Stray 23August2004 - America's bitch.

My DJ name is DJ Hissy fit.
But I can’t mix.
My trading names are Decimeter, Digitalis, and Pseudonym Omnimedia. All currently unemployed.
My middle name is Pagan, non-practicing.
My production company is Sugar and Fat

But I’m not producing anything.

Construction is like being appearing in porn, no one will say its what they really do. Hamish and I were talking with another kiwi we met on site; he’s setting up his own plastering company “but I’m really a chef by trade.” “I’m really an architect”, says Hamish, “and this guy here’s a 3d animator.”
Building’s what you do to fill in the gaps.
That’s coming dangerously close to a pun, so let’s say; building is an act of desperation.

And they sussed me. After four days of pissing around, getting it wrong, doing my best, and the daily surprise of walking away from the skill saw with all my fingers, word got back to the boss that we weren’t exactly the best drywallers in the business.
So offered a $3/h paycut, I slunk off to take up another offer; doing a twelve million dollar mansion in west van working for what turned out to be a dodgy fucker.
But the damage was done, since it was a long weekend we got double-time, so for four days work I walked away with a cheque for nine hundred and sixty three dollars.
Man, when that thing arrived in the mail I just hit the ground running, out the door without even finding out where I was going, determined to get to their bank and cash the thing before they realized their mistake.
So now I get to go to Burning Man. Weee.

I did two days “helping” a Romanian allegedly named John, who still owes me fifty dollars and Hamish a hundred, and whenever I ring yells at me and hangs up. We’re going to sue the bastard.

I’ve taken to cycling everywhere. This is the first time in my life I’ve owned a bike (I only learned to ride two years ago in Holland) and I love it. The subliminal steering, the wind in my helmet vents; like being in love, biking is one of those things that help you understand clichés.
It’s mostly because of this new house, the suburb is exactly like all those American films and tv shows, with the wide roads and trees and people on bikes.
I’ve been feeling so suburban.
I caught myself about to ask my neighbor how he keeps his lawn so green and just thought I’ve got to get out I’ve got to get out.
And so, true to my nature, I ran like hell.
Canada has a little desert, a valley called Osoyoos. I hitched out there to pick fruit for a few days and hang out with Quebecqua.

Slight tangent to talk about Canada for a while. Not one country, its at least two. The only reason the east (French) doesn’t rip itself free from the rest (English) is bribery. The federal government sucks resources from the rest of the country and hands it to Quebec, desperately trying to buy those few percentage points of opinion that keep it from declaring independence.
So I call the easterners as they call themselves; Quebecqua. They’re not Canadian, they’re not French. I quite like them and I’m hoping to visit before I leave.

Canada is America’s bitch. To its credit, they do occasionally try to make some positive change (Tobin taxes, staying out of wars, etc) but then the States shakes its head and looks disappointed and Canada’s all like sorry, sorry, didn’t mean to… sorry.
Despite what it says Canada was completely involved in Iraq, it sent a bunch of troops into Afghanistan to free up American soldiers posted there.
Despite what it says Canada has one of the worst health care systems in the western world. In many ways it’s worse than the States.
At this point I’d love to balance this up and rattle off the good things, but, well, it really is just corrupt and right wing and brutal. And the people insular and suspicious.
The only defense I can offer is that all I’ve really seen is a little bit of British Columbia. As I say, out east, and also up north, it gets very different. And this of course is only the human element, the land is beautiful, like really beautiful, from what I’ve seen on my trips out to the islands (for a wedding and camping) and to Osoyoos to pick fruit and hang out with Quebecqua.

I saw four black bears, countless deer, a hummingbird and a very pissed off rattlesnake.
I was walking down a dirt road and thought to myself, that’s a funny sounding insec- _WAIT_A_MINUTE_ and look down at this little puddle of death spitting and rattling away a meter from my ankle.
Wide berth.

