Iron man battles the Wicked Wrinkles to the death. It just gets ugly.

I may have given the impression, such is my skill at being obedient, that there has always been a woman in my life, from my mother to The First Wife and, now, Viking Woman. The truth is, I was a bachelor for six years.

By bachelor I mean I was free to do anything I wanted. And by that I mean leaving stacks of unread newspapers where they fell, not having to shave every day because “it scratches,” and not being required to share coffee. Here on Planet Man, we pretty much call that “heaven.” Or is it “paradise”? I can never remember.

There were challenges, I won’t deny that. For instance, when it came to meals, if I couldn’t nuke it, toast it or boil it, I ate it raw. I think I pretty much invented sushi in the process.

There was one stretch for, oh I don’t know, two days where I decided to be good to my body and eat nothing but salads. I would use no electricity whatsoever and thus also save on one utility bill. Except I quickly grew bored with eating leaves and shoots and tendrils and eventually defaulted to my standard fare: buns slathered with peanut butter. And a tall, chilled glass of Diet Coke. Are you envious yet? How about hungry?

I coped rather well on my own, if I do say so myself. I rinsed the dishes in cold water at least once a week. I vacuumed the apartment every other month whether it needed it or not. Sometimes I remembered to take out the rubbish before the place started to smell like an abattoir.

I also eventually identified the strange creature perched in the linen closet. The one constructed of metal and plastic, with holes in the bottom and an electrical cord trailing from its ass. My first thought was “Who would invent such a weird-looking door stop?” before having it explained to me that this beast was, in fact, an iron.

You use it to — wait for it — iron your clothes.

How crazy is that?

I did, in fact, learn how to operate that strange mechanism. Mostly out of necessity, which is pretty much the only reason us inhabitants of Planet Man bother to adopt any new skills at all

I donned a shirt, tie and dress pants to cover sports when I worked for the Langley Times. Yes, it was a uniform of sorts but it said “I’m serious about my job here, people.” It also said — because I covered a lot of high school games — “I am not a pervert. Honest.”

My opposite number at The Advance tended to show up at events looking like he’d just come from the beach. Or from mucking out the stalls. I firmly believe people respected me more because I dressed, well, respectively. Even if, clad all in black in the middle of the summer, I looked like I was on my way to a job interview.

That was when I learned the great secret to ironing: It doesn’t eliminate the wrinkles at all; it simply moves them around. Once you learn to shift the wrinkles to the back of your clothes, your job is done. Because, when you think about it, everyone looks at you when you arrive but no one bothers glancing over their shoulder when you leave.

So there you have it, another valuable Life Lesson brought to by the friendly folk on Planet Man. Next week: Fun with knives and toasters. You’ll be shocked. I know I was.

Publish or Die! Part 11: That’s a whole lot of blood for nothing.

“You should leave Brown Girls alone for awhile,” Viking Woman advised me the other day, “and work on your other novels instead. See if you can’t get those ones published.”

Yeah, good one, honey. Because, after 20 years as journalist, being reduced to washing soiled knickers in a seniors’ residence isn’t humiliating enough. Now you want me to return to banging my head against the front gate of the Ivory Tower of Publishing? I’ve done that for a dozen years now — I have so much disappointment stored up, I could bottle and sell the stuff.

I have a confession to make: I only write for money. That’s why I made such a good reporter — if someone paid me the big bucks, I’d put my blood and soul on the page for them. I’ve worked the equivalent of several months’ worth of unpaid overtime to polish those words into precious nuggets of stories. Pay me every two weeks and I’ll die for you. Or, at the very least, type very fast.

In basic terms, money = words. No money = I’ll be over here in front of the TV.

Except that isn’t how it works when it comes to publishing a book, is it? In that business, you put your blood and soul on the page and all you get in return is a stain on that page where the literary agent spilled his coffee when his secretary used a bit too much teeth while administering her boss’s morning blow job.

Simply put, I’m a mercenary. I don’t possess a burning desire to write. I don’t have words bulging out of my brain demanding to be committed to paper. I’m not awakened in the middle of the night scrambling for a pen because a fully-formed plot arc burst forth from a dream like one of those Alien chest-bursting things.

