Chapter 45: King Poo
Dear Reader: If you want to find out what King Poo refers to, I'm sorry, but you'll just have to read on!
Right now, I am on a plane to New York, feeling sad at leaving my family and friends in Vancouver, but happy to be going to see one of my very most exhaulted tip-top bestest friends in the world, Mr Lance Berman. I just woke after deciding that a catatonic nap was the only possible response to being served a microwaved “cheese pizza” which had congealed and fused with its paper serving bag. (I am flying on Continental, ugh.)
Looking out my little window in the bright sunshine I can see below me a giant patchwork of square and rectangular fields, some brown, some light green, some gold, and some so dark as to be almost black. The earth is flat, flat, flat and the patchwork of fields stretches to the far horizon without end. There is one road, heading straight to the edge of the earth. I wonder who lives below.
It’s now 10 minutes later, and I’ve just looked out the window again, and if by magic – a 500km hour high-in-the-sky magic to be sure – below there are now only dark green forests and crazy swirls and blotches of black lakes. No sign of man. It is beautiful. Pristine. Hallelujah! Bring it on! Bring back the forests!
A party: I was back in Vancouver partly for the 90th birthday celebrations of Hugh, my momma’s man. The day of the party, Momma and Hugh were getting quite sketchy and much whisky was being drunk as a stress remedy - I opted for Xanax instead – but in the end the event went off beautifully. My momma gave a touching speech, and then caused raucous hilarity when she stopped mid-stream, looked at Hugh beside her, prodded him and asked loudly in a sternly aggrieved tone of voice “Are you listening to me?”
She’s beautiful, my mother, 78 years old. Here’s a picture of her, looking totally radiant in a dress that I made her to buy. One good thing about having a gay son/brother/friend is that at least we can help with sartorial advice.
A sad man: At dinner, I was seated next to a man that my mother warned me was “very boring”. But actually he looked kind of intriguing to me, in a student-of-my-fellow- man anthropological sort of way. Very old school English, wearing a beige safari suit, and a little grey Hitler-style moustache. I asked if he had children. “Yes” he said. “Four of them. They come with hand outstretched and they disdain their father.”
Yikes I thought, I’ve got a tricky one here. I marshaled my charm. “Grandchildren?” I asked.
He tried and muttered and counted on his fingers but then admitted that he couldn’t remember how many grandchildren he had. And then he volunteered “My first son is very hard working, yes, very hard working. The second son, I fear, is not the marrying kind. He is, you see, a ho-mo-SEX-you-al.” He stretched out the syllables and then looked at me gravely over his half-moon glasses as though he’d just confessed that he had cancer or something. “He’s very preachy about it.”
“Well, so am I,” sayeth yours truly. “And perhaps your son is preachy because he feels you don’t accept him, don’t love him as he is.”
I thought Senor Safari Suit was going to choke on his flan. He looked EXACTLY like John Cleese in Faulty Towers, caught out in some horrible faux pas. He blanched, then I had to endure a long backpeddling ramble about some sterling mentor-teacher that Senor Safari Suit had whilst a young man, who was probably a homosexual but since the mentor-teacher never tried anything "untowards" he was therefore a capital fellow. The poor man!
A quote from Dean Martin: Hugh is bloody amazing; my brother and I call him the walking, talking, 90-year old human encyclopedia. He’s got perfect recall, and seems never to have forgotten anything he's ever learned. He’s almost totally blind, and so I volunteered to drive him to the liquor store for the requisite provisioning trip prior to his birthday celebration. Despite being blind he knew exactly where everything was, the exact location of each brand of whiskey, brandy, and beer. Each shelf wherein resided a certain vintage of South African red wine, or BC White. Hugh’s capacity for drink is prodigious, and yet I’ve never seen him drunk. Shopping for a birthday card for Hugh, found a great one with a quote from Dean Martin. “You’re not drunk if you can lie on the floor without holding on.”
