tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38786043989156731832024-03-06T00:31:00.708-08:00Planet PapillonOne woman's journey to the Third World of Creativity, where accomodations leave much to be desired, but <i>oh</i>, the scenery can be breathtaking and the locals are a blast. As my project (d)evolves, I'm discovering <i>it's all about the peeps.</i> Why invent characters when I can write about the ones I encounter constantly?
So join my little travelling party. Meet the other guests. Lift your glass. Laugh. Chain-smoke. And by all means, introduce yourself.Papillonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01975368513439917020noreply@blogger.comBlogger57125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3878604398915673183.post-4622559521346414252008-07-21T11:49:00.001-07:002008-07-21T11:54:33.721-07:00The sound of egoHere's a little ditty that came to me the other day, meant to be sung to <i>The Sound of Silence</i>:<div><br /></div><div>Hello ego, my old "friend"</div><div>You've come to piss me off again</div><div>You've come to make me feel inferior</div><div>Of you I couldn't be much wearier</div><div>And your voices that do echo in my head</div><div>Fill me with dread</div><div>So I won't listen to the sound of ego</div><div><br /></div><div><i>My gratitude for inspiration goes out to Simon & Garfunkel, Eckhart Tolle, and of course, the letter "I" </i></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Laugh. Cry. Chain-smoke.</div>Papillonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01975368513439917020noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3878604398915673183.post-3972355536657237602008-07-07T23:05:00.001-07:002008-07-07T23:14:53.798-07:00Halloween 2007<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-G7ovSaKWIgauKdRXN96GMkKVMzdQ_Cg037WnpGIJuiGnjYZ7O-Ej2Vx1MRwcm2r0NYPIk783Yk2_nflU3EHMwZR-0FFCz4YLIhwuPy1mO4EcbU-IXHahVwtla2I2Gy6pocPIGqRBUZs/s1600-h/HollyCaptainEyeliner.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-G7ovSaKWIgauKdRXN96GMkKVMzdQ_Cg037WnpGIJuiGnjYZ7O-Ej2Vx1MRwcm2r0NYPIk783Yk2_nflU3EHMwZR-0FFCz4YLIhwuPy1mO4EcbU-IXHahVwtla2I2Gy6pocPIGqRBUZs/s320/HollyCaptainEyeliner.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220521958219439650" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-style: italic; font-size:10px;">Holly Golightly & Cap'n Eyeliner (dude utterly wrecked my mascara filling in </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-style: italic; font-size:10px;">that *rugged* beard!)</span><br /></div></span><div class="blogger-post-footer">Laugh. Cry. Chain-smoke.</div>Papillonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01975368513439917020noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3878604398915673183.post-46894746719567791522008-07-07T18:35:00.000-07:002011-07-12T15:03:16.493-07:00Fun with urbandictionary.comKudos to my newest cyber-pal, <b>raindog</b>, for posting this on his blog and giving me the idea. Now obviously i have to try it.<br /><br />Go to www.urbandictionary.com and type in your answer to each question in the search box, then write the first definition it gives you... (The italicized bits are examples urbandic provides.)<br /><br /><b>1) Your name?</b><br />Lili: A sweet girl who's always there for you<br /><br /><i>ur sucha lili</i><br /><br /><b>I kinda like the second def too:</b> The hottest bitch around... A pimpette.. will pimp your sorry ass anytime, anywhere. You will fall upon her great majesty, she will seduce you in all manner.. beware all men<br /><br /><i>Damn Lili... u own me!</i>) :^)<br /><br />[Uh, yeah... if only! Why, then, weren't my uh, feminine wiles enough to get Manu Chao to come perform in Vancouver this year? Why? Huh?]<br /><br />Papillon: Isn't defined yet. Hmm. I kinda like being indefinable.<b><br /></b><br /><br /><b>2) What Should You Be Doing?</b><br />Writing <br />a kind of love that thats annoying as hell and makes you want to pull your hair out. It keeps you up at night, and it makes you think about the world entirely differently. Its a passion that is unlike any other. It overides everything in your life.<br />What do i want to do with my life?<br /><br /><i>I want to be writing.</i><br /><br />[Okay now, is this thing part Ouija Board, or what?]<br /><br />3) Favorite Food?<br />Paella: Anal sex with a Latina. (!!)<br /><br /><i>Ben Affleck left because J-Lo wouldn't give him any of that sweet paella. </i> (Wonder if Marc Anthony got any luckier?)<br /><br />[I'm not even going to dignify that one with any sort of comment or analysis. Though I do think Latinas are hot. Maybe a sexy dance together to some compelling Cumbria? Oh, except of course, I can't dance. Kay. Let's leave this one well enough alone.]<br /><br /><br /><b>4) Hometown?</b><br />Vancouver: Vancouver is a city on the west coast of Canada. It has been voted and said by most to be the most beautifull city in the world. Mountains wall in the city and the ocean crashes downtown. In ten minutes you can be walking in old growth forests. Greenpeace, adbusters, legal pot, safe injection sites and things like this make Vancouver Hated by right wing nuts. Vancouver has the highest density, highest property values and best heath standards of Any city its size in the world.<br /><br /><i>In Vancouver I sit by the ocean in peace. Every other city seems empty to me after loving Vancouver.</i><br /><br />[Hey, it's not utopia, but it's home and I love it. Having said that, I'd still love to spend winters somewhere in Central or South America.]<br /><br /><b>5) Word to describe yourself?</b><br />Diplomat<br />A person who tells you to go to hell in such a way that you actually look forward to the trip.<br /><i>A Diplomat is a Diplomat. Theres ur example.</i><br /><br /><b>6)Last person you talked to on the phone?</b><br />Husband<br />1) Someone who has your back when you need it, but knows when to get the hell out of your way when he has to. Useful for fixing things, keeping you warm, and that fuzzy soft happy feeling that he usually creates.<br />2)Also, apparently something most of the previous definition submitters haven't the personality to attract.<br /><br /><i>1)"I love my husband, he managed to fix the toilet after it exploded and started spitting zombies out every fifteen minutes" - Random Female Victim of Zombie Attacks<br />2)"...In short he is about useless." - Well, I suppose you'd think that, being completely unable to attract a decent guy.</i><br /><br /><br /><b>7) What are you drinking?</b><br />Wine:<br />form of dance, involves gyration of hips, can be slow or fast must always be sexy. performed to mainly west indian music like reggae, calypso and soca.<br /><br /><i>If you don't mind...would you take a wine with me?</i><br /><br /><br /><b>8) Favorite color?</b><br />Purple<br />Extremely potent marijuana, specifically marijuana buds that have a purple hue to them. Also accompanied by a fragant, usually fruity smell and mad perma-grin.<br /><br /><i>Yo, you gotta come over and smoke, boy! I got the purple!</i><div class="blogger-post-footer">Laugh. Cry. Chain-smoke.</div>Papillonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01975368513439917020noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3878604398915673183.post-6647116040749568562008-07-06T23:36:00.000-07:002008-07-07T00:38:19.664-07:00Two (2) regrets in life...... And they were both due to lack of motivation on my part in junior high and high school. So:<br /><br />(A) I wish I had made more of an effort to learn French. <i>Tabernac!</i> We never should have tormented that <i>petite Mademoiselle Quelque-chose</i>, straight from Paris and nervous as one of those little Farside dogs that had consumed too much espresso. Twenty-some 13-year olds, probably doomed to pay off bad karma for (rumour had it) causing our rather delicate teacher to have a bit of a melt-down and eventually quit. CAVEAT: I wasn't one of the top culprits; the worst I ever did was pass notes to the kids around me, but I never went out of my way to annoy the <i>pauvre petite.</i> I didn't need to -- a few other kids were exceptionally gifted in the mind-fuck arts. Sheesh! You couldn't pay me enough to teach teenagers!<br /><br />(B) I wish I had taken my road test and tried to get a driver's licence in my teens. Now the thought of driving in Vancouver scares me more than diving 90 feet to explore a shipwreck. (Well okay, <i>that</i> doesn't scare me at all!)<br /><br />At the end of the day (and the weekend, for that matter), I have to admit, two regrets in life for a woman of my, um, advanced years is actually not too bad. Anyway, I'm more interested these days in learning Spanish than French. It's easier to learn and widely spoken in the countries we travel to. ¡¿Y ahora... qué hago?! I guess the smart money says take classes, huh? I've tried the self-teaching thing with CDs and books, and behold! I could actually understand some of the people in Bogota. Whether or not they could understand me is a different issue entirely. And when we travelled to the Caribbean coast, where everyone talks so fast you'd swear they were on speed (or maybe a more obvious substance, considering the locale), well, I was hopeless without my trusty little phrase book, which really should have had the Spanish version of "Please excuse me. My IQ is only twice as big as my shoe size." But I digress...<br /><br />Hope everyone who reads this has a great week. I'm going to have one even if those mofos, er, I mean those nice, nice people don't let me into their stupid, elitist club, err, I mean their dynamic and productive networking group. So THERE. :-)<div class="blogger-post-footer">Laugh. Cry. Chain-smoke.</div>Papillonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01975368513439917020noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3878604398915673183.post-85166535775931214782008-07-04T05:52:00.000-07:002008-07-04T05:57:40.974-07:00The Life Olympics (or, Too Much F***ing Competition)I’m not a competitive person as it is, but this shit is beyond the pale. As some of you know, G-man and I have been trying very hard lately to grow the business, because the alternative would be standing idly by and watching it go tits-up. We both detest schmoozing, but realize it’s essential to small business survival, so one of us had to suck it up, get out there, and try to network. Since G-man has been doing what little work we’ve had come in lately, since he stays on top of the financial logistics and such, it seemed only fair that I step up and take on the role of what? Small business community liaison, I guess one could say.