Writing is hard slogging and I like to be rewarded for my efforts. I once had a student job where I was paid at the end of each workday and loved it. It’s all about instant gratification, baby. I want it all and I want it now is, I believe, how Freddy Mercury once put it.

Even this blog was started with the idea of scoring cash via Google ads. Except, according to my sources, only one blogger in the entire world — Heather B. Armstrong — actually makes any serious money from ads on a blog site. That’s because she’s not afraid to — figuratively speaking, of course — put her vulva on display for her fawning mommy fans. And, one suspects, because her husband spends his time using random computers to log in 50,000 times a day. Lucky bitch.

So the only reason I bother writing this blog at all is to embarrass my children and leave a legacy for their offspring. Good ole Gampy Bitemymoko, they’ll all reminisce one day, he sure was a miserable old fart. But cuddly in a lumpy sort of way.

Having the tenacity and the ambition to stick to a writing routine no matter what the future of the project is why I admire my UK friend at newtowritinggirl.wordpress.com. This English rose is participating in the annual NaNoWriMo competition. I’m not quite sure how that abbreviation rates on my Lame Scale, but it stands for National Novel Writing Month. The goal, according to nanowrimo.org, is to complete a 175-page (50,000 words) novel between 12:01 a.m. Nov. 1 and midnight Nov. 30.

NeToWriGir (as I like to call my UK friend) is keeping track of her daily output in her November blog postings and, to date, appears to be doing her best to bang off the 1,667 words she’ll need to average each day to reach her goal. I have no idea what her novel is about but maybe, if I send e-chocolates, she’ll let me read it when it’s finished.

While I wasn’t involved in a competition at the time, that’s pretty much how I wrote the first draft of Brown Girls. My goal was to average 1,000 words a day and thus be finished in 120 days. I maintained that average for several long stretches at a time, amazing myself in the process because I don’t nornally tend to be very disciplined, especially when it comes to coffee and O’Ryans sour-cream-and-onion chips.

In the end, it took me some 270 days to finish the book, but that included a number of drafts and several weeks of editing and snipping and polishing.

Was it worth nine months of my time? My bank account would issue a resounding no. But I (and several others, including the Langley library) now own a book with my name on it. When it comes to having your ego stroked, nothing feels better (and you won’t spill your coffee in the process).

Should I turn my attention to the Brown Girls sequel and the other five or six novels I have stored on my computer in various stages of completion? I’m going to say yes.

And I’m going to start tonight — right after I check what’s on TV.

***

You can buy Brown Girls at http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1937.

I no longer bootleg alcohol. Or tampons.

It may have been perfectly innocent.

It may just have been three guys shooting the breeze.

But, damn, if it didn’t look like a drug deal going down.

OK, yes, I will admit I’ve never actually seen drugs being exchanged for money in real life. Oh, sure, every second long-hair in Amsterdam offered to sell me something potent when all I was interested in doing was playing tourist. And one fellow traveller did accompany a shady character down an alley when we were both in Hawaii, in an effort to score some Maui Wowie. But I stayed on the main street and wondered if the next time I saw my friend he would be a) behind bars, or b) floating face-down in Pearl Harbor.

Because my addictions are limited to caffeine, The Hockey News and the Internet, I’ve seldom found myself in dubious places where laws might be broken.

Yes, I did say “seldom.” As opposed to “never.”

Years ago, as I rounded the corner of a building in my hometown — deep in thought, intent on my errand — I nearly walked straight into into a large First Nations lad.

“Will you bootleg for me?” he asked and I found myself nodding. Don’t ask me why. My mind was still addled by how close we’d come to blindsiding each other in a collision from which I definitely would have emerged second-best. And I did mention he was big, right? More like huge.

The next thing I know, I’m in the nearby liquor store, the fellow’s $20 bill clutched in my hand, scanning the shelves. He’d asked me to buy a bottle of rye. So, naturally, I’m looking for rye. Except, in my ignorance as a non-drinker, I didn’t realize that what I should have been looking for was rye whiskey.

