COUCH SURFER

Yesterday when I came home from work, my neighbour called out my name from the balcony. I had only been home from work for a couple of minutes; I was sitting on the arm of my couch, shirtless and smoking.
“I got broken into last night,” she said. “Did you hear anything?”
I looked at her shattered sliding door. It looked lethal; like someone had had a riot.
“No,” I said, in disbelief. “I didn’t hear a thing.”
It was unnerving that someone had done that right next to my sleeping head. I had been up until about ten, closing my sliding glass doors shortly before then, and as an after thought, closed my blinds. I couldn’t help but wonder if the perpetrators had looked into my apartment to see if anyone was there. It sent shivers down my spine.
I called Dirk who was doing volunteer work. I told him what had gone down and said I needed a beer. I hadn’t had a drink since Saturday and was enjoying the sobriety, but really wanted a beer to calm my nerves.
Ollie was at the bar. “They’ve got cops on the roof of the building behind The Shop. They’re doing surveillance work on the alley. I had to call Upchuck and warn him not to smoke his joints out there so he doesn’t get busted.”
Upchuck showed up not long after. “Everyone has been warning me about the under cover cops on the roof,” he said. “My reputation must precede me.”
Ollie was joined by this Young Turk who was all over him. I just assumed he was some guy he had started dating from the way they were hanging off of each other. They disappeared into the smoking room together, leaving Dirk and I alone with Upchuck. When Ollie returned, he said goodbye to his fling and said, “We’re going to smoke a joint.”
“Where? In the alley?” I asked.
“No. At my place. Upchuck is coming with me.”
“I want to smoke a joint!”
“Come join us.”
“I can’t. Dirk’s bike is at my place and he’s going to work.”
“Call me later.”
The mere mention of the word “joint” had me distracted. I felt bad for Dirk, like I was cheating on him with dope. I downed my beer and we went back to my place to pick up his bike and sent him off to work. As soon as he was gone, I called Ollie to see if he and Upchuck were still partying.
“Come on over,” he said.
Ollie and Upchuck were chilling out in front of “Legally Blonde 2” when I got there. Ollie rolled me a joint and I poured myself a glass of homemade wine. We were having a good time, catching up, watching the movie when there was a knock on the door. It was Houston, Ollie’s fling.
“You’re a hot fucking man,” Houston said to Upchuck from Ollie’s arms.
“This guy moves pretty fast,” I thought.
Ollie didn’t seem to mind though. Houston didn’t let up. Even with his hand on Ollie’s leg, he kept hitting on Upchuck. It was uncomfortable but funny. Every other word out of his mouth was “Fuckin,” like someone from Surrey. Jean-Claude Van Damme came up in conversation and Houston said he had met him or seen him on the street or something.
“I was fuckin nice and everything, but I shoulda fuckin tole him his last two movies sucked.” And then he got really angry. “I should have fuckin tole him what I really fuckin thought,” he said, like Jean-Claude van Damme was the father who had betrayed him, the source of all the misery in his life.
It didn’t take long to figure out Houston was looking for a place to stay. He was high on something, bouncing around, fidgety in complete contrast to our mellow moods. While I was upstairs taking a piss Houston asked Upchuck for five bucks.
“What for?”
“Cause I don’t have any money.”
“I’m not carrying cash,” Upchuck said.
I find it weird that Ollie attracts these couch surfers. He seems to attract them, which is sad, because he’s such a great guy. It’s like there’s a line-up of people waiting to take advantage of him.
Ollie sent Houston packing for the night and Upchuck and I left shortly thereafter for a beer at The Pasture. Houston was sitting in the smoking room; he zoned right in on us. “Was Ollie at home when you left?” he asked.
I kept a zipped lip but Upchuck didn’t hesitate to tell him he was home. Three times he asked if Ollie was at home and three times Upchuck said he was. “I’m gonna drop in on him,” Houston said, and made a beeline for the door. As soon as he was out of sight, I called Ollie to warn him.
We lasted another beer before heading home. My head was spinning and I needed to get some food in me and walk the dog. Upchuck was going on about this guy Svend he met online a couple of weeks ago. They had hung out on the beach a couple of times. Svend just moved here from Paris, he’s supposed to be an investment banker or something – hot body, the whole nine yards. He’s into doctors. “I’m going to call him when I get home to see if he wants to go sea kayaking this weekend.”
The words were barely out of his mouth when who should we bump into but Svend, having coffee with another muscle stud in front of Starbucks. I was too drunk to be chatting with a stranger and just really wanted to go home. Upchuck was right, Svend is built and he was sporting a black eye. He’s obviously putting the Internet to good use and making the rounds with all the boys. I wish I were that popular. Svend was going on about his mother in North Van who was so excited that he was going to be home for dinner six nights in a row. “She hasn’t seen this much of me since I moved to Paris.”
After the allotted amount of chatting, Upchuck and I continued our walk home. “What do you think?”
“Honestly?”
“Honestly.”
“International Couch Surfer.”
“How do you mean?”
“Three cell phones in three weeks; he’s into doctors; no fixed address; depending on his mother for food. He sounds like a glamorous version of Houston.”
“I never thought of it that way.”
“Don’t get me wrong: given the opportunity, I would fuck him.”
I sometimes wish I were an International Couch Sitter – getting by on my sexual prowess and steroids. It sounds like quite the life. Why I try and take the moral high ground and actually make a living is beyond me; it doesn’t seem to take much, just a good body and anyone can have that. I would gladly sacrifice my job so I could work out. Flirting is the new “Stylist,” you can actually make a decent living at it if you try.


