Second Face

My avatar is going to be filling in for me in the next little while. Got any questions? Ask her! Need help with your love life? Emotional dilemmas? Social blunders? Etiquette questions? Employment advice (that's a joke!). She's there for you. Her speciality, like mine, is mid-life issues.

And bonus. She's better looking than I am. She's probably smarter too. And, she's definitely a lot nicer. Whereas I almost never suffer fools gladly they roll off her shiny auburn hair like water off a duck's back. She can actually SEE out of her glasses! And best of all, like Dr. Frasier Crane, she's listening!

Authenticity

I took what I will describe as this "mystical" photo earlier this summer.

When I noticed it again this week, I felt that its ethereal quality represented quite well the changes that have been percolating for me. Consciousness shifting. Arriving in its own perfect time.

I have had an amazing week.

No. You can't see it. Nobody can. I really shouldn't even speak of it. To speak of it makes me sound crazy. But, you can not be moving towards authenticity- finally - and be crazy. Far from it.

It made me realize that sometimes the journey we take - inside ourselves - when we are ready, is one that can make a world tour seem, in comparison, like a pointless exercise of just passing time.

Interesting Meetings and Batiks

When it's raining torrentially, it's good to listen to Marianne Faithfull, very loudly.

I've been organizing and culling stuff. It's time. Because of transitions that are happening psychologically, it's long overdue, actually. Rebirth expressed tangibly. Okay, enough with the rhyming...habit forming for me. :-)

It just so happens that I have all these prints and a variety of artwork around that I really don't love. And, if you don't love it, let it go. A philosophy that can be applied to so much more than just stuff.

So, I gather this artwork and trot it over to the vacant lot on the corner. It just so happens that two other people are there and have set up their stuff flea-market style.

Unlike today, it was hot yesterday. I start talking to the man sitting on a footstool in front of massive suitcases. He's friendly. I like him instantly. I sense that he's different. He's interesting.

I find out that he's an East Vancouverite and when he was a young man in the 70's he escaped to Texada island and lived hermit-like and self-sufficiently, in a self-made shack where occasionally he feasted on oysters from the sea.

Then, he went to South East Asia and taught English where he eventually opened an ESL school, married, and the rest, as they say is history. He still has the businesses and come November will flea, back to a place he describes as "a nice place to live but I wouldn't want to visit." Jakarta, I think is where he means.

He has two grown daughters, in their 20s, who live with him in a Penthouse across the street.

Eventually, I meet one of his daughters. She is gorgeous. Model-like in the way Caucasian and Asian genetics mixes seem to consistently be. In addition to that she's very nice and conversation is easy. She shows me a hip hop magazine.

And, if any of you still need any convincing about the six degrees of separation reality. I begin talking to her and discover she is a recent SFU Communications grad who has been working part-time for the Business in Vancouver group. Now, it just so happens that I just wrote a profile for the BIV newspaper. So, in the course of writing three stories for them I have been e-mailing back and forth with the editor. And, through the tone of his e-mails I can tell that he is a very nice guy. Respectful and polite. I'm curious about him.

So I ask her if she has had any interactions with him. She says not really. But, she notices that he always eats his lunch alone, after everyone else.

She says he has the most amazing lunches. "Really?," I say. "Well, maybe he eats alone because he doesn't want anyone coveting his lunch." "And muffins," she says. "He has the best looking muffins." No euphemisms here.

I tell her that it's too bad she didn't know him because she could then go to work on Monday and jokingly tell him the story of running into me and how I'm so desperate that I have to sell off my stuff while I wait to get paid for freelancing.

All and all it was a fun afternoon. I didn't sell a thing but they gave me these beautiful batiks - gratis.

Reflections

Whenever I'm wandering around with my camera, I'm always drawn to reflections. I'm not sure why that is but I found this reflection of a building on Georgia Street reflecting in the water that is part of Coal Harbour near the Vancouver Rowing Club just across the street from it. Sometimes it's good to capture the subject of the reflection in the photo but I thought these worked very well without that.
These photos look to me like abstract paintings. I like them very much so I thought I'd share them with you.

United States Olympic Committee Censors the Entire World, Apparently

I find this very Big Brother-like.

A couple of months ago I created a T-shirt for myself about the Olympics. At first, I had the words Olympics in the T-shirt and as a result it was removed from Zazzle. Fair enough.

So, I thought to myself, well, if that's a copyright infringement then I'll just refer to the Olympics without actually using the word: Olympics.

