My 'Main' Reason to be Joyful

As perhaps you are aware, this is a blog about life. Sometimes life really sucks. I don’t think anyone wants to argue that. Sometimes life is pretty damn beautiful as well. On Monday life sucked for me- I was sick, swamped with school, and feelin’ unloved. Today life was beautiful. Sometimes we win; sometimes we lose.

So why was life so enjoyable today?

I live in one of the most precious little neighborhoods in Canada, and today it was evident as to why. Spring has officially arrived on the ‘Main’ (Boulevard St.Laurent), and the sleepy-eyed Plateau residents immerged from their spiral-stair-cased walk-up apartments. The old Portuguese women, the stumbling drunkards, the punky hipsters, and the Guppies (Gay Urban Professionals) coexisting on a frenzied stretch of asphalt.


My day consisted of a couple of key stops along the ‘Main’. It started with groceries at a little store called ‘Segal’s’, or as my friend Sam calls it, ‘Three Isles of Chaos’. It is cheap and unpretentious. The Segal’s experiences is like leaving reality, and entering a live theatrical performance where the characters are completely obnoxious, and the central conflict revolves around healthy, low-cost, organic yogurt versus over-ripe, chemical-grown, moldy tomatoes. The theme is making it out alive.

I then proceeded to my new favourite clothing store: BLANK. This store is the new American Apparel; sweatshop-free cotton basics made in Quebec, but without the pornographic advertisement approach to publicity. I bought a t-shirt for my sister’s boyfriend, with intentions to return and drop a whole lotta loan money.

Next stop was a hair-cut at the trendy ‘Coupe Bizarre’, a pink walled, pretentious hipster hair salon. Now that the student loan has arrived (and I didn’t even have to throw a tantrum), I thought I’d treat myself to an out-of-my-price-range, asymmetrical ‘----do’. My bald Philippine-Canadian stylist was, by some cosmic coincidence, named ‘Danny’. As he cut my hair, he showed me examples of some of the photography that he is doing; it revolves around the exploration of men who play with Barbie dolls. I am so frickin’ happy that people like this exist. Rock on Danny.


That brings us to now. I’ve installed myself at my favourite little café on the main, a place that will remain unnamed (I’m sort of possessive about the space). However, I can tell you that it is a mélange of many things: a library, a café, an art gallery, and a funeral home. Last time I was here, I could hear the cries of grief coming from downstairs as someone said their final goodbyes and a casket was closed. Sometimes life is beautiful; sometimes life is over.

So life was enjoyable today, which is pretty amazing considering the countless things that could make life not enjoyable. Today I am counting my blessings: my neighborhood, the fact that I get to have a haircut, the feeling of purpose in my life. Tomorrow may be less lovely, but hey, this is what life is all about. Sometimes we win, and sometimes we get our ass kicked by moldy tomatoes.

Dansexperience™

So last night I went to a rave. My friend, Sam, had been organizing this event for the past couple of months and I wanted to go out there and support him (as well as the benefactor of the event- Montreal Native Friendship Center). There were all the elements of a typical rave: fluorescent glow sticks, sugary lolipops, and drug-induced smiles painted on the faces of young girls enthralled with blowing bubbles.

I felt a bit like a fish out of water. This could have something to do with opting out of consuming any designer drugs. But also the realization that my party scene lays elsewhere.



The truth is that I am a big old-school'er when it comes to partying. Give me cheesy, 80's bass lines and sappy choruses over the thump-thump of house or trance. Give me a dance floor with a mirror ball, a DJ who knows the joys of retro, and fellow party-ers who aren't afraid to belt out the lyrics to 'YMCA'.

I miss the old days where you'd have to tie me to my bar stool to stop me from busting out when 'Billie Jean' came creeping through the speakers. There were many a time when I lost all pelvis control at the very whisper of 'Sweet Dreams'. I have had many religious experiences grooving to 'Like a Prayer'.

My partying drug of choice is tried and true- nothing does it for me quite like alcohol. It has enabled me to share with the world the truly talented dancer that I really am (it's a shame that I'm wasting all this time in university when my true calling is to be a break dancer in MTV music videos). A couple of gin & tonic supersonics and people start watching me dance because of my skill, some even point their fingers at me.

Beer has been the catalyst to numerous first kisses. Without these alcohol lubricated make-out sessions, I might still be the sexually frustrated adolescent that I was... ready to go postal on the soft-core couple ramming their tongues down each others throats infront of me in the check-out line at IGA. Thus, alcohol has not only allowed myself to relax, but has allowed me to spare the lives of innocent people.