Several years later, a cheeky girlfriend sent me into a supermarket to buy her tampons. It was like deja vu all over again — that helpless, panicky feeling that I had no idea what I was looking for, while, at the same time, blushing crimson because I knew I looked like an idiot just standing there and staring blankly at the displays.

I did finally grab the first bottle of rye whiskey that caught my eye, paid the difference out of my own pocket because it cost more than $20, and then shoved the paper bag into the waiting fellow’s hand right in front of the store. The smart thing would have been to meet him around the corner — bootlegging being illegal and all — and ask for the rest of the money. But all I wanted was for the embarrassment to be over.

So, today, I’m walking home from downtown and I see these three guys at the far edge of a petrol station’s property. The white guy, judging by his uniform shirt, works at the station. The other two are scruffy-looking Maori males. Now I hate to sound racially insensitive, but you look at the local paper’s Most Wanted ads, and nearly 100 per cent of the felons are Maori or Polynesian. It’s a sad fact of life here in New Zealand.

One Maori man, the fellow with the backpack, is pulling something out of a bag to show the petrol station attendant. It looks, from my vantage point, just like a brick of dope.

But it can’t be, right? I mean, they’re standing right in the open, for chrissakes. If I can see them, so can everyone else driving by or filling up. Surely no one would be that brazen. Or stupid.

I have no idea what was being displayed but I do know it wasn’t Michael Jackson’s latest CD or All Blacks players’ cards.

It just looked suspicious is all I’m saying.

Seconds later, as I continued walking, a cop car cruised past. For a nano-second I thought about flagging it down. But I didn’t. I just kept walking.

If what I saw was innocent, then there was no use wasting the police’s time. If it was something illegal and these guys make a habit out of being so blatantly obvious, then they’ll eventually get nabbed without my help.

Because, whether it’s rye or tampons, helping tends to come back and bite me in the arse.

Festival provides photo fodder. The sushi was good as well.

I learned very early on in my career as the Sports editor at the Langley Times to never attend a game without taking along my own camera. While such talented photographers as John Gordon, Rob Newell and Ted Colley graced my pages with their artwork — saving me a thousand words each time — they also had other assignments and priorities. If the hospital was on fire, there was a very good chance I was on my own at the Grade 8 girls soccer match.

I’ve continued taking photos even as my journalism career has stalled. In fact, over the past year, I’ve sold more photos than stories (the 2009-2010 issue of Napier Life features seven of my photos — not that I’m bragging. Or anything).

I’ve made a habit of taking my camera whenever we attend various events around Hawke’s Bay in an effort to add to my collection and challenge myself to improve.

That was the case again Friday when Viking Woman and I drove to the nearby community of Port Ahuriri for its primary school’s Food and Wine Festival. The fundraiser included a cake-baking competition (the topics were Earth or The Planets); pony rides; musical entertainment; a barricaded area where, for a nominal fee, you could take a hammer to a wrecked car for several uninterrupted minutes of pure fury; and food stalls run not by Mom and Dad but by actual restaurants.

Ahuriri is blessed with one of the few sand beaches in Hawke’s Bay and is slowly luring tourists away from downtown Napier with its own Art Deco charm and a tasty collection of cafes, eateries and bars. The folk there tend to be a little more laid-back and that easy-going attitude was on display during the Festival.

We admired the imaginative cake decorating, listened to the bagpipes (for as long as we could), ate sushi and did our small bit to help Port Ahuriri School meet its budget.

I kept my trusty Nikon close to hand, looking for that interesting shot — the baby sampling its dad’s beer; the little drummer girl who also sang and played the ukulele; the toddler who ditched the boring hotdog bun and went straight for the good stuff.

I’ve included some of those photos here, cropped and sharpened for best effect. Enjoy. Comments always appreciated. (And, yeah  know, the design of my blog page is not exactly conducive for photo layouts. That should be rectified soon.)

Rugby players, cougars and alcohol. It was always going to get messy.