Once again, it took them a while but they found me and they have asked Zazzle to remove my shirt. Unbelievable. I don't even use the word Olympics in the text. I don't understand how they can have the power to do that when I'm not even using the word Olympics in the text.

Here's what Zazzle sent me in an e-mail.

Dear Zazzler,

Thank you for your interest in Zazzle.com, and thank you for publishing products on Zazzle. Unfortunately, it appears that your product, “Five Ring Circus T-shirt”, is in violation of Zazzle’s Copyright policies. Specifically, your product has violated the intellectual property rights of the United States Olympic Committee.

We have been contacted by the United States Olympic Committee and we will be removing this product from the Zazzle galleries shortly.

Apparently the United States Olympic Committee has a lot of time on their hands and are really insecure about the Olympics.

I'd like to know why the United States Olympic Committee gets to make that decision when the Olympics are an international event - I'm a Canadian so I'm not one of their citizens - Thank you God - and they don't own Zazzle as far as I know.

And, everyone is going on about how there's no free speech in China and about how certain websites have been blocked. What did I say before in another post?

Get a mirror. Breath on it. Wipe away the fog!

Waiting for Sleep

In the West End
stilletos running on cement
are all it can take
to crack my
dreams,
mistake
talking heads on TV
for lovers'
midnight scenes

backstage
the other side
of the wall.

A Harley's engine
first trumpet
keeps score

sirens

count raindrops
recite folklore

the clock radio grows
a neon mind of its own,
spoons with worry
packaged tightly
to fit inside quiet
at half past four.

Waiting for sleep

when you can't

freezes time.

CBC's DiscDrive hits the Road

The CBC's DiscDrive website describes the soon-to-be-scrapped radio show of the same name as "music, off-the-cuff commentary and flights of fancy". That's a fairly decent description of what took place last night at the Vancouver Playhouse during the show's farewell concert hosted by the man, Jurgen Gothe, himself. And, his stuffed cat, who hasn't missed a show either.

Gothe has been hosting DiscDrive for 23 years. That's a lot of rubber hittin' the road as commuting time (which refers to the drive part of the show's title since it runs on weekdays between 3 and 6 pm during peak commuting hours).

Even though the show is another CBC casualty, lucky Gothe is taking over as host of a new show called Farrago 5 p.m. on Sundays at CBC Radio2.

Last night's bite-sized showcase of local talent included: the precision of A Touch of Brass, amazing drumming by Sal Ferreras, Jack Duncan and Joseph Pepe Danza, alluring Tango music that I really enjoyed from a group called Tangissimo, some fancy finger work by Mark of the Mark Atkinson Trio. Slowing it down a bit was former Doug and the Slugs band member Simon Kendall on piano. The final set was appropriately reserved for the local iconic bluesman, Jim Byrnes.

The highlight for me, and by the sound of the applause also a favorite of the audience, was the final number of the drumming set. Amazing! I'm a little biased because I've always thought that Joseph Danza is the sexiest musician in Vancouver. Every time I've seen him play anywhere he just seems to exude joy. I don't know if I've ever seen anyone's hands move that fast as he played a conga-type drum although it wasn't a conga (not Congo as I originally stated:-) and unfortunately I don't recall what Sal Ferraras said it was. I think it may have been a drum from Ferraras's homeland, Puerto Rico. It could have been a Batacajon.

Danza, originally from Uruguay, is also fantastic on the Shakuhachi flute and I know from doing an interview with him a long time ago over the phone (not in person-damn!) for an article on Vancouver's then Sacred Music Festival that he was on quite a personal, spiritual journey and that's how he even came to be taught how to play the Shakuhachi while in Japan.

Not being someone who has ever played a drum, what amazed me is the ability of the three to stay in sync even though, from a listener's perspective, it seemed like what I'm going to call fusion drumming (is there such a thing?). I'm not sure how they could ever stop drumming, together, and precisely in time, but they did it.

Sal Ferraras was also playing some instrument that I'm not familiar with that had a real twang, almost digeridoo-type sound quality. (It's actually called a Jaw Harp i think if I look at Pepe Danza's instrument museum.
If you want to hear for yourself what I'm talking about, apparently the concert in its entirety will be broadcast during the last week of DiscDrive in the final week of August.