So, chances are I will never fully comprehend the whole 'rave' thing. I think that ship sailed and left without me while I was busy learning the moves to 'Backstreet's Back'. But I think I am coming to peace with it. Besides, the world needs me to have a beer, relax, and share my god-given gift of dancing to retro.

Wash it down with some bitter beer...

So I'm sensing a bit of discontentedness amoungst my network of friends in the last little while. With exams coming, the fear of inevitable job searching, the soul-crushing shackles of student debt, and that dreary season called summer just around the corner, I thought I would prescribe a pharmaceutical solution to all your worries...





Side note: Because 'The Little Spruce Tree' has been such an international phenomenon, I've created an e-mail address where you can write and request e-mail notification each time that I post. That way you can avoid all the painful disappointment when you check the blog and I've unfortunately been so busy alphabetizing my Dolly Parton CD collection that I haven't had time to write. The address is: thelittlesprucetree@hotmail.com

yee-haw!

The International Day for the Elimination of Racial Discrimination: March 21

As you may know, I am currently in an under-graduate University program focused around 'Human Relations'. As part of this, I have been exploring the concept of respecting diversity in human relations. Much of the coursework revolves around discrimination (such as racism, ablism, agism, & heterosexism), while also being subjective of individual privilege and right.

The United Nations has declared March 21st the 'International Day for the Elimination of Racial Discrimation'. This day was chosen to commemorate South African peaceful protestors who were met with excessive police force back in 1960 for standing up against racist law and policy.

To honour the day I would like to share an excerpt from an article I wrote critiquing my own experience of racism. It is a bit longer than my other posts, but I encourage you to take a couple minutes to read it, think about it, and post a comment.




Questioning the System, Questioning Myself

The more I read, in regards to racism, the more troubled I become. I think it is definitely simpler for a myself to abstain from questioning my own system of beliefs and values, than to become critical of them and risk having the foundations of this very system threatened. In questioning, I lead myself down a path where my own identity could be endangered. I am also concerned when I relate this process to a cultural level.

I think it would be easy for us to live in a world where we believe the system to be good and moral and fair; I imagine that a large percentage of our society does. It is easy to believe that there is equality and that we get what we deserve. Yet these very beliefs, as I am beginning to see, perpetuate oppression and the covering of realities. I am concerned for our society if we are unwilling to challenge ourselves to see multiple realities; I am concerned if we do not give voice to those who are silenced by our cultural and governmental systems.

On a personal level, I feel troubled by my lack of knowledge. I have recently read an article on the history of Japanese-Canadian treatment during World War II (the book is 'Last Steps to Freedom: The Evolution of Canadian Racism' by John Boyko). This has had a particular impact, not only because it is a sad chapter in the history of Canadian ‘democracy’, but because I am from British Columbia, where much of these racists events took place, and I had no previous knowledge of this.

Knowing that the highways, in which I have so often driven over, were created through the use of Japanese-Canadian refugee labour has tainted my views of my own cultural history. I feel somewhat embarrassed of my cultural roots, and disappointed that I did not know more about the history of Canadian Racism. I hope that with knowledge, and some self-exploration, I will be part of a movement to make amends with a past that has been unjust and shameful.

Racial self-exploration is the process of me questioning my own racializations or racial beliefs. I have prided myself for many years on my open-minded attitude and for being nonjudgmental to people from all walks of life. These are values that are deeply engrained into my belief system. But does this mean I am not capable of being racist? Definitely not, I am human… to live is to make judgments. Or is it? Can our judgments be controlled? I guess my biggest problem is identifying any racially problematic behaviours or beliefs that I am not conscious of; yet how do I accomplish this? Perhaps by asking myself these questions, and by asking for feedback from the individuals with whom I interact.

I think it would be easy, because of my liberal values, to assume that I am free of racism. Yet, because I live in a culture that fosters racism, I am not free of racism. My responsibility lays in myself, in exploring the ways that I could be supporting systemic and cultural racism, and making changes so that my actions are in line with my politics and beliefs.




It means a great deal to me if you have read this.
I am grateful for your time and openness.
Please comment if you have something to say.

McHeartache

I have officially re-joined the Human Race... I have eaten at McDonald's again.

I have a long history with McDonald's. I think it begins in a similar fashion to most people, the 'Golden Arches' being the pan-ultimate birthday destination as a 4 year old. Then evolving to the greasy lunch spoon where I would go with high school friends to chow down on some cheap grub.

