab in this city because they are having delays. You see, there are a higher number of requests for cabs because it is RAINING. Of course if is raining. IT’S VANCOUVER. I called for a cab the other day, and I was told that calling for a cab is not a guarantee that I would get one, even if I called ahead. And the only reason I called a cab was because I was sick of watching busses pass me by because they were full.
And it is like that here; because Vancouver is largely populated by aging moneyed white people who still think of this city is their own private playground with pretty trees and immigrants on the periphery. They want to maintain something quaint and charming and I can't fuck stand it. Get it together Vancouver. I have learned by now that you have no soul, but at least get some more busses for those of us who are not offshore investors buying up all the condos downtown, driving lexuses and forcing ordinary people to move out of downtown.
Postscript:
It has rained so much that we can't drink the water without boiling it. This means that all the Starbucks are not serving coffee. Which means that any moment, Vancouver will cease to function? What will people do without their lattes to hold on to as they walk down the street? Maybe they will reach out and lend a hand. I doubt it.
Sunday, September 17, 2006
Frittata
There is a time in late August (for me it usually happens on or around the 20th) when I think that the delights of summer will never end, when leaves seem as though they will never turn and it is hard to remember ever wearing a sweater, much less your winter jacket. How glorious it is to bite into a warm ripe peach and see the juice trickling onto bronzed skin. (I once shared a peach in this way with a man I met in Italy - he said it was the most sensual thing he had ever done.....He was very young.)
Indeed, if the powers that be thought to design something as glorious as midsummer, (with all the ripe fruit if offers) and then have the unimaginable generosity of spirit so as to give it to us, asking nothing in return except that we enjoy it, why would they take it away and give us the poor consolation prize that is November?
Why indeed!
I suppose you could lament, rend your garments, and hoard peaches, but there is no use in that. It is the destiny of man to wait and rejoice and mourn. Each must be felt in equal measure to remind us that we are alive. And so as the seasons turn and we turn inward I would like to offer you a dainty dish that will warm your heart and mind and kindle sunlight within you, so that even on the most dank dark day you will feel as though August has never left you.
I will start with something called a Frittata, which to my mind sounds like something an English duke would say upon exiting a room, but in reality is a very satisfying open-faced omelet with vegetables that comes from Italy. Like most dishes from Italy, it is straightforward, but harnesses the individual gifts of each of its ingredients in a way that maintains their integrity. What is more, it is an economical dish to prepare and is delicious hot or cold. You can serve it for breakfast with toast and coffee, or for a light lunch with a green salad and a glass of wine. It also travels well, because it cooks up like a pie and can be cut in wedges and taken with you as you brave the world.
Before you begin, it is essential that you choose some music to listen to as you work, something that will inspire you, and is in harmony with the food. I would recommend some choral music from the 16th century. I listened to a Lutheran mass for Christmas morning by Michael Praetorious when I last made this dish. It was suitably reverential and peace-giving. This music was written for the sole purpose of praising the divine. A frittata is made to celebrate the glory of simple food. Simple faith, simple food... you get the idea.
Frittata with Fall Vegetables and cheese:
Ingredients (physical):
6 eggs (when you break them open, they look like the sun...a good start!)
1 tbsp water
pinch salt and freshly ground pepper
______
2 tbsp olive oil
1 onion, sliced
1 clove garlic, minced
1 red pepper, peeled, cored, seeded and cut into strips
1 small zucchini, cut into quarters and sliced
1 tomato, peeled, seeded and diced
1/2 tsp dried basil
pinch sugar
salt and pepper to taste
_______
1/2 cup feta cheese, crumbled
1/4 cup Parmesan cheese, grated finely
1 tbsp butter
A note on preparing vegetables:
How fussy it is to peel and seed tomatoes and peppers. But if you give these humble vegetabes but a few moments of your time your palate and digestion will appreciate it infinitely! Instead of bits of indigestible skin and kernel, you will have a luscious Mediterranean mouthful of vegetables bathed in olive oil that gives you nothing but pleasure.
To peel tomatoes:
Cut an "x" in the non-stem end of the tomato. Cover with boiling water and leave for 30 seconds. Drain and rinse with cold water. The skin will come off very easily.
To peel peppers:
Before cutting peppers, just peel with a vegetable peeler,as much as you can.
Method:
Preheat the broiler.
In a small bowl, whisk together eggs, water, salt and pepper. Set aside.
Heat an medium, nonstick frying pan over medium heat. When it is hot, add the olive oil. When the oil is heated, add the onions, and cook until they are softened. About 5 minutes. Then add the zucchini, peppers and garlic. Season with salt, pepper and basil. Cook until vegetables are softened. Add tomatoes and sugar, and cook until tomatoes have broken down and all the liquid is evaporated. Turn heat to medium-low, and pour in egg mixture. Stir so that eggs and vegetables are well combined. Cook slowly - the mixture will take some time to set. When you see tiny holes on the top of the frittata, it is almost done. The top won't be set. That is okay. This is when the magic happens.
Top the frittata with the cheeses, and place the pan under the broiler until the top is set and the cheese has begun to brown. If your pan has a plastic handle, do not fear. Just open the door to your oven and hold the pan close to the broiler, making sure to keep the plastic handle out of the oven. Return the pan to the stove, and gently coax the sides of the frittata from the pan with a spatula. Slip little bits of butter underneath the frittata... This will create a brown crust and help release the frittata from the pan if it is stuck.
The frittata is now done. The top and bottom are brown and crusty... the cheese is melted, and the egg and vegetable mixture is unctuous and well flavoured.
Cut into wedges and serve. This frittata will serve 4 people sensibly. But I only ate a quarter of it when I prepared it this morning, and I am hungry for more.
It is all a question of appetite!
When you see the frittata on your plate, all golden and red and toasty, with suggestions of green throughout, you may think of the turning leaves. You may contrast it with the grey of the clouds, and think about the changing seasons. You may just think "Yum! Eggs with tasty bits!"
That is okay, too.
May you eat with a happy heart!
Indeed, if the powers that be thought to design something as glorious as midsummer, (with all the ripe fruit if offers) and then have the unimaginable generosity of spirit so as to give it to us, asking nothing in return except that we enjoy it, why would they take it away and give us the poor consolation prize that is November?
Why indeed!
I suppose you could lament, rend your garments, and hoard peaches, but there is no use in that. It is the destiny of man to wait and rejoice and mourn. Each must be felt in equal measure to remind us that we are alive. And so as the seasons turn and we turn inward I would like to offer you a dainty dish that will warm your heart and mind and kindle sunlight within you, so that even on the most dank dark day you will feel as though August has never left you.
I will start with something called a Frittata, which to my mind sounds like something an English duke would say upon exiting a room, but in reality is a very satisfying open-faced omelet with vegetables that comes from Italy. Like most dishes from Italy, it is straightforward, but harnesses the individual gifts of each of its ingredients in a way that maintains their integrity. What is more, it is an economical dish to prepare and is delicious hot or cold. You can serve it for breakfast with toast and coffee, or for a light lunch with a green salad and a glass of wine. It also travels well, because it cooks up like a pie and can be cut in wedges and taken with you as you brave the world.
Before you begin, it is essential that you choose some music to listen to as you work, something that will inspire you, and is in harmony with the food. I would recommend some choral music from the 16th century. I listened to a Lutheran mass for Christmas morning by Michael Praetorious when I last made this dish. It was suitably reverential and peace-giving. This music was written for the sole purpose of praising the divine. A frittata is made to celebrate the glory of simple food. Simple faith, simple food... you get the idea.
Frittata with Fall Vegetables and cheese:
Ingredients (physical):
6 eggs (when you break them open, they look like the sun...a good start!)
1 tbsp water
pinch salt and freshly ground pepper
______
2 tbsp olive oil
1 onion, sliced
1 clove garlic, minced
1 red pepper, peeled, cored, seeded and cut into strips
1 small zucchini, cut into quarters and sliced
1 tomato, peeled, seeded and diced
1/2 tsp dried basil
pinch sugar
salt and pepper to taste
_______
1/2 cup feta cheese, crumbled
1/4 cup Parmesan cheese, grated finely
1 tbsp butter
A note on preparing vegetables:
How fussy it is to peel and seed tomatoes and peppers. But if you give these humble vegetabes but a few moments of your time your palate and digestion will appreciate it infinitely! Instead of bits of indigestible skin and kernel, you will have a luscious Mediterranean mouthful of vegetables bathed in olive oil that gives you nothing but pleasure.
To peel tomatoes:
Cut an "x" in the non-stem end of the tomato. Cover with boiling water and leave for 30 seconds. Drain and rinse with cold water. The skin will come off very easily.
To peel peppers:
Before cutting peppers, just peel with a vegetable peeler,as much as you can.
Method:
Preheat the broiler.
In a small bowl, whisk together eggs, water, salt and pepper. Set aside.
Heat an medium, nonstick frying pan over medium heat. When it is hot, add the olive oil. When the oil is heated, add the onions, and cook until they are softened. About 5 minutes. Then add the zucchini, peppers and garlic. Season with salt, pepper and basil. Cook until vegetables are softened. Add tomatoes and sugar, and cook until tomatoes have broken down and all the liquid is evaporated. Turn heat to medium-low, and pour in egg mixture. Stir so that eggs and vegetables are well combined. Cook slowly - the mixture will take some time to set. When you see tiny holes on the top of the frittata, it is almost done. The top won't be set. That is okay. This is when the magic happens.
Top the frittata with the cheeses, and place the pan under the broiler until the top is set and the cheese has begun to brown. If your pan has a plastic handle, do not fear. Just open the door to your oven and hold the pan close to the broiler, making sure to keep the plastic handle out of the oven. Return the pan to the stove, and gently coax the sides of the frittata from the pan with a spatula. Slip little bits of butter underneath the frittata... This will create a brown crust and help release the frittata from the pan if it is stuck.
The frittata is now done. The top and bottom are brown and crusty... the cheese is melted, and the egg and vegetable mixture is unctuous and well flavoured.
Cut into wedges and serve. This frittata will serve 4 people sensibly. But I only ate a quarter of it when I prepared it this morning, and I am hungry for more.
It is all a question of appetite!
When you see the frittata on your plate, all golden and red and toasty, with suggestions of green throughout, you may think of the turning leaves. You may contrast it with the grey of the clouds, and think about the changing seasons. You may just think "Yum! Eggs with tasty bits!"
That is okay, too.
May you eat with a happy heart!
Friday, July 14, 2006
Private lessons
"I always think about that invisible connection among us all , what we have in common, as opposed to what divides us"
-Meryl Streep
This week, I took a French course at Berlitz. It was a private course, payed for by the Government. Each day, I had the opportunity to discuss any subject that interested me. You may think it bizarre for me to say this, but I think I was able to express myself more clearly in French than in English because I had to think very carefully about which words to choose. What would have ordinarily been a convoluted discourse became almost zen-like in its simplicity and clarity because I had a limited vocabulary. I had no choice but to say what I meant. So, you could say that what I perceived as a weakness was in actuality a great strength.
French is a beautiful language. When you speak it, you cannot help but feel sophisticated and inspired, and therefore capable of improvising elevated treatises on the the most intimate and profound subjects. The secret is in how you use your lips. I remember that a professor of mine had to pick up a French colleague they did not know at the airport. When he asked his friend how he would recognize the said colleague he was told "just look at the mouth. It will be parted ever so slightly... and the lips will be jutted out. Like he wanted to kiss you, but hesitated." When you adopt this stance for yourself and then try to speak French on top of that, it has a magical effect-- you can say precisely what you think and not be embarrassed by it at all.... For the French are not ashamed by sentiment. To explain what I mean, I want you to imagine saying the following things in English without laughing:
- What is the the nature of man? We know that man is an animal with instinct, but also endowed with reason. Perhaps the existence of both creates conflict between the two, and is the fundamental root of all the problems that plague humanity.
- Why does art exist? Art exists to elevate humanity, but also to console. When one creates art, one can practice what one wants to achieve, but in the moment of performance, it is in the hands of the divine.
- What is the nature of our previous lives? My teacher, Sylvie, told me that in a previous life I was a French noblewoman, perhaps associated with the Basilica of St. Andre. At the very least, I am an old soul who is currently my last life. She said that she was in her last life too, and that she was content not to meet her soul-mate, as perhaps that was asking too much of the universe which constantly inspires her and gives her messages which she cannot understand.
- What role do symbols play in our lives? Consider the oriflamme - the sacred banner of the Kings of France, which rests eternally in the basilica of St. Denis in Paris. Its heraldic device is a flaming red arrow. Ah the arrow. So strong, so indicative of a path to take. But in the end, so deadly.
Comprenez-vous?
Such is the magic of French, that even a phrase like "I have to go to the bathroom" acquires a special musicality and sophistication. In French, if you need to answer the call of nature, you say "Je dois passer au petit coin - I have to pass by the little corner".... If you say this in the right way, like my French teacher Sylvie (who I swear is the long lost twin of Bridgitte Bardot) with the appropriate fluttering eye movements and insouciant smirk, you can make people believe that you are not going to the bathroom at all, but a cute little boite for an exquisite meal and a secret rendez-vous with your lover.
When you exist in this world of the jutting lips and deep thoughts, it is easier to think of yourself as superior to others. One of my teachers, Kasse (who comes from Congo, and therefore is intimately acquainted with the perceived and actual arrogance of the French) asked me if I thought the French were arrogant. I paused, and said that if I were French, I would be arrogant as well (Si j'étais français, je serais arrogant aussi). Of course, English can be poetic too, but only when you think like a French person. That is to say, you must be simultaneously amused, disgusted and inspired by the human condition.