<br /><br />To that end, I’ve applied to join a networking group. These groups are set up to provide members with sources of word-of-mouth referrals for each other. Only one profession can be represented in a given chapter, so there’s no internal competition, no conflict of interest. I applied as a graphic designer; we were told I was the only one applying.<br /><br />This whole process started several weeks ago. The way the thing works, one gets to attend two meetings free (lunch not included) before determining whether or not to apply for membership. So I went to two of these events, sucked up my morbid fear of public speaking, got to know the group (of about 25) and the individuals in it, even learned names. Decided these were nice people and I would happily go to bat, promoting any of their businesses to friends and business acquaintances alike. After submitting my application, I came in for a third meeting a week ago, after which I was interviewed – a step we’d been led to believe was a mere formality. Okay, this is where it gets good. The interview goes fine, but I’m told – get this – they have to interview ANOTHER GRAPHIC DESIGNER late next week (that would have been yesterday); then a decision would be made and they’d let me know. Late yesterday I receive an email. One of the guys on the membership committee is away, so now they’re going to meet on Monday (today is Friday), supposedly make a decision and let me know then. This is the SECOND major delay now… thanks for the gift of a nice, relaxing weekend guys. I need more anxiety like I need a good, swift poke in the eye with a knitting needle.<br /><br />And have I mentioned the best part? Wait for it… All this, all this stress, all this self-doubt and gnawing on non-existent fingernails, all this is for the privilege of shelling out nearly $600 to join the chapter. I’M COMPETING TO PAY TO WORK. And it is work; it’s all very give and take, this stuff; during the days between meetings, you’re expected to be looking for opportunities to promote others’ businesses. Fair enough, though; other people will be out there promoting yours… this stuff is really supposed to work, hence my desire to get in.<br /><br />Still, I can’t believe it’s come to this. Over the course of a year or so, we’ve gone from being (as G-man so poetically puts it) “balls-to-the wall busy” to barely keeping afloat. Colombia may have seemed like an extravagance under the circumstances, but it wasn’t really. A, we took the trip with a bit of a nest egg we’d built up, and B, we were “guaranteed” to hit the ground running on our return. There was a big-ass project in the works that would have translated into more than a month of work for both of us. At the eleventh hour, our client’s client decides to bail and go with an entirely different team of suppliers. Nobody’s fault, but that’s scant comfort. I keep seeing Nelson (the Simpsons bully) going “YOINK!” as he separates some poor little nerd from his bag lunch.<br /><br />So, yeah. Frustrated much? Oh, just a tad. Maybe next I’ll take up walking on hot coals… It sounds like way more fun than life is offering right now. And hey, then I’d get to smolder on the outside too!<div class="blogger-post-footer">Laugh. Cry. Chain-smoke.</div>Papillonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01975368513439917020noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3878604398915673183.post-42953444549776008552008-07-02T15:24:00.000-07:002008-07-02T15:52:04.706-07:00Manu, Part 2<b>The following is a journal excerpt from June 27. I post this with 3 new cyber-friends in mind. Piggytat, Nubiasol, and Bixo Chango, if this shit doesn't scare you away, you may be brave enough to check out Manu, Part 1, titled <i><A HREF="http://planetpapillon.blogspot.com/2007/06/cruising-on-exhaustion-and-martinis.html">Cruising on Martinis and Exhaustion.</i></A></b><br /><br />I'm chillin' at the Goddess K-belle's Sunshine Coast cottage. It’s just about 10:30 pm, and still barely darker than twilight. K-belle is on the deck having what seems to be a fairly intense conversation with someone on her mobile. I imagine it must be one of the people unwittingly rocking the boat that is her tumultuous life right now. Wow, I don’t envy any of them, that’s for sure. <br /><br />So, yeah, I was going to start writing about Manu (or more to the point, what it is that Manu symbolizes for me), but then K-belle and I had more beer, and I smoked more weed, and then we <i>clearly</i> had to go to the beach. We both had our inaugural swim of the season, and other than the rocks (which were no match for my mighty Keen sandals), it was pretty effin’ great. Much warmer than I’d expected – not balmy by any means, but pretty damn doable considering we’ve had no real hot weather so far. <br /><br />Anyway… glass of merlot within arm’s reach, Gogol Bordello serenading me on the stereo, I’m at least going to say this much: Manu Chao symbolizes my <b>passion</b>. And since I’ve yet to figure out what my source (and outlet) for passion might be, it only makes sense that this issue (and its symbol) have been on my mind (and in my heart) a lot. I can say with some conviction and clarity that… what? Oh shit, after K-belle finished her call and came back in, we got to talking and I totally forgot my train of thought! Now she’s checking her email so I have a chance to think, but noooh! I’m still having a brain fart. <br /><br />I can say with some conviction and clarity that… hah! I remember! I can say with some conviction and clarity, looking back now, that I was <i>not</i> completely bat-shit last summer in identifying Manu as my muse. He really is that. When K-belle and I were sitting around on the deck this afternoon, I told her that seeing Manu perform live for the first time literally changed my life, as I’d never seen anyone perform with such passion. <br /><br />So no, it doesn’t really matter that Manu and I don’t have an art form in common, that he’s probably a considerably bigger leftie than I am (or at least so his PR team would have us believe), and that he grew up in a (for me) phenomenally enviable bohemian environment, whereas I grew up in a repressive, redneck, Catholic soul vortex. It’s about the fucking PASSION. As I’ve said to Little Miss once (or more), and as I reiterated to K-belle today, it’s not so much a case of wanting to <i>do</i> Manu as wanting to <i>be</i> Manu. Does a person have to cultivate that kind of passion from childhood, or can we start any time? Please tell me it’s not too late.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Laugh. Cry. Chain-smoke.</div>Papillonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01975368513439917020noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3878604398915673183.post-52732988118257563172008-06-06T17:22:00.000-07:002008-06-06T17:27:14.090-07:00You're all invited to my party!I have to admit, my horoscopes on the Google main page are sometimes downright uncanny. Take today's, for example:<br /><br /><i>You are moving out of your comfort zone and reaching toward a new way of expressing your creativity. You may not be clear about where you are going, but you are still ready to head on out. Don't start your new venture quietly. Turn it into a party and invite the best people you know. The bigger the splash today, the better the show will be in a few months.</i><br /><br />So? Who's bringing the gin?<br /><br />:^)<div class="blogger-post-footer">Laugh. Cry. Chain-smoke.</div>Papillonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01975368513439917020noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3878604398915673183.post-55548470221163785932008-06-06T10:42:00.000-07:002008-06-06T11:02:24.926-07:00Where have I been?First off, thanks for all the great comments re: the <i>Small, heroic actions</i> post.<br /><br />My Blogosphere buddy, Sandy from India, said "BTW, long time no see. Where were you?" I think his question deserves an answer, so here goes.<br /><br />For the past year or so, I've been to:<br /><br />• Despondency<br />• Dispiritedness<br />• Dejection<br />• Despair<br />• Depletion<br />• Desolation<br />• Depression (that one comes as a surprise, no?)<br /><br />... And then I was in Colombia, which lovingly offered me a reprieve from all those *D* words. But I had to come home.<br /><br />The good news is, I'm finally seeing a competent and compassionate shrink. I believe he'll help me find the joy and self-confidence that have eluded me for too long.<br /><br />Peace, love & hippie beads,<br /><br />Papillon<div class="blogger-post-footer">Laugh. Cry. Chain-smoke.</div>Papillonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01975368513439917020noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3878604398915673183.post-3873700900433258442008-05-23T12:26:00.000-07:002008-05-23T12:34:35.908-07:00Small, heroic actions in a big, f***ed up worldI posted this story on the forum of Manu Chao's website. (I've made a few cyber-pals there and enjoy *hanging out*.) Anyway, I thought I'd post it here too, as it got some positive response. I'm going to make a real effort to blog more frequently, so do visit again.<br /><br />****<br /><br />Those of you who have read a number of my posts know that there's a Mr.Papillon in my life, but because I don't want to make my cyber-friends puke, I generally refrain from bragging about the guy.<br /><br />Well, I'm violating that personal policy now to share this little story with you. I hope it makes you smile.<br /><br />The other day the two of us were walking along the seawall close to our home when we saw a small group of women standing around looking at something at the bottom of a hill. They were looking at a mama duck and her brood (10 or so) of teensy little ducklings. (Soooh f***ing cute!!) The mother seemed distressed, and one of the women pointed up the hillside to where a baby duck had gotten caught in a thorn bush. It had a branch twisted around its little neck and was struggling to get free.