My relationship with McD's got a lot more intimate in my 16th year of life. It was then I proudly donned a visor and began working at one of the McDonald's in Prince George. It was the humblest of beginnings. The average shift would include toasting buns, grilling the meat, then spending 2-3 hours hunched over the back sink wearing an inverted garbage bag and washing grease covered fry vats.

Ah, I miss the good'olde McDays.

After I retired from my McCareer, my relationship with Ronald has turned cold and distant. It's my fault really, I have turned my back to the warm hug that was Combo#5 (AKA: the 2 cheeseburger meal). Instead looking for greasy love in all the wrong places... cheap Chinese takeout and $1 pizza joints. I began to wonder, was the food at McDonald's as bad as I had imagined or was I simply being McBitter?

So it was with mixed emotions on Sunday night that I broke my 6 year McAbstinence and entered a pit-stop McDonald's on Highway 401 to re-live the magic of my youth. I was a bit nervous to be honest. What if I eating this makes me nauseous... do I really want to be McChucking on the side of the highway? Or worse, what if I really like it? What if all these years I had been denying myself a pleasure that millions are experiencing each day?

I treated myself to the 'Filet-o-Fish' meal, which included a very large box of fries and a waxy pitcher of Coca-Cola. It was edible. There were no chest-seizing convulsions. I would go as far as saying that the sweetness of the coke nicely complimented the saltiness of the fries. But ultimately it was rather anti-climactic. The fish was bland, the fries were kind of cold, and I couldn't even get half way through the jug of coke.

It is with McBittersweetness that I continue my search for a greasy hand to warm my organic artichoke heart.

So I bid my Ronald another tragic farewell... some McLove isn't built to last.

I want the $$$$!

I've bitten the bullet. After five years of debt-free post secondary education I've applied for student loans. AH!!!! I know what am I thinking? The internal dialogue that occured:

"Hey Dan, wouldn't it be smart to get an arts degree while racking up thousands of dollars of debt with no guarantee of employment in the end?"

Reply: "Sounds great... bring on the money!"

So I was down at the Financial Aid office this morning, trying to get the loan in motion after having my 'file closed'. I had to provide evidence of supporting myself for the 24 months leading up into school. For most people this would be easy.

Unfortunately for me, being your average dysfunctional bohemian, it is less simple. After 4 different jobs, part-time school, periods of unemployment, and jet-setting to Cuba, Portugal, and the wilds of northern BC, it's just not easy to sum up 2 years in the life of Daniel Baylis.

Anyway, essentially I was frusterated with the system. Why does it have to be so complicated? It is a general test of my patience, something that I lack at times. I often get caught up in thinking that because I am a decent, kind human being, that somehow I deserve to have things come easy to me...

I have included a little clip that illustrates perfectly what I intend to do if the loan doesn't come in by the end of March. In the scene we have a boy who really wants his candy... with a little twist at the end outlining how the whole disaster could have been prevented.

enjoy!

The Olympian Within

So the Olympics are wrapping up this weekend in Torino, and I thought it would be a good opportunity to reflect upon the games, allow myself to get a little sentimental, and to celebrate my own ‘gold medal’ tendencies.

The games are always a chance to explore emotions. The ethicist in me questions the overbearing commercial side of the games, yet the gooey, soft-hearted dreamer in me eats up the drama of a close finish- the intensity of the victorious, the tragedy of second place. I enjoyed experiencing the passion of the cross-country skiers sprinting across the finish lines and collapsing with exhaustion. This repeatedly reduced me to a sentimental baby- ‘they train years and years for that one race’… sniff, sniff. You don’t want to see the sorry sight that I become when the anthem gets played.


This effortless emotionality, that reduces grown men to tears, raised some interesting questions. Is it healthy for me to live vicariously through all these men in spandex? Should I get off my couch and start training for my curling career? With my chances of becoming an Olympian quickly extinguishing like the Olympic torch (excuse the bad simile), I have begun to search other ways that I can celebrate my excellence.

In exploring the ‘Olympian Within’, I have come up with some key realizations of excellence. I am the king of mastication, digestion, and regular bowel movements, I am a gold medalist at growing protrusive nose hair, and I am the master of walking & breathing… while not falling down!

I don’t need to travel halfway across the world to be a winner, I feel like an Olympian all the time when I’m jogging in the park. It happens especially toward the end of my run when I imagine that there’s a finish line 50 meters ahead of me and I roast by a little old lady with a walker. Ah, the sweet taste of gold.

So congratulations Canada for winnings some medals. We set some new records, represented ourselves honourably (men’s hockey excluded), and have begun to build excitement for Vancouver in 2010. And even if I’m not chuckin’ rocks down the ice with the Canadian curling team, I will be there with tear ducts ready and the knowledge that, I too, am an Olympian.