Indeed, I believe that in order to learn a language well, you must first of all think like a native speaker of the tongue. If you want to speak German, you must resign yourself to being angst-ridden, precise, and brutally direct. If you want to learn Italian, you must summon all the passion in your being and make the expression of your ideas a matter of life or death. To this mix you must add sophistication and the knowledge that all roads, real and imagined, lead to Rome. Only then can you speak like an Italian. It also doesn't hurt to wear a really nice suit. When I tried to learn Russian, I pretended that I was a 75 year old Babushka from a collective farm. It worked wonders for my consonants. I know people who speak foreign languages perfectly, but they lack passion and an understanding of the mind of a native speaker. So, in reality, they speak IPA. I also know people who can only speak a few words of a foreign language, but they are masters of communication. How do they do it? With a wild imagination, a perfect ear and ideally, a bottle of wine to share. Failing that, a few choice swear words and a well developed repertoire of facial expressions do the trick very nicely.
It is very nice to occupy your time in the pursuit of learning a foreign language, but the world has a way of intruding on things, and it came to pass that one afternoon I was compelled to explain the history of the Middle East to Kasse. In French. And if this doesn't summon all the vast resources of a language, nothing will. He was baffled by the complexity of it all (who isn't), and replied that we are all, au profond, the same, and that there are more things that link us together than would divide us. What a cliche, you might say. But if you say it in French, it does not seem so embarrassing. And so I would like you to read this phrase, and repeat it often:
"Nous sommes, au profond, tous les frères
Every day of the course, I wore a different pocket square. In this way, I could look sophisticated and European without having to spend a fortune. I also like pocket squares very much. Kasse admired them too, and so I bought him one as a thank-you gift in my favourite colour - lime green (or vert-citron). He was very touched, and he put it in his non-descript Berlitz-issue grey dress shirt. Kasse and I look very different. He is 6 feet tall and black. I am definitely not 6 feet tall, and about as far away from black as you can get, but that day we learned a little bit about each-other, and we both wore lime green pocket squares.
Which is to say that we found one more thing in common.
"Nous sommes, au profond, tous les frères " .
-Meryl Streep
This week, I took a French course at Berlitz. It was a private course, payed for by the Government. Each day, I had the opportunity to discuss any subject that interested me. You may think it bizarre for me to say this, but I think I was able to express myself more clearly in French than in English because I had to think very carefully about which words to choose. What would have ordinarily been a convoluted discourse became almost zen-like in its simplicity and clarity because I had a limited vocabulary. I had no choice but to say what I meant. So, you could say that what I perceived as a weakness was in actuality a great strength.
French is a beautiful language. When you speak it, you cannot help but feel sophisticated and inspired, and therefore capable of improvising elevated treatises on the the most intimate and profound subjects. The secret is in how you use your lips. I remember that a professor of mine had to pick up a French colleague they did not know at the airport. When he asked his friend how he would recognize the said colleague he was told "just look at the mouth. It will be parted ever so slightly... and the lips will be jutted out. Like he wanted to kiss you, but hesitated." When you adopt this stance for yourself and then try to speak French on top of that, it has a magical effect-- you can say precisely what you think and not be embarrassed by it at all.... For the French are not ashamed by sentiment. To explain what I mean, I want you to imagine saying the following things in English without laughing:
- What is the the nature of man? We know that man is an animal with instinct, but also endowed with reason. Perhaps the existence of both creates conflict between the two, and is the fundamental root of all the problems that plague humanity.
- Why does art exist? Art exists to elevate humanity, but also to console. When one creates art, one can practice what one wants to achieve, but in the moment of performance, it is in the hands of the divine.
- What is the nature of our previous lives? My teacher, Sylvie, told me that in a previous life I was a French noblewoman, perhaps associated with the Basilica of St. Andre. At the very least, I am an old soul who is currently my last life. She said that she was in her last life too, and that she was content not to meet her soul-mate, as perhaps that was asking too much of the universe which constantly inspires her and gives her messages which she cannot understand.
- What role do symbols play in our lives? Consider the oriflamme - the sacred banner of the Kings of France, which rests eternally in the basilica of St. Denis in Paris. Its heraldic device is a flaming red arrow. Ah the arrow. So strong, so indicative of a path to take. But in the end, so deadly.
Comprenez-vous?
Such is the magic of French, that even a phrase like "I have to go to the bathroom" acquires a special musicality and sophistication. In French, if you need to answer the call of nature, you say "Je dois passer au petit coin - I have to pass by the little corner".... If you say this in the right way, like my French teacher Sylvie (who I swear is the long lost twin of Bridgitte Bardot) with the appropriate fluttering eye movements and insouciant smirk, you can make people believe that you are not going to the bathroom at all, but a cute little boite for an exquisite meal and a secret rendez-vous with your lover.
When you exist in this world of the jutting lips and deep thoughts, it is easier to think of yourself as superior to others. One of my teachers, Kasse (who comes from Congo, and therefore is intimately acquainted with the perceived and actual arrogance of the French) asked me if I thought the French were arrogant. I paused, and said that if I were French, I would be arrogant as well (Si j'étais français, je serais arrogant aussi). Of course, English can be poetic too, but only when you think like a French person. That is to say, you must be simultaneously amused, disgusted and inspired by the human condition.
Indeed, I believe that in order to learn a language well, you must first of all think like a native speaker of the tongue. If you want to speak German, you must resign yourself to being angst-ridden, precise, and brutally direct. If you want to learn Italian, you must summon all the passion in your being and make the expression of your ideas a matter of life or death. To this mix you must add sophistication and the knowledge that all roads, real and imagined, lead to Rome. Only then can you speak like an Italian. It also doesn't hurt to wear a really nice suit. When I tried to learn Russian, I pretended that I was a 75 year old Babushka from a collective farm. It worked wonders for my consonants. I know people who speak foreign languages perfectly, but they lack passion and an understanding of the mind of a native speaker. So, in reality, they speak IPA. I also know people who can only speak a few words of a foreign language, but they are masters of communication. How do they do it? With a wild imagination, a perfect ear and ideally, a bottle of wine to share. Failing that, a few choice swear words and a well developed repertoire of facial expressions do the trick very nicely.
It is very nice to occupy your time in the pursuit of learning a foreign language, but the world has a way of intruding on things, and it came to pass that one afternoon I was compelled to explain the history of the Middle East to Kasse. In French. And if this doesn't summon all the vast resources of a language, nothing will. He was baffled by the complexity of it all (who isn't), and replied that we are all, au profond, the same, and that there are more things that link us together than would divide us. What a cliche, you might say. But if you say it in French, it does not seem so embarrassing. And so I would like you to read this phrase, and repeat it often:
"Nous sommes, au profond, tous les frères
Every day of the course, I wore a different pocket square. In this way, I could look sophisticated and European without having to spend a fortune. I also like pocket squares very much. Kasse admired them too, and so I bought him one as a thank-you gift in my favourite colour - lime green (or vert-citron). He was very touched, and he put it in his non-descript Berlitz-issue grey dress shirt. Kasse and I look very different. He is 6 feet tall and black. I am definitely not 6 feet tall, and about as far away from black as you can get, but that day we learned a little bit about each-other, and we both wore lime green pocket squares.
Which is to say that we found one more thing in common.
"Nous sommes, au profond, tous les frères " .
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Just your typical Saturday night.....
I seem to be going to a lot of very interesting parties lately, which is how it should be, this being summer in Vancouver. I just came back from a loft in the remotest part of gastown where a gay couple from Oregon was celebrating their one year anniversary in Canada. Apparently, they lived in the one county in Oregon that allowed Gay marriage, so they got married. A few months later, the supreme court of the state overturned the law, and they were sent a letter in the mail informing them they were now divorced. Understandably, they came to Canada. I wonder what is going to happen if gay marriage becomes illegal here....Well, there is always South Africa.
I have no idea what these men do for a living, but they make a ton of money....and they spend it like children, which is to say on anything that strikes their fancy. There were 4 wine fridges, and a special humidified cabinet filled with whole prosciutto.... there was a room completely devoted to their single malt scotch collection. They celebrated their anniversary in Canada by opening bottles of Cristal with fencing swords and then we read Edna St Vincent Millay in between tokes of a Moroccan Hash Pipe. And just when you thought it could not get any more surreal, I noticed a well thumbed copy of Das Kapital beside the humidor. It is true when they say that the only difference between a crazy person and someone who is merely eccentric is a great deal of money.
I drank single malt langavulin and smoked vanilla flavoured cigarettes and my friend Ellie and I performed an impromptu concert of Puccini arias...Ellie has met a 45 year old man who looks like he is 30 because he is content with his life, and is not a tortured soul (or so Ellie says). And so, most of Ellie's technical issues when it comes to singing have sorted themselves out, even though she lives in Terrace and doesn't study with a teacher right now. This is what happens when you are happy. And that is the crazy thing about having an instrument which is inside you.
I was worried about the smoke and drinking affecting my voice, but then I remembered that Caruso smoked 4 packs of cigarettes a day, and then I relaxed and we had a great time. A man told me that I have a voice like port, which was a nice complement because I like port very much. Then this woman named Jen sang Van Halen songs, which was different, but still operatically intense and very good. Jen sings for fun...she is actually a software writer for a Norwegian internet company and just came back from skydiving in Utah. I like Jen because she smokes and drinks and laughs a lot, and clearly likes it. Now that you can't smoke anywhere and people are drinking low calorie beer or worse, we need more people like her. She also has the best books in her bathroom... Like a guide to walking tours in Vancouver from 1974 and a pocket size historical atlas of Europe. She also has a recording of Fidelio, and I think that has added a Beethoven-like profundity to her music making.
Anyway, I don't really know what I am talking about because it is 4 in the morning and I have many substances floating within me... but I am happy that I got to sing with my friend Ellie, just like last week I got to sing with my friend Rebecca. Ellie, Rebecca and I are sensitive people with big voices which is very special but sometimes hard. I told Ellie that some day we will all sing in a production of Die Walkure together. Rebecca will be Brunnhilde, Ellie will be Sieglinde and I will be Siegmund. We will sing lustily and we will laugh and be very aware of who we are and at the same time unaware of ourselves to the extent that we can let the music speak. And that is what you must do to sing.
Last week, my friend Rebecca got married, and I was supposed to write about that today.
However, I almost never write about what I think I am going to write about. And that is what you must do to write, I guess. Well, the wedding was supremely beautiful. There was Albanian honey cake and homemade quilts and the rain stopped when they said their vows.
As I was leaving to come back to Vancouver, Rebecca told me that the world was a safe and accepting place.
And despite all the contradictions, and taking into account the fact that one day a couple can get a letter in the mail saying that they are no longer married due to a clerical error, I believe it.
I have no idea what these men do for a living, but they make a ton of money....and they spend it like children, which is to say on anything that strikes their fancy. There were 4 wine fridges, and a special humidified cabinet filled with whole prosciutto.... there was a room completely devoted to their single malt scotch collection. They celebrated their anniversary in Canada by opening bottles of Cristal with fencing swords and then we read Edna St Vincent Millay in between tokes of a Moroccan Hash Pipe. And just when you thought it could not get any more surreal, I noticed a well thumbed copy of Das Kapital beside the humidor. It is true when they say that the only difference between a crazy person and someone who is merely eccentric is a great deal of money.
I drank single malt langavulin and smoked vanilla flavoured cigarettes and my friend Ellie and I performed an impromptu concert of Puccini arias...Ellie has met a 45 year old man who looks like he is 30 because he is content with his life, and is not a tortured soul (or so Ellie says). And so, most of Ellie's technical issues when it comes to singing have sorted themselves out, even though she lives in Terrace and doesn't study with a teacher right now. This is what happens when you are happy. And that is the crazy thing about having an instrument which is inside you.
I was worried about the smoke and drinking affecting my voice, but then I remembered that Caruso smoked 4 packs of cigarettes a day, and then I relaxed and we had a great time. A man told me that I have a voice like port, which was a nice complement because I like port very much. Then this woman named Jen sang Van Halen songs, which was different, but still operatically intense and very good. Jen sings for fun...she is actually a software writer for a Norwegian internet company and just came back from skydiving in Utah. I like Jen because she smokes and drinks and laughs a lot, and clearly likes it. Now that you can't smoke anywhere and people are drinking low calorie beer or worse, we need more people like her. She also has the best books in her bathroom... Like a guide to walking tours in Vancouver from 1974 and a pocket size historical atlas of Europe. She also has a recording of Fidelio, and I think that has added a Beethoven-like profundity to her music making.
Anyway, I don't really know what I am talking about because it is 4 in the morning and I have many substances floating within me... but I am happy that I got to sing with my friend Ellie, just like last week I got to sing with my friend Rebecca. Ellie, Rebecca and I are sensitive people with big voices which is very special but sometimes hard. I told Ellie that some day we will all sing in a production of Die Walkure together. Rebecca will be Brunnhilde, Ellie will be Sieglinde and I will be Siegmund. We will sing lustily and we will laugh and be very aware of who we are and at the same time unaware of ourselves to the extent that we can let the music speak. And that is what you must do to sing.
Last week, my friend Rebecca got married, and I was supposed to write about that today.
However, I almost never write about what I think I am going to write about. And that is what you must do to write, I guess. Well, the wedding was supremely beautiful. There was Albanian honey cake and homemade quilts and the rain stopped when they said their vows.
As I was leaving to come back to Vancouver, Rebecca told me that the world was a safe and accepting place.
And despite all the contradictions, and taking into account the fact that one day a couple can get a letter in the mail saying that they are no longer married due to a clerical error, I believe it.
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
Transitive Properties
Mathematics 100: Geometry and Logic
Final Examination
Question: What happens when you draw lines through a pre-existing entity?
