Benjibopper

Something I wrote maybe 13 years ago:


Salamander sits in a sitting pool,
eyes bulging through the water,
trying to get some shade and being cool,
while the day keeps heating getting hotter.

Fly flies by makes waves in the air,
salamander's snack causes fodder
'cause swimming nearby with streaks in his hair,
is a pudgy little cute littler otter.

Snapping of the tongue, salamander's undone,
his snack becomes snack for the otter.

Another day at the pond
and life goes on
not for all but for some,
in the riffles and the runs,
of the sitting pool in the water.

Labels: 1998, nova scotia, philosophy, Poetry

When I arrived at Halifax International Airport it was strange because for the first time in many flight arrivals she wasn't there to greet me. I spent the next day or two hanging around BB, a sleepy little hometown that winds its way through the middle of nowhere, disturbed only by the hundreds of cars that use the main road as a throughway between Halifax and somewhere else.

This homecoming gave me a chance to check up on my old friend Brown, who plays basketball like they did in the NBA before black people were allowed to play, like you see sometimes in those old video clips, with underhanded granny moves. He was uncannily effective with that stuff. We’d been friends about 15 years by then, ever since grade three when we got into a fight over which Beatles album was the greatest. (Abby Road, obviously.) After that we started calling ourselves the 2 Stooges and built a relationship by going around school and making fun of everyone we knew.

Brown had recently graduated from Golf Course Management School in PEI and was back working for a golf course in Dartmouth for the summer. He was gladder to see me than I expected; I guess he was preparing himself for a somewhat dull summer with no one too exciting around to hang with. We always got along really well because we have the same sense of humour, which consists of acting like fools around each other and making each other laugh in the most mundane of circumstances. His presence made up for what I’d just left behind.

After a day or two of sitting around with Brown, doing not much of anything, I went to the second of many orientations that were to prepare me for hosting a St. Lucian forestry officer in my parents’ home. There I met Nigel, who would be my counterpart for the duration of the program, meaning he would live and work in BB with me for 2 1/2 months, then I would live with him in St. Lucia for the next 3 months.

By the time the Nova Scotian posse met the St. Lucians, the latter group of Nigel, MC, Li and Zany, had already spent the week together in an apartment in Halifax and were pretty close.

The one on one conversation that weekend was a little awkward between Canadians and Lucians, I guess because of the cultural differences, and the accents. But as a group conversation flowed well, and everybody laughed a lot. The initial conversation between Nigel and myself was no exception, and we kind of stared at each other for a bit, then nodded at each other, said, "Hey, how's it going?" then the ever so timid barrage of questions began. What do you eat? What's your weather like this time of year? What music do you like? Brothers? Sisters? How old are you? What do you do for fun? and so on. I was surprised to learn that he, at the age of 24, had two kids aged 4 and 1, with two different mothers, to neither of whom he was married.

During the first orientation with just the Canadians, we were told that Lucians are not heavy drinkers, but Nigel's biggest interest turned out to be "drinking beer," which he pronounced be-yare. He didn't play sports, didn't really play an instrument, but just enjoyed his beer. We had also been told that Lucians don't swear, but I could tell right away that wasn't true, especially in Nigel's case. We'd been told that Lucians are very religious, but Nigel hadn't set foot in a church for 14 years.

The conversation was slow and awkward, and we kind of just took each other in and sized each other up. He was about six feet tall, maybe 170 pounds, had a huge toothy white smile, and a mischievous look in his eyes. I soon learned that he liked to say funny things, like when he bought a 'push-up' ice cream that used a plastic stick to push orange sherbet to the surface, he broke the stick in the process and grinning a ridiculous child-like grin said in his heavy Caribbean accent, "I broke my poosh-up." He spent money at a ridiculous rate, ate a lot of food, drank almost every day, and ate, drank and lived forestry, for which he worked as a conservationist in St. Lucia. I liked him right away.

Labels: 1998, Canada, non-fiction, nova scotia, Travel

I wrote this one in 1999, and it sort of reminds me of some current life-changes, but this time there's a lot less heartache:


The first seven weeks of the summer of 1998 were some of the best and simplest times of my life. My girlfriend and I were back together and were living together for the first time in almost a year. We also worked together and that went better than I'd hoped because we managed to keep our distance at work.

I can't say much about that time except that we had fun, simple vegetarian fun, and rarely had conflict. Work was hard but interesting, money was plentiful enough, our home was good other than the roommates who spent too much time fighting over trivial things.

