the nose knows

Recently, my morning walk along the West Toronto Railpath has been affected with the comforting smell of burning. I think it's wood. The city is getting rid of a pile of junk (see photo in post re: stuff, Nov 3, 2010) and building something in its place. This burning smell, no matter where it occurs, always, always, always reminds me of Mexico.

I spent a couple of months there in the early 90's and they would often burn things. Wood, stubble, garbage. The smell would drift into the little beachfront town and give me that solid feeling of being somewhere else. It also didn't hurt that it was thirty degrees in December.

Smells trigger memories that are as vivid and precise as the original thing.

There are smells that are obviously wonderful. Bar-b-que, a cake in the oven, your lover's neck, freshly ground coffee, garlic, a good cheese shop, clean laundry, baby after bathtime, pizza delivery guy in an elevator, gin.

When you enter Village Meat (pictured above), a bakery/butcher shop in a Polish neighbourhood near me, it is almost impossible to leave without buying a slab of smoked bacon or a few slices of peppered salami or cured ham. They also make one tray per day of the best cheesecake I've ever eaten in my life. Go early if you want some.

There are the not so nice odours we try to avoid: wet dog, garbage trucks, fish gone bad, the litter box, an Irish pub after last week's revelry, burnt hair.

Places have their own personalities, and smells. Paris smells like bakeries and piss, Cape Breton is fresh and pine scented. Vancouver smells damp and sunny while Montreal is humid and smokey. New York smells busy and active, full of art and money and delis. The prairies are extreme - frozen or overheated, but they always smells wide and windy. Mexico City is polluted. So is LA. London smells like soot and sea and beer and fried fish.

It is a conditioned response. The first time we smell a new scent we link it to a person, place or thing. EFA skin cream by JASON reminds me of Costa Rica, because it's what we slathered on our sun soaked bodies at the end of each day. Nivea skin toner still reminds me of Cuba because I started using it there, over a decade ago. Hawaiin Tropic suntan lotion reminds me of the beach. Any beach.

Perfume. A specific scent can define a person. Alfred Sung (my sister), too much Polo (my brother), Kenneth Cole Reaction (my husband), Love's Baby Soft (my life as a teenager trying to hide the stench of cigarette from my parka), Farenheit (an ex I'd rather not remember), Oscar de la Renta (the woman I babysat for when I was seventeen), Vera Wang (me in the mid 90's).

A note to Alfred Sung if he's reading this: Why do you stop making things people are still buying? The scent my sister wears has been discontinued. By her account, she has about five years left of the stuff. This includes the traditional Christmas gift bottle from her husband and few extra ones she found from rogue sources on eBay.

The answer to why things change might be this; According to Amy Verner's article in The Globe and Mail's Style section a few weeks ago, she learned a few things from her L'Oreal scent workshop, the first for beauty editors and writers. Apparently, "fragrance trends and the development of new scents are not arbitrary but mirror the zeitgist and evolve each decade. In the 1980's, yuppies ruled and scents such as Poison, Opium, Cool Water and Egoiste were brash and overpowering. The nineties, of course, was the era of unisex fragrances such as CK One and Issey Miyake. The past 10 years can be characterized by the duality of glamour and nature, Gucc Guilty verses Terre d'Hermes."

I am part of the masses with that theory in that, at the moment, I enjoy wearing Chanel Sensual. However, I also carry around a little tin of Pacifica Waikiki solid perfume. The latter is made from organic coconut and soy wax with natural and essential oils. The woman at the store where I bought it said I could eat it if I had too. And it's vegan.

These are fads. Not to be confused with trademarks.

There is a guy in Kensington market named Moses who sells perfume oils in plastic containers. I started buying Egyptian Musk from him about ten years ago. (Prior to that, when I lived in Montreal, I found the musk in an store that sold African artifacts on St. Laurent Boulevard) Now, I supply a friend's sister in Regina with the stuff, along with Explorer for her, a thick green oil that smells like fresh soap and pine needles. Moses fills up little glass viles from his bigger reserves and sometimes doesn't charge me.

Well hasn't Moses disappeared.

His shop, that also sold Jamaican t-shirts, scarves, cards, candles, creams and lotions, was boarded up when I stopped in before Christmas. The fellow next door said Moses is working out of another space around the corner with no name and no sign because he had a riff with landlord. I'll be on my bike soon enough and have a look for this nameless place and hope I find Moses and his magic oils.

"I love the smell of napalm in the morning." A line made famous by Robert Duvall in Apocalypse Now. I love the smell of jet fuel in the morning. It means I am at the drop zone, near a plane prepping for flight and ideally, out of which I will jump.

