Pop Goes The Weasel

Since I started updating this blog again I've had almost six people tell me how much they enjoy reading it. And here I thought the only active reader was my mom. Will this new found popularity change the way I write? Will it be like when Glee became unwatchable after they knew people loved what they were doing? I doubt it.

Here is the background music for today's entry - "Beating On A Better Drum" by Tove Styrke.

I'm not used to feeling like an outsider anymore. Sometimes I forget that there are bigoted people in the world who would discriminate against me for no good reason. When I express disbelief that people like that still exist my mom sometimes makes it sound like I've tried to create this fantasy world of unicorns and rainbows around me, almost as if I am the ignorant one. Maybe it's true. If you lined up everyone in my circle of friends it wouldn't take long to figure out what they have in common. They are generally a group of bright, open, accepting, artistically minded individuals. But isn't that what life is about? Maybe not necessarily surrounding yourself with like-minded people - if everyone thinks the same the thoughts probably don't go very far...but about surrounding yourself with similar energies and with individuals who have something that you might like to emulate. That's what I try to do. My friends are stylish, engaging, driven, and smart. I don't think I should have to apologize for that. We all want to have an environment that makes us feel safe.

So it's no wonder I've felt out of place on the streets of NYC in search of a place to call home. The first few days were the worst - I was eying everyone suspiciously as if they were about to cut the straps off my bag and take it from my shoulder or ride by on their bike and snatch my iPhone from my hand (apparently that kind of thing actually happens!) I've gotten more relaxed already though - last night on my way to see a place in Brooklyn I noticed an area surrounded with yellow tape in front of me. Instead of thinking "oh, I probably shouldn't be looking to live in a place where that kind of thing happens" I thought "Hmm, I wonder if that means the building is free now?" As if the landlord would show the place while it was still a crime scene - in NYC, I wouldn't be surprised.

This all turned out to be null and void because when I got closer I found out it was simply CAUTION tape around a section of the sidewalk that was being replaced. I knew this neighborhood would be ok - I just passed a freaking ice cream truck that was playing a twinkly version of "Pop Goes The Weasel."

More surprising is the experience I had when I was home last month in Carman. In case you don't know what Carman is, it's a small southern Manitoba town, home to about 2,500 people. When driving up to it you see 3 signs - one to tell you that famed NHL goalie Eddie Belfour is from Carman, one to tell you Olympic athlete Kelly Hand is from Carman, and one to warn you about the evils of abortion - LIFE: From Conception On.  I have an overpowering urge to set that particular sign on fire, but perhaps that is another blog entry.

Every summer Carman holds an annual fair - rides and mini donuts and fireworks and beer gardens. I hadn't been in at least five years, since I'd moved to Vancouver. I thought it would be a nostalgia filled blast from the past, and for the most part it was. At the beer gardens there were more shirtless guys dancing that I'd seen the previous weekend at the gay bar - though I suppose it has to be mentioned that I was related to all three of them. One of these shirtless wonders is a first cousin of mine, a few years older than me and a pretty macho dude. Later in the evening as things were winding down I was having a conversation with him when two of his dude friends came over. I remember in high school when people would see us talking they would always ask my cousin "why are you talking to HIM?"  If we weren't related would we be able to find any common ground?

One of his friends made a joke about how much dick my cousin sucks. He then demonstrated the size of this theoretical dick, dubbed it Culvert Cock and decided to see if I would be able to open my mouth wide enough to accommodate it - and I could. It was hilarious. I was surprised how much I was enjoying myself. Then this DB looked at me and said "you know, I really want to hate you - but you're actually a pretty good guy."

There's a backhanded compliment if I've ever heard one. It was spoken so casually too - like he'd been meaning to say it to me for a while, but not too long. It popped out just like that weasel in the song. A black, dirty, ugly weasel. I didn't know what to say. Why would this guy have decided that I was not a good person? My response was to mention the fact that we'd probably never even spoken before - trying to point out that he had no basis for this opinion. He said "Well of course - what would we talk about?" I reminded him that we were talking at that very moment, and he got on the defensive. Saying that he's not the only one who feels that way about people like me and that I can't hold it against him.