GarpinBC

CELEBRITY CULTHCAH

One of the things I hate most about America is the pedestal of celebrity. It seems like all anyone in America wants is some sort of notoriety they can capitalize on to get a book deal, an interview with Katie Couric, and a line of clothing. Call it low self-esteem, but I don’t care if I’m not on the guest list, or get the best table in a restaurant; as long no one buds in front of me in line, and I’m not seated near the bathroom, I’m quite content, thank you.

If there is a lowest common denominator for fame, it’s reality show fame. It’s not enough we have to watch these people make asses of themselves over the course of twenty-two episodes, but then they come back - on game shows, by getting involved with other reality show participants, and of course, by doing another reality show. If you ask me, it’s taking the whole fifteen minutes of fame thing a bit too far.

That said, I freely admit to being a fan of America’s Next Top Model, but only because I don’t care about any of the people on it, and it reaffirms everything I hate about the fashion industry. But I never thought I would admit to getting hooked on the Surreal Life. I’ve caught bits and pieces of it before on Much Music, but always turned it off after a couple of minutes in disgust. So what’s different this time? Chris Knight, better known as Peter Brady from The Brady Bunch.

Chris Knight gives hope to the rest of us pushing forty. He’s forty-seven, never been married, no children, has a great personality, and a prison body. One of the other residents in the house is that famous Calvin Klein model from the nineties, and even he was admiring Chris’s Arms.

There’s also a couple of other cool people on the show: Jane Wiedlen from The Go-Go’s, whom I have adored since high school; the first America’s Top Model, who looks so much better now that she’s gone through re-hab; Chyna, formerly of the WWF who acts like a drunk drag queen, and Mini-Me who pissed in the gym naked from his scooter in the first episode.

But I’m really only watching it or Chris Knight. I feel like a kid again, watching him on the Brady Bunch. I would love to write him a love letter, and put his poster up in my apartment. I love you Chris! Call me!

GarpinBC

TIME TO RECOUPERATE

Considering how much time I spend out in the elements with the dog, I don’t get sick very often. Usually, I’ll get a little congested, and my throat will start to tingle, to the point where I start bracing myself for a nasty cold or flu, but then it passes after a few hours. I attribute my success at avoiding colds to dressing warm, (even if my friends make fun of me), washing my hands, and a positive attitude. Last week, all my cold defenses broke down.

Whenever I get a cold I always try and trace it back to who gave it to me, like I can sue them or something. I blame this one on the guy sitting in front of me on the Southwest flight from Louisville to Chicago. He started coughing as soon as he buckled his seat belt. I wanted to stand over him and tell him, “I better not get that cold.” The coughing persisted throughout the crew introductions and take off until the woman next to him gave him her bottle of water. “Thank God!” I wanted to say.

