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- Written by: Rod Boyle
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3:00 PM and the stubble's on her face, 6'6", 240 lbs, built like a linebacker, maybe 35 years old, gym socks stuffed roughly in her bra, the hair, long and to her shoulders, it might be real....
She's not fooling anyone...
She's with her footman, or slave, a diminutive older man, maybe 5'5", shorter even, 60 years old, she orders a diet coke, he asks - meekly - if he may have one too. "Of course", and she waves dismissively. She's catty, in that camp-exaggerated sort of way, paying the bill up front she tells me - "He'd dying for a cigarette, but I'm going to make him wait...".
It's a seriously fucked up little sadistic sex game being played out in public at a rural pub in BC. If they'd have been only half an hour earlier the pub would have been filled with bikers in colors, and what a little scene that would have made...I imagine - buying one of the bikers, the biggest, the ugliest, the loudest and most obnoxious, a drink, saying it was from her, and asking why he hadn't called her back - mayhem ensues, but only in my head...
It's a Kootenay thing I've noticed, along with a few other things ("Side of ranch" - everything here, everyone wants that side of ranch, with their wings, their appetizer, their pizza, new to me), the Trans population - relatively large per capita, puts absolutely no effort whatsoever into their new and assumed gender identities. Throw on a wig or a dress or a name-tag and expect, demand that everyone treat you as a woman. Hang around Waits newstand and coffee shop for an hour or so and you will see some of the least convincing trans people in the world. It's as if they've just given up. I'm used to the big-city version, where every effort is put in to your appearance to outshine your (legitimate?) competition, where guise and artifice rule the scene. Not so here.
I've discovered that my liberalness has it's limits, too, I mean, really, if they're not going to play the game, why should I? I'm a little impatient with these confused and deranged gender identities, if they want me to play their game, they should have to too. People can get a little too comfortable in themselves, Clearly I seriously need to revamp my thinking...
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
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Young, long hair, the same rocks as me but even more enthusiasm, if you can believe it...
He's got a couple of claims down south, Ymir, Castlegar way, and has collected a pile of specimens. He's trying to sell them off, I don't need more rocks, not these at least, the same as I have, but he's showing me and talking and all excited that he's got a customer - I spotted his sign on a street corner, "Nelson Rocks", curiosity compelled me, nice to meet a kindred spirit...
He's got the loose specimens, and then some jewelry that he's made, pictures below:
Samples of "Sugar Quartz" - deposited on the mine walls since closing (left), ore samples on right.
Jewelry he'd made, quartz crystals in crudely carved wood settings, sample boards of his minerals.
I buy a couple of pieces of jewelry, I need none of this, but it's nice to meet someone arguably more successful on the same path as me. I ask if he's any other cherished specimens, a great specimen, he runs inside and comes out dragging a 20 gallon pail filled with 60 lbs of rocks, ore, I look through them, bad samples of tourmaline, ore, bad crystals, but, hey, it's the same stuff I got and clearly he values it as much...
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
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It was sporting of her to set me up a couple of tents on the front lawn while the guesthouse is booked. One, a clothes-closet of sorts, the other more immediate living. Or sleeping. Only at night, the days are far too hot, days you have to escape, find someplace cool, a hammock in the woods...
A week into this real-world-woofer living and a friend of hers comes by to do some garage saleing. She's heard about my prowess, I'm rolled out of bed at 6:30 AM, still ripped from the night before, can't stand, can't find my wallet (it's in the garden, where it fell out of my pocket...)
I find it. Miracle. And then we're off, I'm driving, friend is navigating, it's good she's there, keeps me sober, or on the right side of the road while I sober up...
The first few, in Nelson, nothing, really, of interest, a box of kids toys, I overpay for the job-lot, mostly instruments, rain stick, zills (finger cymbals), various slide and tin flutes, train whistles, gyroscopes, the total of the lot, by sticker price, can't exceed $5.00, but I buy the job lot for $10.00 because I can't be bothered to do the addition...
We move on, hit the 7:00 AM lot, then down south of Taghum to the Valley for the 8:00 lot. Nothing for me. Breakfast bite, then homeward, the lineup of 8:00 and 9:00 on the list. She's having a great day, purchases at every stop. Me, not so, nothing I'm so inspired to buy, mostly rubbish, curiously, most of the real treasures are in the free bins, a set of pasties, unused, with tassels, I need this. A very big Maglight, I need this. 2 Vintage 35 MM Nikon and Yashicamat cameras, with lenses and filters, I need this...Stapler and Staples, I need this, I could go on, I'm getting everything I need for free, but paying for every frivolous want ...
And so it goes, plucking the best of fruits for free and buying rubbish to alleviate my guilt...
Finally, garage sale, misc shit for sale, including - Bongos!!!!
This is how I know I'm still sketchy, hammered, 2 sets of bongos, both broken, one - separated, veneer torn, the other missing skins, I pick them both up for a mere $15.00, bargain, but, really, WTF?
I mean, what do I need Bongos for? But I have this vision, that I'll invite the Rainbow Tribe to live with me on the front lawn, that I'll be known as "Bongo the Woofer", that there will be a flash-mob uninvited festival and I'll sing "I...don't want to work...I just want to bang on the drum all day..." and I realize, again, that I'm still loaded from the night before and just buying shit to buy shit and that really, really, I need to find a place of my own...
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
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An older hippie, pretending to be blind, the round reflective glasses, the positioning of his collapsible chair, if the light is right you can see that his eyes are alive and working, he's just pretending, a folding chair set up in close proximity to somebody's car or Oso or just off Baker Street, playing, not even badly, not even wrong, he's just pushing buttons and squeezing it, tuneless, cacophony, he's the sympathy busker, people give him money in the hopes that he gets some lessons, but that's not his game, he has no interest in playing, he probably picked up the accordion from a free bin around town, it's been weeks now I've seen him and I'm a better accordionist when I play - and I can't'; he's just preying upon the local liberals and kind-hearted fellow hippies, gullible tourists, the sympathy busker "See what happens if you don't take lessons?"...he's probably making a killing...
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
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Amusing video of an Australian looking for a doctor at an anti-Vaccination rally.
{embed:youtube:AR9a-zxtS5A}
I lived with one of them for a year or so. Nuts. Lock-em-up I say and throw away the key... there's gotta be a limit to this liberal largess somewhere...