Why he thinks it's ok for him to be prejudiced against me for no reason but doesn't think I should be allowed to look down on him after he expresses an offensive opinion is beyond me. I left shortly after - though not before the police officer nearby took my half-empty bottle of vodka away and poured it out into the street.

I told my mom this story the next day and she couldn't believe I was surprised. She told me she had recently gone golfing with this particular guy's father and that he had pointed out something pink and spoken about it as if it was lesser because of what colour it was. As if it was inferior because it was girly. You know what they say about apples and trees. I know some people like to pretend that they are not like their parents, but here I am proud to say that my mother and I had the exact same gut reaction - to yell "WE KNOW YOU'RE STRAIGHT. YOU'RE MARRIED TO A WOMAN - WHO THE FUCK CARES? WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO PROVE, BUDDY?"

 My mom doesn't like it when I use the word douchebag, but in this scenario I can't think of anything more appropriate.

Love you mom.
 -BO

If I Was A Business Lady

If I was a business lady

I would wear those

Human barlae (?)

I hate the colour nostalgia

Grandma's lampshade - army/foliage

Stock foundation colour iridescent snakeskin

Oh look at these - stunning

Prostitutes lips camo ever not tacky?

And how much are they

Look like a different person

Stripper shoes = clear heels

Lavendar

Only shoes during sex

Sweatpant shopper cork

These are kinda cute

OMG it's a jaguar not a fan

Neat, intense, heinous

Foot collar darling

How is it that I have been in NYC for five days and I still haven't stepped foot inside a shoe store? My current footwear could not be more impractical for the daily activities that apartment hunting require - I finally understand what 'pounding the pavement' means. My body aches and my feet are blistered, my shoes have holes in the bottoms, the leathers are stained from rainy Vancouver days, but I hadn't even considered going into a shoe store until I came across a page in my journal from last year when I was researching my shoe-themed dance piece 'The Collectors' with now-defunct dance collective actualPLAY.

I've trying to write in my journal every day - just observations mostly. Trying to stick to my goal of writing something for this blog at least every 3 days. This particular page in my journal is close to the front - I always flip past it on my way to a clean sheet of paper. It lists everything that my friends Lucia and Sarah or I uttered and mumbled to ourselves while we were browsing the shoe section at Holt Renfrew. It now reads like a sort of bizarre poem, equal parts immediate visual observation and visceral gut reaction.

I suppose I haven't been shopping for several reasons, some more obvious than others. Firstly, I have no money. Secondly, I have more important things to be acquiring, like a home or a job. There is an underlying fear that I will see the perfect pair and I will be forced to buy them regardless of the consequences. There is the irrational fear that I will have the self-control to stop myself from buying them and always regret not buying them.

These shoes might not even exist. But I want them.

-BO

Oh Give Me Love In America

It's official - I am a New York City resident. Well, a resident with no actual apartment yet, but we'll get to that.

I'll take you through my first 48 hours in the USA in just a sec - first you need to press play on the video below to provide the accurate background music as this was the I was listening to on repeat during my (awfully bumpy) flights here.

Le Kid - America

There - that's better. Now you have about 4 minutes to read this entire entry. And you've just wasted about 5 seconds on this, so I suppose I should get to it.

I thought I'd fit in automatically. I was here for 10 days in April - very recently! By the end of that trip I felt like an NYC native. I was scoffing at tourists, ignoring the 'do not walk' signs, and shopping at Barneys.

My transition has not been as seamless as I imagined it would be. I had a 4 hour layover in the Montreal airport where I drained my iPhone battery completely, so when I arrived in Newark I had to plug it into a wall while I sat on the floor and decided I'd take a taxi to Brooklyn, where I'll be staying with my friend Justin for a few days. Upon being told the taxi ride would be upwards of $90, I reconsidered my options. Google maps told me I had 9 minutes to reach the train station on the opposite end of the airport - could I make it? I won't make you guess - I didn't make it. I was wondering around like a lost puppy - people actually asking me if I needed help. I wanted to say "oh no thank you, I'm here all the time" but what I actually said was "where the fuck am I?"