Unfortunately, they didn't really zero in on the exact day of that week. I guess you'll just have to tune in every day that week, 3-6 p.m. in honour of 23 years of listening pleasure soon to be reincarnated into a new show that Gothe describes as a "mottled mix of everything that has caught my ear" which could translate as when he gets up in the morning, he'll decide then.

Sounds good to me!

Got Money?

Lately, every time I'm out and about in the 'hood, I see some older, not very well dressed grey-haired white guy with some cute little Asian girl who looks young enough to be his granddaughter.

At first, my mind is confused by their connection so it innocently runs through the possibilities. I think to myself maybe he has dementia and she's his caregiver? She's his housekeeper? Maybe she's just his neighbour and they happen to be walking down the street together. He's decided to learn Mandarin and she's his language teacher? Maybe she walks his dog? Maybe she's the wife of this gentleman's son? But, alas, I know none of those are accurate assessments.

And, then my mind immediately flips to a visual that positively grosses me out. I may at times even let out a little involuntary "ugh" as it comes to me.

Now, what worries me is that typically I'm someone who walks around in a bit of a fog. I'm daydreaming about living in a beautiful log cabin overlooking the ocean. I'm worrying about becoming a bag lady weighing options about where in Stanley Park I would sleep at night if I was homeless. I'm fantasizing about having sex with Johnny Depp. I'm calculating how many years it's possible to live somewhere without dusting before cobwebs begin to hang from the corners. You know, just the usual daily stuff that all truly "gifted" individuals use one-third of their brain power to contemplate.

So, the fact that I'm actually noticing these unlikely pairs isn't just unusual but I think, dare I say it, I may have stumbled onto a trend.

I find myself staring at these "couples" and suddenly I'm overcome by the urge to go over to him, get really close to his good ear (because you never know, he may be hard of hearing) and with a cautionary tone say very definitely, Aren't you getting dangerously close to exceeding the daily dose of Viagra you must take to go there with her? Watch yourself!

Someone should start making T-shirts for those little girls that just say, "Got Money?"

Do they all have major father complexes? What gives? Why would these really attractive young women even give some of these guys the time of day?

The least she could do for him if she's willing to be seen in public with him is take him to that men's store, Harry Rosen, and attire him in a way that whispered wealth, not pedophile.

Now I know what you're thinking. What's it to me? Maybe I'm just jealous. Maybe I'm jealous that I'm not writing about going out in the 'hood and suddenly seeing all these 50-year-old women walking on the seawall with really hot guys who are 20 years younger than them. Where's that world?

That world doesn't really exist en masse in the same way because, unlike men, women are more ecclectic, more generous in what they find appealing. That might arise from the fact that men get to see the goods up front, even while we are fully clothed, while women have to wait until men are naked.

It's kind of like buying one of those mystery candy bags at the dollar store. You have no idea whether the packaging is concealing something you'd really want or something that just isn't going to work for you at all. You know what I mean. You get a box of chocolates. You know you hate ginger. Sure enough, you choose one, and you bite into ginger. And, at my age, I don't want that kind of surprise. I've had a few of those and I didn't like them. Very disappointing. I want the sure thing, something I know I really want that fits well.

I mean it's not as if I haven't been a white version of one of those Asian girls when I was younger - with someone 20 years older than me - so who am I to judge?

Looking back I do recall the vague whiff of hostility coming from women of the same age as him; the raised eyebrows and the carefully concealed eye-rolling, but my old man was different. He had none of the tangible attributes - money, boats, beautiful cars, country homes, ocean view villas, power, influence, fame - that often make many women crazy about men who, if they lacked those, wouldn't even be given a single glance in passing.

Looking back, I have to say, at least I had the minimal amount of self-respect to be sure to avoid anyone who was wearing polyester, white shoes, a white belt and a hideous, undeniable rug, regardless of the size of their bank account.

Beauty and wealth. Priviledges and burdens. Imagine?

***
Every day I get a quote from this place called Choose Again. I thought it was rather fitting that having just written the above today's quote is the following:

What is your brother for? You do not know because your function is obscure to you. Do not ascribe a role to him that you imagine would bring happiness to you.

Thinking about this quote, I realize that I give everyone I meet a role which is ultimately a set up. It is my ego that gives someone a role to ( for instance) look after me and keep me safe. When this person does not live up to this role, and they won't because I have brilliantly chosen someone who will not, then I am disappointed. However, this is a blessing because the message I give myself under this role is that I am not capable and I can't do it. It is the belief that I must change, not the person.