In the end, it was always going to be a recipe for disaster. Call it serendipity or an act of a bored God or pure, stupid chance. When I look back on the event now, it was like watching a river of lava flowing towards the stalled gasoline tanker.

I’m referring to my latest shift as a bartender at the Old Mill Napier. The occasion was the hosting of some 60 ladies at the conclusion of a day spent touring a selection of Hawke’s Bay’s finest wineries. These exemplary examples of estrogen were already several sheets to the wind when they arrived but that didn’t stop them from descending like parched locusts on the outdoor bar.

From what I could gather, these were members of some sort of professional women’s networking group which gathers once a year to make contacts, exchange business cards and chat about their various entrepreneurial ventures, all while getting totally shit-faced.

Anne Vink, the owner of the Old Mill, had recruited a young German chap to assist me in pouring wine and cracking beer bottles. He and his girlfriend were visiting New Zealand as part of the WWOOF (Willing Workers On Organic Farms) program, meaning they provide slave free labor in exchange for room and board.

The young fellow was nervous enough about the whole tending-bar thing anyway and, when I ducked out at one point to restock, he was literally paralyzed by the boozy demands of howling cougars, some of them just as intent on sampling German wiener schnitzel as the wine he was selling. One member of the pack, taking pity on the poor fellow, hiked up her little black dress and hoisted herself through the open window to take over the dispensing duties. My young apprentice was grateful for the assistance, even if he nearly filled his lederhosen at the sight of her less-than-ladylike entrance.

While the gaggle got stuck into ruining their livers, by pure coincidence a member of the Hawke’s Bay Magpies rugby club, who lives on the property, was hosting an end-of-season soiree for his teammates after the squad was eliminated from the Air New Zealand Cup playoffs. Needless to say, more than a few bottles of beer were sacrificed to the rugby gods at that gathering.

Cue the molten lava and the trapped tanker.

Lured by the high-pitched vibrations of excited/drunk female voices, the Magpies wandered into the dining room where the women were sitting down to a meal, intent on consuming something that wasn’t fermented.

The squeals of delight grew in proportion to the attention the guys paid to the gals. Or, in the case of one player, how many clothes he was willing to shed.

Shortly afterwards, the sound system was fired up and the dance floor turned into a seething, wriggling tango of sweat, desperation and hormones.

I could only watch, mouth agape, as women of a certain age latched onto studly athletes who, in turn, sought out the small number of younger lasses in the crowd. Yes, the players were hosed to the max but their hunting instincts remained intact.

I spotted one player, trapped in the midst of this besotted mess, simply swaying in place, hands over his head, as one woman rubbed her ass into his crotch while a second woman shimmied her crotch against his ass. A Magpie sandwich, as it were.

As fascinating as all this gender interaction may have been to observe, I felt as overwhelmed as my young German friend. I have never known how to deal with people once their brains have been addled by alcohol. I tend to be a logical sort and so have never understand the attraction in drinking until you’re cross-eyed and vomiting.

Having said that, I must note one of my journalism colleagues was never so effusive about the wonders of my writing talents as after the wine started to flow. So I may have to concede there is an upside to this whole getting hosed thing after all.

The players and the ladies were still intent on full-body contact and assorted dry humping by the time my shift ended, but I had no desire to hang around and watch their antics on my own time.

Along with a new respect for sobriety, I also came away from the event with a souvenir: one of those plastic wine glasses that light up at the push of a button in its base.

I now sip Diet Coke from it while wondering what it would be like to be admired and desired, not because I was a pro athlete, but because I’m a nice guy and possess a keen sense of humor.

Yeah, right — must be the aspartame talking.

Market Day brings out the crowds. And the fake snot. Coincidence?

The annual Arts in the Park Haumoana Market Day is a circled event on the Hawke’s Bay calendar of local activities. A major fundraiser for Haumoana School, it’s held the first Sunday in November at Memorial Park and tends to attract crowds in the thousands.

We missed it our first year here because I was, ahem, lying on a beach in Bora Bora. (And, yes, travel writers are to be envied. And worshipped.)