A poetic image: I saw an image that will stay in my mind’s eye forever. I was at English Bay beach in the late afternoon. The sun was low over the ocean. A white gull flew low overhead, against the backdrop of the bluest sky ever. Then, all of a sudden, the underside of its wings caught the setting sun in a way that they started to fluoresce a beautiful rose, so that it looked like the gull was being borne aloft on wings of pink fire.
An important lesson that I never seem to learn: When I arrived back in Vancouver after a year’s absence I plugged in my old pre-pay Fido mobile phone and was astounded that it picked up a line, and could receive calls as well. But I couldn’t get the fucker to send a text message, so in an irritated fury I drove down to the local mall and marched down to the Fido kiosk, and demanded that my problem be fixed. It turns out that I had had a ghost number – which could receive and make calls including international and all at no charge. Fido had no record of my number or these calls. Or at least they didn't until I felt compelled to bring it to their attention! How many times in life do I have to learn the lesson to not tamper with Wot Ain't Too Broke in order for it to sink in?
Ain't nuttin' better than a blackberry: Momma, Hugh, Ruth and I went to Yellow Point on Vancouver for a few days R and R. It’s beautiful and wild there, arbutus trees with peeling orange bark, golden burned grasses, tall fir trees, sun sparkling on the water. Bunny rabbits everywhere, not at all shy, and deer, with little ones, too. Ruth and I went picking blackberries from the brambles. There is nothing so delicious as a sun-warmed blackberry fresh from the vine, worth all the scratches. We went kayaking and biking and hung out on the rocky beach (see picture of me and the beautiful Ruth).
At a total loss for words about King Poo: And we also saw, nailed to a tree, one of the all time great signs of the world. I really don't know what to write about this sign. I am at a total loss for words, so I'm just gonna let the picture speak for itself.
My insatiable cat: My little grey Russian Blue is so sweet. She comes meowing at me, with her one overly long fang, making her look somehow curiously louche, as though she's just drunk four feline martinis. She headbutts my hand for petting, then twist her head around almost 360 degrees like an owl in an effort to ensure that my fingers massages all the right places. She is insatiable.
What are you good at? A few nights before I left Vancouver, Momma and I had my best friend Ruth and her parents over for dinner. It is always easy and delightful fun when we all get together, kind of an extended family sort of thing, but without the family stresses. We always laugh. We sat in the garden eating salads, cold cuts and pate, and a sinful lemon and whipped cream pie made by Ruth’s mom. I don’t know why but I suggested that we all play a little game where we take turns saying something we think we are good at. Here’s the results, in order:
Ruth: “I am good at saying things in a good way. Communicating. Except with my partner.”
Martin (my brother): “Making people laugh.” (This is entirely true; he’s hilarious. When Ruth’s mom said that if she were incapacitated, she wanted to be left alone in her room and not wheeled around in a wheelchair, with people coming up to her poking her and saying “Gosh, you look great!” my brother replied “No problem, Liz. We’ll just put you in a burka.”)
John (Ruth’s dad): “I am good with animals. And tutoring.” (John revealed that he was volunteering to help young school students became aces with fractions.)
Hugh: “I am good at being right, for the right reason.” (This was said with just a smidgen more humility than it sounds.)
Me: “Two things. I am good at writing. And also at friendship, I think.”
Liz: (Ruth’s mom): “Expressing my mind, wouldn’t you say, John?” (“Sure” he replied evenly. “And the silent treatment!” piped up Ruth.)
Mum: “I am really good at cleaning bathrooms.” After general laughter my mammasita says “And I’m good with little children and I’m kind to my fellow man. Unless he happens to be a telephone marketing sales person, calling during dinner time.” Laughter, laughter, laughter.
Thanks to Ruth, Kerry, Mark C, Mark D, Joss, Sylvain, David, Borja, Tim, Jenz and Scott for the friendship in Vancouver. And to my brother Martin and Momma above all. You draw me to Vancouver, again and again.
Anyway, must go. Landing soon in The Big Apple. Though the weather forecast indicates it should more appropriately be called The Big Sweat.