Answer: If you take an object (say, an unbroken circle) and bisect it at its widest point with a straight line, you will create a new object made up of congruent halves. For our purposes, we will call these compartments. The space once taken up by the object will also be lessened, due to the presence of the straight line. Note also that the extent of this diminishment will depend on the amount of space alloted to the straight line. If you bisect this straight line with another straight line, at a right angle, you will create a cross. This cross will diminish the size of the original compartments, and through careful analysis, you will be able to prove that the compartments can now only relate to one another in terms defined by the cross. Please also observe that while the resulting compartments have similar characteristics, they cannot join until the cross is overcome and the straight lines have been erased.
- End of Proof.
Before beginning the following question, please take time to review the following definitions:
Transitive Property of Equality:
"If a = b and b = c, then a = c.
The Transitive Property is one of the equivalence properties of equality. This is a property of equality and inequalities. One must be cautious, however, when attempting to develop arguments using the transitive property in other settings."
Lemma
"A helping theorem. A lemma is proven true, just like a theorem, but is not interesting or important enough to be a theorem. It is of interest only because it is a stepping stone towards the proof of a theorem."
Postulate:
"A statement accepted as true without proof. "
Axiom
"A statement accepted as true without proof. An axiom should be so simple and direct that it is unquestionably true. "
Question: Ben likes boys. What does that make Ben?
Answer
1) Ben likes boys. Therefore, Ben is gay (see lemma “if you are a boy and you like another boy or boys you are gay” ).
2) Gay is bad ( one can infer this from the answer to the preceding question, or by using the popular "gay is bad" postulate).
3) Therefore, Ben is bad. (Transitive Property).
Bonus question – if you get this one right, you will pass the whole course, regardless of the work you have done before…
Ben is bad. Now what?
We have proven that Ben is a bad object. However objects have many definable properties and we can observe that Ben is also good in school and can play the piano and sing. He can also cook and imitate his parents in a way that makes people laugh. If Ben works at these things hard enough for a long enough period of time, it is logical that people will overlook his inherent evil characteristics.
However, there is a new concept which is really a very old concept which supposes that all objects are good. While this concept cannot be proven, per se, we find that if adopted, it becomes self-evident. It is therefore an axiom, though it is viewed by some as experimental, controversial and vulnerable. We believe it to be correct.
Therefore,
Ben,
Who likes boys,
Is good.
He will still play the piano and sing and make fun of his parents, but he will not do it so that others will overlook any other aspect of his being. In this way, we can assume that Ben, in all probabilty, will be observed in a more comprehensive way, and can therefore exist in a more cohesive manner.
- End of proof.
Final Examination
Question: What happens when you draw lines through a pre-existing entity?
Answer: If you take an object (say, an unbroken circle) and bisect it at its widest point with a straight line, you will create a new object made up of congruent halves. For our purposes, we will call these compartments. The space once taken up by the object will also be lessened, due to the presence of the straight line. Note also that the extent of this diminishment will depend on the amount of space alloted to the straight line. If you bisect this straight line with another straight line, at a right angle, you will create a cross. This cross will diminish the size of the original compartments, and through careful analysis, you will be able to prove that the compartments can now only relate to one another in terms defined by the cross. Please also observe that while the resulting compartments have similar characteristics, they cannot join until the cross is overcome and the straight lines have been erased.
- End of Proof.
Before beginning the following question, please take time to review the following definitions:
Transitive Property of Equality:
"If a = b and b = c, then a = c.
The Transitive Property is one of the equivalence properties of equality. This is a property of equality and inequalities. One must be cautious, however, when attempting to develop arguments using the transitive property in other settings."
Lemma
"A helping theorem. A lemma is proven true, just like a theorem, but is not interesting or important enough to be a theorem. It is of interest only because it is a stepping stone towards the proof of a theorem."
Postulate:
"A statement accepted as true without proof. "
Axiom
"A statement accepted as true without proof. An axiom should be so simple and direct that it is unquestionably true. "
Question: Ben likes boys. What does that make Ben?
Answer
1) Ben likes boys. Therefore, Ben is gay (see lemma “if you are a boy and you like another boy or boys you are gay” ).
2) Gay is bad ( one can infer this from the answer to the preceding question, or by using the popular "gay is bad" postulate).
3) Therefore, Ben is bad. (Transitive Property).
Bonus question – if you get this one right, you will pass the whole course, regardless of the work you have done before…
Ben is bad. Now what?
We have proven that Ben is a bad object. However objects have many definable properties and we can observe that Ben is also good in school and can play the piano and sing. He can also cook and imitate his parents in a way that makes people laugh. If Ben works at these things hard enough for a long enough period of time, it is logical that people will overlook his inherent evil characteristics.
However, there is a new concept which is really a very old concept which supposes that all objects are good. While this concept cannot be proven, per se, we find that if adopted, it becomes self-evident. It is therefore an axiom, though it is viewed by some as experimental, controversial and vulnerable. We believe it to be correct.
Therefore,
Ben,
Who likes boys,
Is good.
He will still play the piano and sing and make fun of his parents, but he will not do it so that others will overlook any other aspect of his being. In this way, we can assume that Ben, in all probabilty, will be observed in a more comprehensive way, and can therefore exist in a more cohesive manner.
- End of proof.
Sunday, June 25, 2006
Why you should always remember to spellcheck.....
Look what I found on a tourism website about Canada:
NATIONAL ANTHEM"Ho Canada" was proclaimed national anthem on July the 1st of 1980, a century after to be sung the first time.
NATIONAL ANTHEM"Ho Canada" was proclaimed national anthem on July the 1st of 1980, a century after to be sung the first time.
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Alles hat ein Ende... Nur die Wurst hat zwei.
Once a year my mother and I have our tarot cards read. Not only is it great fun (we can be as self absorbed and anxious as we want to be for over an hour) but a tarot-session is about a third the price as a visit to the therapist, and the restaurant where we go serves great tempura. I ask you, does it get better than divining and fried food? Not in this life. During our most recent visit, the medium decided to forego the tarot cards as he had decided, upon reflection, that they got in the way of the psychic energy that flowed between himself and the client. This was perfectly fine by me. After all, I come from a race that has always been keen on leaving out the middle man, both in religion and retail. Besides, who needs cards when you have imagination and a wireless connection with the divine?
So then the time came when we had to decide who was to have their reading first. Of course, we each insisted that the other begin, not because we were being polite, but because we wanted to get the other's reading over with. You see, it is quite a trial to be polite and listen attentively when someone else is talking, but not talking about you. It is best to get this over with as soon as possible. Of course, my mother (being of an artistic disposition as I am) is of the same opinion. And so she smiled and looked at me with her " remember that I am your mother and I gave birth to you and I was in labour for 70 hours, indeed, it was the longest labour of 1979 at the Women's Pavilion" look. And so, my reading began.
The medium said that I was about to begin a new phase of my life, and that I must prepare myself for by "improving my attire" and "dressing the part". I took this to mean that I needed hand-tailored suits, or at the very least some off-the-rack Canali. My mother thought
that this was just a metaphor and had more to do with self-confidence. I tried to tell her that
you cannot help but feel your best when you are wearing deluxe Italian upper 200 count wool.
She adjusted the collar on her burlap cape and we moved on.
Apparently, in this time of transition, I will also be saying goodbye to many friends. This is true. As I write to you , Soula is preparing for a concert of Mozart arias at the Berlin Philharmonie,
Wade is on a plane to Quebec City where he will sleep on his friend's couch and learn French in an immersion program of his own design, and in a few weeks Randy will depart for Shanghai to set up an office for her boyfriend's engineering firm.
And then there is Arvedt, who has been recalled to Berlin to work in the protocol office, arranging travel for Chancellor Merkel.
The other night, we were sitting by the ocean, and I was eating Malaga ice cream, which is my favourite. Malaga is like rum-raisin, but the raisins are soaked in rum which for an obscenely long period of time, and then folded into a custard with an obscenely large number of egg yolks. Really, it should be banned. Eating it makes me feel like naughty and rich, like Catherine de Medici, who fit both descriptions very well. Along with the dinner fork and the corset, she is credited for having introduced three important things to France that define it to this day: gastronomy, high heels, and riots. She also introduced ice cream. I can see her now, in her bodice and stiletto heels -- Nero-like -- giving orders to carry out the St. Bartholemew's Day Massacre of Protestants while nibbling on a delicate strawberry ice.
And I am troubled, because while the Huguenot sympathizer in me hates her, the foodie in me cannot help but worship. Had it not been for vain Catherine, the French would still be eating things like goat udder stewed in hyppocras. Worse, they'd still be eating like the English.
Now, where was I? Oh yes, Arvedt. Arvedt was not eating Malaga ice cream. He was telling me about his camping trip to Saltspring Island, which is famous for being infested with mice. Arvedt hates mice, and so he told me how spent the evening lying down in his puptent wearing his bike light as a bandana and throwing morsels of cheese and trailmix to the rodents... not so that they would go away, but so that they would stop for a moment and eat. At which time Arvedt would hit them:
"Oh gott. Means like, the mices were everyvhere, and I kept hitting them with cheese and trailmixes... I said to myself, Gott, if I die now, it would be okay."
I stared laughing uncontrollably, but he looked at me with a straight face and said
"Why are you laughing? You have never had an experience such as this?"
We started to talk about the coming months, and I asked Arvedt how he felt about leaving Canada. He smiled and said
"Well, you know, in German, we have this silly expression: Alles hat ein Ende. Nur die wurst hat zwei"
Which means: Everything has an end. Only a sausage has two.
I wonder what Catherine de Medici would think about that!
So then the time came when we had to decide who was to have their reading first. Of course, we each insisted that the other begin, not because we were being polite, but because we wanted to get the other's reading over with. You see, it is quite a trial to be polite and listen attentively when someone else is talking, but not talking about you. It is best to get this over with as soon as possible. Of course, my mother (being of an artistic disposition as I am) is of the same opinion. And so she smiled and looked at me with her " remember that I am your mother and I gave birth to you and I was in labour for 70 hours, indeed, it was the longest labour of 1979 at the Women's Pavilion" look. And so, my reading began.
The medium said that I was about to begin a new phase of my life, and that I must prepare myself for by "improving my attire" and "dressing the part". I took this to mean that I needed hand-tailored suits, or at the very least some off-the-rack Canali. My mother thought
that this was just a metaphor and had more to do with self-confidence. I tried to tell her that
you cannot help but feel your best when you are wearing deluxe Italian upper 200 count wool.
She adjusted the collar on her burlap cape and we moved on.
Apparently, in this time of transition, I will also be saying goodbye to many friends. This is true. As I write to you , Soula is preparing for a concert of Mozart arias at the Berlin Philharmonie,
Wade is on a plane to Quebec City where he will sleep on his friend's couch and learn French in an immersion program of his own design, and in a few weeks Randy will depart for Shanghai to set up an office for her boyfriend's engineering firm.
And then there is Arvedt, who has been recalled to Berlin to work in the protocol office, arranging travel for Chancellor Merkel.
The other night, we were sitting by the ocean, and I was eating Malaga ice cream, which is my favourite. Malaga is like rum-raisin, but the raisins are soaked in rum which for an obscenely long period of time, and then folded into a custard with an obscenely large number of egg yolks. Really, it should be banned. Eating it makes me feel like naughty and rich, like Catherine de Medici, who fit both descriptions very well. Along with the dinner fork and the corset, she is credited for having introduced three important things to France that define it to this day: gastronomy, high heels, and riots. She also introduced ice cream. I can see her now, in her bodice and stiletto heels -- Nero-like -- giving orders to carry out the St. Bartholemew's Day Massacre of Protestants while nibbling on a delicate strawberry ice.
And I am troubled, because while the Huguenot sympathizer in me hates her, the foodie in me cannot help but worship. Had it not been for vain Catherine, the French would still be eating things like goat udder stewed in hyppocras. Worse, they'd still be eating like the English.
Now, where was I? Oh yes, Arvedt. Arvedt was not eating Malaga ice cream. He was telling me about his camping trip to Saltspring Island, which is famous for being infested with mice. Arvedt hates mice, and so he told me how spent the evening lying down in his puptent wearing his bike light as a bandana and throwing morsels of cheese and trailmix to the rodents... not so that they would go away, but so that they would stop for a moment and eat. At which time Arvedt would hit them:
"Oh gott. Means like, the mices were everyvhere, and I kept hitting them with cheese and trailmixes... I said to myself, Gott, if I die now, it would be okay."
I stared laughing uncontrollably, but he looked at me with a straight face and said
"Why are you laughing? You have never had an experience such as this?"
We started to talk about the coming months, and I asked Arvedt how he felt about leaving Canada. He smiled and said
"Well, you know, in German, we have this silly expression: Alles hat ein Ende. Nur die wurst hat zwei"
Which means: Everything has an end. Only a sausage has two.
I wonder what Catherine de Medici would think about that!
Sunday, June 18, 2006
People with Penthouses
When it came to dating, the only advice my mother (a card carrying member of the NDP) ever gave me was to "marry up". Indeed, there was a time when the only real way to improve one's social standing was to do so.... of course, you had to be talented, beautiful and determined as hell.
Like my friend Lindsay, who met the love of her life during a production of The Mikado. She was Yum-Yum (in more ways than one, apparently) and her Nanki-Poo, Larry, was smitten. They kissed and he swept her away in his arms. One morning, she awoke from a delicious slumber in 500 threadcount sheets to find that not only was Larry a tenor, but also an internationally successful businessman with a penthouse in False Creek. And they lived happily ever after.
If you are haven't yet met your Nanki-Poo, then my advice would be to get to know people with penthouses and to go to their parties. This way, you can go to the very top and you don't need a man to get you there, unless of course he is pushing the buttons in the elevator. In any event, once you have arrived, there really is no need for social climbing at all, because you can already look down on everyone.
Except for the people with penthouses higher than yours, and trust me, there is always someone.