Normally, I’m not a big fan of crowded venues, having begged off our family’s annual pilgrimage to Vancouver’s Pacific National Exhibition as soon as I was old enough to say no to my parents. But Sunday presented us with a generous serving of warm spring weather and so Viking Woman and I opted to continue our quest to experience the wonders of our new community.

In doing so, we decided to forgo our usual Sunday morning foray to the flea-cum-farmers’ market on Napier’s Marine Parade, and so I was hoping to pick up some fresh local produce in Haumoana. It was not to be. This Market Day may have featured more than 200 stalls, but it was all about goods and services and less about healthy food. Unless by food you mean corn dogs. And by corn dogs I mean deep-fried mutton sausages. Thanks, but no thanks.

There were hundreds of wares on offer, most of them of the variety Viking Woman refers to as “dust collectors.” Things like decorated boomerangs or inflatable caveman clubs or some kind of wonder mop; even a child-size grandstand so your brood can sit and cheer Dad on while you mow the lawn. I was momentarily tempted by the packaged samples of “slime” and “snot” but, in the end, realized I could probably produce the real thing at home for free.

You could bid on alcohol or artwork — and not much else — at an auction, or ride the ponies if you were, like, six. Have your face painted or receive a massage. I could have had my hair braided if I’d had enough, um, time.

Entertainment was promised, but all we saw during our two-hour stay was a group of indigenous people from South America playing their traditional bamboo flutes while dressed as North American Indians. Because nothing draws a crowd like a chief’s feathered war bonnet and the possibility, no matter how remote, of a good, old-fashioned scalpin’.

In the end, all I spent was $4 on two soft ice cream cones. Because, at least as far as I’m concerned, sunny days are all about ice cream, as opposed to ceramic skulls or fake shrunken heads. But maybe that’s just me.

I don’t know wine from kerosene but, hey, bottoms up!

Asking a non-drinker to tend bar is akin to having a virgin explain the erotic pleasures to be derived from the Kama Sutra. Something is bound to be lost in the translation, if only through a lack of experience.

And yet there I was Saturday evening, helping out a fellow Canadian named Anne Vink, who owns the Old Mill Napier. Located in a historical section of the city, the place once actually operated as a wool mill but now Anne rents it out as a venue for birthday parties and weddings and any other celebration that lends itself to a large number of people gathering in a picturesque location.

This particular night featured a wedding and watching such an event must be thirsty work — or I guess, as my brother is so fond of saying, free alcohol really does taste better — because the regular bartender and I were kept very busy. Even if all I know about wine is that it comes in two colors. I’m almost positive about that.

I was relieved to discover the only other alcohol we’d be serving was beer. Because beer bottles have labels and I’ve been reading since I was four. It also helped that a lot of the guests brought back their empties. “Another green bottle? Coming right up.”

(Just for the record, the Belgium beer  Stella Artois was by far the favored brew on the night, with Tui and Heineken tied for a distant second. Very distant.)

Compare this experience to my first bartending gig when, many years ago, I was asked by one of my brother’s friends to dole out drinks at his wedding reception. Part of the reason — or perhaps the main reason — why this friend recruited my services was because he knew I wouldn’t be adding to the bar tab with my own imbibing.

At that time, however, I also had to serve up the hard stuff, and that can be tricky for someone who doesn’t know bourbon from kerosene. My solution was to have people point to the bottle they wanted. It seemed to work. Either that or everyone was too hammered to complain.

The only real complication on this Saturday presented itself in the form of the bubbly. We’re not talking champagne here; the bottles appeared to contain little more than carbonated wine but, when it comes to toasts — and free drinks — I suppose it’s the fizz that counts.

Except you don’t screw the tops off bottles of bubbly. Oh no — first you must unwrap a covering of some kind of metallic paper that is practically welded to the top of the bottle. Only to then encounter a metal cage designed, I can only assume, to keep rodents at bay. Finally, there is the cork itself, as dangerous a projectile as man has ever invented.