<br /><br />The bush was several metres up, the hill very steep and full of small, loose rocks. I looked at my guy, and didn't even need to speak. He knew my expression meant "Can you please try?"<br /><br />Without hesitation, up he climbed, although it was extremely difficult to keep his balance on that kind of terrain. The other women and I watched anxiously as he stretched out his arm to reach the duckling. Very tricky to take hold of the little critter without crushing it AND without falling on his ass, but he managed. Meantime, Mama Duck was going nuts, quacking up a storm, like "Get away from my kid, ya big freak!" <br /><br />Mr. P slowly, carefully made his way back down the hill with the little duck held loosely in his hand. At the bottom, it squirmed out and fell (a couple of feet) into a puddle, where it gave itself a good shake and then quickly motored over to catch up with its mama and siblings. Mr. P had actually thought its neck might be broken from hanging in the bush, but miraculously, the little guy (girl?) was uninjured!! In a few seconds, it blended in with the others, and I couldn't even see which one it was anymore. (They all look the same, those duckies!)<br /><br />The women (one older lady, and a couple of young ones) and I all cheered as the little family waddled away. Mr. P, well, he won an instant fan club at that moment... but *I* got to go home with him!<br /><br />That's it, then. My apologies in advance if anyone lost their lunch! ;^)<br /><br />Happy Weekend. Quack!<div class="blogger-post-footer">Laugh. Cry. Chain-smoke.</div>Papillonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01975368513439917020noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3878604398915673183.post-78686751671768294802008-03-14T12:42:00.000-07:002008-03-14T13:04:54.941-07:00!Colombia te quiero!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6rJbCY-DWExeAEqPIt_e-FldsmxnzxKP77zwKhSOv_MmvLvBKwvfIWUaMcxNojr2bUy5jshRfniNm11DkvEg_rSMhFiVCds0yqPnuBVoxBMRUmj-ejlG_-he1xKDaaTpwzmSj54NQTP0/s1600-h/CarnivalBARRANQUILLA08.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6rJbCY-DWExeAEqPIt_e-FldsmxnzxKP77zwKhSOv_MmvLvBKwvfIWUaMcxNojr2bUy5jshRfniNm11DkvEg_rSMhFiVCds0yqPnuBVoxBMRUmj-ejlG_-he1xKDaaTpwzmSj54NQTP0/s320/CarnivalBARRANQUILLA08.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5177688717304871858" /></a><center><i>Barranquilla Carnaval. White powder everywhere!</i></center><br /><br />To say that we had a great time would be an almost absurd understatement.<br /><br />I have pages and pages of journal to sort through, and G-Man took about 1,300 pictures -- no exaggeration.<br /><br />Anyway, there's <i>waay</i> too much information to upload it all here, so I'm going to build either a shiny new blog or a proper website.<br /><br />Will keep you posted.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Laugh. Cry. Chain-smoke.</div>Papillonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01975368513439917020noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3878604398915673183.post-81966738702979158792007-12-04T11:01:00.000-08:002007-12-04T11:14:48.398-08:00A great new excuse for not writingI keep meaning to post, but the fact is, all my spare time (the time I don't waste, that is) is being spent learning español, which would be so much easier if not for stupid, annoying <b>verbs</b>.<br /><br />Verbs. Why necessary? Conjugate <i>this</i>, mofo. ;^)<br /><br />Oh yeah... G-man and I are going to Colombia in February. Yaaay!<br /><br />Pues, hasta luego todos.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Laugh. Cry. Chain-smoke.</div>Papillonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01975368513439917020noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3878604398915673183.post-22108793815842955742007-11-08T11:07:00.000-08:002007-11-08T11:15:06.425-08:00F#%@ing InsomniaCan anyone relate to this?<br /><br />It’s just past one a.m. on a Monday night and you’re finally sleepy enough to put down the compelling novel you’ve been reading and turn off the bedside lamp. Time to visit dreamy places. Smoosh your face into the pillow just so. Close your eyes. Ahh…<br /><br />But no! You’re suddenly aware of being awkwardly sandwiched between The Life Partner and The Dog. (In theory, you could push an 8-pound dog off the bed, but in reality, <i>you’re</i> the pushover.) The Life Partner is snoring like a Havana Chevy and The Dog’s breath stinks. The Life Partner is 18 feet tall and sleeps on his side, taking up two-thirds of the bed and poking his bony knees into your back. The Dog kisses your face, and you just know she’s been eating “cat cookies” again.<br /><br />In desperation, you get up from your warm comfy bed and relocate to the much less inviting rock-like couch in the office. Try some deep-breathing relaxation techniques. These merely bore and frustrate you. But although you’re not sleepy enough to sleep, you don’t have the energy to actually <i>do</i> anything.<br /><br />The computers hum and their various lights glow, reminding you that you could get off your ass and write. Maybe continue transcribing the journal you kept on a trip to Cuba ten years ago. But that’s not very appealing at all – the whole process to date has been like pulling your own teeth. Without anesthetic. When you read certain stuff you’ve written in the past, it’s so fucking banal you could just slap yourself senseless. Which would arguably be one way to bring on sleep.<br /><br />So you get off the couch and blog about insomnia. And it’s two a.m. now. You recall The Life Partner saying to you recently “I can tell when you’ve taken a sleeping pill – you always <b><i>snore</i></b>.” <i>D’accord</i>, he nudges you when this happens, thereby waking you up, and you feel, shall we say, pretty strongly about being awake when you want to be asleep.<br /><br />The blogging, like the deep breathing, eventually starts to bore and frustrate you, because it isn’t sleep. Finally, you decide to take a pill and go back to your warm comfy bed. You may not be 18 feet tall, but you’ve got knees of your very own. :^)<div class="blogger-post-footer">Laugh. Cry. Chain-smoke.</div>Papillonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01975368513439917020noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3878604398915673183.post-44066419568755899222007-10-13T14:36:00.000-07:002007-10-13T14:59:34.820-07:00A girl, a cigar, a disgraced presidentHow's that for a working title? <br /><br />I'm starting a piece right now based on some journaling I did during the trip G-man and I took to Cuba in January of 1998. Think of the working title as a sort of – what? Milieu? Tableau? Socio-political backdrop? Let's just pick the most pretentious of those and go with it. Anyway, <i>A girl, a cigar, a disgraced president</i> is the <b>[Place pretentious term here}</b> against which our trip was set. Even the historic papal visit to Cuba didn't warrant as much media attention as the torrid saga of Ms. L and Pres. C.<br /><br />As you've probably gathered by the dearth of recent posts, I haven't had time to blog. That whole *making a living* thing, you know how it is. Still, I wanted to check in and let y'all know that babblings are brewing and will be posted soon(ish).<br /><br />Virtual Hugs,<br /><br />Papillon<div class="blogger-post-footer">Laugh. Cry. Chain-smoke.</div>Papillonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01975368513439917020noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3878604398915673183.post-26329601000885403602007-09-17T16:09:00.000-07:002007-09-17T16:17:08.500-07:00Guess who's running for office?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV92O3LAvv3FkN-TKFf2TWQWHWSm2-wQZtbpa9OFcuHL1kr8P3SOz8U-a9jeh-2nlRz-yxMQa0_HHVt2wLU1NCmBnebslvAzYu81l8nzptRzIrj7sAMtsehf1wZ9o5BG-HEUPwhb1nSPI/s1600-h/n796585435_973168_9832.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV92O3LAvv3FkN-TKFf2TWQWHWSm2-wQZtbpa9OFcuHL1kr8P3SOz8U-a9jeh-2nlRz-yxMQa0_HHVt2wLU1NCmBnebslvAzYu81l8nzptRzIrj7sAMtsehf1wZ9o5BG-HEUPwhb1nSPI/s320/n796585435_973168_9832.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5111314765337268482" /></a><br /><center>No one in <i>this</i> picture, that's for sure. But feel the gin, er, I mean love!</center><div class="blogger-post-footer">Laugh. Cry. Chain-smoke.</div>Papillonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01975368513439917020noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3878604398915673183.post-76168513510833270532007-09-16T18:30:00.000-07:002007-09-16T18:48:37.713-07:00Playa Mafia 3: Hellgas’s Finest Hour<A HREF="http://planetpapillon.blogspot.com/2007/07/playa-mafia-part-2.html">Playa Mafia 2</A><br /><A HREF="http://planetpapillon.blogspot.com/2007/06/playa-mafia-part-1.html">Playa Mafia 1</A> <br /><br />Five or six days into our stay at La Iguanita, Sven asks us “So, you guys have been here, what, three weeks?” G-man and I choose to take this as a compliment. I guess we do have a knack for becoming watering hole regulars. Even Hellga treats us as such.<br /><br />Having learned how to read Her Ladyship’s ever-fluctuating Moodometer, I now know when to avoid her and when to sit back and enjoy her life-of-the-party ways.<br /><br />Tonight she’s particularly got her charm on, dazzling locals and visitors alike with her pearly, for the moment non-psychotic smile and her quick wit. Apparently oblivious to the notion that she’d hated my guts a mere few days prior, she now addresses me like I’m a fun new pal. <br /><br />Sven regales us with an account of the time he and Hellga attended a Rolling Stones concert with only 998 other people. It had been a VIP sort of show, and the band played old blues and other classics. Sven raves, whereas Hellga’s take on the event can perhaps be best described with a shrug and a “meh.”