Home
Falling
- Details
- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Miscellany
- Hits: 2279
Her boyfriend and her, they've gotten good enough they can go it alone, I can practice my skating. I've got a long ways to go. It's funny, when you first learn to skate your preoccupation is with keeping your balance and not falling down. But there's an Ice Marshall here, petite cute Asian girl, she's obviously a figure skater and trying copy a few of her moves ...
...It's to be expected, it hurts only momentarily and all pride was lost when I tied on the skates. I'll need to buy elbow, knee-pads, I suspect acquiring these moves will involve a fair bit of falling, these aren't things that can be undertaken at low velocity, the pirouettes, flying leaps, backwards skating on a single foot, some things can only be learned at speed and with a great deal of accompanying failure. Never mind, it'll keep things interesting...
...meanwhile, the Italian Girl and her boyfriend are skating together, occasionally stumbling, tumbling, tripping into one another, regaining their balance, for them, it's all about not falling.
The Painting Cafe
- Details
- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Reviews
- Hits: 1983
In our little adventures about the city together we discover a cafe that offers you paint and canvas and for a price you can sit and paint away to your hearts content. This is in itself of no interest to me, I can paint plenty badly enough on my own without anyone watching, but she's excited. And to be truthful I'm a little interested in the social component of it all, they have various themed nights you can take advantage of, and so one afternoon off when we're wandering we stop in and decide to paint a couple of small canvases...
...checking out the shop/cafe, bad canvases everywhere adorn the walls, they're none of them good, amateurish in that grade-eight sense, representational, recognizable, but by no means aesthetic or intellectually stimulating...
...the proprietor, she's chatting with us, explaining the shop, the "Concept" to us, I ask about the paintings on the walls, they're hers, I'm flabbergasted, stunned, it doesn't add up, thankfully for once in my life I've exercised some slight discretion and bit my tongue...
The proprietor, she's beautiful, articulate, yet somehow she doesn't get it...it's like she's never visited a gallery in her life, or saw a reasonably good painting...she paints, inane things, without judgement or censure, and judges each one a masterpiece, or if not a masterpiece certainly worthy of displaying...I almost want to ask if they're for sale, but that would be cruel, the ass-hole in me speaking, no need for that...
...she has no internal Monologue, and while that internal critic, it can be damning, sometimes, well, sometimes you might just want to listen to it. I'm almost jealous. I paint, badly, but I know it, and of those few paintings I've tried most are embarrassments to be laughed at and apologized for when visiting family members & friends...that said, not ALL were bad, just most...
...but that might not be her theory, what she wants to do is to inspire others to paint, the "If I can than so can you" mentality, she's baring it all, it's art as process, without judgement, focusing on the communal nature and enjoyable act of creation. And indeed most people will turn up similar results, and so by setting a low bar everyone that comes here will judge themselves kindly...
Van Gogh, believe it or not, painted a lot of shitty paintings before he became Van Gogh. An awful lot. But he knew. Those paintings don't survive, same with Picasso, every major artist, they had to put out the bad paintings before they got to the good ones. You imagine they knew, tried and tried again, they had to have known or they wouldn't have grown...
...her boyfriend, handsome, exceptionally well dressed with a bright red wankerchief in his breast pocket, it all works except for the kerchief, which screams "Wanker", the tell, as they say in Poker, comes in, they sit, we gather our paints and begin...
She needs to harmonize the colors of the paints. This grab whatever color you want, it's great for professionals, but for me, well, my inability to draw is trumped by my inability to mix and blend colors. A harmonized color palette - eg: Van Gogh (the colors he frequently used) would be useful for incompetents like me to get the results we want. Better results, anyways, the problem with the inner critic is it knows damned well how everything holds up and it's seldom kind...
The Italian Girl, she's excited, fills her paper plate with colors, tells me "I'm going to paint a butterfly!", she's kinda got that crazy look in her eyes, reminds me of when the daughter was around 4 years old she told me about the little man that lived in her head and told her things and for a long while I was afraid she might have a little too much of her mom in her, she didn't, it turned out, she later told me she was merely teasing me, winding me up, and I breathed a big sigh of relief, but the Italian Girl, she's not joking or winding me up, she's painting a butterfly...
I try a portrait. Doesn't work, inner critic, good shape, bad colors, details, blame the subject. Her butterfly, it's fine, she's excited, she tells me: "Next time I paint a FISH!'" and I have to laugh, each of our paintings, they're lame, mine the worst of the two, hers, exactly what she wanted, she's enchanting in her simplicity...
She enjoys it, I'll stock up on Dollarama paint and canvases, there will be amusing afternoons sitting on the balcony painting, there's no excuse, really, for my hideous absence of talent, given the low cost of supplies, no need for the best of materials when you don't have the skills, it's a shitty workman that blames his tools...
In the meantime her butterfly hangs on my wall, she can't take it home, her boyfriend would chasten her for spending money at a painting cafe and so I have to live with it until she finds a way to smuggle it into her house, apt punishment for the inner critic...
Sunday Skate
- Details
- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Miscellany
- Hits: 2309
Her boyfriend's bought a pair of skates, wants to come along, and so we get together on Sunday.