My friend Lindsay has great style, and throws great parties. We were going to have oysters, but there was a red tide, and rather than be poisoned, we made do with butter drenched scampi -- nibbled from a lofty perch above high above the water. It was a hardship, but we managed. The conversation turned to travel, and Lindsay mentioned that she was going to London the next day. I asked her how she was going to find the time to pack. She replied that all she needed to remember was her music and her underwear. She had an American Express card, after all, and could just buy the rest when she got there. How wise, I said, as I took a bite from a perfectly grilled ribeye steak. I looked down, and saw the people running about. They looked like ants. I thought about throwing my shrimp shells over the ledge for fun, but decided against it. How wise.
As I was mixing myself a gin and tonic, I noticed that the the gin was from Scotland and was infused with cucumber and rose petals. I asked Lindsay where she procured such a delightful beverage, and she said that she didn't know, but that it came from the "good closet". I told her I did too. Ha ha.
But then I thought, I do come from a good closet. That is where I am writing you from right now. It may be small, but it is a space of my own making, and I live on the first floor, so my feet are firmly on the ground. As they should be. And when people walk by, I can look them in the eye. Which is also how it should be.
But I cannot deny that sometimes, I wish I had a penthouse too.
Like my friend Lindsay, who met the love of her life during a production of The Mikado. She was Yum-Yum (in more ways than one, apparently) and her Nanki-Poo, Larry, was smitten. They kissed and he swept her away in his arms. One morning, she awoke from a delicious slumber in 500 threadcount sheets to find that not only was Larry a tenor, but also an internationally successful businessman with a penthouse in False Creek. And they lived happily ever after.
If you are haven't yet met your Nanki-Poo, then my advice would be to get to know people with penthouses and to go to their parties. This way, you can go to the very top and you don't need a man to get you there, unless of course he is pushing the buttons in the elevator. In any event, once you have arrived, there really is no need for social climbing at all, because you can already look down on everyone.
Except for the people with penthouses higher than yours, and trust me, there is always someone.
My friend Lindsay has great style, and throws great parties. We were going to have oysters, but there was a red tide, and rather than be poisoned, we made do with butter drenched scampi -- nibbled from a lofty perch above high above the water. It was a hardship, but we managed. The conversation turned to travel, and Lindsay mentioned that she was going to London the next day. I asked her how she was going to find the time to pack. She replied that all she needed to remember was her music and her underwear. She had an American Express card, after all, and could just buy the rest when she got there. How wise, I said, as I took a bite from a perfectly grilled ribeye steak. I looked down, and saw the people running about. They looked like ants. I thought about throwing my shrimp shells over the ledge for fun, but decided against it. How wise.
As I was mixing myself a gin and tonic, I noticed that the the gin was from Scotland and was infused with cucumber and rose petals. I asked Lindsay where she procured such a delightful beverage, and she said that she didn't know, but that it came from the "good closet". I told her I did too. Ha ha.
But then I thought, I do come from a good closet. That is where I am writing you from right now. It may be small, but it is a space of my own making, and I live on the first floor, so my feet are firmly on the ground. As they should be. And when people walk by, I can look them in the eye. Which is also how it should be.
But I cannot deny that sometimes, I wish I had a penthouse too.
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
Fondling the Zeitgeist
Here is a conversation that I had with my co-worker Jonathan during a break at the Vancouver Passport Office:
"Hey Jonathan, how was your weekend"
"Oh, fine... I helped my friend Orion recover from her augmentation"
"Augmented? Is that the new way to say 'you're fired'?"
"No... she had a boob job. She's fine, but it's going to cramp her style when she does pole dancing.
"You mean she's a stripper?"
"No.. She does it for exercise.... she takes classes at that new pole dancing aerobics studio on Davie St. It's great for your abs... Orion used to be able to do sit ups on the pole... but now, with the added weight....."
"Of course...Well you know burlesque is making a huge comeback... I was listening to this piece on Out Front CBC radio about a woman who started doing the burlesque circuit to get in touch with her sexuality. It was basically about her challenge of "coming out" as a burlesque dancer to her 5 year old daughter."
"Yeah.... if I hadn't had to take care of Orion, I would have gone to this burlesque comic book convention."
"You mean...comic books about burlesque artists?"
"No... it was basically women dressing up as comic book characters and stripping to funky beats.. "
"Oh yeah....Well I hope your friend feels better soon."
"Me too.. she asked me and my girlfriend Brandy to take her bra shopping. We're going to Park Royal Mall because I don't have to pay taxes there, and they have a kickass La Senza." *
* In addition to being a connoisseur of burlesque, Jonathan is also a hereditary chief from Bella Coola, and Park Royal Mall is on land which belongs to the Musqeam Band...
Saturday, June 10, 2006
The measure of my powers
This morning it was cloudy (in Vancouver? How IS that possible?) . This is why I decided to will the sun to come out by staring out the window and playing the Hymn to the Sun from the opera Iris by Mascagni on repeat as I drank my coffee..... Here are the words:
"Son Io ! Son Io la Vita !Son la Belta infinita,La Luce ed il Calor.Amate, o Cose ! dico :Sono il Dio novo e antico,Son l'Amor!"
"I am the sun! It is I, life! I am infinite beauty, light and warmth! O loved one, speak! I am the ancient and new god. I am love!"
It worked. I mean, if you were the sun, how could you not respond to such unabashed flattery? Maybe if King Canute had played Debussy's La Mer when he was ordering the waves to retreat in 1016 things would have turned out differently. As it stands, his failing to control the sea marked the beginning of the end of absolute monarchy in England (unfortunately it is still dying). In fact, just before he died, Canute ordered his crown to be placed on his tomb to indicate that there is only one king in heaven, and that we mortals should know the limits of our powers. I, however, have alwas been keen on testing the boundariess of my powers, as has my friend Pablo who whenever faced with a problem asks his Tarot cards what to do. Like the other day when we made Paella and he was wondering if he should break his self imposed "no yeast diet" and eat some chocolate cake. The first tarot card was "the schizophrenic" which meant that he was caught between two extremes. The second card was the 10 of cups which to him meant that the solution was to act with intensity... So we had 2 pieces of cake each. Of course, Pablo said that you really shouldn't read your own tarot cards because it is hard to make decisions objectively. I told him that one can never be objective when it comes to chocolate, which he should know because he is from Mexico. Where chocolate comes from.
Perhaps this is why Mexicans seem so happy. They are the hobbits of the western hemisphere. When I was in high school I used to go over to my friend Vanessa's (she was half Mexican and Half Mennonite..oy vey... she referred to herself as an "M&M") ... Her mother would invite me over, put on music and we would eat and dance for two or three days. She would also try to set me up with Vanessa, but that's another story. What is even better about hanging out with Mexicans is that most of them are short like me, so I don't have to strain my neck while having a conversationn. Yesterday I went to ahouse-warming at Hugo's place, a friend of Pablo's. Of course, there are 4 people sharing a 1 bedroom apartment and they have no furniture, but this means that they have more room to dance and more money to spend on the important things like chipotle crusted shrimp and smoked salmon in endive leaves. Hugo also wears Armani and has 5 kinds of cologne. I guess it is all about priorities. Everyone was speaking Spanish, which I didn't understand, but I spoke back in Italian when I could and when I didn't we all resorted to the international language of "glance and gesture".... before this I went to my friend Wade's 50th birthday, which was nice, but his friends are mostly Wasps, and therefore mostly tall, and mostly angst ridden. But we had scintillating conversations about the Tony awards and Robert LePage. I am somewhere in the middle because I am Jewish: We are for the most part short (although this is changing because we don't live in Shtetls anymore and have access to protein on a regular basis) and love to eat, but are mostly angst ridden. Although this is changing too (because we don't live in shtetls anymore and have access to protein and all that that entails, on a regular basis) . And as for theTonys... well, is there anything more Jewish than that? We pretty much invented musical theatre, which is a good thing or a bad thing depending on your proclivities. I am an opera singer, so I am again somewhere in the middle: I love outward displays of emotion, but they have to be tasteful and preferably in foreign languages. Which means, gentle reader, that I can enjoy the sentiment without the burden of comprehension.
Becuase once you begin to try to comprehend something, you can get lost and may never find your way. I think Oscar Wilde said that he who tries to scratch below the surface does so at his own peril. But it is important to try and understand, peril or no.....
although sometimes I think it is easier to impose your will on the sun.
"Son Io ! Son Io la Vita !Son la Belta infinita,La Luce ed il Calor.Amate, o Cose ! dico :Sono il Dio novo e antico,Son l'Amor!"
"I am the sun! It is I, life! I am infinite beauty, light and warmth! O loved one, speak! I am the ancient and new god. I am love!"
It worked. I mean, if you were the sun, how could you not respond to such unabashed flattery? Maybe if King Canute had played Debussy's La Mer when he was ordering the waves to retreat in 1016 things would have turned out differently. As it stands, his failing to control the sea marked the beginning of the end of absolute monarchy in England (unfortunately it is still dying). In fact, just before he died, Canute ordered his crown to be placed on his tomb to indicate that there is only one king in heaven, and that we mortals should know the limits of our powers. I, however, have alwas been keen on testing the boundariess of my powers, as has my friend Pablo who whenever faced with a problem asks his Tarot cards what to do. Like the other day when we made Paella and he was wondering if he should break his self imposed "no yeast diet" and eat some chocolate cake. The first tarot card was "the schizophrenic" which meant that he was caught between two extremes. The second card was the 10 of cups which to him meant that the solution was to act with intensity... So we had 2 pieces of cake each. Of course, Pablo said that you really shouldn't read your own tarot cards because it is hard to make decisions objectively. I told him that one can never be objective when it comes to chocolate, which he should know because he is from Mexico. Where chocolate comes from.
Perhaps this is why Mexicans seem so happy. They are the hobbits of the western hemisphere. When I was in high school I used to go over to my friend Vanessa's (she was half Mexican and Half Mennonite..oy vey... she referred to herself as an "M&M") ... Her mother would invite me over, put on music and we would eat and dance for two or three days. She would also try to set me up with Vanessa, but that's another story. What is even better about hanging out with Mexicans is that most of them are short like me, so I don't have to strain my neck while having a conversationn. Yesterday I went to ahouse-warming at Hugo's place, a friend of Pablo's. Of course, there are 4 people sharing a 1 bedroom apartment and they have no furniture, but this means that they have more room to dance and more money to spend on the important things like chipotle crusted shrimp and smoked salmon in endive leaves. Hugo also wears Armani and has 5 kinds of cologne. I guess it is all about priorities. Everyone was speaking Spanish, which I didn't understand, but I spoke back in Italian when I could and when I didn't we all resorted to the international language of "glance and gesture".... before this I went to my friend Wade's 50th birthday, which was nice, but his friends are mostly Wasps, and therefore mostly tall, and mostly angst ridden. But we had scintillating conversations about the Tony awards and Robert LePage. I am somewhere in the middle because I am Jewish: We are for the most part short (although this is changing because we don't live in Shtetls anymore and have access to protein on a regular basis) and love to eat, but are mostly angst ridden. Although this is changing too (because we don't live in shtetls anymore and have access to protein and all that that entails, on a regular basis) . And as for theTonys... well, is there anything more Jewish than that? We pretty much invented musical theatre, which is a good thing or a bad thing depending on your proclivities. I am an opera singer, so I am again somewhere in the middle: I love outward displays of emotion, but they have to be tasteful and preferably in foreign languages. Which means, gentle reader, that I can enjoy the sentiment without the burden of comprehension.
Becuase once you begin to try to comprehend something, you can get lost and may never find your way. I think Oscar Wilde said that he who tries to scratch below the surface does so at his own peril. But it is important to try and understand, peril or no.....
although sometimes I think it is easier to impose your will on the sun.
Monday, May 29, 2006
Furbala
Whenever I was being petulant as a youngster (or last week) , my mother would say that I was acting like a diva. In fact, she used to call me by that name. I used to be offended, but then I remembered that to be a diva really means to be touched by God, and that made me feel better. The fact that my mother used the feminine pronoun of the word was unsettling (in reality, I would be classified as a divo, as in Il Divo, as in that photoshop-and-soundbyte "band" which is to music what poptarts are to breakfast... something sickly-sweet, white, square and indigestible).. , but I credited this lapse to an unfamiliarity to the structure of Romance languages. I was ready to forgive, take stock, and move on ...
And then I remembered that my mother wears lime green sunglasses indoors and has called herself Queen of the Universe on occasion, and my mind wandered to subjects of kettles, pots and "naming". So, I realized that in the end we are all touched by God, and larger than life, and in how many ways is THAT a cliche?! In any event, this realization means that whenever anyone tells you to get a life, you can inform them that you grew out of yours long ago and set it by the side ot the road like a snake sheds its skin. Of course, whether the aim of this process is to reveal one's true self, relieve boredom, is another question entirely. In the end, it doesn't matter, as long as you can make money while doing it.
Which brings me to Madonna, who has now assimilated another esoteric mystical tradition into her persona, and appropriated a whole new testament in the process. She is now known as Esther, the heroine of the Purim story (which is a very interesting story, but complicated... Basically you should know that most Jewish holidays can be summed up in the following words: "They tried to kill us...... Let's eat!").
Of course, if you deprive Esther of her "h" you are left with an Ester: " a volatile organic compound which is most often used to create artificial flavours and scents... ". To me, this seems a far more apt description.
Sometimes I begin to think about how celebrities have embraced "spirituality" in the last few years. First, Steven Segal claimed that he was the incarnation of a Tibetan lama, then there was Madonna and Kabbalah. I wouldn't be surprised if next week I read that Lindsay Lohan has discovered Kirkegaard...