Spring has sprung (well, tomorrow it will have) and with it comes its own smells. You can sense it in Toronto these last few days. Things are warmer, sunnier, happier. Nothing is slower, just...better. Then summer follows, with lilacs and fruit blossoms and those trees that smell like semen. Latin name: Ailanthus altissima, commonly knows as 'the tree of heaven'. http://www.thestar.com/news/gta/article/836481--sperm-tree-spreads-its-seed-in-toronto

Speaking of semen, in her workshop, Verner also learned that perfumers have to identify over 3,000 raw materials from plant, animal or synthetic origin. The weirdest thing, as she pointed out, "arguably the most intriguing", was ambergris. "Produced in the intestine of the sperm whale, it becomes solid over time and takes on a sweet, musky smell. During Middle Ages, it was used to cover up the stench from plague."

I know what a thunder storm smells like. I grew up on the prairies. It's warm, then cool, then dark, then electric, then wet, then energized, then light, then over.

dating disasters

(Photo: Morgan Reiner)

Another entry to CBC's Flash Fiction contest.

Theme: Dating Disasters

The task: Tell us about the oddball your sister set you up with. Tell us about the guy who brought his ex-girlfriend along. Tell us about the guy who tied his pit bull up outside the restaurant. Or maybe you are the weirdo who's scaring everyone off. That's okay too! I'm sure there are guys out there who would describe me as having been their worst date ever.
_______________


Before Lavalife, eHarmony, 25dates and Match.com, there was Telematch. Phone dating.

Years ago as a single, twenty-something, theatre school student in Montreal, I called the phone number at the back of the Mirror’s classifieds. What I found was a plethora of material.

I ended up going on one date.

After two polite and entertaining-to-the-point-of-maybe-this-could-lead-somewhere phone conversations, we agreed to meet in person. At a coffee shop on Crescent Street, the lack of chemistry between us was similar to that of two burnt out bulbs on a string of old Christmas lights. Our conversation, civil and restrained, was as interesting as a glass of water.

I went back to the phone. I was addicted to the voice messages.

Fascinated by the depth and breadth of creepy, lonely, professional, sad, ethnic, bizarre, cryptic, funny messages, I wrote a play about a woman who explores teledating.

The comedy, Call Me, was produced twice in Montreal and won the first ever Montreal English Critic’s Circle Award (MECCA) for best production, semi-professional. I moved to Toronto and thanks to a Telematch sponsorship, the play also had a ten day run over Valentine’s Day at Second City’s Tim Simm’s Playhouse.

bad behaviour

Another entry to CBC's Flash Fiction contest.

Theme: Bad Behaviour

Are writers naturally inclined towards wickedness? Do we have wilder lives than other people? Is that why we have so many stories at our fingertips?

In addition to bad behaviour, I would file this under: mean, inappropriate, frustrating, spiteful and judgmental.

________________


The middle seat on a charter flight is a gamble.

Passengers file onto the aircraft like blood cells traveling to an aorta. Husband on my right stares out the window occupied with all things aviary.

Here she comes.

White hoodie, shoulder length brown hair, pretty face. She shoves a bag into the overhead compartment and maneuvers her black sweat pant clad hips into the aisle seat. Her bulbous thigh touches mine.

“I can’t believe the vacation is over already,” she says.

My smile is false. I shift closer to Husband giving me less room in an already cramped seat. We all opt for Shepherd’s Pie over pasta. She eats the brownie first. I want more wine.

Two hours later, after the half funny movie, Fatty continues watching Ugly Betty reruns. Her head is four inches from mine. A chubby cheek now full of gum. I insert earplugs but still hear her chewing. Her fleshy arm against me is like warm glue. I fondly remember the chatty fellow on the outbound flight who asked too many questions. I exhale in puffs. Husband covers my hand with his.

Later still, she snores. A sleeping giant beneath the hoodie. It smells like damp sweat and peppermint foot powder. I stretch the muscles in my face keeping my mouth open in the position of a scream. FAT!

On our descent, she asks me to repeat the announcement she missed about donating to the charity of the airline’s choice. I pretend I can’t hear her.

presence

Watching iguanas mate was far more engaging than watching the show the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences put on last Sunday night. The lack of presence in the evening's hosts made for a lame, awkward, laggy, unoriginal, stale, drawn out, bore of a show.

It wasn't the films or the music or the theme or the presenters or the acceptance speeches or the sound editing you don't care about that made the Oscars suck.

