Took these photos last night, fiddled with them today before I forget/lose interest (as always). You will have to give me a break, I didn’t have a tripod.

P.S: I was so stoked on that freight elevator because it caused memories of Wayne’s World 2  to come rushing at me like a warm embrace. We had a VHS copy taped off of tv when I was a kid and I watched it like once a week for two years straight. Also and sadly I  had a crush on Garth, WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH ME?

There aren’t very many clips from that movie online, but here is something just as awesome in the same spirit:

Mind blown. It produced experiences of convulsive laughter, secret shame, aching confusion. What more could I want.

Fantastically incoherent and bizarre scene:

Also, saw and was amazed by this:

This is what the village looked like after:

Here’s the footage I wish I had captured, sorry:

It was like a teen-nerd dream come true, and definitely on par with catching Irma Thomas last September, also for free and unexpectedly and out of doors…and ending up with equally shitty photos from the distance and being equally jazzed. Ah…memory lane…that was the best late summer evening ever. Me and Jules biked to Harbor Front, witnessed Irma being amazing and then we ate the most delicious dumplings I have ever tasted. Julia captured the memories on her cellphone with clarity and artistry:

Don’t Look Down-Irma Thomas

Also, I just found this really bizarre video that looks like it was likely shot in the early 90s on a video camcorder in Irma’s house. Awesome song, astonishingly bad video with puzzling background, lighting,  and editing choices that Irma’s charisma still prevails against.

P.S: Is that a portrait of Irma holding a cat in the background?
P.P.S: I like how I keep referring to “Irma” like she is someone I casually know.

athleticism.

Ha, not. All you do is walk off the steps and then your weight sort of propels you across the cable. One of the tour guides has to reel your helpless ass in to the next tree because by the time you get to the other end you sort of lose momentum.

Here I am uselessly dangling from the cable, not exactly the ferocious velocity I imagined:

This was one of the last ones we did. By the time we got to the last cable it was dark out and the guides showed us how to zipline backwards and upside down, for those who wanted to. I was very keen on learning this skill and took off backwards, recklessly kicking my legs in an attempt to throw them over my head and hook them to the rope. Of course  in my over-excitement I totally failed and just ended up flailing around backwards with my stiffened legs in a straddle position for half the run before giving up and going back  to dangling as I waited to arrive at the other end of the cable.

Wax the Van- Arthur Russell

Oh, Townes…why can’t I resist your shameless hamming contrasted by a morose song? Why.

I rewatched Margot at the Wedding this week, and can safely say it has stood the test of time (three years time).  Why did everyone hate this movie? It’s fantastic! From what I can tell the majority of criticism for this movie was delivered on the basis that people found Nicole Kidman’s character to be abhorrent. Marlon Brando behaves monstrously in the  grueling and unwatchable Last Tango in Paris and people can’t stop singing the praises of him or the movie, but Nicole Kidman gives a fantastic performance in a far better movie and people are all “boohoo…we don’t like it when women are mean!”.  I also am puzzled by how rarely it’s mentioned how funny this movie is. That scene where she climbs the tree? Please, that’s comedy gold.

The trailer for the movie is the worst, so please enjoy this still.

This is my neighborhood now:

This is the pathway that leads to everywhere else:

And here is where it starts to severely wind on what becomes an increasingly steep slope. The previous night I decided I would take a nice walk around and familiarize with the area. Unaware of the black ice that covered the entirety of the pathway, I immediately slipped and started ass-sliding uncontrollably down the hill for what felt like an eternity. A gaggle of skiers were ascending the hill as I began to slow down and openly laughed at me. The best I could do was try to use my ass to steer away from the babbling brook that is located to the left. I deliberately lodged myself in a nearby snow bank and then followed them back up the hill:

A lot of the houses and buildings here are wood/log/stone themed. In fact, as far as I can tell all of Whistler is designed to look like a foreigner’s idea of what Canada is like in the most outdoorsy/nature-loving/bear-conservationist/kokanee-drinking/maple syrup-all-the-timing kind of way. All the architecture of the entire town matches with this weird, artificial, alternate universe aesthetic.