The other day, I was shopping with my friend Soula. I came across a charm bracelet held together with a red string. It was made by Furla, the chic Italian design firm, and in her best imitation of a valley girl, Soula said "like, ohmigod... it TOTALLY looks like a kabbalah bracelet." And I was, like "Ohmigod... it's like, totally FURBALA"...
We both started to laugh hysterically, and then I thought... Furbala: 'the result of the combination of an ancient mystical tradition and commercialism.... something that is uncomfortable, that catches in the throat, and ultimately must be expelled at all costs."
Like, ohmigod.
And then I remembered that my mother wears lime green sunglasses indoors and has called herself Queen of the Universe on occasion, and my mind wandered to subjects of kettles, pots and "naming". So, I realized that in the end we are all touched by God, and larger than life, and in how many ways is THAT a cliche?! In any event, this realization means that whenever anyone tells you to get a life, you can inform them that you grew out of yours long ago and set it by the side ot the road like a snake sheds its skin. Of course, whether the aim of this process is to reveal one's true self, relieve boredom, is another question entirely. In the end, it doesn't matter, as long as you can make money while doing it.
Which brings me to Madonna, who has now assimilated another esoteric mystical tradition into her persona, and appropriated a whole new testament in the process. She is now known as Esther, the heroine of the Purim story (which is a very interesting story, but complicated... Basically you should know that most Jewish holidays can be summed up in the following words: "They tried to kill us...... Let's eat!").
Of course, if you deprive Esther of her "h" you are left with an Ester: " a volatile organic compound which is most often used to create artificial flavours and scents... ". To me, this seems a far more apt description.
Sometimes I begin to think about how celebrities have embraced "spirituality" in the last few years. First, Steven Segal claimed that he was the incarnation of a Tibetan lama, then there was Madonna and Kabbalah. I wouldn't be surprised if next week I read that Lindsay Lohan has discovered Kirkegaard...
The other day, I was shopping with my friend Soula. I came across a charm bracelet held together with a red string. It was made by Furla, the chic Italian design firm, and in her best imitation of a valley girl, Soula said "like, ohmigod... it TOTALLY looks like a kabbalah bracelet." And I was, like "Ohmigod... it's like, totally FURBALA"...
We both started to laugh hysterically, and then I thought... Furbala: 'the result of the combination of an ancient mystical tradition and commercialism.... something that is uncomfortable, that catches in the throat, and ultimately must be expelled at all costs."
Like, ohmigod.
Sunday, May 28, 2006
Turning around the corner
Yesterday I had the good fortune to attend a dinner in honour of Arthur Erickson to celebrate his work and his life... my friend Michael is writing an article about him for Vancouver Magazine, and he asked me to attend the event... So, I put on my best silk pocket square and off I went. I can honestly tell you now that I had no idea who Arthur Erickson really was, other than the fact that he was an architect.... Sometimes I feel like in my pursuit of music, I can become a bit myopic. Needless to say, I am always glad for wakeup calls.. in whatever form they may come in.. First we went to a talk he gave at the Vancouver Art Gallery... here are my impressions...they are kind of rambling and unfinished... like the long threads of overworked dough... messy....
There was a genius in the room. There was a man who thinks before he speaks, and more importantly, has much to say. (But does a genius need to think before he speaks?) Arthur Erickson is an architect who minimizes the importance of buildings so that natural landscapes can speak. This to me seems like an act of great humility. He envisions architecture as the expression of human aspirations that must be made still, but yet always look as though they would spring to life.... Like a sprinter at the gate.
I think that Gertrude Stein said that when she met a genius, bells went off in her head. I have a feeling, knowing what I know of Gertrude Stein, that she must have heard bells when she met herself. Well, I am not so fortunate as Ms. Stein (may she pontificate in the salons of heaven forever), but I definitely felt something.... As I did yesterday I watched a video of Rostropovich's triumphant return to Moscow, after his citizenship was stripped from him, after he suffered so much for defending Solzenytsyn and Sakharov. He lived for music, and for freedom of expression. So did Beethoven... Today I listened to the Leonore Overture number 3 (overture to Fidelio)...Beethoven triumphing over his demons and calling us all to fight for our own voice, and in doing so, for our freedom, and for the freedom of others. And Arthur Erickson, like Beethoven, and Rostropovich, and Gertrude Stein, were against the status quo. Beethoven and Arthur Erickson said as much: Ericksoapproacheses his medium as an artist rather than a craftsman, and in doing so creates a unique vision for each building he designs. Similarly, Beethoven did not call himself a composer in the traditional sense, rather he called himself a Tondichter (literally a "sound poet") rather than a Tonkunstler (sound artist), which was the usual word for a musician. In doing so he revealed himself to be a musician of the Romantic age -- a poet concerned with feelings, expression and abstract ideals.
Today I listened to David Suzuki say that we must realize that when we hurt the environment, we are hurting ourselves. All of these things are of a piece. For there is architecture in music, and music is movement, and music and movement in words.. and great buildings punctuate space like music does. But it is not about the music, or the building...it is the in between, and the before, and how the music and the building forever change what comes after. It is the moment before the overture starts, the moment before you turn around the corner and see the Louvre, or the El Asqa Mosque, or Angkor Wat... the feeling that you are going to come across something that will alter you profoundly. But how selfish a thought this is, for none of it matters in the slightest if we stay the path and destroy the world, and thus ourselves.
And I am grateful that I live in a time and a place where there is freedom. And I pray that I will not remember this time as the moment before the curtain fell, before the world became dark. Oh, how I hope. I hope that the world will continue to have room for people who dare to be unfashionable... who venture to craft time and space out of the depths of the earth and the depths of their being into something organic and timeless. And then I remember the words of Florestan,the imprisoned political prisoner in Fidelio who said
"Wahrheit vagt' ich kühn zu sagen, und die Ketten sind mein Lohn -- Boldy I dared to speak the truth, and chains are my reward."
People were not ready for Beethoven's music. They were not ready for Gertrude Stein, just as they were not ready for many of Erickson's buildings, like the Canadian Embassy in Washington.
But we are always turning around the corner....
Sunday, May 21, 2006
How Dark the Con of Can
Yes, its true.... the real conspiracy of our time has to do with CRTC regulations regarding Canadian Content regulations in print and audio media.... And you thought it had something to do with Jesus. Pu-leeze.
Actually, I did go to the Da Vinci Code, and half way through, the projector broke. I think it was a conspiracy by the church so that we wouldn't see the movie. It sounds far-fetched, but when I was leaving the theatre, I noticed that the movie poster had mysteriously fallen to the ground....
Note to Catholic Church: at Book Stores everywhere, the Da Vinci Code is displayed in the FICTION section.
Actually, I did go to the Da Vinci Code, and half way through, the projector broke. I think it was a conspiracy by the church so that we wouldn't see the movie. It sounds far-fetched, but when I was leaving the theatre, I noticed that the movie poster had mysteriously fallen to the ground....
Note to Catholic Church: at Book Stores everywhere, the Da Vinci Code is displayed in the FICTION section.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
You say der wassermelonensalat, I say.....
"A dog is "der Hund"; a woman is "die Frau"; a horse is "das Pferd"; now you put that dog in the genitive case, and is he the same dog he was before? No, sir; he is "des Hundes"; put him in the dative case and what is he? Why, he is "dem Hund." Now you snatch him into the accusative case and how is it with him? Why, he is "den Hunden." But suppose he happens to be twins and you have to pluralize him- what then? Why, they'll swat that twin dog around through the 4 cases until he'll think he's an entire international dog-show all in is own person. I don't like dogs, but I wouldn't treat a dog like that--I wouldn't even treat a borrowed dog that way. Well, it's just the same with a cat. They start her in at the nominative singular in good health and fair to look upon, and they sweat her through all the 4 cases and the 16 the's and when she limps out through the accusative plural you wouldn't recognize her for the same being. Yes, sir, once the German language gets hold of a cat, it's goodbye cat. That's about the amount of it. "
- Mark Twain's Notebook
The other day I decided to go out for breakfast with Arvedt. He was going to New York for a week, mostly to go to the Met and see Parsifal. You can do these things when you are an employee of the German state and have an obscene amount of holidays. Arvedt has about 3 months left of his posting in Vancouver... and approximately 4 months of leave to use up.
Anyway, we were enjoying a fruit salad, when Arvedt squinted his eyes, pointed to a piece of watermelon, and said (in his best Prussian school teacher voice) "What would you call this in German?" He does this periodically, to see if I am mastering the language of the master race. I loathe these sessions, because as Mark Twain has explained so elloquently, German is needlessly complex. It seems as though they have projected their notorious sexual fetishes upon every single word by giving them a gender.... Let me explain: like most languages, objects can be "masculine" or "feminine". But German ups the ante by adding a third case... words can also be "neuter". The word for child ,"das kind" , is a neuter word, and I thank the heavens for it. God knows the last thing the Germans need to do is sexualize children...
I often wonder, if words, like people, can have gender issues! Is there such a thing as a gender reassignment for words which do not feel comfortable in their curent gender? Do they pass through the neutered state while undergoing reclassification?
Anyway, here is my German lesson with Arvedt:
"What is this in German"
"Das Wassermelon" (how can a watermelon have a gender?)
"No, it is "die wassermelone" (apparently, a watermelon is female...)
"What if you made a salad out of watermelon?"
"Well, that would be die wassermelonesalat" (duh)
"No... it is der wassermeloneNsalat..... because salad is masculine, and in a compound word, you must use the gender of the second word. Also, you must pluralize wassermelone, because it is a salad made out of pieces of watermelon"
Okay, we're not playing this game again. Because I really don't care about the genders of melons.
Sunday, May 14, 2006
I have a basket of berets that I do not wear
There is a woman in a black beret... She sits, writing with a fountain pen in a dark corner of a dark cafe, on the first day of spring. She wears black eyeliner. She drinks coffee in silence and peers out into the world, blinded by the light. I love her. It takes courage to wear black, much less a black beret, and pour out your thoughts on a sunny day in Vancouver. It is a sign of an inner life. I walk by in my new designer gym outfit. I want to mouth "I am so sorry" because I have a basket full of berets that I do not wear... I want her to know that we are kindred spirits.
There is a woman in a straw hat, waiting for the bus. She sits, smoothing her skirt. She is wearing white gloves and holding a hymn book. She is also blinded by the light, or so she thinks. I walk by with my latte, wearing shorts.. She purses her lips in disapproval. I want to say to her "I'm sorry". I like hymns too... I wear white gloves sometimes too. I have a whole basket of gloves I do not wear.. I want her to know that I am a nice person.
There is a man in a doorway in Paris. He is smoking a cigarette and looking at me with a frown. I smile and he closes the door. I am holding the Jewish newspaper. I bought it in a silent shop full of silent people in an old street. I read on the first page that a man was kidnapped and beaten to death. I am afraid. I hide the newspaper in my bag. I start to mouth the words "I'm sorry" but the words catch in my throat.
I have a basket of berets that I do not wear.
There is a woman in a straw hat, waiting for the bus. She sits, smoothing her skirt. She is wearing white gloves and holding a hymn book. She is also blinded by the light, or so she thinks. I walk by with my latte, wearing shorts.. She purses her lips in disapproval. I want to say to her "I'm sorry". I like hymns too... I wear white gloves sometimes too. I have a whole basket of gloves I do not wear.. I want her to know that I am a nice person.
There is a man in a doorway in Paris. He is smoking a cigarette and looking at me with a frown. I smile and he closes the door. I am holding the Jewish newspaper. I bought it in a silent shop full of silent people in an old street. I read on the first page that a man was kidnapped and beaten to death. I am afraid. I hide the newspaper in my bag. I start to mouth the words "I'm sorry" but the words catch in my throat.
I have a basket of berets that I do not wear.
Saturday, May 06, 2006
Exercise is not a substitute for a social life.
Today I came home from my singing lesson fully intending to go to yoga class, when I got a call from my friend Wade inviting me over for dinner. My gym bag was packed.... I was going to realign my chakras and sweat out the impurities accumulated over the generations. Then I thought that exercise is in no way a substitute for a social life....So I bought a charming bottle of Montepulciano and hopped on the bus. I mean, who wants to suffer through hours of trytopushmyarmthroughmyassna when one can sit in a deck chair with a perfectly mixed gin and tonic and homemade salsa? True, both activities stimulate a feeling of restfulness and psychic wellbeing, except that the latter doesn't cause one to sweat. When it comes to sport, I think that Winston Churchill said it best: "Sometimes I feel the urge to exercise, but then I lie down and the sensation passes."
The other day I was talking to my friend Randy... Randy is a voluptuous and extremely intelligent woman in her mid twenties with a cute boyfriend named Aristotle who buys tailored suits on trips to Shanghai. She decided that it would be wise to start work at 9 rather than 7 so that she could go jogging before work. When she told me this, I looked at her in absolute horror. She said she wanted to go jogging in the morning to give her energy throughout the day. I told her that working at the Passport Office was close enough to hell on earth as it was, and why did she need to add to her misery? Besides, jogging does not give you energy. Sleep does. And if she wanted to burn calories first thing, there was Aristotle. If I had two extra hours in the morning, I would give myself a refreshing cucumber astringent while listening to Debussy, or I would take myself out for breakfast. After, all, I find that there is nothing more luxurious or satisfying than wasting time in the morning. I try to fit in at least 3 sessions each week. Just think of it as pilates for the soul.
If after this regimen, you do feel the need to take exercise, I would suggest pretend you are a pioneer woman and make a dinner from scratch. Or, run to the corner store as if being pursued by the Mongol hordes. I find that nothing makes me run faster than fear. At the very least, be creative!
That being said, I will probably go to yoga tomorrow. As my instructor said, (after telling us that we must give of ourselves selflessly to achieve enlightenment) "who are we kidding? You're all here because you want a sixpack."