Right now, I am on a plane to New York, feeling sad at leaving my family and friends in Vancouver, but happy to be going to see one of my very most exhaulted tip-top bestest friends in the world, Mr Lance Berman. I just woke after deciding that a catatonic nap was the only possible response to being served a microwaved “cheese pizza” which had congealed and fused with its paper serving bag. (I am flying on Continental, ugh.)
Looking out my little window in the bright sunshine I can see below me a giant patchwork of square and rectangular fields, some brown, some light green, some gold, and some so dark as to be almost black. The earth is flat, flat, flat and the patchwork of fields stretches to the far horizon without end. There is one road, heading straight to the edge of the earth. I wonder who lives below.
It’s now 10 minutes later, and I’ve just looked out the window again, and if by magic – a 500km hour high-in-the-sky magic to be sure – below there are now only dark green forests and crazy swirls and blotches of black lakes. No sign of man. It is beautiful. Pristine. Hallelujah! Bring it on! Bring back the forests!
A party: I was back in Vancouver partly for the 90th birthday celebrations of Hugh, my momma’s man. The day of the party, Momma and Hugh were getting quite sketchy and much whisky was being drunk as a stress remedy - I opted for Xanax instead – but in the end the event went off beautifully. My momma gave a touching speech, and then caused raucous hilarity when she stopped mid-stream, looked at Hugh beside her, prodded him and asked loudly in a sternly aggrieved tone of voice “Are you listening to me?”She’s beautiful, my mother, 78 years old. Here’s a picture of her, looking totally radiant in a dress that I made her to buy. One good thing about having a gay son/brother/friend is that at least we can help with sartorial advice.
A sad man: At dinner, I was seated next to a man that my mother warned me was “very boring”. But actually he looked kind of intriguing to me, in a student-of-my-fellow- man anthropological sort of way. Very old school English, wearing a beige safari suit, and a little grey Hitler-style moustache. I asked if he had children. “Yes” he said. “Four of them. They come with hand outstretched and they disdain their father.”
Yikes I thought, I’ve got a tricky one here. I marshaled my charm. “Grandchildren?” I asked.
He tried and muttered and counted on his fingers but then admitted that he couldn’t remember how many grandchildren he had. And then he volunteered “My first son is very hard working, yes, very hard working. The second son, I fear, is not the marrying kind. He is, you see, a ho-mo-SEX-you-al.” He stretched out the syllables and then looked at me gravely over his half-moon glasses as though he’d just confessed that he had cancer or something. “He’s very preachy about it.”
“Well, so am I,” sayeth yours truly. “And perhaps your son is preachy because he feels you don’t accept him, don’t love him as he is.”
I thought Senor Safari Suit was going to choke on his flan. He looked EXACTLY like John Cleese in Faulty Towers, caught out in some horrible faux pas. He blanched, then I had to endure a long backpeddling ramble about some sterling mentor-teacher that Senor Safari Suit had whilst a young man, who was probably a homosexual but since the mentor-teacher never tried anything "untowards" he was therefore a capital fellow. The poor man!
A quote from Dean Martin: Hugh is bloody amazing; my brother and I call him the walking, talking, 90-year old human encyclopedia. He’s got perfect recall, and seems never to have forgotten anything he's ever learned. He’s almost totally blind, and so I volunteered to drive him to the liquor store for the requisite provisioning trip prior to his birthday celebration. Despite being blind he knew exactly where everything was, the exact location of each brand of whiskey, brandy, and beer. Each shelf wherein resided a certain vintage of South African red wine, or BC White. Hugh’s capacity for drink is prodigious, and yet I’ve never seen him drunk. Shopping for a birthday card for Hugh, found a great one with a quote from Dean Martin. “You’re not drunk if you can lie on the floor without holding on.”