It took a few days, but I was hacking as loud and as hard as that asshole in front of me on that damn plane. I knew I was in trouble when my sore throat lingered for more than twenty-four hours. Luckily I had the day off when the cold really hit. I figured I would get plenty of bed rest and I would be fine by the time I had to go to work the next day. No such luck.

I dragged my ass around The Shop. I didn’t want to have anything to do with food preparation; there’s nothing worse than someone coughing in an open kitchen. Still, talking wasn’t exactly good for my throat. I worked the espresso machine as much as I could, using the sprockets for support and warming myself with heat emanating from the machine. Any normal person would have gone home. But no, Alice had quit the day before and we were short staffed. I wanted to fucking die – rip someone’s head off at least.

When I wasn’t working, I was lying in bed semi-conscious, counting down the hours until the Pope died on CNN, while Hawkeye bounced off the walls. I think I was actually more interested in how CNN was filling up those hours than with the actual event. I was amazed at Christiane Amanpour’s ability to add syllables to common words; I imagined what it would be like to kiss Anderson Cooper; and I thought I was going to go nuts if someone asked, “Who’s going to make the announcement when the Pope dies?” one more time. Every expert in Catholicism said, “The Vicar of Rome.” It was in fact the Vatican’s Press Corps. The times they have changed.

It’s been almost a week, and I’m still coughing and blowing some pretty big goobers. Yesterday a customer at work asked me how I was feeling. “It just won’t go away,” I said.

“It’s just the strain that’s going around,” she said. Then she knocked on the counter and said, “And luckily I’ve managed to avoid it.”

“The rain hasn’t helped either.”

Stupid as it may sound, I thought it was kind of cute that there was a strain of cold circulating around the neighbourhood – it made me feel connected to everyone. On the flip side, I’m sure there are a few people in the nighbourhood in bed, blowing their nose between sips of Buckley’s and blaming their cold on me.


GarpinBC

BATHROOM HUMOUR

My morning started off with a homeless guy asking if he could use the bathroom. He looked like he had been dragged behind a car a couple of blocks. His face was filthy, and his clothes were torn, but at least I couldn’t smell him from where I was.

“Excuse me?” he said, from just inside the door. I was serving someone at the time and was a little distracted. “Can I use the bathroom?”

The angel on my shoulder said, “Be a good Catholic and let him used the damn bathroom – he’s harmless.” But the devil, or at least common sense said, “You’re only asking for trouble.”

Common sense won out. I’ve had to clean up shit off the bathroom floor one too many times.

“Sorry Dude, the bathroom is for customers.”

“So what am I supposed to do? Shit on the fucking street?’ he started yelling.

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re going to do in there and whatever it is, I don’t want to clean it up.”

The woman I was serving stood there frigid; Matilda looked over the top of her paper to see if this was going to get ugly. The homeless guy left cursing.

“Sorry about that,” I said to the woman I was helping.

“It’s totally understandable.”

“It’s not that I don’t sympathize with his plight, but they can really do a number on that washroom. Last week someone shoved a pen down the toilet and we had to call Roto Rooter.”

“I understand completely.”

“I don’t know why we don’t have those coin operated washrooms like every other city does. They work!”



Later this old man who lives in my building came in; I showed him how to used the laundry machine. At the time I just assumed he had been so dependent on someone to his house work for him, he never learned to do them himself. He smiles at me whenever he sees me since; but he never recognizes me at the shop. Ollie thinks he has Alzheimer’s.

“I’ll have single espresso,” he said.

Simple enough. Then he started mumbling and pointing at the display case.

“A muffin?”

He shook his head no and mumbled something else.

“Sir, I can’t hear a word you’re saying.”

Again, he pointed at the display case. This time I stuck my head in, trying to see where his finger was pointing, but he was making circles with it. I started rhyming things off, hoping it would trigger a memory of the words he was trying to say. He’d come up with espresso after all.

“I don’t know why I just can’t keep pointing until you find it.”

“Sir, I’m trying, I really am.”