Consider The Strawberry - fallout
I just got an email from my kindred-spirit cousin Miriam. Miriam is an intern on the Food Network (bow down and worship..) What is more, she wears vintage clothes with great aplomb. I distinctly remember a fabulous ensemble with dark jeans, a red patent leather purse, and lots of gold lame (and hoop earrings). Miriam is fabulous, because we can talk about food and channel the personalities of our neurotic, but lovable Eastern European Jewish forebearers. She also appreciates the search for "reality" (and by this I am not talking about those reprehensible television programs that are a sign that we are in the midst of a steady decline. The Romans ate flamingo brains by the tonne, oblivious of the Visigoths at the gates. We watch shows like "Wife Swap") .... Here, for your reading pleasure, is an email from Miriam:
Benalah, You NEED to publish your blogs. My mother has been forwarding them to me and I can't get enough of them. I just read your thoughts on all things real and identify with every word. Recently in pastry class we were making the traditional strawberry shortcake ( pastry was not the highlight of my year as we used a lot of fake butter and whip topping instead of 35% cream and so on). Anyways, the strawberries looked outrageous... glorious nuggets of perfect red. I shouted this out to my pastry chef. She then said, "Yes Miriam they are beautiful but have you tasted them?"
I really miss you and can't wait until we can hug and shmooze. My life is fabulous and I am very busy. Just the way I like it. I have been interning at the Food Network, working with a food stylist there. Definitely an avenue I want to pursue. As well, I believe I will be working for George Brown College doing research for the Dean. Miriam on a computer...not so sure but the networking Ben the networking! As well, I have a wonderful boyfriend, Neil. Soooo cute. I am very lucky. So, when is Ben coming to Toronto? I want to hear more of your trip. Do you still have the same phone number? Are there any boys? I need to know these things. I love you so much Ben and really miss you.
All the best in the world,
Miriam
ps. Fresh ricotta cheese with a little brown sugar, marinated blueberries and strawberries in balsamic reduction, then you can reduce the balsamic juiciness from the berries again, over the cheese with shavings of white chocolate. Could you not die? Sometimes I make little butter tarts and stuff the ricotta filling in and spoon the marinated berry mixture over with a white chocolate spears on top.
pps you were the one who opened up my world to what real balsamic vinegar is. We need to talk olive oils next time.
_________
Friday, April 28, 2006
Consider the Strawberry
Strawberry - Fraise
"The Strawberry was valued in Roman Times for its theraputic properties. Ancient hunters ate it to sharpen their powers of perception. The alchemists of the Middle Agers considered it to be a panacea, and as late as the 18th century Fontenelle (who died at 100) attributed his longevity to his fondness for strawberries. He ate them every day when they were in season.... Strawberries should never be soaked, handled too much or exposed to heat, and should be eaten 1 hour after their preparation..."
-from the Larousse Gastronomique
Meeting interesting people in Vancouver is like shopping for candy in an organic food store: You probably won’t find anything. If the gods of sucralose and fraternity show their favour upon you and you DO manage to find something that looks remotely delectable, it will most likely be past its expiry date or full of ingredients with impeccable organic pedigrees that taste like crap. Don’t get me wrong, it will probably look fantastic.
Indeed, we are surrounded by things that look fantastic but have no taste. I have found that this maxim can be applied to a myriad of objects, from produce to people. Take the California strawberry for example … It is plump, it is red and shiny and looks inviting. You bite into it, expecting cascades of unctuous strawberry flavour, and you find it has the taste and texture of watermelon rind. Of course, you can buy these year round and eat them whenever you want. How convenient! How sad.
I do not eat of these strawberries. I wait until June and then I take a ferry to Granville Island and buy a flat of the local berries. And I eat little else for about a week. I like to make strawberries marinated in balsamic vinegar and cracked pepper. Or strawberries dipped in sugar, or chocolate. But mostly, I just eat them as is. They are misshapen. Some have mold or bugs on them, some are rotten. But the taste!
The wonderful thing about real strawberries is that each one tastes completely different.
One is tart, the other one is a little too sweet. The quest is to find the perfect berry that has the perfect balance of both. Sometimes this takes quite a long time, but can you think of a better way to spend an afternoon?
What we eat most of the time are cultivated strawberries. But the best strawberries are the tiny wild ones that you find in the forest. When I picked berries in the summer with my mother we would have pails and pails of blueberries, but I would find, at the most only five wild strawberries. These were hidden immediately (lest someone steal them from you) to be savoured in a secret moment, , or to be offered to another as the ultimate token of affection. They were never apparent to the naked eye, but had to be searched for painstakingly, because they liked to hide under the grass. Wild strawberries have never been successfully cultivated. They have tried to do so but have failed. The wild strawberry remains elusive, individual and rare. But taste one of them, and you no cultivated berry will ever fully satisfy you again.
So I implore you to eat not of the impostor strawberry, the one that has been grown in fake soil to satisfy an immediate hunger. The strawberry encased in plastic, uniform and pale.
It is better to look for something that rings true; perhaps more perishable, perhaps less to look at, but something that is real.
Friday, April 21, 2006
So let it be written, so let it be done!
I got a job! Hurrah!
I got a job as a singer! Hurrah!
With Vancouver Opera!
Next year, I will be traveling to hundreds of schools around BC singing the part of Prince Tamino in a condensed version of The Magic Flute!
I am so very excited. I couldn't tell anyone for a few days, I had to keep it "under wraps"... But of course, I told my parents. Here is an excerpt from my conversation with my father:
"Dad! I got a job!"
"You already have a job"
"I got a job as a singer! I'm going to be in the Vancouver opera Touring Ensemble next year!"
"Will you leave the Passport Office?"
"Probably"
"Oh no, you can't do that. That's a great job!"
"But I'm going to be living out a dream!"
"How much money will you make?"
"Oh, about the same as I make at the Passport Office."
"Is that gross, or net?"
"I don't know"
"Well, you should find out...Remember to keep all your expenses. We'll have to develop a tax strategy. By the way, why haven't I received your tax return."
(I have of course omitted the sections where dad tells me he's proud of me and that he loves me. They are not nearly as amusing. )
This sort of reminds me of the time my dad told his mother that he got a new job as a superintendent of schools:
"Ma! I got a new job!"
"So"
"I'm a superintendent!"
"How many buildings do you look after?"
Now please remember that my grandmother was a Polish-Jewish immigrant who smoked 3 packs of Du Marier king size a day... SO you should read the preceding conversation with this in mind.
Anyway, because I couldn't tell anyone about my news for a few days, I decided to rent the Ten Commandments to keep my mood up. I love this movie. It is tawdry, it is sensational, it has got everything, including one of the best lines in all of moviedom (Nefretiri: But Moses, I am Egypt). I remember watching it with my grandmother. She would cry. I remember watching it with my mother. She would laugh. I just ogle Yul Brynner. Incidentally, the setting for the Magic Flute is also in Egypt, and Tamino is a foreign prince. So maybe he is Moses? If you ask me my religion, I will tell you I am Jewish. But really, I believe in Cecil B De Mille.
And I am ready for my closeup!
In the words of Seti, so let it be written, so let it be done.
Sunday, April 16, 2006
Just Offal
Note. The following entry is morose and self-pitying. I also wrote it when it had been raining for 10 day straight.
I hate Easter. It has nothing really to do with the supposed ressurection of Christ, although that kind of marked the beginning of the end for us Jews. I am just glad that the Christians don't physically harm us for killing their Lord any longer, as they used to. Progress! I content myself with the fact that Easter is named after a Western European pagan fertility festival. It would be like the Jews calling Passover "Spring Break" or "Frosh Week", or the Muslims calling Ramadan a crash diet. You get the idea. No, I hate this season because of a particular piece of music that never fails to put me in a funk. It is the Allegri Miserere. You have probably heard about it.. you know, the piece that was forbidden to be heard outside of St Peter's Basilica until the 14 year old Mozart copied it from memory after one hearing. It is traditionally sung at the Easter vigil before Good Friday. Therefore, it is associated with suffering. This is why it was featured in the movie version of E.M. Forrester's Maurice, which gives new meaning to the word "tortured". Consider it a Brokeback Mountain for the tweed-and-high-tea set. I remember watching this movie with my mother in grade 10, when she was developing material for the first ever Gay and Lesbian Literature course at the University of Winnipeg. I of course was not out (although I cannot imagine a more supportive environment... I mean, my mom encouraged me to grow a ponytail and take ballet. In response, I painted my room grey and started dressing like Perry Como) . I watched this movie in petrified silence, hoping to God that my face would not betray any sign of what I was really feeling... Of course, I went out immediately and bought this said piece of music... "Miserere meus domine.... Lord have mercy on me". Grade 10 was a particularly horrible year. I decided to join a show choir because I thought I was in love with a boy. I endured week after week of horrible rehearsals for things like "Disney dazzle" . The only thing that saved me was the Miserere. I would sit in my room and listen to it and read the Larousse Gastronomique...the Bible of French cooking.
One day I came across the entry for "heart":
Heart (coeur): A type of red offal from various animals, which must be bright red and firm when bought. Remove the hard fibres and any clots of blood, if necessary by soaking it in cold water. Heart is devoid of fatand inexpensive. It is considered to be an excellent dish despite its lack of gastronomic repute.
I was comforted, I was saved. The heart, after all, is not something that feels. It is something that is to be eaten. A heart is tough and must become bloodless. It is cheap and must be consumed. Yet, it is considered good. Remember that the mother in Oranges are not the only Fruit mistook a gastric ulcer for feelings of affection.
The heart is just offal.
I hate Easter. It has nothing really to do with the supposed ressurection of Christ, although that kind of marked the beginning of the end for us Jews. I am just glad that the Christians don't physically harm us for killing their Lord any longer, as they used to. Progress! I content myself with the fact that Easter is named after a Western European pagan fertility festival. It would be like the Jews calling Passover "Spring Break" or "Frosh Week", or the Muslims calling Ramadan a crash diet. You get the idea. No, I hate this season because of a particular piece of music that never fails to put me in a funk. It is the Allegri Miserere. You have probably heard about it.. you know, the piece that was forbidden to be heard outside of St Peter's Basilica until the 14 year old Mozart copied it from memory after one hearing. It is traditionally sung at the Easter vigil before Good Friday. Therefore, it is associated with suffering. This is why it was featured in the movie version of E.M. Forrester's Maurice, which gives new meaning to the word "tortured". Consider it a Brokeback Mountain for the tweed-and-high-tea set. I remember watching this movie with my mother in grade 10, when she was developing material for the first ever Gay and Lesbian Literature course at the University of Winnipeg. I of course was not out (although I cannot imagine a more supportive environment... I mean, my mom encouraged me to grow a ponytail and take ballet. In response, I painted my room grey and started dressing like Perry Como) . I watched this movie in petrified silence, hoping to God that my face would not betray any sign of what I was really feeling... Of course, I went out immediately and bought this said piece of music... "Miserere meus domine.... Lord have mercy on me". Grade 10 was a particularly horrible year. I decided to join a show choir because I thought I was in love with a boy. I endured week after week of horrible rehearsals for things like "Disney dazzle" . The only thing that saved me was the Miserere. I would sit in my room and listen to it and read the Larousse Gastronomique...the Bible of French cooking.
One day I came across the entry for "heart":
Heart (coeur): A type of red offal from various animals, which must be bright red and firm when bought. Remove the hard fibres and any clots of blood, if necessary by soaking it in cold water. Heart is devoid of fatand inexpensive. It is considered to be an excellent dish despite its lack of gastronomic repute.
I was comforted, I was saved. The heart, after all, is not something that feels. It is something that is to be eaten. A heart is tough and must become bloodless. It is cheap and must be consumed. Yet, it is considered good. Remember that the mother in Oranges are not the only Fruit mistook a gastric ulcer for feelings of affection.
The heart is just offal.
Thursday, April 13, 2006
Friday, April 07, 2006
Halloween
Soula and Ben as Tokyo Rose, and Rudolf Nureyev, Respectively.
Below - Arvedt (my friend the German diplomat) as "Stalingrad".... Or was it the 1939 non-aggression pact?
When I was a child, I had very interesting Halloween outfits. One year I was Glinda, the good witch of the north. I had high heels and everything. It was grade 5. I remember walking down the hallway of Montrose elementary saying "one has to suffer to be beautiful." One year, I decided to be a ghost, and of course wore a sheet. My mom decided to up to up the ante and added washing instructions in permanent marker. Get it? Sheet? washing instructions? ( I think she was having a Magritte moment... Ceci n'est pas une phantome or something like that). I didn't either. For about 3 years running, I was a druid. Which reminds me of the time I was in grade seven and I got excited about my school's Spirit Week because I thought it would be a festival about comparative religions, complete with processions, ritual, and incense. How wrong I was. I think that my finest moment in elementary school was when I decided to take the label from the "Wandering Jew" plant and wear it for the day. I would go up to the teachers and say "do you know where I am supposed to go?"... Needless to say I thought it was hilarious. The teachers, not so much.
In other news, I just had a voice lesson. I was working on an aria from The Magic Flute where Prince Tamino sees a picture of a beautiful woman and instantly falls in love... I know. Anyway, here is a classic quote from my teacher, David: "Who are you when you sing this aria? You're a prince. You are not Ben Schnitzer. Those are two different people (but David, can't you see I'm of noble birth?). You have to sing it like a prince. You have to be in control. The conductor is not a prince! Fuck the conductor! If he's worth his salt he'll follow you. You have to sing it like you want to sing it."