A poetic image: I saw an image that will stay in my mind’s eye forever. I was at English Bay beach in the late afternoon. The sun was low over the ocean. A white gull flew low overhead, against the backdrop of the bluest sky ever. Then, all of a sudden, the underside of its wings caught the setting sun in a way that they started to fluoresce a beautiful rose, so that it looked like the gull was being borne aloft on wings of pink fire.
An important lesson that I never seem to learn: When I arrived back in Vancouver after a year’s absence I plugged in my old pre-pay Fido mobile phone and was astounded that it picked up a line, and could receive calls as well. But I couldn’t get the fucker to send a text message, so in an irritated fury I drove down to the local mall and marched down to the Fido kiosk, and demanded that my problem be fixed. It turns out that I had had a ghost number – which could receive and make calls including international and all at no charge. Fido had no record of my number or these calls. Or at least they didn't until I felt compelled to bring it to their attention! How many times in life do I have to learn the lesson to not tamper with Wot Ain't Too Broke in order for it to sink in?
Ain't nuttin' better than a blackberry: Momma, Hugh, Ruth and I went to Yellow Point on Vancouver for a few days R and R. It’s beautiful and wild there, arbutus trees with peeling orange bark, golden burned grasses, tall fir trees, sun sparkling on the water. Bunny rabbits everywhere, not at all shy, and deer, with little ones, too. Ruth and I went picking blackberries from the brambles. There is nothing so delicious as a sun-warmed blackberry fresh from the vine, worth all the scratches. We went kayaking and biking and hung out on the rocky beach (see picture of me and the beautiful Ruth).
At a total loss for words about King Poo: And we also saw, nailed to a tree, one of the all time great signs of the world. I really don't know what to write about this sign. I am at a total loss for words, so I'm just gonna let the picture speak for itself.My insatiable cat: My little grey Russian Blue is so sweet. She comes meowing at me, with her one overly long fang, making her look somehow curiously louche, as though she's just drunk four feline martinis. She headbutts my hand for petting, then twist her head around almost 360 degrees like an owl in an effort to ensure that my fingers massages all the right places. She is insatiable.
What are you good at? A few nights before I left Vancouver, Momma and I had my best friend Ruth and her parents over for dinner. It is always easy and delightful fun when we all get together, kind of an extended family sort of thing, but without the family stresses. We always laugh. We sat in the garden eating salads, cold cuts and pate, and a sinful lemon and whipped cream pie made by Ruth’s mom. I don’t know why but I suggested that we all play a little game where we take turns saying something we think we are good at. Here’s the results, in order:
Ruth: “I am good at saying things in a good way. Communicating. Except with my partner.”
Martin (my brother): “Making people laugh.” (This is entirely true; he’s hilarious. When Ruth’s mom said that if she were incapacitated, she wanted to be left alone in her room and not wheeled around in a wheelchair, with people coming up to her poking her and saying “Gosh, you look great!” my brother replied “No problem, Liz. We’ll just put you in a burka.”)
John (Ruth’s dad): “I am good with animals. And tutoring.” (John revealed that he was volunteering to help young school students became aces with fractions.)
Hugh: “I am good at being right, for the right reason.” (This was said with just a smidgen more humility than it sounds.)
Me: “Two things. I am good at writing. And also at friendship, I think.”
Liz: (Ruth’s mom): “Expressing my mind, wouldn’t you say, John?” (“Sure” he replied evenly. “And the silent treatment!” piped up Ruth.)
Mum: “I am really good at cleaning bathrooms.” After general laughter my mammasita says “And I’m good with little children and I’m kind to my fellow man. Unless he happens to be a telephone marketing sales person, calling during dinner time.” Laughter, laughter, laughter.
Thanks to Ruth, Kerry, Mark C, Mark D, Joss, Sylvain, David, Borja, Tim, Jenz and Scott for the friendship in Vancouver. And to my brother Martin and Momma above all. You draw me to Vancouver, again and again.
Anyway, must go. Landing soon in The Big Apple. Though the weather forecast indicates it should more appropriately be called The Big Sweat.
posted by Peter at 10:12 AM
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