The arena, it's the busiest we've seen any of the arena's, the boyfriend's brought along another Italian couple, recent immigrants, they don't have skates, and so will just sit on the bleachers and coach him.
His skates, brand new, expensive hockey skates. Hers, used figure skates, $40 for the pair, mine, used mens vintage skates, $60, his, probably $250. You need to have the best when you're learning something new...
He rejects all offers to help him, insists upon holding onto the boards, circling the rink in small steps, "Finding his balance", she and I, we skate away, I'm helping her, raise her feet, skate backwards, he passes us on the boards, slips and falls, his pride is injured, she's to blame, she falls onto the boards and follows him around the rink...
***
Sunday, busy, everywhere the immigrant parents are launching their little children onto the ice from penalty boxes like little unbalanced missiles or projectiles that careen, spin, stumbling, falling, and occasionally finding their legs, perhaps 30 of them sprawled out upon the ice, veering madly past you, it's an obstacle course at 15 and 20 miles an hour, bundled up in coats, helmets, pads, the senior skaters swerve and dodge around them with grace, with me it's all luck...her boyfriend, he's cursing every little one, "They should do something about this...", he grumbles, like every new driver on the road everyone else is to blame, his friends, in the bleachers, they're cheering him on with waves and thumbs-up...it's a miracle the ice isn't stained with the dismembered entrails and fingers of the little novices,...
There's another one, Kevin Spacey, my age, looks like Kevin Spacey, but better looking, way better than me, I'd thought I was doing all right, but watching him I realize he's about as far above me as I'm above the Italian Girl, a full order of magnitude, he's skating around the rink, dodging me, backwards, crossover steps, stops, he's good. He swerves to avoid me and smiles, that knowing smile, the forgiveness of idiots, he's got it all, I gotta like him...he's upped my game...
***
The boyfriend, after an hour and a half, we're all done. With the other Italian couple they charge me with the task of finding dinner. I inquire about price, her boyfriend, he waves expansively, price is no object, he only wants value...he's happy to pay for value, big portions, that's his idea of value, or truffles, and I suppress my urge to suggest that value can be found in atmosphere, service, and company, don't want to appear rude...
...we start at Farm. she's been, she likes, they look at the menu, hum and haw, decide against, they don't want to sit at the bar...
...from her to Model Milk, she's never been, she likes, they *(her boyfriend and guests) look at the menu and hum and haw, they don't like the set menu...
We walk down 17th Avenue, looking at menu's all the way, at "The Living Room" we stop, I haven't been in a while, it's still good I hear, they don't like the prices, it's expensive for sure...he begins again to tell me about value...quality...he's not cheap, he just wants bang for his buck...
That's not it. She'd told me earlier that he'd forbidden her from attending a half day workshop, something that interested her, $30, "Too Expensive", he's cheap, a miser, and this cheapness strongly suggests a poverty of spirit and imagination. Still, he's her boyfriend, I have to be kind...
Onward, until finally we stop at the Ship and Anchor...
Here we settle. A round of drinks, him, talking to his guests, me to her, until we order and the food arrives.
The other Italian Couple, I don't know their names, don't remember, she asked for no onion on her burger, it's fine in the salad, only she doesn't like in her burger...when she inspects her burger she discovers onion, flags the waiter, sends it back...
...the replacement burger, served with the waiter uttering the "No Onion", has onion as well, she flags the waiter and sends it back, with a large piece of her mind to accompany the burger...
...it's absurd, she doesn't like onion, could just pluck it off the burger and eat it, but instead sends it back every time, ...I'm annoyed...
I step outside for a cigarette, the standard smokers, one, a native, selling his artwork, the other a street "Magician" showing off his tricks. They're pretty bad, I give him $5 nonetheless to go away, another patron of the Ship shows up to give him $20 to show him how it was done, I'm not that drunk yet...
They've seen me, outside chatting, ask what's up, I explain, offer the boyfriend a cigarette so he can go out and see for himself, he refuses, explains he can't smoke...when he was a child...his mother...smoked...cigarettes...butts...in a little room...my eyes are rolling back in my head, it's far more traumatic listening to his retelling of it than his childhood could ever have been...
...sneak up to the bar, pay the bill, apologize profusely to the waiter, excuse myself and leave, disappear, the skating thing, it's probably better if it's just me and her, by the end of the week my patience for Italians is worn too thin...
After Hours
- Details
- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Miscellany
- Hits: 2541
Saturday evening, we're done work early, the Nephew suggests Rio, Latin bar in downtown Calgary. We meet there - the clientele, a mixture of young and old, ages anywhere between 18 and 65...the ladies outfits, well, elegant to whorehouse madame. The men, if you saw "The Big Lebowski", imagine a hundred Jesus Quintana's suggestively licking their bowling balls, a dozen of "The Most Interesting Men in the World" from Dos Equis, and a half dozen gangsta's and you're there.
It's not that interesting, not our scene, the Nephew goes home to play his PS4, his old roomate drops by for a drink, but this isn't where we wanna be...