This is the “Tangle Tree” for rich little tourist children to play on:

This is stationed next to the entrance of the public washroom. I don’t understand what it is. Is it art? It’s art, isn’t it. Or is it traditional Canadian stone seating? What is the meaning. Somebody, please:

This is my new bank cottage:

Here is the grocery store that is too expensive for me to shop at, replete with authentic Canadian log benches out front.

I bought a coffee and supposed I got the gist of Creekside so I walked home to play banjo.

A typical Canadian song:

Wilf Carter – When I say Hello to the Rockies

Ughh…I love that song. I can’t stop listening to Wilf Carter, and not even as a Canadiana joke.

But….here is a typical Whistler song. I actually heard this in IGA today and nearly shit my pants with a laughter explosion. How can a song that sucks so hard live on for so long?

When you watch this video, remind yourself of how this is a 100% accurate depiction of what my life is and means now.  Make sure to pretend Edwin is me, especially the part where he goes “aloo-woah-own” and makes a pouty-face in the snow:

The screaming/glass-breaking scenes were my favorite. If only.

On the slim chance you hadn’t naturally gathered, Shouldice is a private hospital housed in a mansion in Thornhill that provides the exclusive service of hernia repair. The mansion includes, “a billiard room, shuffleboard table, TV lounge, a common area to play cards, and a beautiful solarium for lounging and reading. Outside there are 20 acres of landscaped grounds to stroll about, including a putting green”.

Through some sort of loophole they have managed to offer their services to residents of Ontario with OHIP coverage free of charge (oh..except for the $175/night semi-private room that it is mandatory you stay in over the course of four days for what in a general hospital is considered a day surgery that takes thirty minutes to perform. I found this out after I got there), and presumably charge everyone else up the ass for the experience of being treated at “Shouldice, the house that hernia’s built”.

I decided I had to go check it out largely due to the website’s description that, “…many years ago a group of patients so thoroughly enjoyed their stay, that they approached Dr. Shouldice and asked if he would sponsor an annual reunion. He agreed, providing that all those who came to the dinner used the occasion for a medical check-up. Since 1947, an annual reunion has been held at the Royal York Hotel where a group of doctors examine as many as 1,400 former patients before they all enjoy a banquet and a floor show.”

The idea of a mass hernia repair check up/dinner party at the Royal York was too absurd to pass up the opportunity of participating in. I booked an appointment, and Jen was kind enough to rent a car and drive me out to Thornhill for it.

Practically blind with road rage, Jen miraculously drove us safely to Shouldice.

Approaching the “stately tree-lined” entrance described in the website.

An excitement-related shot of the mansion entrance hurriedly taken as Jen parked the car.

The waiting room inside. Get ready for some terrible shots, I was trying to be discrete and not get caught by the staff and/or many men shuffling around post-operatively in their pyjamas.

Birdhouses in the adjoining “lounge area”.

Soothing paintings throughout.

…And many clocks.

Here I am attempting to be “a Lady of the Manor”.

Jen makes a subtle effort at disassociating  herself from my embarrassing behavior by busying herself with her blackberry.

Somehow and sadly this only spurs me on to make repeated attempts at impersonating the statues in the foyer.

Jen storms out, sick and tired of my attention-seeking neediness.

..But she is soon mirthfully distracted by a Christmas sleigh perplexingly stuffed with plush, over-sized dreidels.

I refuse to book a surgery date and declare the examination a resounding success.

The celebratory gesture of arm flailing in my untreated condition causes me to painfully injure myself.

Laboriously hobbling away.

Still excited about having been in a mansion that isn’t Casa Loma, I snap a crooked photo of it as we drive away.

Also excited to be in a car that isn’t a taxi, I take this photo from the passenger seat on the way home.

The reason I ended up there today was because back in November I happened upon a paper doll in front of my house that I felt was in possession of an undeniable resemblance to me.