By the time I board the train to Penn Station I am the sweatiest I have been in my entire life. I listen to my boisterous train car companions discuss what they would do with their lottery money when they won it this week - buy each other at least small house, apparently. This struck me as a bit gay, but I didn't mention it.

The first thing I see in Penn Station is 3 men in army uniforms carrying guns. Actual guns! The states is a fucked up place. Fine for you to have a small one strapped to your thigh, but a 2 foot long one that you're waving around? I tried to act natural but it turns out lugging a 50 pound suitcase through a NYC subway turnstyle is nearly impossible. My body was stuck between two of the rungs with my carry on bags in one hand the my suitcase stuck on the other side. One of the army men sensed my distress and gingerly picked up my suitcase and handed it to me. I looked up at him like he was Buddha and said thank you through near tears. "Ugh," I said "I must just be SCREAMING tourist." I proceeded to shout the word TOURIST quite loudly, like the final competitor in the penis game* and the army man looked at me as if I was crazier than the man standing behind him screaming about how Jesus would be coming back next week.

Remember how I said I'd never been sweatier? That was before I lugged my suitcase down two levels into the Subway and stood on the platform so humid it was like being lowered into boiling water (which reminds me, I have to blog about lobster night too.)

I finally made it to Justin's place in one piece at about 8:30. I was exhausted, I'd been up since 3AM. I opened my mouth to say "OMG I just want to go to bed" and Justin said "It's your first night in NYC! Get dressed, we're going to the DIVA show at Industry."

Then I remembered why I wanted to come here in the first place. Every ounce of my heat exhaustion could be fixed with an ounce of vodka. I felt rejuvenated and alive and vibrant and I met stylish funny people who all came to NYC to make something bigger of themselves and then it felt like home. It took longer than I thought it would, but it didn't take long.

I spent all day yesterday looking at apartments in Harlem - all too small for the money, all in sketchy parts of town...and I realized I'd never had to find a place for myself before. My mom found my first apartment in Vancouver, and my (now ex) bf CW (Car Wash) found our joint place in Vancouver. Oh, I'm going to miss that place. I sent them both a teary eyed thank you message at about 3 AM last night before I replied to any Craiglist ad that sounded even remotely promising. My sandals gave me blisters and my thighs are chafed from rubbing together all day in my shorts that didn't used to be too tight but are now definitely too tight. I was in a foul mood - then Justin's roommate asked if I wanted to see Mary Poppins on Broadway with her for the low low student price of $30. Um, yes. Yes I did.

Is this what life in NYC is like for everyone? An awful stressful day followed by a night of pleasure and entertainment?

Seems like a fair trade.

*You know what the penis game is! It's where you see who will say/shout the word penis the loudest in a public area. See 500 Day Of Summer immediately and you'll get it.

Ch-ch-ch-changes

This past week I made the decision to move away from Vancouver. I'd like to say it was a difficult choice, but I think knowing that it's the right thing to do made it easier for me. I'll always remember it fondly - it was my home for four years, after all. However, New York City beckons. On my way there I'll be spending my summer in my hometown of Carman, Manitoba.


Here is what you need to know about Carman. About an hour south of Winnipeg, Carman is home to about 2,500 people. It has only one set of traffic lights at the main intersection - it has often been said that this intersection is home to everything you could ever possibly need in life and in death: a gas station, a convenience store, a medical centre, and a funeral home. What more could you need, right? Though my favourite attraction in Carman is not located here - Syl's Drive-In restaurant - is about a minute away. It is greasy deep-fried vanilla soft serve goodness times infinity. Pure bliss. If you ever get the chance to visit, have the chicken filet sub, the chicken nuggets, the chicken fingers, and the chicken burger. And a chocolate milkshake.

