my green coat hanger

I was on my way home from work on a warm winter’s day (today, in fact), and I had to kind of laugh at all the people on the train with me. I mean, they didn’t have 16 coat hangers. I did. I had four green ones, four white ones, and four tan ones. The lady across from me looked grumpy, and she glared at me as the rest of the commuters packed into our compartment, accusing me with her eyes of trying to establish the dreaded transit-eye contact.

Amber had asked me take the coat hangers out of the office, cause she thought they were cluttering things up. That was two months ago. Today I found them beside my desk where my chair needs to swivel if I feel like playing ‘Swivelling Fun’. So I thought to take them home.

Then Randy Travis came on the train and started singing “Angels Among Us”, and I was convinced the lady across from me was my angel- the angel among us meant solely for me. The angel that, if it was between me and you, like, if we were all about to fall off some cliff or something, and she could only save one of us, she’d so choose me, cause she’s my angel. You know, like when Celine Dion and that sexaholic R. Kelly sing “I’m Your Angel.” It’s like that, only this angel is my angel, and she’s only singing to me.

I think my angel thought I was a little weird. That’s okay, people usually think I’m a little strange at first. Turns out angels do, too. Also turns out angels don’t like it when you wink and smile and offer 16 coat hangers as a sacrifice to their God that you don’t really believe in, unless they prove it to you through magic and scantly clothed angel man friends, combined with that infamous angel “Hallelujah!” music. Ah well. Who needs a angel anyways.

I realized that somebody was probably hanging up their for-warm-days winter jacket with one of my green coat hangers the very minute I finished picking up my coat hangers from a clumsy drop outside my apartment building. I only had 15. Hey, maybe angels do like coat hangers as sacrifices. Maybe an angel's evil glare, in people body language, simply means, "I love you Roddy."

(I mean, we gotta be aware of the cultural differences between angels and people. Especially if we have different religious belief systems. Like, what if George Bush's angel is Jewish? Would he remember to wish his angel a happy Hannekah? And would he remember how to spell Hannekah?)

my flu hurts

I’ve moved four times in the past year, all within the same city. The personal connections I developed with each neighbourhood is, well, it’s not really a spiritual thing- more of, like, a quasi-sexual relationship. Mmm, well, maybe not so sexual, but the same kinda idea: I get attached to it for it’s physically appealing attributes (flaws and all); it’s character; it’s uniqueness from other neighbourhoods; it’s valuable ass(ets); it’s smells; etc.

So when I look out my bedroom window, I can’t help but feel a bit excited. Looking at my neighbourhood- the place where I live- through the eye of my window, the strangest thoughts go through my mind, reminding me of that stupid infant failing to grasp the difference between square pegs and circle pegs, confused, yet still learning. When I see low-hanging clouds floating past my apartment window, the permeable ceiling reminds me of my own mortality. And I can see my eyes gazing out at my neighbourhood, fascinated, yet terrified.

At first glance, these connections seem loose, at best. Why are the clouds reminding me that there’s an imminent end to my once-thought-to-be infinite life? I guess it’s the whole star-gazer thought process: the environment, which we all learn to externalize so strongly, when you stop and think about it, clears the mind. (Isn’t it ironic that the very thing that we pollute so faithfully works to clear or depollute our minds?) And I find it fascinating that thoughts traditionally inspired by stars, nebulas and galaxies can be inspired by the very thing that prevents me from seeing them: clouds! Star-gazer’s thought processes when the clouds are out- isn’t that impossible? But, when there’s not one other thought going through your mind, it’s easy to start thinking like that. You’re forced to internalize when you stop daydreaming, and life becomes clear.

I find all my neighbours fascinating. No matter if they’re crazy; if they play their music so loud I couldn’t even concentrate on Jesus Christ himself; if they ask me about every detail of my life; if they speak perverse franglaise, drunk on bad wine; if they want me to babysit their kids for an entire summer; if I suspect them of beating the Tuscan shit out of their tiny wife; if I smell feces-like odours coming from their apartment; if they yell at me to turn down my music cause they wouldn’t even be able to concentrate on Jesus Christ herself.

I have a nice view right now, but even without a view like this, I make do.

And I thought I had a hang over.

My cuz and I decided to go downtown Vancouver to do some shopping on New Year's Day, so we jumped on the bus from Kitsilano that would take us over the Granville Bridge. The bus, not very full, seemed to have more people at the front, so following the unspoken rule of transit diffusion, we made our way to the back.

I got a little overheated, as I was dressed for a winter's day in the Yukon, so I started unbundling. Vaguely aware of my fellow passengers, I'm sure I still knew there was a man to the right of me; a couple of girls to the left of me; there I was, stuck in the middle with them. Suddenly, I heard a noise that sounded, well, like what, I don't know. But my fight-or-flight responses had a pretty good idea that I had to get outta there, so I started running to the front of the bus.

Tracy, looking up at me, wondering where I was going, turned to the man that had been sitting beside me. I was a little embarassed with my mad dash to the front of the bus, cause it looked like the man had simply spilled his coffee. So I snuck back to sit myself beside my cousin, and I asked her, "Did he just puke?"

"I dunno; he may have just spilled..." And then the smell hit us. And then I felt like I was going to puke. So we went to the very front of the bus.

The puke man, quite embarassed, gets up and makes a friendly announcement. "Escuse me! I just threw up all over myself! Does anyone have a napkin?!" he shouted, as he walked up and down the aisle, starting a new game of transit diffusion: one that, instead of bearing resemblance to common courtesises at the urinal, resembled a dutch oven and a can of beans.

Thankfully, Trace made the call to get off at the next stop, and to catch the next bus. It's good we did, cause we later saw the bus drive by, decommissioned, and the puke man walk by, slightly stinky, but mostly ashamed.