Sunday, April 02, 2006
"Next Year in Bamako" ossia "I don't want to hear, I don't want to know"
Well, gentle readers, I was supposed to be productive and clean my apartment today, but I am afraid I got off to a bad start and never did find my groove. Last night I went out to clubbing with Pablo, my new-age Mexican friend. Pablo is on a very restrictive diet right now because he has elevated levels of yeast in his system. He got his ears candled (after discovering that he was a number eleven in his numerology book and realizing that it was therefore important to cleanse before determining his life-path) and the woman who candled his ears said that he had a rash and had to give up everything but organic vegetables, herbal tea and brown rice. He even gave me his prized package of Serrano ham that he had shipped from Seattle, saying "ju know, it is so jummy, but I cannot eat it." He was solemn, almost like those mothers in war movies who pretend they are not hungry and give their children the last piece of bread. I was feeling mischievous so I proceeded to eat some chocolate in front of him. He reached out, and cried to the heavens like a man condemned, "ay, I want chocolate, ju are so mean." I told him he was being racist and he told me that I was being more racist. Only in Canada.
Anyway, since Pablo wasn't drinking alcohol ( is too much yist) , I was drinking for two, so I don't remember much other than a bizarre scene at a house party consisting of a room full of gay Mexican men watching a drunk Chilean girl named Felicia doing a mock striptease to Madonna's Sorry. As Pablo's roommate Edgar said "when you party with Mexicans, you never know what to expect!" Incidentally, the opening lyrics to that song are "I heard it all before, I heard it all before. I don't want to hear, I don't want to know".... I think that is an appropriate response to the current state of Madonna's music, and perhaps pop music in general. Maybe I should sing this song to my therapist? Sorry Doctor S, you know I love you. I mean, you know I, um, respect you?
After the excitement of the evening, I was glad that the clocks were being turned back so I could get an extra hour of sleep. After all, it is spring back, fall forward. Of course, I realized my mistake when I was woken up by landlord pounding on my door at noon demanding the rent. Ha ha. April fool's! No rent! Whoops. Note to dad: I am financially solvent and pay my bills online and am not a drunk. I merely play up the debauchery to make myself look more interesting and cutting edge as a writer. The fact of the matter is that I spent most of yesterday translating a Mozart aria and doing vocal exercises in mezza-voce (with closed vowels) that limit my reliance on the vocalis muscle and therefore allow me to sing more lyrically in my passagio. Oh, and I will send you my T4 slips this week. And thank-you for giving me 5 copies of The Wealthy Barber at various times during my adolescence and for helping me with math.
Speaking of dad, you should all know that I am gainfully employed in the public service of Canada because my dad went to high school with the head of a federal department (paging Justice Gomery!). One day in the elevator, my dad said "hey, my son needs a job" and his friend said, "sure thing, ear" (ear was my dad's nickname in highschool). But you know, my dad really did fulfill a mitzvah (Jewish good deed). After all, Maimonedes said that the highest level of charity is to find their son a stable job. Especially if that said son is going to choose something where the chances of supporting himself are questionable at best. Something like opera. Well, my dad, ever the practical one, said "you can do both! Just join the foreign service. Then you can get posted to Paris and sing on the side." I didn't have the heart to tell him that one's fist posting is usually to places like Mali. I can see it now... Ben Schnitzer, tenor, performs Puccini arias with Opera Bamako...
Well, I am off to bed. I just spent the last few hours in singing, among other things, the Apotheosis scene from Faust. It goes something like this: Marguerite gets knocked up, and wrought with guilt, kills her child. She is imprisoned, and invokes the angels to save her.
Then she dies. Some help. Anyway, the devil, Mephistopheles, pronounces her thus "judged", but then a chorus of unseen angels (that would be moi) cries that she has been saved and that Christ will come again and save us all. Does Gloria Steinem know about this?
Sometimes I think Pierre Boulez was right when he said that all opera houses should be blown up. I mean, really. Fortunately, the music is so sublimely beautiful that you forget about the plot. Unless of course, your set consists of a giant puppet and a noose (as ours does! Hooray for Conceptualism! The puppet represents children and control and the noose represents, like, death. And rope.).
I am looking particularly forward to staging this scene on Passover, as Vancouver Opera in their infinite wisdom has decided to schedule rehearsal for both nights. I also learned that in the spirit of sharing, the French decided to call Passover Paque Juif (Jewish Easter). Aww... a resurrection, just for me? Thanks! Except, its not really what I asked for. If the Jews ever needed another reason to continue leaving France, this would be it. So,
Next year in Bamako! Next year, may we all be free! Wait, they speak French there too.
But that is the result of colonialism, so it doesn't count.
Regardless, I am going straght to hell because of my evil writings! Unless of course I invoke the angels. But wait, does that mean I have to die? SO confusing.
Anyway, since Pablo wasn't drinking alcohol ( is too much yist) , I was drinking for two, so I don't remember much other than a bizarre scene at a house party consisting of a room full of gay Mexican men watching a drunk Chilean girl named Felicia doing a mock striptease to Madonna's Sorry. As Pablo's roommate Edgar said "when you party with Mexicans, you never know what to expect!" Incidentally, the opening lyrics to that song are "I heard it all before, I heard it all before. I don't want to hear, I don't want to know".... I think that is an appropriate response to the current state of Madonna's music, and perhaps pop music in general. Maybe I should sing this song to my therapist? Sorry Doctor S, you know I love you. I mean, you know I, um, respect you?
After the excitement of the evening, I was glad that the clocks were being turned back so I could get an extra hour of sleep. After all, it is spring back, fall forward. Of course, I realized my mistake when I was woken up by landlord pounding on my door at noon demanding the rent. Ha ha. April fool's! No rent! Whoops. Note to dad: I am financially solvent and pay my bills online and am not a drunk. I merely play up the debauchery to make myself look more interesting and cutting edge as a writer. The fact of the matter is that I spent most of yesterday translating a Mozart aria and doing vocal exercises in mezza-voce (with closed vowels) that limit my reliance on the vocalis muscle and therefore allow me to sing more lyrically in my passagio. Oh, and I will send you my T4 slips this week. And thank-you for giving me 5 copies of The Wealthy Barber at various times during my adolescence and for helping me with math.
Speaking of dad, you should all know that I am gainfully employed in the public service of Canada because my dad went to high school with the head of a federal department (paging Justice Gomery!). One day in the elevator, my dad said "hey, my son needs a job" and his friend said, "sure thing, ear" (ear was my dad's nickname in highschool). But you know, my dad really did fulfill a mitzvah (Jewish good deed). After all, Maimonedes said that the highest level of charity is to find their son a stable job. Especially if that said son is going to choose something where the chances of supporting himself are questionable at best. Something like opera. Well, my dad, ever the practical one, said "you can do both! Just join the foreign service. Then you can get posted to Paris and sing on the side." I didn't have the heart to tell him that one's fist posting is usually to places like Mali. I can see it now... Ben Schnitzer, tenor, performs Puccini arias with Opera Bamako...
Well, I am off to bed. I just spent the last few hours in singing, among other things, the Apotheosis scene from Faust. It goes something like this: Marguerite gets knocked up, and wrought with guilt, kills her child. She is imprisoned, and invokes the angels to save her.
Then she dies. Some help. Anyway, the devil, Mephistopheles, pronounces her thus "judged", but then a chorus of unseen angels (that would be moi) cries that she has been saved and that Christ will come again and save us all. Does Gloria Steinem know about this?
Sometimes I think Pierre Boulez was right when he said that all opera houses should be blown up. I mean, really. Fortunately, the music is so sublimely beautiful that you forget about the plot. Unless of course, your set consists of a giant puppet and a noose (as ours does! Hooray for Conceptualism! The puppet represents children and control and the noose represents, like, death. And rope.).
I am looking particularly forward to staging this scene on Passover, as Vancouver Opera in their infinite wisdom has decided to schedule rehearsal for both nights. I also learned that in the spirit of sharing, the French decided to call Passover Paque Juif (Jewish Easter). Aww... a resurrection, just for me? Thanks! Except, its not really what I asked for. If the Jews ever needed another reason to continue leaving France, this would be it. So,
Next year in Bamako! Next year, may we all be free! Wait, they speak French there too.
But that is the result of colonialism, so it doesn't count.
Regardless, I am going straght to hell because of my evil writings! Unless of course I invoke the angels. But wait, does that mean I have to die? SO confusing.
Saturday, April 01, 2006
Singing lesson
Today I had my first singing lesson in two months. In honour of this occasion, I havemade a collage of my impressions. I am reading Tai Pan by James Clavell and can't be disturbed, so you will have to just interpret my art.
You are your mother's son
Said Heather as we drove through the driving rain to chorus rehearsal. I nodded, gravely, in a way that spoke of a realization achieved through years of therapy and soul-searching. Why was it so difficult for me to realize this? After all, my mother has always been encouraging me to express my true self. Unfortunately, my true self has not always been the self that I thought I should (myself) have. And that is no one's fault in particular, but it is everyone's responsibility to ensure that this conflict doesn't happen to others, like me, who in some way may be different. And so, to all you parents and future parents and people who may never be parents but know parents or children, I have this to say. You will most likely know a child who may turn out to be different (and by different I mean GAY, just so there is no confusion out there). Perhaps they put on your wedding dress for fun, or make mourning stationary on foolscap, or mimic Julia Child. Perhaps they will do none of the above. But if they do, smile and nod and tell them you love them. They could get angry, and try to become the opposite of who they really are. But remember they are not angry at you. They are angry at a world that forces them to always pretend. You can choose to be a part of that world, or you can be brave, like my parents, and say no.
I know that I try to be brave. And yes, in that way, I am most certainly my mother's, and father's son!
I know that I try to be brave. And yes, in that way, I am most certainly my mother's, and father's son!
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Nothing to read.
First of all, let me apologize for my lack of skill when it comes to punctuation. You must know that I had an alternative education, and never did really learn about mundane things like grammar or sentence structure. Come to think of it, I don't think I learned long division either. However, I still have a watercolour of a weeping Statue of Liberty I created in grade 5 called Statue of Misery (I think it was in response to Free Trade or something), and I will never forget how thrilling it was to sing If I Had a Hammer at the Christmas concert (excuse me, winter conert) accompanied by glockenspiel and marimba. So, I asked my mother for help, as she is a professor of English, but she merely encouraged my "idiosyncrasy" as she is also an experimental poet and grammatical anarchist. I often wonder whether she equates the improper use of the semicolon with the coming of the Revolution, glorious and inevitable.
Today I had tea and scones with my dear friend and co-blogger Michael (his musings can be found at mildastonishment.blogspot.c0m). It is always tea AND scones with Michael. One is inconceivable without the other. My dear departed grandmother Inez thought the same thing, and I loved her for it. She was always scandalized (and rightly so) by the fact that we never had baked goods in the house. She would make do with saltines and strawberry jam, but it was a poor substitute, and we both knew it.
Anyway, back to Michael. I love getting together with Michael because he is every bit as pretentious and elitist as I am and we can indulge our proclivities to the full. Michael recently bought his boyfriend a calfskin evening wallet from Holt Renfrew. Everyone else I know would think this a horrible extravagance, but I thought it was perfectly reasonable. After all, one doesn't want the unsightly bump of a wallet to ruin the line of tuxedo pants when attending the opera. I also admire Michael because he has the gift of wearing the right colours. He has never made a faux-pas in this department. It is a rare gift, and I always tell him so. I am always amazed by his ability to look very put together, yet unstudied. This is the first lesson of style. Today Michael was wearing his brown houndstooth jacket from Harry Rosen (of course) , with a camel scarf, and a pale green sweater with light blue jeans. If Van Gogh's Sunflowers were an outfit, this would be it. Whenever I see clothes like this, I feel equal parts awe and envy, for while I love clothes, I am fickle and impulsive in my purchases. This is why I have 6 shell-pink shirts and lime green shoes that match my lime green jacket. You should note that I know these are not my colours, but I buy them anyway, and love them. To tell you the truth, my closet looks rather like an Easter basket rendered by Jackson Pollock, but I digress.
Michael is a writer, and he is in the process of moving out of his gorgeous, well apointed abode at a smart address in search of a room of his own. Or rather, rooms. As a writer, he reasoned, one's home must be workplace and sanctuary, therefore a bachelor apartment is out of the question as one must have a place to work, as well as a place to recover from it. For this reason, walls dividing spaces are a necessity and not an indulgence. I told him that I had once read that it is in a wall's very nature that it should crumble. He was impressed by my bon mot, and I told him (in between nibbles of warm cardamom-scented scone) that it was a quote from Confucius. I actually think I read it in a novel by John Le Carre. Regardless, I came across the quote in Berlin (where walls were once thought to be a necessity) so this redeems it. In any event, pedigree is less important if something is amusing.
Michael mentioned that he is thinking of starting a bookclub. But not just any bookclub. It would be called the Smart Boy's Bookclub, and we would get together and read Proust and eat brie, and be very smarmy. He asked me if I knew anyone else who would be interested in joinging, and I replied, quite honestly, that I did not. (Flashback to recent blind date: What do you do? I sing opera. Oh, is that like Phantom? Um... I don't feel so well. I think I have to leave). Michael seemed dejected. "Sometimes I think I should go out more often and meet interesting people in Vancouver. But then I wonder if I have already met all of them." I couldn't think of a reply. We drank our tea and stepped out into the grey, slighly misty Vancouver afternoon. The mountains were stunningly beautiful, and I felt for a moment that I was in a Group of Seven painting. And then I thought, who wants to stay inside and read Proust and cultivate a personality when you can look at the mountains and breathe the magnolia-scented air? Perhaps, I reasoned, a rich inner life is the consolation prize of those who cannot live in beautiful surroundings. Perhaps Michael and I are refugees from a place or time that was less beautiful, but more stimulating. Perhaps I am full of shit. But if I am, it is of the best quality.
While we were on the subject of books, I told Michael about a shop I had visited in Paris that sold only first editions. He said that the true lover of books should always seek these out, because they would be cherished. We then lamented the decline in the intrinsic value of books in western society (see post on Chapters, oh wait, there is none). I told him that we started to go to hell in a handbasket with the invention of the printing press. Not only did books become less precious, but the masses started to read.