Proof of resemblance comparison photo.

This paper-doll-me, I laughed and laughed at it. I laughed until my bellybutton turned inside out. It went back to normal within a half hour, because I was so alarmed I stopped laughing. It was because of this I managed to correlate the two. For about a minute or two I actually entertained the idea of not laughing until my bellybutton was fixed but it became rapidly apparent it is actually impossible for me to not laugh for more than thirty seconds at a time. My doctor told me I have a tiny hernia, and that it could be fixed. I asked if it would cause me any problems if I didn’t get it fixed and he said “Well, if it goes out and doesn’t go back in, then it’s a problem. Otherwise, no”. With this ambiguous advice, I left totally confused but leaning toward the impression I should get it fixed otherwise he would’ve said not to bother.

I am pretty sure I have had it since last January, because I have been carrying the dark secret that sometimes my bellybutton feels *funny* but I couldn’t talk about it because everyone would think I was a ridiculous hypochondriac. Even when it turned inside out I couldn’t imagine anyone believing me so I attempted to take a PICTURE of it as proof but it’s all blurry (it is hard to take a clear shot when you are in PANIC that your navel is going to EXPLODE out of your stomach). But my doctor gave me a referral to a surgeon, even without photographic evidence, so I guess I didn’t need it.

For the first two weeks after this utterly innocuous diagnosis, I basically refused to move and stopped going to circus school, plagued with intrusive imaginings consisting of my intestines catapulting through my navel followed by me dying of septic shock on the tumbling mat.  I also could not stop compulsively  lifting my shirt to check that my bellybutton was still in place, obsessed with catching it “out” again.

I also really wasn’t entirely sure if surgery was necessary. On the one hand my reflexive response to anything physically unseemly is to run to a doctor and cry, “Fix it!” and on the other I have some degree of healthy suspicion toward surgeries/pharmaceuticals/pap smears.

Naturally, I turned to the internet for some solid medical advice. I was informed that you MUST have it FIXED and that it doesn’t MATTER if it is not bothering you because your hernia will only get BIGGER and your guts could STRANGULATE on the hernia. Concurrently, I also learned that hernia repair surgery, although simple can lead to a lifetime of post-operative suffering, “…It was the worst mistake of my life. It’s been a year now and I am still in constant pain. Everytime I try to jog I feel like  my groinal area is being ripped to shreds by tiny shards of glass within,”

“….ever since the surgery having an orgasm is the worst pain from the depths of hell that I have ever experienced and could never have conceived of prior to my botched procedure. The doctor’s don’t know what went wrong and won’t return my calls”, etc.

I went to the general surgeon my doctor referred me to, who basically said, “Sure, I can fix that. But the surgery dates are on a priority basis, and I am cancer specialist. I can put you on a waiting list, but people keep getting cancer so you will be waiting a  long time. Like, forever”. He didn’t say that last part, but it was implied. He was also wearing denim head to toe and had done some flying trapeze at Club Med, he told me.

This prompted me to investigate Shouldice where I spoke to and was examined by a Dr. who had difficulty locating my hernia, and kept sticking his finger intrusively but unfortunately necessarily in my bellybutton and requesting that I cough. He explained that my chances of the hernia strangulating my intestines were practically nil, and that surgery carried the guarantee of scarring, and the risk of bleeding or infection. I established that the hernia wasnt causing me any pain or discomfort, and evidently wasn’t an aesthetic concern, before he insisted that I book a date regardless because I can “always cancel”.  He marched me to the receptionist and informed her I was booking a date for sometime in the summer and then stalked off before I told her that I was in fact, not booking a surgery date and would call them if I changed my mind. After being informed that all patients were required to stay three to four nights (and pay nearly two hundred dollars for what I could only call hotel fees) for surgery, I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be changing my mind.

And so ends my long-winded explanation of my adventure to the hernia country club and my current insistence that hernia repair in my case would be an unnecessary surgery.

This song is decidedly the soundtrack to my hernia journey:

Hani Dada-Juma Muhina