Hypocrisy? Canadian Judge. 10.5

You've probably seen them. They are spread over the front page of The Globe and Mail and The Vancouver Sun and undoubtedly many other papers internationally. Two little girls. One physically attractive. The other less so as deemed by North American standards.

Does anyone else find it incredibly hypocritical not to mention laughable that the media, and if you were to believe what they have written - the world - is aghast that Chinese politicans decided that the "pretty little girl" should lip sync to the less pretty one's wonderful singing voice. Or, that god forbid, they enhanced the broadcast using the latest methods of multimedia. Or, that the hostesses who led the athletes into the birds nest stadium had to meet certain physical attributes (just like at Disneyworld).

I mean, can we really berate them for such judgments. Afterall, they're just following North America's lead. Isn't imitation the highest form of flattery? They're just trying to emulate us and they are doing such a good job that they will soon crush us economically.

The shocking part to me is the incredible hoopla being made of this in a world that has become monotonously homogeneous in favour of superficiality and where physical attractiveness, (especially for females) is pretty much more important than any other attribute.

And, just think, your level of attractiveness didn't require you to do anything at all. It's not even yours to claim really. It's luck. It's the combination of genetics provided by your mother and father. It's a "You got peanut butter in my chocolate" experiment that either produced favourable results (or maybe not)!

Am I the only one who actually finds it quite easy to forget sometimes that certain female body parts aren't actually commodities. They aren't actually located on the stock market next to pork bellies (do those really exist?) as a result of the juvenile response to them by more males than not the world over. Biology or immaturity? Which is it?

I actually think the hypocrisy of the Olympics is so great that it's actually the most competitive sport in the Games. I'll give it a 10.5.

And, I hear as well that people are boycotting watching the Olympics on TV because of China's poor human rights record. I also find that laughable not because there aren't good reasons but because all you have to do is go onto some native reserves in Canada, look at the lack of services for people living with mental illness,walk into the Downtown Eastside in Vancouver, know how little affordable housing exists in Vancouver and the length of waiting lists, learn how many children are living below the poverty line in B.C. and then you might as well get a mirror, breathe on it and wipe away the fog before pointing a finger.

The only difference is that our tactics are the result of a lack of action and priorities that focus on the monetary over humanity while theirs, at times, are the result of aggressive action and therefore more visible and easier to use against them.

A Day in Steveston

I spent most of the day in Steveston.

I can't ever go to Steveston without thinking of this amazing long poem called Steveston written by a local poet named Daphne Marlatt. I studied it during some English course at University. It left a lasting impression because it was actually many poems in one and we went over and over it, line by line, trying to decipher the words in ways I was always positive the poet never intended.

I used to imagine the poet sitting, apparition-like, at the front of the class, floating ever so slightly above and behind the professor. I imaged the poet smirking and then after some time uttering just one word: Bullshit. And, then, she'd smile because she was a poet and just the thought that anyone at all was reading her stuff was good even if they did get it all wrong.

Perhaps my impression of that poem lasted because its words created visuals that meshed with the memories I had of going down to Steveston as a child. It was a different place then. There were no condos.

I'd accompany my childhood friend and her mother. They were Japanese. Her mother used to take us down to Steveston in the summer and we would walk on slanted boardwalks and follow her carefully, trying to keep up until we'd arrive at a very dilapidated shack or boat (I can't recall which now).

We would be going to visit "Uncle Simp". I'm not sure why he was called that. It seems a bit derogatory now that I say it out loud. He'd give us candy. He'd give her mom a big salmon or two. I recall at the time that it was hot and his shack/boat was very dark inside and the trip for two kids who didn't get to go many places outside of New Westminster seemed like an exciting adventure on a hot summer day.

My friend's father drowned when she was 3. Her mother worked day and night as a seamstress when we were growing up. On hot afternoons, when we'd run out of things to do and were reading in the living room of her duplex, women would come and be fitted. They'd bring their patterns and their fabrics and her mom would have her measuring tape and pins in her mouth as she hemmed an almost finished dress. We'd overhear the rhythm of conversation between her mom and a lady who seemed to know our names even if we never remembered theirs. Murmurs in the kitchen seeped into the background as we finished the last chapter of a Nancy Drew novel or packed up the Barbies or finished another game of Snakes and Ladders. We were inseparable then.