Fruit picking hadn’t started yet so I started hitching off in the randomly chosen direction of north, only to hear about a cool little town called Nelson to the southeast and headed there instead.
The guy who gave the last ride into Nelson, well after dark, told me about a spot where all the passers through camp during the summer. Walking along the train tracks I spotted a campfire ad headed for it.
Rather than a bunch of fruit pickers it was a bunch of local boys drinking beer and smoking bc green. I joined them, asked if this was where people usually camped.
Guy next to me says “That beach down there is where the hippies and faggots camp. Yeah I’m a real redneck motherfucker.” You don’t say. Don’t spose they’re there now?
But at the same time, the guy next to him is saying “Wow, the reflections of the mountains are so picturesque right now” while the guy one over is telling his mate how he’s going to beat the crap out of him if he doesn’t stop polluting the local environment.
Portrait of rural BC.

Got sun baked the whole way in, pissed rain on the whole way out, agreed that Nelson is a very funky little town. It was a pretty good trip.

I think I’m turning American. It’s my suburbia, my unemployment, my general disenfranchisement. Last night we rowed across the inlet and got into a half built skyscraper. Hopped fences and snuck. Jogging through the empty subterranea, up through dark half finished stairs to the roof and storm clouds rolling in from the harbor.
My fingers are black and I have learned
At one thirty in the morning
The rattle of a spray can
Is the loudest sound on earth.

Spent three days production assistanting a film and actually got paid. One fifty a day, but the days are _fifteen_hours_long_. That means getting up at four am, working my arse off, not getting home till eleven with just enough time to get not enough sleep before doing it all again. Three days and it damn near killed me. People were telling me about their hundred and twenty hour weeks.
But on top of the money I get all the catering I can eat and all the positive affirmations I can tolerate. So far I’ve collected: ‘you’re a machine’, ‘you rock my world’ and ‘you’re seriously cool, I’d let you fuck my sister.’
‘…Is she cute?’
‘Not really dude, she looks like me.’
That one was Topher, effectively my boss. He was shot in the chest paratrooping into Bosnia and wears to work the camouflage gears he got in the gulf.

Day laboring under a roof is like dancing to drum and bass.
The heat, the dust, inadequate supervision, the low bass beat of my forehead bouncing off the rafters, the general feeling of not really wanting to be there but it was the only thing going.
I’ve sworn off drywalling. I got sent home from a job after being left to finish a whole room on my own, (no one had thought to ask how much experience I had). I got it finished, but it’s a matter of speed.
So, instead, I’ve signed up with a laboring temp agency. Why is it the worse a job is, the less it pays?

But I only need another hundred or so dollars to cover my trip to Burning Man in a week’s time.

www.burningman.com

Check it out. I’m not sure what I can say about it, its all rather overwhelming. But I’m going. On the way back I hope to hang out in San Francisco for a few days, then make my way back up here along the coast.
I’m all equipped for surviving a week in the desert: fifty two litres of water, foot long reinforced steel tent pegs, nik naks to barter, Chinese hat. I was wearing the hat round town yesterday, to keep the rain off, and got all sorts of compliments. Guy was like; cool hat. Thanks… I like your dog. Chick said it was sexy, but she was drunk and unattractive. I was on the skytrain and two ticket marshals got on, checked our tickets, got off, checked the car behind us then got back on our car and asked for our tickets again. You were just here. Oh, woops. Actually we just came back to see the hat one more time.

I’ve been so FREAKING twitchy the last few months. Got to get out got to get out, too stagnant for too long, neeed movement, be amongst it get out of here and back again move move move MOVE you fucker move!

It’s been rough. Actually. I didn’t expect to have this much trouble finding work but now plan F is faltering and there’s no plan G. I mean sure, it’s been educational. Informative as to where I see myself within the film industry, my failure to get a decent job has taught me a lot about compromise and just doing what it takes to get by. So ok, lesson learned. Whatever. Lets get moving again.
Also rough has been not knowing anyone outside of my house, and though my flat is tight, there has been a little friction with one guy taking exception to my not being clean enough for him and saying things like its more cruel to eat free range animals because they had so much more to live for.
And somewhere in the middle of all this I cut all but eight of my dreads off, leaving a small clump at the back like a rasta hare krishna. A mullette.

It’s been ok. Let’s just say I look forward to leaving here on a high note.