<br /><br />We’re seated at the big round table drinking with “the Mafia”, a few of whom start to head home from about 7:30 onward. As usual, New York Pete is the first to leave; as usual, the others try to tease out of him who he’s off to see. Some hopelessly smitten young thing from Nebraska, I imagine. One of the bartenders, Carmen, can’t seem to help turning <i>roja</i> whenever she’s near Pete. Poor thing! For his part, Pete could do a whole lot worse, IMHO – Carmen’s a very sweet girl and a major hottie. Plus she knows how to pour a Margarita.<br /><br />Later-ish in the evening; we return from having some Thai food (go figure) across the street and settle in with the gang once more. The table is festive, and remarkably, Hellga still looks happy.<br /><br />Her seat and mine both face the sidewalk and street beyond, so we both notice when a 60-something gentleman rolls up to the bar entrance in his wheelchair. Hellga jumps up, runs to the man’s side and proclaims, at considerable volume, “No, no, no, no! <i>You’re</i> not coming in here!”<br /><br />For a millisecond I’m horrified, but I quickly (well, quickly in an after-4-Dos-Equis sort of way) relax when the two of them laugh heartily. Whew, it’s all good – they’re friends. Indeed, Hellga wheels the guy over next to me and introduces us with utmost affability.<br /><br />Jim, it turns out, is a retiree from Minneapolis (if memory serves), now Living The Dream in one of the many places so prolifically labeled Paradise. I don’t know what sort of physical/physiological/neurological/whatever condition Jim has, but it renders his speech garbled, slow, and rather difficult for a tipsy dame in a loud bar to understand. I do my best though, without getting too much and too literally in the man’s face.<br /><br />Hellga appears amused by our laboured efforts to communicate and decides to join in on the fun. She graces me with a mischievous, conspiratorial grin and says “Watch this!” just before she leans in towards Jim. She asks him something; I forget what exactly, but it’s something requiring a lengthy reply. I’m thinking something along the lines of “Tell us about that marlin your brother caught. How big was that thing, anyway?”<br /><br />As Jim begins to answer (“Thaaaaaaaaat… ffffiiiiiishhh… waaas sooooh bbbiiiiggg…”), Hellga winks at me, and, as my jaw does everything in its recently broken (I’ll tell ya another time) power to keep from dropping to the floor, SHE PROCEEDS TO MIMICK A DISABLED MAN in front of my bleary red eyes. She’s making little fish-speak shapes with her mouth, puckery O’s. Slowly and with considerable showmanship, she flings Jim’s words back at him.<br /><br />I’m momentarily hypnotized. It’s like witnessing a train wreck – unbelievably horrible, yet I can’t look away. Jim appears saddened, but not shocked. He stops speaking. Around us, people are engaged in their own conversations, so no one else has seen or heard the debacle.<br /><br />“Aw, Jim!” Hellga laughs. “You are so <i>fucked up</i>, man! How fucked up is Jim?”<br /><br />And it’s this poetic little gem that snaps me out of my catatonic state and provides me with the perfect opening to maybe help salvage what’s left of Jim’s morale and pride.<br /><br />“Well, Jim,” I pipe up a mite too jovially, “if by ‘fucked up’ Hellga means ‘having had too much to drink’, then you’re in good company, because I’m pretty damn fucked up myself.” Jim smiles and we clink glasses.<br /><br />It takes a minute, but eventually Hellga’s penny drops and she’s cognizant of the fact that I’ve yet again broken her cardinal, if unspoken, rule: I’ve shown sympathy for someone she’s abused. <i>¡A ella no le gusta eso!</i><br /><br />As she gives me the stink eye, I can see her struggling for a well-worded reprimand to hurl at me, but the best she can come up with – and this I remember clear as day – is “And who are <i>you</i> to say whatever?” Instinctively I know how to work it without turning the situation into something uglier than it already is.<br /><br />I play dumb.<br /><br />“Hmm, dunno what it is I said, but who am I? I’m no one, really, and if there’s one thing you should know about me by now, it’s that I AM UTTERLY FULL OF SHIT.” Cue innocent little smile.<br /><br />Satisfied with my self-deprecatory and agreeably stupid response, Hellga gives Jim and me a slightly uneasy smile and whooshes off to the bar.<br /><br />Me, I introduce Jim to G-man. The three of us chat for a while, and then I excuse myself to retire somewhat early. I am, after all, pretty fucked up. ;-)<div class="blogger-post-footer">Laugh. Cry. Chain-smoke.</div>Papillonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01975368513439917020noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3878604398915673183.post-3367777622148029062007-09-14T14:07:00.000-07:002007-09-14T14:15:07.062-07:00¡Hola Corazones!Just a little note to say thanks for all the support and warm fuzzies. I'm feeling waaaay the hell better these days and I'm well into a draft of <i>Playa Mafia 3: Hellga's Finest Hour</i>.<br /><br />This past week has found G-man and me enjoying a bit of Septemberish compensation for The Summer That Never Was. It's been gorgeous out and every day 5 pm has equalled Chicken Wings & Lager Time on some sun-drenched deck or another.<br /><br /><i>Pues,</i> it's Friday afternoon now. We've just returned from a 2-cocktail lunch. I'm about to roll a pinner (oh screw that, I mean a fattie, of course) and see where the rest of the day takes me.<br /><br />Hedonistically yours,<br /><br />Papillon<br /><br /><br />PS Happy Weekend!!<div class="blogger-post-footer">Laugh. Cry. Chain-smoke.</div>Papillonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01975368513439917020noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3878604398915673183.post-37210861287024135272007-08-24T16:08:00.000-07:002007-08-24T16:41:13.539-07:00¡Ahora con mas cojones!Well peeps, this post is long overdue. Think of it as a sort of addendum to my profile. It’s not that I was holding out on you before; it’s more that I was, in a sense, holding out on me. I don’t want to use the word <i>denial</i> because it’s so cliché, but alas, I can’t think of a better one.<br /><br />In the introductory part of my profile, I make it sound as though I’m a bit vulnerable to the blues and all it takes is a daily hit of <i>The Simpsons</i> to keep me smiling. Ah, if only it were that simple.<br /><br />Here’s how it really is:<br /><br />In my experience, clinical depression (like various cancers) isn’t “cured” – it goes into remission. I guess at the time I wrote that profile, I’d been in remission for so long, it was all too easy to forget what a real depressive episode can be like. Guess what? I’ve recently been reminded.<br /><br />It took about a week of living in hell before I had to admit defeat and realize I couldn’t “tough it out” on my own, so I finally made an appointment with my therapist. I guess this would be as appropriate a juncture as any to give my non-Canadian readers a little primer on staying well in the Great White North.<br /><br />Canada has socialized healthcare, a source of national pride here, and a blessing for which I’m very grateful. Were it not for socialized healthcare, for instance, my younger brother would have to pay for his leukemia meds out-of-pocket – pretty tough on a construction worker’s salary. These are not cheap drugs, and my heart goes out to people burdened by this (or any other) disease <i>and</i> lack of access to treatment.<br /><br />As far as mental health is concerned, medicare will cover sessions with a psychiatrist, but not a psychologist. Also, psychologists aren’t licensed to dispense meds, but psychiatrists (trained as medical doctors) are. Sessions with psychiatric nurses are also covered.<br /><br />So who am I talking about when I refer to my “therapist”? You’ve probably figured by now that G-man and I are by no means affluent, and the smart money would say I <i>need</i> meds (yeah, I take antidepressants), so clearly a psychiatrist is in charge of my case. But I don’t think of him as my therapist. He’s the shrink who dispenses my meds.<br /><br />I actually see two people, both of whom work at a teaching hospital.<br /><br />My therapist is B, a psychiatric nurse I see for “talking therapy.” If there were a Nobel Prize for the Mental/Emotional Healing Arts, I would nominate B. I trust her implicitly. I tell her almost everything.<br /><br />My psychiatrist – let’s call him Dr. Clueless – sees me to review my meds and show me off to his interns as a Great Success Story. I tell him almost nothing.<br /><br />It took nearly two years before the Doc even got my <i>name</i> right. He has never been on time for an appointment, and always shows up with interns or psych students in tow to sit in during my sessions. Put me on the spot much? “Oh, I hope you don’t mind if Becky and Steve sit in with us today.” Like I’m supposed to say “Yeah, I do mind” when the people are standing right there. Okay, Becky and Steve, watch the lab rat do her thing now. Wonder if she’ll cry?<br /><br />When it became clear to me this last bout of Darkness would not go away of its own accord, I got together with B first so I could vent and tell her all the self-destructive shit that had been on my mind. That session helped to a degree, but B knew (and I had suspected) that my meds would have to be tweaked, so <i>natch</i>, I had to make an appointment with the Doc. At least I was assertive enough this time to ask for a one-on-one appointment.<br /><br />To the Doc’s credit, he respected my wishes and showed up (half an hour late) alone. I also appreciate that he didn’t try to over-medicate me. He raised my anti-depressant dosage slightly, but it remains low. I had a follow-up appointment with him a few days ago – again <i>sans</i> interns – and that went quite well. It went quite well, that is, until he started up with all this weird shit about how not everyone is meant to write and that perhaps I should pick up a flute and take beginner’s lessons. <i>Beginner’s flute lessons?</i> He might as well have said “basket weaving,” the condescending fucker.