I remember one time the Carman newspaper (the Valley Leader) published a story about how Carman needed a mascot. The obvious choice? A car with arms and legs and a face - a Car Man, if you will. This might sound a bit silly, but you should know that the neighbouring town of Gladstone has a big rock with a smiley face painted on it - they call it Happy Rock. Though if Gladstone has Happy Rock, maybe Carman should have Truck Lady instead - though that sounds a bit less appealing to me than a Car Man. I picture him to be a bit like a Transformer, but less nerdy and less high-tech. I think he should be a bit more old-fashioned, like the rest of Carman is.

Or maybe it should be a man with wheels?

I mowed the lawn this morning. My parents have a big yard - it takes about four or five hours to mow on a riding mower. I love mowing the lawn. It's a task with a clear beginning and a clear ending, and in between these two points I have a lot of time to multi-task. I tan, I listen to my iPod, and I sing at the top of my lungs without any fear of being overheard. Though the chance of being overheard has gone up dramatically since my parents moved into town. We used to live about 15 minutes outside of Carman, closer to a village called Graysville. Even then I was overheard sometimes - once by farmers on the other side of the row of trees, once by two guys in a truck who were driving alongside me while I drove the lawnmower to my dad's potato shed. Who knows how long they were listening to me before they honked at me and drove off. The best story actually happened inside our old house - it was the week before I started grade 8. It was a Monday - the day the water delivery man used to come. I was in the kitchen around the corner from the front door jamming out to Mandy Moore's "In My Pocket" when I thought I heard something. I decided it was nothing and continued toward the songs climactic finish - including one particular OHHHH WHOAAAAAAA. After that I thought I heard someone say "whoa." I assumed this was my own conscience complimenting me on my own singing abilities and told myself to stop being so conceited, and I continued on. Then I heard the front door slam. I ran to the window in time to watch the water delivery man return to his truck. Then he grabbed our bill and headed back toward the house - and I ran downstairs to wallow in shame.

I was embarrassed, but it wasn't as bad as the time I let the Jehovah's Witnesses in. Or as bad as the time my grandparents showed up while I was watching Coyote Ugly.

_POST - The Plastic Orchid Factory

I normally post my reviews on Plank Magazine's website, but I've just been informed that Plank was specifically asked to not have me review this particular show. I'm not sure who made this request, why the request was made, or why I wasn't informed of it before I saw the performance, reviewed it, and submitted my article...especially since James offered to take me for coffee before the show to talk about it (a bribe, perhaps?)

But anyway, here we are. I'm not sure what they thought I would say, and the funny thing is - I really enjoyed the show.

 _POST – The Plastic Orchid Factory

Friday, May 27^th, 2011

Director: James Gnam

Performers: James Gnam, Natalie Lefebvre-Gnam, Bevin Poole, Alison Denham

When James Gnam entered the space last night at the Dance Centre, I wanted to burst out laughing. Not because of anything he was doing, but because of what he was wearing – a white latex tube top corset, white tights, and a gigantic twisted headpiece that made him look a bit like Mozart and Lady Gaga’s lovechild. However, I stifled my laughter.

No one else laughed either. Maybe because they were intimidated by the set up of the space – chairs and stadium style lighting lined the four walls of the room, leaving the entire space open for the performers. In hindsight, I’m tempted to say that should have made the space feel less formal. I personally held in my giggled because I thought Gnam’s first full length work – 2009’s endORPHIN – took itself entirely too seriously and I was nervous this piece was going to play out in a similar fashion. Thankfully, I couldn’t have been more wrong. Gnam began a series of grand, regal gestures – bowing and posturing for the crowd. Seeing him in such an effeminate light took me by surprise. I always enjoy a man who is comfortable enough in his sexuality to experiment with gender roles, and it certainly helps when he is as crushworthy as Gnam. I couldn’t help but notice he was wearing (evil) socks, my pet peeve. They were not necessary for any of the movement he was performing, though I suppose they made his feet stand out even more against the black floor.