It was the hosts.

James Franco and Anne Hathaway did a poor job. It's not entirely their fault. Shame on Oscar for thinking it can get away with hiring actors as hosts. Is it because nobody wants the job? Previous hosts have included some very funny people with presence, timing, and charm. The stuff you can't teach. Over the last decade hosts have included comics such as Ellen Degeneres, Steve Martin, Chris Rock, Whoopi Goldberg, David Letterman. But the majority of the job in its 83 year history, has been filled by Bob Hope, Johnny Carson and Billy Crystal. Icons.

Presenters are off the hook because they're only up there to present, announce, get lost. However some have more presence in that category than others, even for a short while. Justin Timberlake and Mila Kunis were off, Robert Downey Jr. and Jude Law were funny, Kirk Douglas was old and funny.

The Academy's history reads in part, that it is, "Dedicated to the advancement of the arts and sciences of motion pictures, the Academy’s corporate management and general policies are overseen by a Board of Governors, which includes representatives from each of the craft branches."

Wonderful.

But, if it's dedicated to advancement, why is it going backward? It started heading south in 2009 with Hugh Jackman as host. Albeit a talented actor, Wolverine is not a standup comic, nor a talk show host. But he was more entertaining than this year. I still wonder if midway through the show someone called Billy Crystal at home and said, how fast can you get here? He's that good. When he took the stage he was comfortable, engaging, witty, and funny. You wanted to watch him.

Billy Crystal is all those things. He is also present. He performs. He listens. He reacts. I heard a reporter on the radio say, "It looked as if Franco was watching a show he was also hosting." The man was distracted. And full of himself. And not funny. Fail.

I agree with Jesse Wente's (cbc.ca) take. "You know something is wrong when one of the funniest jokes of the night is from a hologram of Bob Hope 60 years ago," he said.

But it was nice to see Trent Reznor win and Melissa Leo drop the f-bomb and Christian Bale forget his wife's name. Who does that? I thought he was king of the assholes since the fit about the lighting guy. This bumps his status to Emperor. Was he caught up in the moment? You might forgive someone else, but a jerk who is a jerk is still a jerk. A real prize, that one.

Receiving the award is in itself, a present. A prize. To receive a symbol of excellence recognized by 6,000 people in a Members Only club, who choose the best of the best, by voting on secret ballots. Kind of underground and clandestine when you get right down to it. And the winner ends up in a club of its own. Everlasting glory, fame and a not so little gold statue for the mantlepiece, coffee table, den, bookshelf, kids room.

"Since the initial awards banquet on May 16, 1929, in the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel’s Blossom Room, 2,701 statuettes have been presented." (oscars.org)

Still, I'm glad I don't have cable. I would have felt ripped off from such lousy value. I watched the show on the TV in the gym in my building. Then after an hour and a half workout, I went back to the apartment and caught snippits on a website that was streaming it for free. I saw enough.

Jennifer Westaway (cbc.ca) summed it up diplomatically. The show was "polished and predictable."

I'm also glad Inception didn't win.

pineapple express

Another postcard competition, another story under 500 words...

____________________

You coast along Pacific Ocean Highway in your rented gold Lancer sipping a latte. Twisty roads through stunted brown hills take you to your destination. For once, you are not lost and find the address on the first try. A satellite truck is parked in the driveway. You are here so Dave Thomas ⎯ the non-Wendy's one, of the Mackenzie brothers’ fame ⎯ can do live interviews with Canadian entertainment reporters for a Red Cap beer promotion. It is mid-May and Bob and Doug’s 24th anniversary. He is laid up in an easy chair because of recent surgery on his Achilles tendon. This, he says, is something he wishes on no one. A blonde woman wearing yoga pants and a hot pink T-shirt makes brief appearances to bring him orange juice.

The event takes a turn for the worse because⎯ you learn five minutes before the first interview⎯Verizon does not provide an analog signal in these rolling Malibu mountains. The truck operator panics. Your cursing trumps his as you trouble shoot your way through the unforeseen mess that is beyond your pay scale. You take the cameraman’s suggestion of the scenic route back to your hotel in Santa Monica.

You buy a pint of strawberries from a fellow on the side of the road. He writes his phone number on your map. You are flattered, not bothered. He too, is looking for adventure this afternoon. You thank him for the berries.

You take Topanga Canyon Road and stop to call your sister. She didn’t know you were in California and you enjoy a quick chat because you were both huge Six Feet Under fans – addicts to be precise—and you are near to where Aunt Sarah lived in her wooded, artsy make believe home.

