Fuck You, Vancouver Part III 

Monday, January 10, 2005

As you may have noticed, blog postings have been sparse of late. It's a mixture of unregulated web surfing, depression (though that hasn't been a valid excuse for a month now) and vacation.

While on vacation, despite the theoretical access to a computer, I have since come to understand the old axiom that one should never get between an overzealous computer programmer and his computer. Then there was the whirl of activity.

Chicago provided me more fun than I have had in months - hell, in a year, since my last trip there. Snowshoeing, sledding, coffee shops galore, card games, presents, Japanese supermarkets, fabulous clothing (check out the hat my friend bought me; my sister's new toque is pretty cute too), ghosts, a good novel, whippets, libraries, bookstores, something I believe was a blizzard, museums and art galleries.

I've forgotten how much I love going to galleries. Looking through the local papers tonight I realized why I've been neglecting this former habit: people in Vancouver act as if painting weren't dead. Chicago gave me contemporary photography, video installations that actually made sense (you don't fool me with your palaverous gibberish), performance art (sadly only documented in photos, not live), collage and mixed media.

Then there were the handsome blokes. So many of them I lost track of numbers, leaving me without the statistics to prove that Chicago weather extremes have whittled out a better man. Let me just say that in 2004, I have met only one good-looking lad here in Vancouver; everyone in this stupid hick town has a goatee. Yeah, you heard me, pussyface - and while you're at it, shave off those ear hairs too!

With one good-looking, unmarried man in Vancouver for something like 50,000 women in my age bracket, I am not even going to bother knocking on his door in the middle of the night.

Chicago was nice. Walking down the street, I would think You're good and Yeah, I could lust over you. Unlike Vancouver, where I walk down the street wishing I were the fairy godmother of hair transplants. And, surely, among all those lovely Chicago men who know dress, statistically not all of them could be gay!

A mathematical indication of all the fun to be had in Chicago: suitcase 12 pounds overweight = 4 jackets + one cap + one "Made in Romania" skirt + three pairs of hot hot hot dangly earrings + two pairs pinstripe dress pants (showing off my only assets, the long legs & pinchable butt) + one new board game + two new card games + one pair extra warm gloves + three books (including Vampires, Burial and Death) + four magazines + one Japanese goth dress pattern book + three art catalogues + one art book + one jar of jam + two pairs fuzzy wuzzy socks + many other Christmas presents + no overweight luggage fees. Dare I say it? Yes, I dare say it: it all adds up to a fun trip! [Boo! Hiss!]

Most importantly, me best friend harks from Chicago. It's a case of the mountain not coming to Mohammed so Mohammed goes to the mountain. The best friend is poorer than I. I am the only one of the two of us who can afford the airfare.

The best friend meant my dry spell of eleven laughter-less months went bust. I laughed so hard during portions of my vacation that the parents had to come in and remind me that other people were trying to sleep.

I also gave up on sleep so I would not miss a minute with this fascinating specimen of humanity. So much sleep I forfeited that I got sick twice.

Then there were the crude jokes and the cussing that has been building up with no outlet. Eleven months I've had to live without a decent fart joke or a bout of raunchy humour. No one to pinch my ass - at least no one I wouldn't slap. And I could heckle stupid drivers with impunity because the best friend would heckle along with me.

In Vancouver, where I don't have any close friends, conversations centre on what I've done recently, what you've done recently, TV shows and baby news.

All the other things about me, the grand iceberg, must stay modestly hidden.

My occasional slips of vulgarity result in reminders that "we do not accept that sort of language here."

My jokes, when I dare them, need explanations. In Chicago, my magnum opus, that ass joke I made last Monday, still got rave reviews a week later. Vancouverites don't get my fauz Transylvanian made-up accent.

It's January. December and Chicago are eleven months away.

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