I sighed and went to serve the next person in line while the old man just hovered in front of the display case.

“A broccoli croissant,” he said.

I wonder my smiles around the building have been cut off.



Half way through my shift someone came up to the counter and said, “I think either someone locked the key in the bathroom, or they died in there.”

I turned to Ollie and said, “Fuck I hate that bathroom.”

I got the spare key and knocked on the door a few times. No answer. I put the key in the lock and the pounded on the door one more time. “Hello?” I shouted. Still no answer. Looking away, I opened the door. It was empty.

People usually leave the key on the sink when they leave it in the bathroom. I checked for it, but it wasn’t there. I looked on the floor, the toilet, on top of the paper towel dispenser…. it was nowhere to be seen. There was a lump of wet paper towel on the rim of the sink and the light was out.

“Great, someone stole our bathroom key.” The woman waiting to use it was right behind me. “Do you want me to change the light first, or can you do what you need to do in the dark?”

“I’ll be fine.”

After she was done, Ollie went to change the light bulb. “I found the key,” he said. “You’ll never guess where it was.” I followed him to the bathroom and looked once more for the key.

“Let me guess…it’s in front of my face, right?”

Ollie nodded yes. For the life of me, I couldn’t see it.

“I give up.”

“Most people don’t look up,” he said.

The key was dangling from one of the ceiling tiles in the corner.

“Mother fuck,” I said.

“And the light was unscrewed.”

“God, I hate to think what else is stashed in here.”

Ollie swung the lid of the garbage can. Both of us looked for needles or blood stained toilet paper. There wasn’t any.

“Probably some homeless guy's revenge for not letting him use the bathroom.”




GarpinBC

GUILTY PLEASURES

On my days off I love to eat chocolate glazed donuts from Maple Leaf Bakery, drowning them with coffee and watching the Today show. The Today Show is perhaps the most destructive guilty pleasure I indulge in. I might get wired on coffee or fat from donuts, but I really feel the Today show is some how “The Man’s” way of oppressing me, the logic being, if I’m too busy drinking coffee, eating donuts, and watching TV, I won’t be paying to attention to what is really going on and doing something about it.

Watching The Today Show is something I have no control over. Every Friday I promise myself I won’t turn the channel to it – that I’ll get right out of bed and take Hawkeye out for a long walk in the park – but I never do. Instead, I ignore the dog’s attempts to get me out of bed, pacifying him with a bowl of kibble and a belly rub. When I’m ready to confront the day, I automatically turn on the television, it doesn’t matter what time of day it is; it really bugs me that I do it, but not enough to stop. The next thing I know, I’m swigging coffee and ripping Katie, Matt, Anne and Al, to shreds. Why do we love watching things that we hate?

The top story was on Steroids in baseball. I wish Matt Lauer had been as aggressive in his interview with this nobody baseball commissioner as he had been on say…the Bush administration with the war in Iraq, or maybe Enron, or things that really matter. I will give him credit for reminding the commissioner that if he or someone else in a high profile position and was repeated caught possessing and consuming an illegal substance, he would lose that position.

It’s all such a load of crap. I love baseball. The summer Mark McGuire and Sammy Sosa was an amazing season, but you had to be a moron not to know both of them were on something. Hello? Are people so in the dark about performance enhancers they’ve forgotten what a normal human being looks like? Maybe because steroids are so prevalent in the gay community I’m jaded about “good” bodies; I just automatically assume they came out of a bottle or were injected. It just goes to show, anything is acceptable if it is under the umbrella of professional sports: rape, assault, and possession. If you can throw a ball, or shoot a puck into the neck, the Fraternity of Pricks is there to protect you.

Next, there was an interview with Donald Rumsfeld- AKA: Death Incarnate. How the hell is it I can’t get a job in a call center and this guy is running the Pentagon? When questioned on efforts to catch Abu Musab al-Zarqawi , leader of the Iraqi insurgency he said, “It’s hard.” When asked if the war is breeding terrorists, he responded with, “We don’t know how many of these terrorist schools are out there – they’re secret. “ On catching bin Laden: “We’re on it. You either have him or you don’t. We don’t.” Why not put Chief Wiggum in charge of the war, at least he knows when to ask for help.