We had each other, and were deeply in love and as close as we ever could be. We spent a mid-June night in a 2 1/2 star hotel near Pearson Airport just West of Toronto. It was half-price because it was under renovation, but it was nice enough. That night we had a stupid fight that I think was caused by the painful feeling that I was leaving behind the only thing that would ever really matter in my life.

We got over it and cried a lot of tears but when the morning came I held her in my arms and hoped for some kind of future forever. And then I went to the airport and nothing in my life has been quite so typical since.

Labels: 1998, Canada, love junk, Travel

Here's something I wrote almost 10 years ago (!!!) after my first trip to America. I was so earnest and naive:


Our next adventure came in the form of two close friends, both of whom are of course overzealous fools, my favourite kind. DC is a bundle of pure energy that bursts all over you like soap bubbles, and infects you with excitement and a feeling that nothing can go wrong. MZ is a cool character who takes things easy, studies and works hard and has a good head on his shoulders, but dresses like Don Ho or John Travolta, depending on the day, dances like a battery commercial, strips at bars whenever the song 'You Sexy Thing' is played, calls everybody "his bitch" and very rarely gets embarrassed by anything.

The three of us decided to take a road trip in DC’s parents' 1998 Toyota Corolla, the most practical and fuel efficient car on the market, down the East Coast of the United States, as far as we could get in the time we had off. I had only a week, and ended up flying home from Jersey. The other two got as far as Washington, or maybe even Philly.

In Boston we hooked up with another old friend of mine, The Polar Bear (PB) from Sackville, a fellow business school survivor. He is not your typical biz-knob either, his goal in life is to make enough money to retire when he's forty. PB is a high-level slave for a computer consulting firm. He's addicted to everything, especially work, and has spurts of intense energy followed by moments of deep depression.

As soon as we arrived from our 14 hour drive from Hali he poured us full of drinks and pretty soon we were dancing around his living room to the Back Street Boys. It got weirder from there; I have one clear memory of PB laughing uncontrollably at the half-priced club security device we got at the Walmart. “It’s a baby club,” he shouted with tears streaming from his eyes, us trying to figure out what was so funny.

The next day PB woke up at 7:00 am and was at work before we saw the sun. We had some good times roaming around Boston for a few days, then piled back into the Corolla and headed for New York. We stayed in a cheap motel in Jersey where they had hourly rates, which most guests made use of, and there was 24 hour access to a porn channel, and a mirror on the ceiling. The greasy owner checked us in with a knowing wink and a smile, and when we checked out two days later we felt pretty dirty for having used the bedding provided. It fit our budget and the Canadian dollar was weak.

We saw lady liberty and flashed her the finger for a picture that I guess was supposed to represent an expression of defiance to the power and materialism that is America. When I look back it was a mistake because lady liberty doesn't really represent that, but rather what is great about the country, the freedom its founders had in mind and their friendship with like-minded allies. It’s something so sublime that it drives one to thrust her torch high, lighting the way for an entire nation to move forward, knowing that they are free to do as they choose, the kind of freedom Woody Guthrie sang and wrote about, like Kerouac did too, like many young fools for generations experienced and never wrote about it. We were using that same freedom as Canadians, yet we were making a statement against it, which even in jest seemed inappropriate.

We made a similar statement toward the World Trade Centre that made a lot more sense. Once I thought that world trade was the answer, that unifying all nations under a common bond was the ultimate solution to problems such as oppression and war. Now I see how cultures are quickly becoming assimilated, with the resulting mono-culture of consumers fighting a battle against the nonviolent resister Mother Nature, to whom the greats like Christ and Gandhi were ultimately devoted. I see the danger that world trade poses to nations like St. Lucia. I see how every individual strives to be like Westerners, who hold the money and the materials, so that their wasteful practices are mimicked by the spiraling populations of the growing third world.

World trade be damned and it feels better to remember flashing defiance at its centre than it did to do so at the time, because in retrospect, with greater understanding, I better understand the power and importance of such defiance, because only with defiance and self empowerment can the individual stand up to the tide of destructive practices that so many people, hiding behind faceless corporations and governments, practice with such devotion.

Our trip was not as liberating as I'd hoped; I hadn't moved to the dark soulful rhythms of Charlie Parker's dancing melodies and I hadn't taken in the joyful bliss of the American Woman and I hadn't driven like a madman over the cliff of liberty at 90 miles an hour through cross-town traffic; but I had seen America for the first time and I'd seen the most exciting city in the world and I'd listened to some good rock and roll in the car, plus I'd mooned a camera for the first time. And when I returned to Ontario, life became very blissful for a while.