The whirr of the sewing machine was the never ending soundtrack between us dashing off to the community pool, plunking ourselves down after games of badminton in which we'd use the fence between the duplexes as the net and we'd play until we could no longer see the birdie in the dark. The sewing machine was the constant. The light in her mom's bedroom shone out into the backyard or sometimes when I slept over, the crack of light shining under the door of my friend's bedroom was the last line of consciousness just before my eyes slid shut and her mom worked on.

For that reason Steveston's Japanese history meshes with the Japanese experience so much a part of my own childhood history. I can't help but smell dried seaweed and green tea. The wood trim on some of the boats was the same texture as the dark, brown lacquer of the plastic chopsticks that I took years to learn how to use. On special occasions when her mom made sushi, my friend would always describe what was under each lacquered lid. She became my culinary tour guide. "I think you'll like this," she'd say. "I don't know, that's a bit slimey. You probably won't like that much."

I don't see either of them much anymore.

Maybe that's why the memories of Steveston are bittersweet. For me. For all that the village used to be. It's history.

Crowd Powered Media Bytes Newspapers

It used to be good for wrapping fish in. Sure, maybe it works to line the bottom of the bird cage. It's great, I hear, for making paper mache donkeys for birthday parties. But reading it every day? Subscribing and paying for it? Are you kidding me? Daily newspapers are headed in the same direction as typewriters.

Poynter Online posed this question in a 2008 poll, "Today it's possible to stay informed without subscription to a daily newspaper?" A whopping 79% of respondents said they agreed or mostly agreed. We have to assume that the other 21% suffered a cardiac arrest just as their HB was about to circle "agree".

I always feel a little sorry for those telemarketers from the Vancouver Sun or Province newspapers. I mean, I'm not even of the generation raised on the Internet. I don't get the appeal of text messaging because it just seems like too much work to try and find the right teeny weeny little keys. I've never Skyped. I only bought a cell phone a year ago.

But, the damp smell of obsolescence fills my nostrils every time I have to cut one of those telemarketers off in mid sentence to say No. Don't want it. Don't have time to read it. Don't think the trade-off between trees cut down and crap written down is good value.

My new favorite way to get news is to go on to sites such as NowPublic.com. It's like having a correspondent in every city and a photographer on every corner. I can even upload my own photographs on to a story. I can comment on the news stories that are there. I can read others comments and see others photos and watch videos.

Okay, maybe Joe Blow from Arkansas was never trained as a journalist. Maybe the writing isn't great, but as the site says journalism is not rocket science. Got a question. Get the answer. Get the answer from people who know better and who saw it firsthand.

Nowpublic.com is like a news-based wikipedia. It's a visual Twitter. And, if you get something wrong, you can be sure that somebody out there on the planet is going to correct you so the facts will be as factual as any reporter can get and the stories will be more immediate.

Now, having said all that, I'm glad I experienced the old days of journalism. I'm glad that I worked in a newsroom that was a bit like the one in the movie from the book The Shipping News.

Being at that small newspaper was fun. It was crazy. I loved it. I hated it. It was so politically incorrect that it's hard now for me to believe some of the things that got said and done. Did they actually happen or was I just dreaming them?

When I worked at that paper there was a rough around the edges, hard-nosed production manager named Graham who actually layed out the paper in the back. I used to go into a dark room and develop by hand the black and white photographs that I'd gone and taken at some accident scene or junior hockey game.

Being a reporter - pre-digital - was in fact the job that demanded more skills than any other job I've ever had to date and it paid next to nothing. It paid poverty-level wages. Why is that okay? Why has that always been okay? For the same reason it's okay that professional athletes can make millions. No reason. No good reason. It's just the way it is.

The rationale behind Nowpublic.com is the same as the rationale for deciding to uncopyright your creative work. In fact, people who have gone that route have found that their work has received more exposure by getting their name out into the world. They choose the degree to which their work is copyrighted, an idea put forth by Creative Commons.

In a world of ever-expanding social media, I can't help but think that newspapers are now in the same position as men were when Gloria Steinem said, "A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle!"

The Film Club

I have this friend. He’s a good guy. Sometimes he organizes a book club with the stipulation that they must meet in a pub. He loves beer and he can tell you which beers to drink guiding your own choice based on his knowledge. Sometimes when I am around him I feel that he is the father I wish I’d had. He’ll freak when he reads that because he's only three years older than me. I’m smiling as I write that. There's just something fatherly about him.