From there the Today show began to resemble Entertainment Tonight and Access Hollywood. Katie Couric did a story on women writing marriage proposals to Scott Peterson in jail. And I thought I was desperate. And there was a story on someone putting a lean on Michael Jackson’s Neverland Estate. As much as I hate Michael Jackson, I can’t figure out why everyone is so determined to prove that he’s poor. He owns the fucking Beatles catalogue, not to mention his own; something tells me he’s not doing poorly. Everyone misses a bill now and then.

I cut myself off after the story about the attempt to kidnap David Letterman’s son and nanny. I’m a really big fan of David Letterman; he’s always struck me as a humble guy in awe of his own accomplishments. That’s why it’s so shocking to learn he’s a psycho magnet. I had completely forgot about his stalker in the Eighties who ended up in jail, then an institution, and then finally killed herself in the Nineties. That has to weigh on his mind.

And there you have it. Instead of watching Canadian news and learning more about the Air India trial or what is going on in BC, I was engrossed in the lifestyles of the rich and famous which have little or no impact on my own.



GarpinBC

MY OWN PRIVATE TYRA

There was a twenty-minute gap between our first and second customer this morning. It’s unsettling when that happens. I was done the dishes and the place was pretty clean and I hate just standing there. I wad dying to talk about the Air India verdict with Peggy but thought it best to let her bring it up. The news depresses Peggy; the only news coverage she follows is the Tour de France.

I was dying to tell someone how frustrated I am with the Canadian Justice System. How it’s really starting to look like a Crown Attorney can’t convict a case unless it’s in the defense of the government. Or how a judge could decide that every government witness lacked credibility! Is there something we’re not being told? Had Canada’s safety been threatened if the judge convicted. What the fuck is going on in chambers? And if that wasn’t bad enough, not only did Robert Blake get off for killing his wife, Congress approved drilling for oil in the Alaskan Federal Reserves.

So instead I asked her if she had seen America’s Next Top Model?

“You watch that show?” she asked.

“Sometimes.”

“I just assumed that wasn’t your cup of tea.”

“It is and isn’t. But Entertainment Tonight had a preview of one of the contestants passing out, so I had to watch it. I even stuffed my face with a Canadian Maple from Tim Horton’s while it was on.”

“What were you doing watching Entertainment Tonight?”

“I was surfing.”

“So what happened?”

“Of course it was at the end of the show. Rebecca, the girl who passed out, had won the runway competition.”

“The runway competition.”

“You should see the judge. He’s this big poor black nelly queen from the projects and now he’s the best runway coach in the world.”

“How do you know he’s poor and from the projects.”

“Because that’s the rags to riches story. And I’m white and that’s just the way television taught me to think. Besides, a nelly queen who rises to top of any profession is saying something. . But whatever …The prize was and five of her friends got a pair of designer shoes and the losers had to ‘service’ them in the shoe store. So of course It went to right Rebecca’s fucking head, she was all ‘I’m on top and they know it, and this a competition,’ all WWE, and so she made a lot of enemies. Then, in the middle of being judged, her eyes roll to the back of her head and she passes out! Tyra’s waving her hands in front of her face – no one’s doing anything because it’s the first time they’ve been confronted with a real life situation. It was hilarious.”

“Holy shit! Because she didn’t eat?”

“She said it was a condition she had since she was a kid.”

“What condition? Bulimia?”

“She didn’t say. She just said that was the first time she had blacked out in three or four years. She’s probably lying.”

“So was she cut?”

“No, believe it or not, she passed out and she made the cut. The girl with no grace was sent home.”

“Listen to you, ‘The girl with no grace…’”

“We should have a reality show here,” I said. “We can call it ‘Canada’s next Top Barista,’ and we can have contestants from all over the country. And we’ll give them these really ridiculous tasks that have nothing to do with coffee, and judge them on how they do.”
“I’ll get right on that.”

“And I can be Tyra.”

If I were a judge, I would be a lot like Tyra – always looking for the good in everyone, but not afraid to tell it like it is, and benevolent. Unlike the judge in the Air India trial.

GarpinBC