Labels: 1998, America, non-fiction, Travel

I got offered two jobs and a promotion in one week and to boot saw my Montreal Canadiens play the Toronto Maple Leafs at the Garden in Toronto, one of the last times they played there, with my world's best friend.

It was just as I was negotiating the terms of my promotion that McC called me to say "you're in kid," or something of that nature. To celebrate we hit the Hockey Hall of Fame, Wayne Gretzky's bar, and of course the game, on which I wasted (well) $125 for the sake of the scalper's kid's college fund and my own personal pleasure.

So life became pretty good for a while, I had a better job, which although still not socially productive at least was more interesting, paid better. Still I could feel the call of something bigger and better, and I felt that somehow, someway I was to be rewarded by my travels, that I would be "handed a pearl" as Kerouac said. That pearl would not only be the thrill of travel, the joy of freedom and wildness of life, the adventure, the reality of it all, but it would be the chance to learn, to educate, save the world and whatnot.

Labels: 1998, Canada, non-fiction, St. Lucia, Travel

A few weeks later I flew to Hali for my interview, and saw J. Her and I had been in a long distance relationship for about six months by then, and it would be several more months before we were to reside in the same province again. It had put a terrible strain on our relationship, which although strong in love, and been tumultuous over our entire two years together.

I guess our first breakup that Christmas had been inevitable, though I didn't see it coming, and it hit me like a freight train. We were still best friends, and it was so good to see her that weekend.

The interview itself was an experience, and it allowed me to meet Morning, Frent, KK and Dudi, who would soon become a big part of my life, especially Dudi and KK. There was a one-on-one interview in the morning, which went well because I'm so used to interviews from my co-op experience in school, that I was relaxed and laid back. The afternoon interview was with a group of six other applicants. I hate those things because although they are supposed to be relaxed, it's phony because really everyone is competing with each other, but they are trying to be nice. I was told by a friend of mine that the purpose of those things is to eliminate ridiculously quiet and ridiculously loud individuals. There weren't any of either there though.

At the end they asked us each for our thoughts. "It's been fun," I offered, "it's too bad we can't all be accepted." How easily that line of bullshit flowed from my mouth. The truth was though that the afternoon had not been the total hell I expected, and some of the activities were actually quite interesting. To me at the time that is, I won't trouble the reader with such superfluous nonsense. I'll just say that I knew that four of the six of us would be accepted, and I knew which one of us would not be. There was a young girl (about 18 years) from the Cape here with a heavy accent who was clearly nervous and not very well spoken. She seemed like a sweet girl, and let me assure you that Capers are generally speaking the nicest group of people you could ever hope to encounter, but I had a feeling she was not going to be chosen. That left the other five of us on equal ground from my perspective, so I figured I had an 80% chance.

The interview had taken place on Monday, February the 23rd, 1998. That afternoon I was left with quite a high, having had a good time and having liked all the other potential participants and thinking I had a good chance. I danced into J's apartment that evening to spin her round the room like a ballerina with her hair and dress all sparkling in the spotlight, sending light waves dancing with equal brilliance across the crowd which was to make the singular cheering noise that can only be heard at spectacular events, and in the middle would be the two of us, flowing like a river round the room.

In fact I danced into an empty apartment; she was still at work. At the time she was working at a fast food joint selling delicious stuffed pitas. She hated her job because so many drunks harassed her at night, and she had to prepare meat and was and still is a vegetarian like myself. The two of us in fact quit red meat together in 96 and then chicken in 97. The chicken we quit simultaneously without even consulting each other; we were in different cities. Despite her temporary absence that evening my high stayed high and I flowed around that room myself until she got home. "Get dressed I'm taking you to dinner!" I said when she got home. She was captured by my bliss and the fact that I looked pretty good in my suit and soon we were paintin' the town red, in our more laid back vegetarian style.

Labels: 1998, Canada, love junk, non-fiction, nova scotia, St. Lucia, Travel

The more I considered it, the more I realized that the trees were right. The Marketing of products that we think we need but really do not is ultimately what is causing the destruction of the planet. And you can't be an effective player if you play for two opposing teams. What I finally saw was that Marketers and Environmentalists are on opposing teams, and to play for both is counterproductive.

