day of the living dead

I saw her. The woman whose lover I kissed. She was one of the seductress zombies behind the art gallery with a bloody hand print on her face. She didn’t notice me. I was a fish, swimming in the sea of tourists’ lights.

I haven’t had much time to read these days, but I’ve been pleasantly surprised by Vanity Fair and by a Tasmanian author. Richard Flanagan’s Gould’s book of Fish made me float three inches off ground. At the same time, Henry Porter’s Blair’s Big Brother Legacy instills hope that not everyone in the media has sold their souls to conservative Satans.

robots and beautiful people

Sharad and I are in the West Coast Life section of the Vancouver Sun newspaper today. After having martinis and bland chewy calamari at the top of Vancouver Revolving Restaurant, we went to a more boisterous Japanese izakaya in Gastown where the floor manager is rude and need to learn customer service in English. With that aside, all the male servers and bartenders and not to mention Sharad’s lone female server named Jina are all eye candies. It made us feel beautiful being in the company of good looking people. Well, this is until we saw our picture today. Man, how can a photographer take so many pictures and still make us look bad. Vancouver Sun approached us to have our pictures taken while we were drinking at the bar. We agreed, because we got free food, and heck, it was something to do. But, he gave us ridiculous instructions on how to pose that Sharad and I laughed our heads off between takes, and I guess during the shots. Well, our two seconds in fame captured us with double chin, bad hair and drunk with sake (for future reference to restaurant critic Mia Stainsby, it is spelled SAKE, not saki).

With our heads cloudy from martinis and sake, we went to Vancouver’s first sky train party. It was fun running from cart to cart holding hands with robots of all make. The sky train police were baffled and tried to restrain us. We performed Mr. Roboto to appease them. Sadly, they had no sense of humour and called the real big boys. By the time we got to New West stop, cops were waiting for us. The beauty about the sky train party was that it was legal, we weren’t breaking any laws. Unlike, the sky train cops, the Vancouver cops were chilled and just reminded us that body surfing was not such a good idea in a train full of robots. We smiled. Blew them robot kisses. And off we went.

North Van

The rain killed my plan to go to Bowen Island. Instead, I hopped on the sea bus and sat in a café in Lonsdale Quaye reading a book. North Van is a wonderful place ten minutes from downtown Vancouver. I like the empty streets and the small cluster of restaurants close to the harbour. I like the way the streets are not lined with panhandlers. I understand the sociological reasons behind people living on the street. Just sometimes, I wish I can wait for the bus on Broadway and Commercial and not be asked if I have change. I foresee some of the emails I will receive tomorrow regarding my lack of compassion. But sometimes, I need to escape from reality and pretend that the sidewalks are filled with petunias and dahlias.

I walked around the old pier, watched the sunset and was reminded of my childhood fascination with rust. One day I’ll tell you about my third once removed cousin and his near death experience with tetanus.

Last Thursday was my only day off for the next 21 days. It also marked my one month of being single. So, I put on my rain coat, inhaled the ocean breeze and embraced the old familiar feeling of oneness.

The sun comes up and I start again

A month of heat and sun makes me welcome the rain. I’ve forgotten why I have a blog. Tonight, I remember—to improve my writing and to keep in contact with friends. Lately, there’s been less writing, less reading, and more starring at spaces. Spaces of what could have been, would have been, things that should have been said. I’m not a frequent visitor of loss spaces, of wanting to return to the past and correct my words, but there are times when the present could only make sense by unraveling the past.

This last week have been full of activities: lunches with Geret, breakfast with Hitomi, dinner with Ariel, a night with Anya and the “Japan Gang,” feeling light as smoke and touching the ground again by filling my belly with insanely delicious poutine at Fritz at four in the morning, a night of talking about strippers with the boys, and not being able to get in to their local stripper bar on Granville. I find I’m no longer shock that Canadian men frequent such establishments, that I’d be curious enough to even check it out and find out what they’re about. Dinner again with Berlene, her husband, and her friends. All these plus a six day work week.

This Thursday, I’m jumping on the ferry to Bowen Island with Sharad. His time in Vancouver is coming to an end, and soon, I’ll be without a roommate to explore Vancouver. Another great roommate with a departure date.

It’s almost four. I’m waiting for the sun to come up. Other than drunken nights in Tokyo, waiting for the train to start running again, it had been years since I stayed up for the sunrise. I miss Kildonan Park, my roller blades, the pink and tangerine colored horizon over the Red.

Friday night raucous