The three women entered the space and put on their space-age saucer harness tutus. This was not the last time that I wondered if the piece was too reliant on the props and costumes. Though they were utilized well and were part of some of the most important images of the night, the movement sometimes seemed like an afterthought because the props took up so much of the focus. Each woman began their own gestural phrase of movement accented with exaggerated breaths and distorted facial expressions. These phrases were repeated perhaps a few more times than necessary, but it was nice not to feel overwhelmed by the dancing – often a full length piece is bogged down with so much choreography that it all begins to look the same. When that happens all of the choreography loses its value because the minds have trouble absorbing everything they are being shown. Here it was comforting to know that each of the dancers had a home base to go back to whenever they needed it.

Bevin Poole began to assist Gnam with unraveling his headpiece, which was actually a gigantic piece of fabric that had been wound up and wrapped around itself many times. Natalie Lefebvre-Gnam and Alison Denham performed a duet in the center of the space. It was one of many moments during the piece that there was something task-based happening in one part of the space with something movement-based happening elsewhere. These layers offered the audience a choice of what to watch – a nice change from a more classical performance. I never realized how well-matched Denham and Lefebvre-Gnam could be – their bodies were so compatible, their expressions so in tune with each other. Because of this synchronicity, I was disappointed that they were watching each other as much as they were to make sure they were beginning their phrases at the same time. Obviously they wanted their dancing to be in sync, but I wanted to see their trust in the timing. Gnam and Denham performed a higher octane version of this duet later on in the piece (without socks!!!) and I enjoyed it much more in that context – it was performed with a bit more abandon and the momentum was allowed to take over.

After the show I had a discussion with some other audience members who told me they were disappointed that the dancing in the show wasn’t as athletic as they had hoped it would be. Though I understand where this complaint comes from – that the average viewer might want to have more of that instant gratification. However, I disagreed. I know these performers can dance, I’ve seen them all dance many times. I’m much less concerned with them performing gymnastically than I am with them doing things that contribute to the overall aesthetic of the piece. I was totally content with the (often) humorous scenarios that Gnam created. They moved the story along and they reflected so many of my experiences with ballet in a human light. I can’t be the only one who likes to see dancers behave like regular human beings. In one scene LeFebvre-Gnam was wrapped up in the huge piece of white fabric until she looked like the Michelin Man’s bride. It was hysterical to watch her tiny feet waddle around the space while she was weighed down with so much excess fabric. For anyone who saw endORPHIN, you’ll notice that Gnam has a tendency to dress his wife up in ridiculously oversized clothing for comedic effect. I had the giggles here, but when underneath the tulle she began to repeat the gestural phrase we’d been introduced to earlier, I had such a sense of continuity with her character – it was a beautiful moment. One of several highlights of the show.

My favourite scene of the night was between Denham and Poole – they competed to see who could give the other the most baffling instructions (“blink 7 times, look this way and see the other side of the room without moving your head, touch your ear to your left shoulder – now relax.”) I remember early ballet classes feeling exactly like that – being told what to do with every single part of my body, most of which feels/sounds/is physically impossible, and then they would tell me to relax. An interesting thought came out of this section during the talkback (lead by the wonderfully articulate Su-Feh Lee.) Lefebvre-Gnam said she knew she had become her own dancer when she stopped worrying about pleasing the teacher at the front of the room. Poole/Denham’s duet perfectly illustrated the desire young dancers have to do as they are told, as well as their desire to compete with each other.

But, of course, the piece was about trying to figure out how classical ballet can inform these modern contemporary minded bodies. The next segment saw Lefebvre-Gnam transformed her into a pseudo-ballerina wearing one pointe shoe, her saucer tutu, and a tiara. She repeated Gnam’s earlier regal motions with a few more balletic steps thrown in – and though this section overstayed its welcome, I loved what it was trying to say. It was almost poking fun at classical ballet in a way, and as someone who finds classical ballet completely boring and pretentious and archaic – I enjoyed it, very very much. Here it was easy to see Lefebvre-Gnam’s classical ballet training clashing with her visible distaste for it and her desire to be an individual. Above everything else, _POST made me think about the role that nepotism plays in the Vancouver dance scene. It’s a small community where people often hire their partners/spouses/friends instead of dancers who would be more suitable to the movement or the roles. While I understand the tension that is created between partners when one is working and the other is not, nepotism does our art form no favours. The role should go to the most appropriate performer. Here it was so satisfying to know that no one could have been better suited to this particular role than Lefebvre-Gnam.