So, there was me looking for something new, something different, and something that helped the world, really helped the world, rather than just making life a little more convenient for a chosen few. And there was J, telling me about a chance to do so, and how! In a manner that would take me to a part of the world I couldn't even fathom, to a place so new I wouldn't recognize a soul, and none would recognize me, a place where everything was new, dazzling and breathtaking, simply because I would be seeing it through a child's eyes, for the very first time. It was a lifelong dream, to travel, explore, and there had always been something in me that craved adventure, action, newness. A calling from someplace else, not the netherworld, but this one, so big and yet so small, and yet so unexplored by me. I had to learn more about this program.

I called the Department of Affiliations (DOA), and spoke with McC for the first time. She seemed a very pleasant woman, and answered my questions well. I had to get back to work, my productivity was already slipping as my boredom and disdain for my work increased. But when the deadline for application came, I wrote the best covering letter of my life and applied.

Labels: 1998, Canada, non-fiction, Workplace Boredom

It all began I guess in Waterloo, when my girlfriend J told me about this exchange program she read about on the Internet between St. Lucia and Nova Scotia. I was living in Ontario at the time but having grown up in Nova Scotia she figured I'd qualify. It was for youth aged 17-23, lasted five-and-a-half months, three in St. Lucia, and was called the EYE Program.

I was immediately interested because I was getting sick of my current job, which involved doing research for a bunch of would-be Thomas Edisons trying to push more pooper scoopers and other equally useless products onto our already saturated marketplace, thus wasting numerous resources and further destroying our preciously vulnerable planet. The crazy thing is I actually liked, even loved, this job at first, and had gone so far as to spend four years in school training for such work, which seemed interesting at first, then like a waste of time, and finally, worst of all, dangerous and damaging. I somehow had failed to make the connection between Marketing and the destruction of the environment. Here I was, a vegetarian, a reuser and recycler, hell, even a reducer, and I was doing research for yahoos so that I could help them help further bludgeon our poor planet to death.

But I didn't realize it. I didn't stop to think that by Marketing more and more products onto the marketplace, I was in effect neutralizing every effort I made as an individual to avoid taking part in the destruction of this planet. Worse, I was also neutralizing the effects of hundreds, thousands of other people like me, because I was helping to convince their cousins, neighbors, kids, even their dogs that they needed shit such as, well, pooper scoopers. A better example is fire extinguisher cabinets.

The fire extinguisher cabinet was an idea of a client of mine which he called his "brain-child". After I did research on the idea and found that there already exist many such products, and that they are somewhat popular, he wrote me a letter thanking me for my efforts and helping him solve some key "marketing problems", thus bettering his entire concept and helping him fulfill a dream. I was happy of course, who wouldn't be? I'd helped someone, and it was one of the most gratifying things to occur during my 11 months on the job.

And according to my client, his product would help save lives, because: it would beautify the fire extinguisher, thus causing people to place it in a more visible, and thus more accessible area. Therefore, in the event of a fire, precious seconds are saved. It could mean the difference between a blazing inferno enveloping entire neighborhoods, eventually forests, wildlife, taking the lives of brave firefighters and the innocent campers and rangers therein! and a little black mark in your carpet.

And this of course is the logical mindset of Marketers, especially advertisers. How can we make Mr. and Mrs. Schmoe feel the need to buy this product, when the need does not yet exist?

Of course, they don't teach you that in business school. They teach you that the goal of the Marketer is to identify an unfulfilled need, and fulfill it. However, they also teach you that to build a better mousetrap is not enough, you have to set the right price, you have to get the right distributors, and above all else, you have to $$$ell it! So if you see a nice looking frame for your fire extinguisher, you might say, "nice", and move forward to the next item on the auction block. But if you see the difference between that blazing inferno and that little black mark on your carpet, you say, "how much?" and then you say, "is that all? for peace of mind? Sold!" And everybody is happy.

Except for the trees who gave their lives for the building of the millions of cabinets sold now that everyone needs one, and those without are scorned publicly for their lack of responsibility, for keeping their extinguishers under the cupboard, and for the danger they pose to society. The trees are not happy. But why the hell not? A few dead to protect the rest from the ravages of fire, you'd think they'd be satisfied, those selfish bastards!

But the trees are not susceptible to Marketing, they are more savvy than the average consumer. They are logical creatures because they have no emotions, and they do not fear for their families’ safety, they can see the situation clearly, and they know that in reality, the Fire Extinguisher Cabinet will not save nearly as many trees as it took to make them. They even see that in the long run, the damage done by unnecessary resource-using products such as the Fire Extinguisher Cabinet will even take more human lives than it will save, because without trees, there is no hope for humans.

Labels: 1998, Canada, St. Lucia, Travel