<br /><br />The implication here is that I’m just too <i>fragile</i> to do what I’m doing right this minute, and I should be prepared to choose between happiness and creativity. I should be willing to settle for a state of emotional flatlining (that passes for happiness by Doc’s standards) and “get a hobby.” <br /><br />And he actually brought up Kurt Cobain and Ernest-fucking-Hemingway, like these damaged icons are in any way pertinent. For starters, I’m not suicidally depressed, nor do I have that sort of history. But more to the point, I don’t write with an agenda to become rich and/or famous. I write because writing is my passion, and if passion is a “symptom” to be treated in pursuit of “normalcy”, then I’d rather be mental, thank you.<br /><br />I’m on the waiting list now for a new shrink. He has an excellent reputation and apparently sees people as more than a sum of their disorders. I’m thinking he won’t automatically equate “creative” with “troubled”, although yeah, I admit the two sometimes go hand in hand. It’ll be a few weeks before I’ll get to see this guy, and switching shrinks will mean giving up B, who is considered (not by me) an adjunct to the Doc. I’ll miss her a lot, but she agrees I need a shrink who’s on the same page as me and doesn’t show up with an entourage.<br /><br />The good news is that the meds, and my B appointments, have “kicked in” and I’m feeling better. I’ve been working out for the past few days and listening to guess what? Yeah, I know – you would <i>think</i> happy-clappy Manu Chao or crazy-good-time Gogol Bordello, but you’d be wrong. <i>This</i> depression has been a job for <b>Nine Inch Nails</b>! (Do ya’ think maybe Trent Reznor has some issues?) I guess angry just feels better than sad. For sure it burns more calories! Anyway, both anger and sadness are (*knocking wood*) out of my system now.<br /><br /><i>Amor, esperanza y paz,</i><br /><br />Papillon<div class="blogger-post-footer">Laugh. Cry. Chain-smoke.</div>Papillonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01975368513439917020noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3878604398915673183.post-55952658052740607252007-08-21T15:17:00.000-07:002007-08-21T15:21:31.097-07:00Rainbow Boys<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipmw4hwm96Uc1Ew2QfSxsh_fxEg9OS23XNMPeDcx13YHjQtP-amtIC-wlxdv5Wiw5kX_0TrEiwZF9ttzDjSYVpoeEnTA52VCvSsyKOa8g7fmsPFWPANTOJmJT1C5on-81WdAelDCkKYAw/s1600-h/n796585435_973152_5022.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipmw4hwm96Uc1Ew2QfSxsh_fxEg9OS23XNMPeDcx13YHjQtP-amtIC-wlxdv5Wiw5kX_0TrEiwZF9ttzDjSYVpoeEnTA52VCvSsyKOa8g7fmsPFWPANTOJmJT1C5on-81WdAelDCkKYAw/s320/n796585435_973152_5022.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5101281829315940146" /></a><br /><center><i>Floats just don't get much better than this, do they?</i></center><div class="blogger-post-footer">Laugh. Cry. Chain-smoke.</div>Papillonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01975368513439917020noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3878604398915673183.post-5660183826683294452007-08-13T16:55:00.000-07:002007-08-13T17:56:52.661-07:00Depression? Existential Crisis? Or just a really shitty week?Okay, I know it’s not my job here to be Madame Bring-Down, but some of you may be wondering why I haven’t posted in a while. You know who you are – I pay you well to read this shit. ;-)<br /><br />Last weekend I fucked up pretty badly, and my fuck-up triggered days of waterworks alternated with excessive sleep. Couldn’t concentrate on anything more demanding than loading the dishwasher and folding a couple of t-shirts. Assume the fetal position, Papillon, and stay there until the self-hatred stops.<br /><br />It was the day of the Gay Pride parade, which ranks above Christmas as being one of my favorite days of the year. G-man, LittleMiss, Yellowbeard, S-Monkey and I started the day in fine form here at our place with champagne and orange juice. We floated down to Beach Avenue to watch the parade, which was, as it is every year, a kaleidoscope of rainbow colored balloons and beautiful people. LittleMiss had even made rainbow fairy wings for Stella out of shiny pipe cleaners. Absurdly cute!<br /><br />After the parade and in keeping with tradition, we took Stella home then wondered up to the Jupiter Café, which has two great decks and throws the best post-parade party in the neighborhood. What a stellar afternoon! Caught up with several friends and made a couple of new ones, all the while pacing myself (or so I thought) <i>vis á vis</i> booze consumption. I drank tall gin and sodas with lots of soda, and had an occasional bottle of Heineken. The Jupiter was offering bbq’d food, so I also ate well. Hours into the party, while I certainly wasn’t sober, neither was I a mess. I was pretty much on par with our whole group.<br /><br />Eventually a democratic vote took place and a bunch of us decided we’d go continue the party in the outdoor pool at LittleMiss’s and YellowBeard’s building. I had even packed a bikini and sarong for just such an eventuality. It doesn’t take much effort to get me in, on, or under water, even if there’s no life to look at except peoples’ butts. (Depantsing attempts were made, but unsuccessfully. And not by me. I wouldn’t get depressed for a whole week about pulling someone’s Speedos down – hell, I’d still be laughing about it and hoping someone had caught it on camera.)<br /><br />Of course ours wasn’t the only party group down at the pool, and the ambience was festive indeed. When I’m in the sort of euphoric state I was in that evening, it doesn’t occur to me to mistrust anyone, because of course everyone is <i>sooh</i> awesome; everyone is just a treasure from the universe. None of these fine folks would think to steal my purse, my Panama hat, and even my cheap-ass fucking flip-flops. Why would they? These things had been set down on the grass; obviously they <i>belonged</i> to someone.<br /><br />Thank God for small mercies, I guess, because at least the fuckers were thoughtful enough to leave my dress and underthings so I didn’t have to take the elevator to our friends’ apartment half-naked. I didn’t notice at the time that my things were missing. We kept on drinking, taking goofy pictures of each other and dancing around LM’s and YB’s living room to loud crunchy music. J-poo and I both sort of melted on the couch eventually, and since G-man couldn’t have gotten either of us to move if he’d had a crane, we stayed.<br /><br />I awoke the next morning on a surprisingly comfortable mat on the living room floor, and I even managed a bit of a smile. Feeling pretty good, all things considered. When LittleMiss got up, I asked her if G-man seemed pissed at me when he left. “Oh no, it’s all good,” she assured me. I’m happy to hear that. So happy that what I want to do now is wash my face, brush my teeth, put on some lipstick and say the word “breakfast” to everyone. And where would my toothbrush and lipstick be if they were? C’mon, what does the smart money say? That’s <i>right.</i> Those items would be in my purse, and if my purse were in my friends’ apartment, all would have been fine. But all was not fine. No purse. And I don’t care too much about the purse – it’s just a cheap little canvas thing – but it contained house keys, an ATM card, a Visa card, a cell phone AND (this one hurts the most) brand new prescription glasses that made both the world and my face just a tiny bit prettier.<br /><br />After a thorough search of the apartment, Yellowbeard and I high-tailed it to the pool area and scoured every square inch of the surrounding garden. No purse. No flip-flops. No Panama hat – however, the multi-coloured bandana that was wrapped around it was floating aimlessly at the bottom of the pool. YellowBeard fished it out for me and I will treasure it always. It probably cost about 5 pesos. <br /><br />Naturally we proceeded to make all the necessary phone calls like building management and the Jupiter, but to no avail. Yesterday I filed a police report online in the hopes that someone had turned my purse in, but I’m not too optimistic.<br /><br />I want to be clear at this point that my depression has not been about the stuff. I mean, stuff is stuff, and stuff like glasses is essential stuff, and it all costs money, and we’re (like most people) forever balancing financial issues. Okay, I guess it is partly about the stuff. In my darker moments I’ve referred to myself as a “waste of space”, but this week I’ve come to realize that’s not fair, because I’m so much more than that. I’m a fucking LIABILITY. I think my lowest point came yesterday (the day before? It’s all kind of a miserable blur) when I said to G-man that I thought he’d be way better off without me. He looked at me like I’d just arrived from Neptune and said, in his own loving, inimitable way, that it was way past time for me to get a grip now and stop punishing myself. Well. You can take the girl out of the Catholic Church…<br /><br />I think the crux of the matter comes down to this:<br /><br /><b>I lost control of a situation</b> and I fucking hate that. It makes me feel powerless and stupid, and it's been happening entirely too often. I would also do well to acknowledge some absolutely-no-fun truths. Truth: I've lost a significant amount of weight since my jaw surgery, therefore I should drink less (if at all) to compensate. Truth: I take a medication (small dose, but still) that doesn't necessarily play well with booze. Truth: Drinking can be rather high-risk behavior for a depressive. (D-uh!)<br /><br /><center>* * * *</center><br /><br />Anyway, the above paragraphs were written several days ago, and I still haven’t <i>quite</i> clawed my way out of the pit, but at least a bit of sunshine's getting in. I’m feeling moderately better. I managed to put a hold on the Visa card before any damage could be done, and my dear friend K-Belle informed me that Visa insures lost or stolen purchases, so I should be able to replace my glasses and stop stumbling around pretending I can see without them.<br /><br />Tomorrow night we’re off with the usual suspects to go see <b>Clutch</b> at The Commodore. I think I’ll just watch the others drink, maybe try to catch a contact buzz if I can. Tequila, anyone? ;-)<br /><br />Apropos of nothing – I <i>will</i> get around to Playa Mafia: Part 3. Soon-ish. I hope.