Just like that kid with the Red Ryder BB gun in A Christmas Story, I had this fear of taking someone’s eye out with a cork. And by someone, I mean me.

For the most part, I let my bartending partner open the bubbly. At one point, when she was away fetching clean glasses, I simply handed the bottle to a guest to open. He showed me his secret to avoiding both blindness and overflow: cup the bottom of the bottle in the palm of one hand and then slowly twist and pull the cork with the other. While keeping your face well out of the line of fire.

By the end of my shift, I had become quite the twist-and-pull expert. In fact, only one cork got away on me. I’m not really sure where it ended up but I didn’t hear any screaming and I’m going to assume that’s a good thing.

I also concocted my first glass of LLB (lemon, lime and bitters, for you beginners out there.) Which is to say I pretty much guesstimated how much lemon concentrate, Sprite and bitters should go in a glass. I played it safe and went heavy on the Sprite, if only because a) no one knew exactly how much bitters to use, and b) someone causally mentioned bitters has such a high alcohol content that too much of it can kill you.

By the end of my shift, no one was dead or maimed, and I’d devised my own method for pouring bubbly into a glass while producing a minimum of froth. So are you thinking what I’m thinking?

“Yeah, hello, Tom? Cocktail 2? I’m so there.”

If I don’t understand rugby is it because I’m sober?

Rugby, eh? Five years living in New Zealand and I still don’t see the point. You have to throw the ball back to move it ahead? That’s the story of my life these days so why would I want to spend time watching that?

But someone gave us a pair of tickets to a Hawke’s Bay Magpies game the other night and so Viking Woman and I headed off to Napier’s McLean Park.

There are thousands of covered seats in McLean Park. We did not sit in any of them. Our tickets to the Hawke’s Bay vs Canterbury match were designated “Ground Entry Only,” which meant we had to join several hundred fans standing or sitting on a grassy knoll at one end of the playing field.

Two reasons to just say no to these tickets in the future: the stadium’s lone scoreboard was located immediately behind us, meaning we had to twist right around anytime we wanted to see the score and/or time clock; and, no matter who had the ball, or which half it was, all the action happened at the other end of the field.

With little hope of actually following the game from our vantage point, we opted to simply enjoy a warm spring evening and observe the setting and our fellow attendees. In retrospect, that was probably more interesting than the action on the pitch.

While Viking Woman’s bag was checked for glass when we arrived, there is obviously no ban on alcohol.

I was amazed, after the millions spent on TV ads condemning the evils of the devil’s brew, how much booze was being consumed during the game. We’re not talking about the odd container peeking surreptitiously out of a hoodie pocket, but rather people openly carrying full boxes of beer cans. Now that is some serious drinking, folks.

And this at what was obviously considered a family outing, judging by the number of children in attendance. But the younger kids, at least where we were positioned in the cheap “seats,” seemed content to chase each other around, while teenagers did little more than prowl the common areas under the stands, looking to see and be seen.

Between the drinking and the carousing and the cruising, I’m not sure if anyone was actually paying attention to the game. Too bad, because I could have used someone to explain the finer points of rugby.

Left to my own devices, here are my thoughts:

Unlike football (or American gridiron, as it’s known here), where full and complete possession is the rule, you can score a try in rugby by simply sneezing your DNA onto a grounded ball in the end zone. That hardly seems fair or, when it comes right down to it, very difficult.

That whole scrum thing doesn’t work for me either. A group of bullet-headed behemoths bash into each other, crushing noses and ears in the process, while a skinny-ass guy from one team flips the ball into the midst of this churning mass, runs around the back, and retrieves the ball. Every single time.

Call me crazy (or naïve, or uninformed, or an ignorant, bloody foreigner) but I can’t help asking the obvious question here: Why? If you’re going to get the ball right back, why not just hang onto the bloody thing and save all that heaving and crashing and damaged cartilage.

(“I love the rucks,” interjects Viking Woman. “Because, while all the guys are bending over in their shorts, I can look at their bums.” OK, well now it all makes perfect sense.)