***
From here to the gay bar, but this has been old and boring for a while. I'm being followed around by the 70 year old hipster librarian, we've chatted in the past, clearly he's trying to pick me up and I try and keep it on the friendly-not-interested page, tonight he's upped his game, wearing an old-school 70's black leather vest that makes him look like a geriatric BDSM queen, and dragging in tow a late 30's, surprisingly not unattractive girl...I'm not figuring it out, is he trying to set me up with his granddaughter? Every time I turn around they're there, catching my eye...weird.
***
A***** wants to go grab some food. I'm not interested, not tonight, but driving him home I follow a lead to a rumored new after-hours club in Calgary.
We find it, 2nd floor, music booming out the door, a security guard downstairs, pass, upstairs, another 2 guards, $20 cover, 2 wristbands, and we're in.
It's projecting the feel of a rave, obviously brand new, good techno/electronica house music, like what you'd get at the hi-fi, it's not sooo busy yet and so we walk around...
A***** is amazed, he's been pestering me about an after hours club since we started hanging out, I didn't know of any, he's thinking this is a secret I've been keeping from him, that I've known about it and didn't share, I explain, no, it's brand new...heard about it from C*****, the party facilitator at the crack-house, he remembers...
...the club, brand new, white walls that disappear into the fog, laser machines trace screensavers onto the fog, yellow lasers, expensive...the laminate floors are still pale with the dust from the drywall, you can still smell the paint, laid out in a circle around the inner stairwell, in the back, semi-discreet areas with leather sofa's curtained off from the rest of the club ... "Is it a sex-club...?" he asks hopefully, I hate to disappoint, "Probably not...", he really should learn to use Google...
The bar, one bar, selling soft drinks, bottled water, candy bars, lollipops and chewing gum. Prices, high, but what you'd expect, it's all they're selling, still, the average party goer couldn't be expected to spend more than $20 an evening on these treats...
...walking round the circle we come to the front of the stage, perhaps 60 people gathered, more are always coming in, a small Chinese man with a leather messenger bag is circling the club, he palms something to another guy, I know this gesture, the quick handshake...
...another, less well dressed, Caucasian in a hoody, sniffles, he catches your eye meaningfully, his nose twitches, he nods, you look away, and he continues to circle the club, making significant eye contact and twitching his nose with everyone he can, less a twitch than a nervous tic, clearly he's using a little too much of his own product...
We sit on a leather sofa, take off our jackets, watch the dancing. To the left are about a dozen Chinese or Asian people, aged mid 40's to late 60's, none of them apparently high, in front of us another sofa, 4 beautiful Asian woman perhaps early 30's in fashionable dresses, bared shoulders exposing colorful tattoos, watching them, none are high...
We're at a loss...can't read this room, more party goers arrive, we sit and discuss, quietly, what we think is going on,...
"Are they prostitutes?" he asks me hopefully. I don't know, but I recommend he doesn't ask...a drunk Alberta raver, musclebound and in toque, his dancing, personal space, takes up half the dance floor, he's like a baboon, arms outstretched, middle finger extended towards anyone, everyone, he thinks he's being funny, staggers off the floor, tries to talk to the Asian girls, an elderly Chinese man comes and shoos him away...
The Asians, the core dozen, they're inscrutable, impermeable, they talk to no one but each other, they're dancing, a bit, some are just watching, but the age of them, the way their dressed, they look more like a posse of foreign investors come to check on their property...
We're being watched. One walks over, perhaps 65 years old, stands in front of me, watches me, looks me up and down, clearly I'm not even slightly high or drunk and he's wondering what I'm doing here, he's confrontational in his fashion, but I know better, he's got friends...
They're thinking I'm an undercover cop...or, maybe, just making sure I'm not competing with their distributors...
More people arriving, always, errant homeless people with their wristbands, people so sketchy they wouldn't get served in a Tim Horton's, a group of 4 Russians with shaved heads, 3 in bad Adidas tracksuits, one in an expensive double breasted suit, they keep to themselves. A group of 4 East Indians, sitting together on another bench, they're trying to figure it out as well, ... it's a world within a world, all the cokeheads and addicts gathering to party the night away,..
Despite the lights, the fog, the great music, this is clearly not a rave. A rave doesn't need 6 big security guards, and a rave doesn't have such a cross-section of people...
Me and A*****, we're at a loss, this is something completely new, we're doing the math, the cover, the bar, they don't begin to cover the costs of the club...
Numbered Company, a share on the distributed profits? Commission? Employees? It's an entirely new thing to me...
There are a few drunk after-hours people, a few high on MDMA, but the rest of the party, well, it's a coke party for sure, the distributors are obvious, but I'm wondering as to how long this business model can run...A*****'s thinking it will be closed in a week or two, I'm not so sure...
But you can feel it, there's no love here at all, it's a dangerous place, and I'm pretty certain the white painted walls and pale laminate floors will soon be showing off some more vivid colors.
Outside, 4:00 AM when we leave and the party's just getting started..., A police van, officer lightly quizzing the doorman, he knows, you can tell, he's laughing out loud but playing along, it's incredible.
Page 548 of 878