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Laugh. Cry. Chain-smoke.</div>Papillonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01975368513439917020noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3878604398915673183.post-76809605586238182352007-08-13T16:18:00.000-07:002007-08-13T16:31:27.199-07:00Vancouver Gay Pride Weekend '07<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0OzXxKJLuSujai3ncH9tW2jhZ8rh4jXmRL-AAn4Gv8nc21xZZCGxr4LZcroS8fB27OrBolZfWtPOY5jNMCs39lx6HLqTeGtOTxQ2aDGpO-d8PdG3FI7u2Lgod6vac3N_-RaWyoU1-Ua8/s1600-h/lilMEstella.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0OzXxKJLuSujai3ncH9tW2jhZ8rh4jXmRL-AAn4Gv8nc21xZZCGxr4LZcroS8fB27OrBolZfWtPOY5jNMCs39lx6HLqTeGtOTxQ2aDGpO-d8PdG3FI7u2Lgod6vac3N_-RaWyoU1-Ua8/s320/lilMEstella.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5098329030224034514" /></a><br /><center><i>G-man, Papillon & Stella – proudest dog in the 'hood!</i></center><div class="blogger-post-footer">Laugh. Cry. Chain-smoke.</div>Papillonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01975368513439917020noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3878604398915673183.post-57525040588599403812007-08-11T11:37:00.000-07:002007-08-11T11:43:33.053-07:00LMAO!Okay, this is a bit of a cop-out, cut n' pasting other people's writing, but this joke (emailed to me by the lovely J-poo) made me laugh so hard I almost forgot about my ongoing tiny existential crisis for a minute. Hope it makes you happy too:<br /><br /><b>How To Come Home Drunk and Still Get a Hot Breakfast</b><br /><br />Jack wakes up with a huge hangover the night after a<br />business function.<br /><br />Cloudy-headed and in pain, he forces himself to open<br />his eyes and the first thing he sees is a couple of<br />aspirins next to a glass of water on the side table.<br />Next to the aspirin and water stands a single red<br />rose!<br /><br />He sits up in bed and sees his clothing in front of<br />him, all clean and pressed.<br /><br />Jack looks around the room and sees that it is in<br />perfect order, spotlessly clean. He takes the<br />aspirins, cringes as he turns on the bathroom light<br />and notices a Post-it on the mirror: "Honey, breakfast<br />is on the stove, I left early to go shopping - Love<br />you!!"<br /><br />He stumbles to the kitchen and sure enough, there is<br />hot breakfast and the morning newspaper.<br /><br />His son is also at the table, eating. Sheepishly, Jack<br />asks, "Son...what happened last night?"<br /><br />"Well, you came home after 3 am, drunk and out of your<br />mind. You broke the coffee table, puked in the hallway<br />and almost broke your nose when you ran into the<br />bedroom door."<br /><br />"Okay...so, why is everything in such perfect order,<br />so clean, I have a rose and breakfast is on the table<br />waiting for me?"<br /><br />His son replies, "Oh, THAT!...Mom dragged you to the<br />bedroom and when she tried to take your pants off, you<br />screamed...<br /><br />...'Leave me alone, bitch, I'm married!'". <br /><br />Broken table - $200<br />Hot breakfast - $5<br />Red Rose bud - $3<br />Two aspirins - $0.25<br /><br />Saying the right thing, at the right time... PRICELESS<div class="blogger-post-footer">Laugh. Cry. Chain-smoke.</div>Papillonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01975368513439917020noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3878604398915673183.post-91192200834576640802007-07-30T15:03:00.000-07:002007-08-07T14:22:15.888-07:00This wing, that wingIn typical backpedaling, wishy-washy Libra fashion: <br /><br />When I stated in my last post that “Papillon flies left of center”, I neglected to mention that I’m not, nor have ever been, a card-carrying anything, although I am at heart a socialist <b><i>in certain respects</i></b>. I believe in accessible healthcare and education. I believe in affordable (subsidized if need be) housing. I believe in equality amongst genders, races, ages and sexual persuasions. I believe that it’s critical we <i><b>do not fuck with</i></b> human rights or the environment.<br /><br />Speaking of the environment and left-wing politics, here’s another little tidbit that might piss some people off:<br /><br />G-man and I are, generally speaking, pro-union. Neither of us would ever cross a picket line. Having said that, an event resulting from Vancouver’s ongoing civic workers’ strike definitely ruffled our feathers.<br /><br />The morning after last week’s fireworks display a group of volunteers – I’ll just repeat that word now: <b>volunteers</b> – showed up at the beach, which was thick with garbage, and set about making it pristine again. I applaud those people, and I think the picketers who harassed them were way out of line. Sorry, “brothers and sisters”, but environmental concerns trump your bargaining position. No one wants to see our city, our beloved jewel, over-run by rats. And come on, we just had oil spill into the Burrard Inlet – enough is enough.<br /><br />It’s not like any of those people were getting <i>paid</i> to clean the beach, so hey, CUPE, why don’t you STFU on this one? (What a dumb-ass PR move, anyway.) I wish I had gone there to help out, truth be told, and if the strike isn’t over by this Thursday morning, you’ll be able to find me down at English Bay, doing my bit to reclaim its glory after Wednesday night’s fireworks. Incidentally, if I do take one of my “little walks” before China’s display, I’ll be sure to stroll a bit further than Amanda and I did last week – like out of view from major the major thoroughfare that is Denman Street. We <i>were</i> just a tad brazen, weren’t we? ;-)<div class="blogger-post-footer">Laugh. Cry. Chain-smoke.</div>Papillonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01975368513439917020noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3878604398915673183.post-21726278933709966422007-07-28T16:05:00.000-07:002007-08-07T14:17:22.910-07:00On grabbing life by the short hairsSeveral weeks after the event, I must admit that life has felt pretty anticlimactic since <A HREF="http://planetpapillon.blogspot.com/2007/06/cruising-on-exhaustion-and-martinis.html">meeting Manu Chao</A>. Some days I miss him like an old friend, which is bizarre to say the least, since I don’t know the guy on even a casual acquaintance level. Some days I wonder if anything exciting will ever happen to me again. And then I stop and reflect on what an absolutely ludicrous thought that is.<br /><br />Meeting my muse has taught me that I’m not powerless. To put it another way, The Night of Manu happened because I set a goal and followed through. Exciting events had certainly happened in my life prior to that night, but for the most part, they’d happened <i>to</i> me and not <i>because</i> of me. Now that I’m gleaning a sense of my own fortitude, it strikes me that the future can be almost anything I choose to make it.<br /><br />I’ve decided, after years of half-assed efforts, I’m going to become fluent <i>en español</i> before the next time G-man and I find ourselves in a Latin American country. You may think this seems like a great deal of work for a warm climate holiday in February, and I agree. Thing is, we’ve set our sights further afield, both literally and figuratively.<br /><br />G-man and I are exploring possibilities to actually spend part of the year living in Mexico, or maybe even as far south as Panama. Because we work in communications and virtually all our client contact happens via the internet, partial relocation is quite feasible. However the adventure plays out though, I absolutely refuse to be one of <i>those</i> ex-pats.<br /><br />You know the ones. These are the folks who love the climate and affordable real estate but have no interest in local culture, language or people. These are the folks who spend their time hanging out only with “their own kind”, becoming alcoholics and bitching about how hard it is to find good help. Nope. Not going there. I approach life the way I approach scuba diving: give it the thumbs up and submerge with a smile on my face – tough while chomping on a regulator, but not impossible!<br /><br />BTW, if the Manu post <A HREF="http://planetpapillon.blogspot.com/2007/06/cruising-on-exhaustion-and-martinis.html"><i>(Cruising on Exhaustion & Martinis)</i></A> doesn’t convince you I’m one empowered (if a tad thick) dame these days, check this out:<br /><br /><b>Wednesday, July 25, 2007.</b> G-man, LittleMiss, Yellowbeard and I, having arrived early enough to stake out a premium spot, lean against the railing of Soho Pub’s deck to watch Spain’s fireworks display, the first of this year’s festival. We’ve been here for hours; we’ve got our drink on; and the uber-trippy fireworks render us all big-eyed like little kids in an ice cream shop. “Shiiiiny!” we opine in unison. <br /><br />For all the visual opulence, however, the music is, well, <i>meh.</i> I mean, Vangelis? Enya? How many times have we all been there, done those? And this from the country that gave us flamenco! Come on. <br /><br />Still, a minor complaint on such a fantastic night.<br /><br />One of the highlights actually happens for me early on, while it’s still light out. LittleMiss and I are in the can and there’s this woman rolling a joint. She seems pretty cool and we strike up a conversation. Her name is Amanda. (No, not really.) LittleMiss leaves to rejoin the guys, but when Amanda invites me to join her for a toke outside, I say yes, thank you. Yeah, I know – you can barely contain your astonishment.<br /><br />So out we go, round the corner into the alley. We spark up the doob and talk. Turns out she’s 38 years old, although she could easily pass for ten years younger than that. Because I can be more than a little obtuse when I drink, I manage to get it into my swirling vortex of a brain that Amanda is right wing. (The Papillon flies a little left of center.) I find out (and subsequently forget) a mere few minutes later that Amanda isn't in fact right wing or left, but rather identifies as a libertarian.