I’m also not sure of the integrity of a sport where the PA announcer is permitted to lead the cheers. Although, as Kiwis tend to be a reticent bunch, he was usually the only one making any noise. I also question the grammatical logic of the popular hometown chant “Go the Bay.” Short and punchy? OK, I’ll give you that one. Proper English? I’m going to say no.

While the organized cheering tended to be subdued, the local rugby fans proved rather fond of The Wave. Or what they still like to call The Mexican Wave. And, yes, somewhere Krazy George is silently weeping.

Having witnessed this spectacle at every single hockey game I’ve ever attended, I am now rather jaded by the sight. But trust Kiwis to add a new twist to an old cheer. Or at least those Kiwis packed onto the grassy knoll with us.

Whenever it came time for our section to throw our hands in the air, those hands were also filled with crushed beer cans and other rubbish, all simultaneously flung high as the wave crashed over us. It was like being caught in a downpour of aluminum and I could only pray the flying cans weren’t still full. A ticket stub is a good souvenir. Concussion, not so much.

In the end, we didn’t stay until the end. The attendance was something like 14,000 and we didn’t want to have to deal with 13,000 drunks simultaneously released to drive home. We ducked out with 12 minutes to play and thus managed to avoid any possible traffic mayhem.

The final score? Canterbury won, but not before a controversial call in injury time resulted in a Hawke’s Bay try being waved off. Guess the player didn’t sneeze hard enough.

***

You can buy my book, Brown Girls, at http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1937.

***

Support the blogging community at http://www.blogsurfer.us

These are a few of my favorite things. Which probably explains why I’ve never been described as ’svelte.’

I’m back in New Zealand after four weeks of visiting friends and family in North America. The journey allowed me to compare what I like best about Canada, the U.S. and my new homeland.

What I like best about Canada:

Hockey Night in Canada

Lemon-cranberry scones at Starbucks

Chocolate-covered jujubes

Real maple syrup

My mom’s cookies

Ricky’s pancakes

What I like the most about America:

The home of Starbucks

Las Vegas

Cherry Coke

Krispy Creme

Wondrously inventive junk food (see photo)

HBO (because censorship can suck my * beep *)

What I like best about New Zealand:

O’Ryan’s Sour Cream and Onion chips

Feijoas

Ice cream

Kiwis’ “Bugger the lot of you” attitude

***

I’m standing at the sink in a public washroom in Vancouver International Airport.

I hear a woman speak behind me: “This isn’t the ladies’ room, is it?”

I glance over my shoulder at the elderly woman standing just inside the doorway, make a point of staring at the row of urinals lining the wall, and then turn back to her and shake my head.

“Didn’t think so,” she says.

***

I’m going through the security check at the same airport. The young lady ahead of me in line doffs her coat and sweater, as per regulations, and sends them through the X-ray machine in one of those plastic containers. Clad now in little more than a singlet, she makes her way through the metal detector to wait while her her carry-on luggage and clothes are scanned.

As I come up beside her, I glance at the fellow sitting behind the X-ray machine, the fellow who is in charge of spotting such nasty little surprises as weapons and explosives. I’m watching because I’m curious to note if anything in my carry-on causes him concern.

Except he’s not actually examining the contents of my camera bag or computer satchel. In fact, he’s not paying attention to the screen at all. Instead, he’s checking out the singlet-clad sweet young thing beside me.

Nice to know that boobs will always rank higher than the personal safety of airline passengers.

***

I’m waiting at the baggage carousel at Auckland airport. The beagle in charge of sniffing out illegal goods is making the rounds and soon has his snout buried in the carry-on bag of a fellow standing next to me. While the dog handler takes a quick look in the bag, the fellow — by his accent, a fellow Canadian — explains the only food he is bringing into the country consists of  homemade cookies and Christmas cake.

A few minutes later and the beagle is now suddenly very interested in my bag. I, too, explain that I’m bringing back homemade cookies. The handler is momentarily confused, thinking for a second that she has already been through my belongings. In the meantime, the other fellow and I exchange knowing smiles, the one that  says, “Ah, so you’ve been to see your mom as well.”