Of course, we masses are grateful for places like Tanglewood Books, which was having a sale. So we perused. Michael mentioned that as he got older, he was beginning to enjoy reference books. My heart warmed, as I have always loved them. I think it was my way of being contrary. When I was a child, I used to go into my mother's study (remember she is a professor of English and grammatical creative) and ask for something to read. My mother's eyes would light up and she would unfurl the full panopoly of English literature, from Beowolf to Beckett. You like geography, she would say, why don't you read The Waves? You like history, why not Henry V? I was, at this point, about nine. I would exclaim "but mom, there's nothing to READ", and off I would go and devour a biography of Marie Antoinette, or my favourite, manuals on Etiquette. I still find them reaussuring, especially when one is confronted with tricky situations. For example, say you are in court mourning for an archduchess but are compelled to give a quiet supper before the theatre. How do you invite the guests? Simple. Use your informal mourning stationary (that is to say heavy vellum edged in black, sans monogram) and have your footman deliver them, but make sure he wears a plume of white or black in his hat. Colour would be an affront to the departed. I don't need to tell you that I tried to make my own mourning stationary after my grandmother died with india ink and foolscap. I thought it was appropriate to do so in order to invite Kathleen over to play Monopoly.
Even then, I knew that I was different. I tried to hide my liking for royalty and fine things, because even then, I knew it would mark me. However, in my eagerness to conceal, I revealed more than I thought. For example, I remember my mom's friend Anne asked me if I really did like the Royal Family. I replied, in horror, that of course I did not, and that my interest in them extended only to the Green Drawing Room at Windsor Castle as I found the amalgamation of the Baroque and Regency styles curiously effective.
Well, I will continue along this vein anon. I am off to rehearsal. We are preparing for Faust by Gounod. My favourite part is where we all turn our swords over to make the sign of the cross
so that the devil will go away, and sing with one accord C'est une croix qui de l'enfer nous garde (it is a cross which protects us from hell).
May my ancestors forgive me!
Sunday, March 26, 2006
Slavery is Not Entertainment!
One of my favourite things to do in Vancouver is to go to Capers. Capers is sort of an organic theme park... a temple for the windbreaker-and-social-conscience set. Heaven knows I don't go there to buy the food. While grapes that were shipped to Canada on a catamaran so as not to disrupt the mating patterns of Oolichan is good in theory, I am reticent about paying 10 dollars for the privilege. No, I go to Capers merely for the purposes of observation, which seems to be my motivation for most things these days. At Capers, you can see so many things: Women in goretex with knitted brows, agonizing over which brand of organic amaranth cereal to feed young Tallulah or Rainforest; young urban professionals peppering the deli counter attendant with vital, probing questions like "did this cow go to therapy to deal with death related issues before it was killed?", or "I noticed that this Triple-Creme-l'Explorateur cheese from Normandy is made from animals who live in pens. Is there something you can do about this?".
My favourite thing to do at Capers is to look at the latest posting on the Customer Suggestions board. This really is a cornucopia of material for the satirist at heart. It is a place where all the naked-bike driving, green voting crazies-who-rolled-to-the-coast can vent frustration about their victuals, and about our world. "No more genetically modified turmeric!" proclaims one.
"I am offended by the price of organic goat butter"reads another. These are funny, and sometimes I laugh, but occasionally, I come across a really good one:
I would like to see more candida compliant dishes such as kamut, spelt pasta salads, Ezekiel wraps and amaranth quesadillas. Also stevia-sweetened treats would be great.
Thanks!
-Paloma
Dear Paloma
I agree wholeheartedly. I will continue to advocate for such cleanse-free and diet-restricted foods options from our regional merchandisers. -Sean
At least if you buy a cookie at Fauchon in Paris (or at the Maple Leaf bakery around the corner) there is the sense that you are doing something purely for your own gastronomic pleasure. When you buy a cookie at Capers, you are not only buying a cookie , you are purchasing a disproportionate amount of rhetoric... sort of a "think globally act locally" at the most microscopic level. It is as though they are trying to save the world, one cookie at a time. The combination of healthy organic ingredients doled out with a combination of Protestant missionary zeal and left-wing tree hugging myopia is what makes Vancouver unique. Needless to say, these cookies leave a bitter taste in the mouth, and not just beacuse they are made with brewers yeast and prune syrup.
Dear Paloma and Sean. Please get your heads out of your assholes and walk 8 blocks down to Hastings and Main. Ask the people standing there if they have heard of amaranth or kamut or stevia. Then give them all the money you were going to spend on cruelty free apricots, and don't ask any questions. Then, write a letter to the UN and ask why 1 billion people don't have running water. Or you can go to Capers in Lagos (or Kasheshewan) and write the following letter:
Dear Government/Large compaines-that-run-the-world:
My favourite thing to do at Capers is to look at the latest posting on the Customer Suggestions board. This really is a cornucopia of material for the satirist at heart. It is a place where all the naked-bike driving, green voting crazies-who-rolled-to-the-coast can vent frustration about their victuals, and about our world. "No more genetically modified turmeric!" proclaims one.
"I am offended by the price of organic goat butter"reads another. These are funny, and sometimes I laugh, but occasionally, I come across a really good one:
I would like to see more candida compliant dishes such as kamut, spelt pasta salads, Ezekiel wraps and amaranth quesadillas. Also stevia-sweetened treats would be great.
Thanks!
-Paloma
Dear Paloma
I agree wholeheartedly. I will continue to advocate for such cleanse-free and diet-restricted foods options from our regional merchandisers. -Sean
At least if you buy a cookie at Fauchon in Paris (or at the Maple Leaf bakery around the corner) there is the sense that you are doing something purely for your own gastronomic pleasure. When you buy a cookie at Capers, you are not only buying a cookie , you are purchasing a disproportionate amount of rhetoric... sort of a "think globally act locally" at the most microscopic level. It is as though they are trying to save the world, one cookie at a time. The combination of healthy organic ingredients doled out with a combination of Protestant missionary zeal and left-wing tree hugging myopia is what makes Vancouver unique. Needless to say, these cookies leave a bitter taste in the mouth, and not just beacuse they are made with brewers yeast and prune syrup.
Dear Paloma and Sean. Please get your heads out of your assholes and walk 8 blocks down to Hastings and Main. Ask the people standing there if they have heard of amaranth or kamut or stevia. Then give them all the money you were going to spend on cruelty free apricots, and don't ask any questions. Then, write a letter to the UN and ask why 1 billion people don't have running water. Or you can go to Capers in Lagos (or Kasheshewan) and write the following letter:
Dear Government/Large compaines-that-run-the-world:
Why don't we have clean running water? -Paloma
After I went to Capers, I attended a concert at the Vancouver Aquarium in honour of its 50th anniversary. The highlight of the concert was the premiere of a piece called Whales by local composer Leslie Uyeda, which was performed beside the beluga tank and incorporated whale sounds. Of course, as I was walking to the aquarium, I came across a man covered in balloon animals blowing in a loudspeaker. "How would you like to live in a bathtub? Slavery is not entertainment!" he yelled, with a megaphone, in my ear.
And then I started to think about Brigitte Bardot. Don't you think it is absurd that Brigitte Bardot is going ape-shit over seals in Canada while her own country is on the brink of rebellion due to social inequality and racial tension? Don't you think it is a bit bizarre that a man finds the fire in his soul to yell at people with megaphones about sea mammals (which are housed down the street so we can see them, and not think of whales as something distant that we don't need to think about) and not about the chronic lack of social housing?
Perhaps I don't get it. Perhaps buying organic grapes and getting offended by fish that live in tanks is the path to enligthenment and social change. I know that the earth is interconnected, and that we have to think about things like organic food, and animal rights. But, I also think that people often get involved in causes that don't get their hands dirty so they don't have to think about the issues outside their doorstep. Like the man who regularly shoots up drugs outside my apartment while I take out the garbage.
I think I should invite Brigitte Bardot and that protester for lunch. At Capers. We can fritter away the afternoon dining on organic figs and cruelty-free salmon, content in the fact that we are eating with a pure heart.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
"In Terrace, it doesn't matter if you're rich or poor because you always have a million dollar view"
This is very true. Terrace is surrounded by mountains. This can be awe-inspiring or stifling, depending on how long you have been here. Today I went for a walk to Lakelse lake where the water was so clear you could see the reflections of the mountains in the water. What did I look at? Why my own reflection, of course. But then you always knew I was self absorbed. Today I went for a walk downtown and stumbled upon the Hidden Treasure Gift shop, "Your source for Christian gifts". Did you know that you can actually buy anointing oil? Or Jesusfish shaped popsicles? Fascinating. My favourite items (and yes, I bought some) were "Testamints - Reaching the world one piece at a time". Each mint has a little piece of scripture printed on it. Physically and spiritually refreshing! Right now I am sucking on a piece of John. Or is it Paul? (Ringo?) Today is also Welfare Wednesday, so it is a little bit busier downtown. Appropriately, the Skeena Mall loudspeakers are blaring La Boheme. Surreal.
This morning, I baked muffins using a dog-eared recipe from the Terrace Hospital Women's Auxiliary Cookbook. Stirring the batter as the sun came up over Terrace Mountain, I felt at peace, serene in the knowledge that I was creating something nourishing for my friends. Then I looked at the clock. 6:10 AM. Damn Jetlag. So then I made baking powder biscuits, and bacon and eggs. And then I just felt like an indentured servant. But we had a lovely breakfast, and to tell you the truth, if I had to decide between traveling through Europe or baking muffins while looking at the mountains, I don't know which I would choose (well, I could bake muffins in Switzerland, but I think you need a visa for that).
Here is a recipe for muffins that turned out quite nicely. Courtesy of the Terrace Hospital Women's auxiliary Cookbook (with a few "improvements" by yours truly):
1 egg
1/2 cup butter, melted
3/4 cup packed brown sugar
1 TCP vanilla
1 cup milk mixed with 1 tsp vinegar
2 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp salt
1 cup all purpose flour
1 cup bran
1 cup raisins, or blueberries.
Method:
Go on month-long European trip. Get severe jetlag as a result. Travel to remote Canadian town. Wake up at 4:45 with nothing to do. Decide it would be quaint to make muffins, even though you don't know where anything is in kitchen, much less light switch. Step on something warm. Realize it is cat. Oops.
Through perseverance and creativity, assemble ingredients and utensils needed to make muffins. Alternate between glancing out out of window to look at snow-capped mountains and apologizing to bruised cat:
Preheat oven to 375.
Whisk egg until frothy, add sugar, butter and vanilla. Stir to combine. Add soured milk and stir. Combine flour,
salt and baking powder. Add to wet ingredients in 1 addition and stir quickly. DO NOT OVERMIX. Add bran while you can still see white streaks (in the batter... not your mind). Finally, fold in blueberries or raisins. Fill buttered muffin tins 2/3 of the way and bake for 20 minutes. Please don't use those paper muffin cups. I hate them. Remove from oven, cool in pans for 10 minutes, and then continue cooling on rack, if they last that long.
Serve with cheddar cheese. Drink Red Rose tea. This is not the time for fancy caramel roibos or organic fair trade chai. Sit at old melmac table, listen to John Denver, watch sun rise and contemplate. Or not.
Serves 1-4 depending on appetites and how much of the batter you a) spilled on the floor, b) ate in the process.
This morning, I baked muffins using a dog-eared recipe from the Terrace Hospital Women's Auxiliary Cookbook. Stirring the batter as the sun came up over Terrace Mountain, I felt at peace, serene in the knowledge that I was creating something nourishing for my friends. Then I looked at the clock. 6:10 AM. Damn Jetlag. So then I made baking powder biscuits, and bacon and eggs. And then I just felt like an indentured servant. But we had a lovely breakfast, and to tell you the truth, if I had to decide between traveling through Europe or baking muffins while looking at the mountains, I don't know which I would choose (well, I could bake muffins in Switzerland, but I think you need a visa for that).
Here is a recipe for muffins that turned out quite nicely. Courtesy of the Terrace Hospital Women's auxiliary Cookbook (with a few "improvements" by yours truly):
1 egg
1/2 cup butter, melted
3/4 cup packed brown sugar
1 TCP vanilla
1 cup milk mixed with 1 tsp vinegar
2 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp salt
1 cup all purpose flour
1 cup bran
1 cup raisins, or blueberries.
Method:
Go on month-long European trip. Get severe jetlag as a result. Travel to remote Canadian town. Wake up at 4:45 with nothing to do. Decide it would be quaint to make muffins, even though you don't know where anything is in kitchen, much less light switch. Step on something warm. Realize it is cat. Oops.
Through perseverance and creativity, assemble ingredients and utensils needed to make muffins. Alternate between glancing out out of window to look at snow-capped mountains and apologizing to bruised cat:
Preheat oven to 375.
Whisk egg until frothy, add sugar, butter and vanilla. Stir to combine. Add soured milk and stir. Combine flour,
salt and baking powder. Add to wet ingredients in 1 addition and stir quickly. DO NOT OVERMIX. Add bran while you can still see white streaks (in the batter... not your mind). Finally, fold in blueberries or raisins. Fill buttered muffin tins 2/3 of the way and bake for 20 minutes. Please don't use those paper muffin cups. I hate them. Remove from oven, cool in pans for 10 minutes, and then continue cooling on rack, if they last that long.
Serve with cheddar cheese. Drink Red Rose tea. This is not the time for fancy caramel roibos or organic fair trade chai. Sit at old melmac table, listen to John Denver, watch sun rise and contemplate. Or not.
Serves 1-4 depending on appetites and how much of the batter you a) spilled on the floor, b) ate in the process.
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