<br /><br />Amanda and I smoke about half the joint before deciding we’ve both had enough. Just as she puts it out, I happen to glance over at Denman Street, and I see three cops heading towards us, so naturally I say “Dude. Cops.” The cops come over before she has a chance to drop the joint. <br /><br />And it’s “Were you smoking marijuana here, m’am?” (Cue confiscation here.) Amanda admits that we were, but that the one joint was all she’d had on her. The cops search her purse, and sure enough (thank God), there’s no more weed to be found. They do, however, find a can of pepper spray and confiscate it. At this point, Amanda starts to go off on them a bit. I assume (wrongly) that she's had too much to drink because, erm, <i>I've</i> had too much to drink. Be that as it may... <br /><br />I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again now: small, stupid shit can set me off and I over-react, but put me in a serious situation, and I know how to behave. I go into survival mode. So I’m patting Amanda on the back, saying “C’mon, sweetie. It looks like they’re gonna go easy on you, so just relax.” <br /><br />Then I look at the cops, my eyes like dinner plates, voice like honey, and say something to the effect of “Hey, I live in the West End too, and I’m pretty curious as to what our rights are when it comes to self-protection. You guys know that every so often there are media reports of some psycho out there attacking women. Frankly, I could see myself carrying pepper spray just to feel a little safer.” And yes, I'm working them, but I also mean every word I'm saying.<br /><br />The cops are youngish and pretty nice, as cops go. The one guy explains that normally pepper spray would not be an issue, but with a big crowd event such as the fireworks, it’s a different story. The concern is that it could be misused. What if someone, let’s say a pick pocket, got a hold of it? <br /><br />Well, this all seems a little far-fetched to me, but I’m totally playing the respectful, “law abiding” citizen, which is pretty hilarious as it’s obvious that I’ve just smoked a joint with this girl. At any rate, they check her ID and let her know that she can come to the PD to reclaim her pepper spray. All this time, Amanda is quite grateful that I’ve stuck around, which I continue to do until I feel confident that they’re not going to bust her. <br /><br />I talk her up to the cops: <br /><br />“Look, she’s a really nice girl. She’s just a little frazzled right now.” <br /><br />“Why is she frazzled, m’am?” <br /><br />Cue Papillon’s best disarming smile. “Why is she frazzled? C’mon, you’re cops. You’re <i>intimidating</i>.” Blink.<br /><br />But the best part is my farewell to them. <br /><br />Just as I’m about to head back upstairs, I look at the three officers, smile again warmly and say “Thank you for not being dicks.”<br /><br />Amanda doesn’t get busted. I know this for a fact because she makes a point of finding me a few minutes later to let me know it's all good. She also makes a point of explaining again that's she's a libertarian, knowing we'd both been a tad <i>distracted</i> earlier by the presence of Vancouver's Finest, and that I'd missed her germane words at that time. Astonishingly, even the second time, those words just manage to fly off into the booze-induced ether around my head. <i>(Thank you, Amanda, for taking me to task for my careless account; I hope this edit makes up for it.)</i><br /><br />I introduce the delightful libertarian to my peeps and offer to buy her a drink, but her husband and friends are waiting outside for her.<br /><br />We exchange email addies and hug good-bye.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Laugh. Cry. Chain-smoke.</div>Papillonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01975368513439917020noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3878604398915673183.post-80847747879581419572007-07-22T13:15:00.000-07:002007-07-26T17:05:39.512-07:00Shit happens in the jungle<b>Warning</b>: this post contains <i>oblique</i> references to poo.<br /><br />An April day in 2006 finds G-man and Papillon hiking through old-growth rainforest in <b>Peninsula de Osa, Costa Rica</b>. We’re with 8 other people, including our guide, Pedro, whose English is impeccable, charm irresistible, and knowledge of jungle life comprehensive.<br /><br />But this isn’t an intricate tale of the jungle. It’s a very short story about a very painful bowel cramp.<br /><br />Knowing that my gastro-intestinal system can be a little, shall we say, sensitive, I’d eaten a bland breakfast of scrambled eggs and white toast. I’ve even chewed on a proactive (and hitherto reliable) Imodium tab. But wouldn’t you know, an hour into the hike and that very special pain kicks in anyway. You know the pain I’m talking about. The pain for which there’s only one cure, and that cure should ideally include access to modern plumbing. I break into a cold sweat. G-man sees my face turn several shades of green and says “Uh-oh,” to which I reply “Yup.”<br /><br />I hang back and let the other hikers get ahead of me, then I sit on a log, doubled over in agony. G-man knows exactly what I’m doing and why. Sitting down sometimes takes care of the problem, and I’m still praying for that mofo traitor of an Imodium to kick in. When the cramping finally eases up a bit, I stand and try to walk. I’m okay for a minute or two, but then I know there’s one and only one course of action available to me now.<br /><br />Pedro has the group gathered around his telescope checking out a sloth up high in the leafy canopy when I gingerly touch his shoulder. <br /><br />Tap tap tap. “Um, Pedro? I’m afraid I really need to do something. <b><i>Ahora</i></b>.” <br /><br />He nods with instant understanding and points towards a tree just off the trail. “Over there.”<br /><br />Bursting with gratitude (and very nearly something else) I scramble to the “facilities” and do what I so desperately need to do. I’m way beyond embarrassment by now, but I figure I’ve gotten away unnoticed by the others. Wrong!<br /><br />“Watch out for that anaconda!” one of my fellow hikers calls out.<br /><br />No, man. The anaconda should watch out for me.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_Ff2hEyCFwESvJGUGtebOchGZUYv3l3iiTTQ_p-H0tgvZov0VqVg2DaHnxrC4SPrNjzjoVUCPtdVFitzbG9Z5dBas13hUKoIFrV6OvUbdMgoGe3BeAjRZWCdusV0DOvMJuKTzqbDQexk/s1600-h/jungle.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_Ff2hEyCFwESvJGUGtebOchGZUYv3l3iiTTQ_p-H0tgvZov0VqVg2DaHnxrC4SPrNjzjoVUCPtdVFitzbG9Z5dBas13hUKoIFrV6OvUbdMgoGe3BeAjRZWCdusV0DOvMJuKTzqbDQexk/s320/jungle.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5090122576082025154" /></a><br /><i>NOTE: That's a sarong around my head. Dropping my knickers in the jungle may not embarrass me, but bad hair does.</i><br /><br /><br />* * * *<br /><br /><b><i>Okay, peeps – now it’s your turn:</i></b><br /><br />Anyone who’s traveled outside of North America or Europe has in all likelihood dealt with the old 'Gringo Guts' syndrome. Rare (and damn lucky) is the traveler who doesn’t have a story like mine.<br /><br />I know my dear friend K-Belle has one that starts with “One time in India…”<br /><br />Some of the best ones I’ve heard start with “One time in Guatemala…”<br /><br />Doesn't matter which "end" was affected, either – I mean, projectile vomit is inherently hilarious, <i>n'est ce pas?</i> (Maybe not so much for the person it lands on, though.) So tell me all about Montezuma exacting his revenge on you – or “someone you know”. <br /><br />C’mon! You can laugh about it now, right?<div class="blogger-post-footer">Laugh. Cry. Chain-smoke.</div>Papillonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01975368513439917020noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3878604398915673183.post-18127594207619344702007-07-17T21:40:00.001-07:002007-09-16T18:55:00.117-07:00The Playa Mafia, Part 2<A HREF="http://planetpapillon.blogspot.com/2007/06/playa-mafia-part-1.html"><i>The Playa Mafia, Part 1</i></A> was posted on Saturday, June 30, 2007.<br /><br />If this story had a soundtrack, it would feature the <i>Godfather</i> theme music – done on marimba.<br /><br />It takes me a few days (fast study that I am) to figure out that several of La Iguanita’s regulars are Playa’s movers and shakers. The people that make things happen. The people G-man and I affectionately call (behind their backs, of course) The Playa Mafia. Incidentally, this is risky behavior, this writing. I could get <b><i>Sopranoed!</i></b> So if my posts stop out of the blue, you’ll know the Witness Protection people have relocated me to some depressing little suburb. When I weigh the pros and cons, I think I’d rather be taken out.<br /><br />It also takes me a few days to catch on that Hurricane Hellga is a nightly performance, likely to occur anytime after 9 pm. The day after Hellga tears poor Mike a new one, G-man and I wake up to face the Angry Hangover Gods. I (sort of) open my eyes and utter the words “Please kill me now.” But Ibuprofen soon works its magic, we shower and hit Java Jack’s for coffee, <i>y todo está bien.</i> We spend the day chillin’ at the beach and make arrangements for an early dive the following day. I’m not going to tell you about the beach – Yucatan Peninsula beaches are postcard material. You can Google about a million pictures if you like.<br /><br />Oh, and somewhere in there, I have ceviché for lunch. I love ceviché. Kind of like the Mexican version of sushi, isn’t it? I love sushi too. Was I perhaps a seagull in some past incarnation? Okay, stay on topic now, Papillon.<br /><br />We walk into La Iguanita for a couple of early evening <i>cervezas.</i> The place is busy, but we manage to find a spot over in the corner where Marta had lost her fight with verticality the night before. There’s a canvas beach bag, momentarily abandoned, sitting on the coffee table in front of us.<br /><br />Sitting at the bar are a cute Mexican guy, 30-ish, and a very striking dark-haired woman, whose voice carries and drifts our way. Apparently, she’s an actress, visiting from LA. She’s frustrated about the competition for TV show guest roles, the kind of roles that were her bread and butter until people like Brad Pitt started appearing in shows like <i>Will & Grace.