***

After asking me to guard the cookies with my life, lest the beagle gobble them right down, the handler pulls out my package of Strawberry Twizzlers, holding it between two fingers as if leery of soiling her hands.

As difficult as it is to believe, I have never found any authentic Twizzlers in New Zealand. How do Kiwis live with themselves, knowing they are missing out on a treat that consists primarily of assorted chemicals, additives and edible petroleum by-products? Hopeless bumpkins, the lot of them.

***

Seen on a T-shirt: Watch midget porn. You’ll look HUGE.

***

Please buy my book at http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1937. That way I can afford to buy more Twizzlers. Or Zebras. Whatever’s on sale, really.

***

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A visit to Whistler and other short stories. I like the one about the bear crap.

I’m in Whistler Village.  Home to some of the best skiing in British Columbia. One of the host sites of the 2010 Winter Olympics. It’s located about three hours from my hometown and yet I’ve never been here.

Half the people I’ve met in New Zealand have visited Whislter, so I thought it was time I checked out the place all those Kiwis rave about.

I love the architecture and the stonework of the high-end hotels. I love the walking mall. I love the building that features an Earls restaurant above a Starbucks. Beautiful women working that close to the world’s best coffee? When I die, this is where you’ll find my ghost. Calamari on my plate, dark roast in my mug. Smile on my face.

The landscape is still only green and brown on this fall day, but the place is surprisingly busy. I hear accents: Italian, French, German. Even Australian, because Canada will pretty much let anybody in.

I try to imagine the village blanketed in snow. Filled with skiers and snowboarders instead of BMXers.

Speaking of BMXers, there is an obvious age division when it comes to wearing the mandatory helmet. Anyone under 12 wears their headgear in place at all times, because it’s cool to hide your face. Those over 12 who are not yet on the course, wear their helmets propped high. Because it’s cool to look as if you have a plastic and plexiglass growth sprouting from the top of your head.

There are several signs warning about bears. Things like, don’t feed the bears. And, especially, don’t feed small children to the bears (something about indigestion). But I see not a single wild thing. Not even a squirrel.

What I do is nearly step in a large brown splat in the middle of the sidewalk on the outskirts of the village.

I make two observations from this sample of ursine excrement: Bears eat a lot of berries. And, bears don’t bother chewing those berries.

***

My brother is shopping at his local Best Buy store. He approaches one of the sales staff, a young Asian man.

My brother: ‘Excuse me, could you help me buy a calculator.”

Salesman: “You know, just because I’m Chinese doesn’t mean I know anything about numbers.”

***

Dad asks one of the managers of the Langley Save-On-Foods store if there is any 2% milk in the storeroom, because the cooler shelf is empty. The fellow takes a quick look in the back, shakes his head no, looks at his bare wrist and says the next shipment is due in 90 minutes.

I smile as I indicate his lack of a timepiece. “Your watch is a bit slow,” I say.

“I know what time it is, buddy,” he snaps at me.

All righty, then. So what you don’t know about is a sense of humour or customer service.

***

I’m at a Canucks game at GM Place. After one hard bodycheck, the young woman behind me complains, “That was mean.”

Mean? Puh-lease. You know you’re at a hockey game, right? If you wanted nice, you should have stayed home and watched Dancing With the Stars. Wimp.

***

I’m at the Langley Shoppers Drug Mart, looking for something in Canada to take back to Viking Woman in New Zealand.

Me: “This is probably a wild goose chase, but do you carry a lipstick called Brazen Raisin?”

Sales lady: “Who makes it?”

Me: “What?”

Sales lady: “Which company makes it?”

Me: “I’m a man. We don’t know things like that.”

Sales lady: “OK. What colour is it?”

Me: “What?”

Sales lady: “Is it red or brown?”

Me: “I’m sorry, but what part of ‘I’m a man’ did you not understand?”

In the end, I bought molasses kisses. They’re Viking Woman’s favourite Halloween treat. They’re brown and made by Kerr.

These are the things men know. Well, that and sports.