Some key observations I made while watching the games:

Hippest sport: Snowboarding (smoke a jay, win a medal, then chillax)
Most bizarre sport: Biathlon (at what point did skiing and guns mix?)
Craziest sport: Skeleton (100 km/hour on a blade of steel? No thanks!)
Most intimate sport: Two-Man Luge (is that a banana in your pocket?)
'Last shot at the Olympics' Sport: Curling (…my only hope at the glory)

One Big Happy (definition of) Family

Family is a universal human experience. For some, family is a safe zone, a place where solutions exist in a complex world. For others, family is a process, a source of continuing conflict and negotiation. For others, it’s all about compromise (wearing that purple and brown sweater for the sake of your Great Aunt… see last blog).

I have been thinking a lot about family these days, catalyzed by a course that I’m taking (Family Communications); also by a realization that families evolve, and that in the next decade, I will probably begin to create a family of my own. Hopefully, by thinking about it now, I will somehow minimize the trauma that I am sure to inflict upon any potential offspring.


For starters, I think I need a good definition of family. Everyone knows what family is… right? I mean we all come from them, so it should not be too hard to define them. But then after contemplating the question for the past couple weeks, I’ve found myself struggling to come up with a good definition.

I am reading a textbook that defines family as:

“networks of people who share their lives over long periods of time bound by ties of marriage, blood, or commitment, legal or otherwise, who consider themselves as family and who share a significant history and anticipated future of functioning in a family relationship”

Wow, if you are still reading, I am impressed. Doesn’t that seem vague and longwinded? Shouldn’t this be a bit simpler? Didn’t family used to be one or two parents, some kids, a dog, and a huge therapy bill? How the heck am I supposed to learn about something that can’t even really be defined?



So I have decided to simplify. I have decided to let people define family for themselves. If you wanted to live alone with seventeen cats and call yourself a family, I am all for it. Just don’t be knittin’ me any purple and brown sweaters.

In the end, for me, family is whatever the heck you want it to be…

What’s your definition?

'Knot' just for the ladies...

It takes balls to knit... balls of yarn and some needles.

So there seems to be a bit of a craze going on. Knitting is back in a big way, and boys are jumping on the wild woolen bandwagon. My roomie says that 'knitting is the new yoga', while the Debbie Stoller (author of Stitch n'Bitch and editor of the third wave feminist magazine BUST) has reclaimed knitting from being a genderedized subservient chore to being the new creative form of self expression.

I received a copy of Stitch n'Bitch for my Birthday in November, and it's been nothing but knittin'’ and purlin'’ ever since.



But I'm a bit concerned that all this hype with the woolen arts is trivializing my newfound textile hobby. Am I just another sheep in this wooly craze?

It turns out that dicks and sticks (translation: men and knitting) have a much longer history then I was aware. Knitting, like many an occupation, was a male-only trade, originating around the 14th century in Egypt. Then, like a smart little communicable virus, it was spread around the Mediterranean by Arabian sailors. Since then it has been the delight of many a Victorian lady, while the duty of young American women during times of war.

Most of us are familiar with the needles and yarn of our grandmothers. Perhaps you've even had to swallow your pride and wear that purple and brown, mis-shapened sweater that your great aunt knit you for Christmas. Well guess what? Next year you're going to get one from your uncle too...…

Yup, it's official. The boys are knittin'... and I don't think they'll be casting off any time soon.

So go get your knit on.

(Oh yeah... for all you boys out there, here's a place to get you started: http://www.menknit.net/main.html)

Willie Nelson and the lesbian dog...

This mornig I was reading the globe and mail (www.theglobeandmail.com/arts), and found an exciting article on Willie Nelson. He has just released a special little country song called 'Cowboys are Frequently, Secretly Fond of Each Other'. I immediately hopped over to iTunes and bought it...

I just have to comment on the significance of this moment. I was raised on Willie Nelson and Dolly Parton (amoungst others) in a community where the closest thing to anything queer was my female dog, Kinda (pronounced 'kin-dah') trying to mount the neighbour's female dog. She was the best lesbian dog that I've ever had.

It is great to have these cultural icons promoting inclusion. So go check out the song, with it's chunky spanish guitar and smooth harmonica. For me it has becomes an instant classic... "you can't fuck with the lady that's sleepin' in each cowboy's head".

Willie, you have warmed my heart.

Thanks.

(oh yeah, welcome to my blog!)