I saw him today and he’d gone to the library to get me a book that I’d wanted but couldn’t get in Vancouver because there were 25 holds on it. It’s called The Film Club. I like that he did that for me. I didn’t ask him. He offered. Just a small effort that means a lot; someone doing something for me that they know will make me happy; to show me that they want to please me, that they care. How great is that?

The Film Club is written by David Gilmour. He’s a Canadian author and former television personality. The book was sitting at the table in the restaurant when I showed up and my friend was nowhere to be seen. So, I sat down and waited for him to return.

And, now, after our lunch and after some other chores, I have spent all afternoon inhaling the story.

Gilmour describes himself, at the time of writing the book, as unemployed and not even able to get a job as a “fucking bike courier”. And, his son Jesse is not able to tolerate high school so Gilmour (after a lot of inner torture) gives him the option of dropping out because, afterall, he was 6'4" and how do you make a 6'4" person do anything they don't really want to?

A Governor General Award Winner for another book A Perfect Night to Go To China , Gilmour is confused about what to make of his future and his 15 year old son is pretty much in the same headspace albeit a few less decades into his life.

He puts only one caveat on the agreement. His son must watch three films a week with him and the older gets to choose the films. Gilmour chooses films that will somehow provide insights into situations the younger Gilmour finds himself in - with girls, with drugs, growing up. He was a film critic so it's not exactly like the average suburban dad choosing films.

So, I was lying on my couch on this very hot August afternoon, dozing in and out of consciousness, being reminded of what it was like as a teen-ager to read away the afternoon, not wanting to have anything interrupt my relocation to a fictional world and the delicious luxury of escape.

Well, I thought to myself, just be where you are - with a book and a delightful narrator - the kind you wish you were having a beer with even though when I watched him on TV in the past I always thought he was too affected.

His writing however is another story. I could spend hours in the company of his writing and today I did. I loved the book. And when you're done, you're left with a long list of movies that show you where you need to fill in the gaps of your own movie watching with Gilmour's descriptions as the literate movie trailers.

PS: His son did get his Grade 12 and is in University now but he never did go back to a regular classroom in high school to complete it.

Morning Walk

I don't have much to say these days. I was up early and felt like taking photographs so I left the house at 7:00 am and before I knew it I'd walked around the entire seawall. I really didn't see all that much to photograph that I wanted to photograph. Some days are like that. It is however fantastic to be in the park at that time. Nothing calls forth gratitude more quickly than a walk in the park.

Gay Pride Parade

What's to say?

The Never Ending Events of the West End

As always at this time of year the neighborhood has been hoppin, jam packed with people coming down to the Celebration of Light fireworks. Canada scooped the top spot two years in a row and even I have to admit that the grande finale last night of Canada, China and the U.S. was really spectacular.

It made a huge difference that some friends who had been sitting on the beach since 5:30 pm had saved us a spot so we were able to waltz into the crowd at 9:15 pm and plop ourselves down right beside the music. A perfect summer evening.

And, just as the garbage is cleared away, it's time for the Gay Pride Parade today along Denman. It's always a spectacle and a 3-hour marathon where you're sure to see something that will open your eyes a little wider.

It always amuses me that you have guys with their butts hanging out of chaps dancing to the tired but happy YMCA tune and guys dressed up as women teetering around on heels so high you're wondering how many days it might take for them to walk after today.

There are really beautiful women, who just happen to be male, looking better than 90%of real women waving from the white caddys with the red leather interiors. Then there are the topless dykes on bikes and the kids all lined up waiting to catch candy from the cross dressing, fairy queens outside the Dairy Queen. Just another regular day in paradise.

It is the best parade in the city because it is such a fun atmosphere. Yes, it is one central location of all the worst stereotypes of gayness (is that a word?)passing by on the street and it's pretty much a block party, 40 blocks long, West End style.

I went with my friend and her two pre-teen kids a few years back and when we were walking home her then 13-year-old said, "Mom, I just didn't get why that man was hitting that other man with a whip?"

I remember biting my tongue and thinking to myself, well let's see how she answers that. She did a spectacular job. All she said was, "Some people get pleasure out of pain." He didn't ask anything else. I thought it was a good, succinct and pretty safe answer.

I'll try and get some decent photos. Drop by tommorrow and join the parade, virtually!

Morse Code Poem

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Requires translation:
Copy and paste the Morse Code (above) into the Morse Code Translator (at the link below) to read my poem.

Use the Morse Code Translator.