As the piece began with an homage to the royal origins of ballet, it seemed fitting that the ending of the piece was as abstract and anti-balletic as possible. Unforunately, Gnam’s desire to create something that didn’t rely on classical performance techniques meant that the ending felt extremely anti-climactic. Poole slowly clambered through the white fabric that had been featured one too many times, and after what felt like an eternity she emerged on the other end of the fabric wearing it as a long tutu – and then the lights went out. I wasn’t ready for the piece to be over, and I didn’t want that to be the end. It didn’t help that the soundscape was so even throughout the show either. I lost any sense of build or momentum that I’d found earlier in the piece. I couldn’t help but wonder if the expectation of a ‘full length evening dance work’ to be exactly 60 minutes long might have kept Gnam from further exploring. In my opinion, the actual length is much less important than how long the piece feels. Here the piece felt relatively short – it was witty and amusing without pandering to the audience. The subject matter was obviously close to Gnam’s heart, and to the other performers. As an audience member I could sense that connection to the piece, and I felt a connection to it too (maybe it helped that I too was once that small boy who felt out of place surrounded by girls in tutus.) It had a statement to make, and it made that statement loud and clear. Though I felt disappointed by the finale, all of those positive aspects combined with the unorthodox seating, the intimacy of the smaller audience and the piece being jam packed with memorable imagery made for a very exciting evening. It’s not often that I am caught off guard by a piece, especially by a choreographer whose work I am familiar with. The growth and versatility that Gnam showed last night was a welcome surprise.

While I take a moment to consider the negative effect that censorship has on our arts community, please take a moment to do the same.

-BO

Bestiality

I spent this past weekend in Vegas (stay tuned for blog posts about the Kylie Minogue concert, the Billboard Awards, and everything that Beyonce is doing wrong right now.) Went with BF, my BFF and my BFF's BF (the blog is called Bad Initials, remember?)

At one point during our first evening there we were discussing a story I'd heard about a pet snake that slept in bed stretched out with its owners that was actually sizing up the people to see if he'd be able to eat them. My BFF was quick to tell me this was not true, which comforted me a little bit...I hate snakes.

This conversation followed:

BO: Have you ever seen the video where the guy dies having sex with a horse?
BFF: Omg no ew gross why?
BO: Ah it's the worst. He's under the horse, and the horse gets too excited and puts it all the way in and the screen goes black. Apparently the guy died from internal injuries.
BF: Oh yeah, I think I heard about that.
BFF: Yeah me too, I was in that video actually.
BO: Were you the horse?
BFF'sBF: Yes, when Jason grows out his leg hair it's a nice shade of pinto.

My BFF's BF knows all about horses - he's named after one.

His name is Colter, in case you were wondering.

-BO

Like Riding A Bike

Last night I had a couple of bottles of wine with a few friends I hadn't caught up with in a while. We had a conversation about a cute boy they'd seen on a bike. This chat turned sexual quite quickly when we realized how dirty bikes really are.

BO: Isn't it hard to flirt with a guy on a bike? They go by so quickly.
LK: This one was stopped at the lights.
BO: Maybe you should put a row of spikes out on the sidewalk so his tires blow up and he has to stop.
LK: I remember when I bought my first adult bike - I hadn't taken a ride for about 15 years (this is when I started chuckling) and let me tell you - it's not just like riding a bike!
BO: Did you fall off?
SK: I fell off once (no longer talking about a bike.)

Perhaps his 10 speed was too powerful. Or maybe she prefers the feel of a banana seat. Personally I find they leave my inner thighs quite chafed.

If you didn't laugh at that, drink a bottle of wine and try reading it again.

-BO