</i> G-man and I comment that she seems interesting, and then get into our own conversation. Being Scuba Whores, we’re stoked about the dive tomorrow. We’ve been assured we’ll see lots of giant turtles and maybe even a manta ray or two. Me, I’m just jonesing for that floaty, weightless feeling, the sensation of flying – Waterworld's answer to crack.<br /><br />“Hey, I couldn’t help but overhear you guys talking about diving. Are you going with Paulo?” Suddenly the dark-haired woman is standing next to our table.<br /><br />Yup, we are, we confirm. Two-tank dive with Paulo tomorrow.<br /><br />“I’m Megan,” the woman says. “Paulo is a good friend of mine and an excellent dive master. I’m sure you guys will have a great time. By the way, sorry about leaving my beach bag on your table. And thank you for not stealing it, although there's only some sunscreen and a paperback in there.”<br /><br />Yeah, stealing. Not so much our thing, really. Karma and all that.<br /><br />We introduce ourselves and invite Megan to sit down. She turns back to the cute Mexican guy at the bar and says, “See, honey – I <i>told</i> you they wouldn’t mind.” The guy rolls his eyes and sighs indulgently.<br /><br />“That’s my fiancé, Diego.” Megan explains. “He keeps telling me not to bug people. He figures you guys are honeymooning and want to be left alone.”<br /><br />I’m kind of tickled that G-man and I still give off that <i>new couple</i> vibe, but I laugh and assure Megan that we’ve been married “for about 200 years” and we actually enjoy meeting new people. This is a fact. Others may climb pyramids when they travel, take shitloads of pictures and gather memorabilia. We’ve done those things too, but me, I’m primarily about collecting people. And I can tell already I’ll want to add Megan and Diego to my collection.<br /><br />Megan’s is an exotic sort of beauty, at least to my esthetic. She’s got long, dark wavy hair pulled away from her face, and cheekbones that deserve to be sculpted in alabaster. She’s wearing the funkiest cat-eyed glasses. And she’s not a stick insect.<br /><br />When she finds out we’re from Vancouver, she calls to Diego again. “Hon, they’re from <i>Vancouver.</i> I love them!”<br /><br />Diego smiles and nods at us. We smile and nod back.<br /><br />“Oh for God’s sake,” Megan continues. “Why don’t you just <i>come over here</i> already?”<br /><br />It turns out that Megan grew up in Vancouver and began her acting career there. She moved to LA a couple of years ago and has had a fairly successful TV show guest role kind of career in both cities. These days, she spends her time mostly between LA and Playa. LA is all about acting, of course, and Playa is about Diego and learning Spanish. (Her Spanish puts mine to shame. But then, so does the average fajita’s.)<br /><br />Diego runs an internet café. He used to act as well, and his English is flawless. He’s charming and killingly funny. He misuses the word “literally” <i>almost literally</i> in every second sentence, but I don’t correct him – no one likes a Language Nazi.<br /><br />We don’t know it just yet, but the four of us will end up spending many hours here over the next 10 days, getting to know each other, getting our drink on, and gossiping about the locals.<br /><br />Eventually we go our separate ways to grab some dinner. Megan and Diego go home to cook; G-man and I hunt down some fajitas. We come back to La Iguanita for a nightcap (honestly, just one tonight); it’s early and Hellga is still pleasant. (Read: sober.) After wetting our whistles, we head back to our room to get some decent sleep before the dive. Sleep proves to be a bit of a challenge, however, as there’s a big group of English guys loudly singing Oasis songs in the bar. What <b><i>is</i></b> it with traveling English guys and Oasis songs, anyway? Thank God for ear plugs.<br /><br />The next day we do indeed dive the perfect dives. We see giant lobsters, giant-er turtles and a truly big-ass manta ray – wingspan on it like a parking lot. Our dive master, Paulo, is enthusiastic and attentive, which we appreciate a great deal, since, with only 30 dives each “under our belts”, we’re not very experienced. There’s only one other person diving with us, and that’s Alex from Colombia, who’s only been under five times before. Small groups and patient dive masters really make all the difference in the world. There’s nothing more frustrating than ten people in diving gear, bumping into each other as they float around some paranoid sea creature, trying to get a closer look.<br /><br />After the second dive, we’re sitting on the boat, free of soggy wetsuits, all of us drinking water out of these little plastic glasses. Tank oxygen makes me pretty thirsty, so my glass is empty in no time. And then it’s not empty. “Oh, good,” I think, “there is another sip left after all.” Can you guess where this is going?<br /><br /><b><i>Ptuuii!</i></b> (*Spits overboard*) It turns out, of course, sea water had splashed into my glass and I hadn’t noticed. Everyone offers me sips of their own water to rinse out the salt taste, but we’re close to shore and cold <i>cervezas.</i> Sharing post-dive cervezas with your group is <i>de rigeur.</i><br /><br />* * * *<br /><br />Back at La Iguanita, we’re so buoyed (sorry, I couldn’t resist) by our diving experience that we’re definitely in the mood to celebrate. We get some take-out to bring back to the bar, because it's cheap, everyone does it, and we’ve pretty much determined that for now, this place is home.<br /><br />Jack and Stella (the coffee shop owners) are sitting with us, as are Hellga and Sven. Hellga delights us with her good mood and unexpected charm. She overhears me telling Sven that I’m a huge Tom Waits fan and chimes in with “Oooh, I love Tom Waits too!” Well, now – this is more like it! Ever ready to give people a second chance, I decide that although our hostess had made a grown man cry the other night, well, maybe the guy had it coming. And if Hellga’s a Tom Waits fan, she can’t be all bad, can she?<br /><br />Also around this time, as the beer and margaritas flow freely, Keith (the hotel manager) and I establish our own little Mutual Admiration Society. The conversation goes something like this:<br /><br />“<i>Darling</i>, you look just fabulous in that little black dress!” (Are you imagining a 44-year old English guy in a little black dress? I know I am.)<br /><br />“Why, thank you Keith. And you look so cute in your little ball cap. Hey, were you by any chance a Clash fan in your younger days?”<br /><br />“Fuck yeah, I loved the Clash!”<br /><br />“Yessh, me too!”<br /><br />“You’re awesome, mate!”<br /><br />“No, <i>you’re</i> awesome!”<br /><br />“No, <i>you’re</i>–" <br /><br />Well, I think I've painted a broad-brushstroke picture here.<br /><br />We segue to some impromptu Monty Python banter. My demand for a shrubbery is met with the response “And I guess you want a nice one? And not too expensive?” Hugs ensue.<br /><br />The evening rolls along very pleasantly in this fashion, until Oscar, the bartender/waiter approaches Sven and whispers something in his ear.<br /><br />Sven looks out at the street where his vehicle is parked, and suddenly he’s up and out there like a shot.<br /><br />All of us at the table (which is right alongside the street) look out to see what’s going on. Sven opens his car door and drags out a very drunk and terrified Mexican guy who’d either been trying to steal the vehicle or was merely looking for a place to pass out.<br /><br />The next thing we know, Sven’s got <i>el hombre</i> pinned to the ground, and though he doesn’t actually hit him, he’s shouting and he’s very, very angry. The poor Mexican is scared shitless and whimpering <i>“Lo siento! Lo siento!"</i> Finally, Sven lets him go, and the guy goes stumbling down the street. The car hasn’t been damaged, and I don’t think anyone even called the cops. Sven just wanted to give the troublemaker a good scare, and he succeeded.<br /><br />The excitement dies down eventually, and we’re all kind of sitting around with these stunned “Good thing <i>that’s</i> over” looks on our faces. We’re relaxed again. Or at least I am. I’m relaxed enough to say to Hellga, in the way that one does to demonstrate empathy, “You know, car vandalism is a big problem in Vancouver.”<br /><br />That's all I say. And that's all it takes. <b>Cue The Hurricane.</b><br /><br />“I don’t give a <i>flying fuck</i> about Vancouver! I live <i>here</i>, not <i>fucking</i> Vancouver!”<br /><br />“Um, I’m sorry, I –“<br /><br />“Why don’t you just <b><i>shut the fuck up?!!</i></b>”<br /><br />I make a zipping motion across my mouth. “Shutting up now…”<br /><br /><b><i>“Fuck you!”</i></b><br /><br />“Umm…”<br /><br />G-man comes to my rescue. “Oh, <i>look</i>, honey – there’s Mike at the bar. He seems like he could use some company. Wanna go over there with me?”<br /><br />“Um, <i>yeah.</i>”<br /><br />En route to the bar, I intercept Oscar who’s just bringing drinks to our table. Deftly I take my margarita from his tray, whispering. “I’ll take that off your hands. She’s in a really <i><b>bad mood.</i></b>” Oscar rolls his eyes and nods understandingly.<br /><br />G-man insists that I shouldn’t take The Hurricane personally, and I assure him that I don’t. Soon enough, we’re engaged in conversation with other, less volatile people and I feel fine.<br /><br />And what of Hellga? Does she storm off in a fury or pass out in her chair? God, no!<br /><br />Not 15 minutes after G-man and I relocate, I look across the circular bar, and there’s Hellga, holding court and smiling her blinding white smile, waving at me like I’m a long-lost friend. <br /><br /><b>CAVEAT:</b> I know that what I’m about to say exemplifies weak and lazy writing, but <i>damn</i>, I’m truly at a loss for other words, so for now, at least, the moral of this story is:<br /><br /><b><i>Unbefuckinglievable!</i></b> Sometimes you just gotta shake your head.<br /><br /><A HREF="http://planetpapillon.blogspot.com/2007/09/playa-mafia-3-hellgass-finest-hour.html">Playa 3: Hellga's Finest Hour</A><div class="blogger-post-footer">Laugh. Cry. Chain-smoke.</div>Papillonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01975368513439917020noreply@blogger.com2