LAX is the only place you have ever seen cinnamon Tic Tacs. You buy six boxes. Your flight is delayed. You dip into your travel snacks early. A recyclable Whole Foods container filled with brussel sprouts, orzo, roasted garlic, walnut bits, dried cranberries.

On the flight you watch The Bucket List. During the part in the movie where they go skydiving you are flying over the same exact place. You also, are a skydiver. You think, what are the odds?

You land safely back in Vancouver and pass through customs unscathed. He is there waiting for you, holding a pineapple. No time to buy flowers, he says. He will cook catfish for dinner and grill the fruit to go with it.

You already knew that.

As you cross the bridge on the drive home you think about how you like to travel. How even the muddled trips where jobs go awry have a curious appeal. You run a hand around the back of his neck, touch his hair and smile. His eyes soften. You like to travel. But you love to come home.

fishhooks and fudgsicles

Another CBC Flash fiction, Stranger Than Fiction story. 250 words. Theme: Childhood memories

__________





If you walk for almost half a kilometre, and are four feet tall, the water in Good Spirit Lake in Southeastern Saskatchewan is still only chest high.

My sister and I would wade out with the orange canoe until our dad could barely see us. On board was one half of a pair of walkie-talkies he had picked up at a yard sale. We dropped our lines and waited for perch.

One cloudless July morning, my sister, sitting in the front of the canoe, cocked the rod back at exactly the right angle and wedged the jagged piece of metal through the thin skin on the crown of my head. The pain? No worse than a split lip or a black eye. But the mess. So. Much. Blood. I thought I was a tough kid until I took a fishhook in the skull.

The screaming started when I saw the dark, thick liquid spilling over my glasses. Given the distance we were out and the fact I was rendered incapacitated, it was my sister’s adrenaline fueled paddling that got us back as fast as her teenage biceps could manage. We rushed through the expanse of shallow water while our dad ⎯ an award winning St. John Ambulance instructor ⎯ sent encouraging messages over the cheap walkie. Safely on the beach, my Snoopy T-shirt ruined, he stopped the bleeding then bought us fudgsicles.

We agreed it was a good thing mom stayed at the campsite with the dog.

perception

Howler monkeys poop in their hand and chuck crap at you if they think you are eyeing them too closely. But the annoying creatures on the ground continue to press their luck with silver machines that point and beep and flash and snap.

A seeing eye dog sees for two. Perceiving the planet for someone who was given four out of five.

Along with Canadian Olympian gold (among others) medal winner Clara Hughes, 1 in 5 Canadians will experience a form of mental illness at some point in their lives. (Canadian Institute of Health Research, www.letstalkbell.ca). You wouldn't think it to look at her. Or us. You wouldn't think people shining on the outside are screaming on the inside.

This month it's Egypt. Soon there will be another political disagreement between right and left or North and South. It will stem from differences of opinion, value and perception. Then there will be another after that. And another and another and another...

"I really think it's a great time to be an amputee," is a line from a video I produced. A young woman from Oklahoma trying out her new bionic hand. (touchbionics.com/tv?video=lindsey) The editor and I giggled every time we heard it, but for her, it was the truth. This invention made things a whole lot better. Positive and inspiring and not something you hear everyday.

100 sled dogs die senselessly. There is only one way of to perceive that. If only shit could be thrown where it is needed most.

A mother will perceive her child to be full of talent, beauty, intelligence and wisdom. Even if the child is bedridden with a disease that inhibits them from feeding themselves. Another mother will leave her newborn in a shopping mall's bathroom toilet.

—Synonyms.
1. awareness, sense, recognition.

In 2008, HSBC launched a marketing campaign entirely based on perception. "In each “Different Values” ad, created by JWT, New York and London, a single image repeats three times, with a different one-word interpretation imposed over each photo. In one, the words “style,” “soldier,” and “survivor” overlay the photo of the back of a gender-neutral shaved head." (hsbcusa.com/ourcompany/pressroom/2008/news_10292008_hsbc_campaign.html)

The campaign continues to change, paring it down to two photos in stead of three. Using words like "traditional vs. trendy" and "good vs. bad" over images of hennaed hands, a tattooed shoulder, chocolate cake and papayas. If you've walked the hallway to a flight recently you know what I mean. The message is open to interpretation based on your investment style, cultural background and...perception. These posters however beg the question: Which is the positive and which is the negative? Well, it depends.
"It encapsulates our global outlook that acknowledges and respects that people value things in very different ways.” Tracy Britton, Head of marketing for HSBC Bank, USA, N.A said. (hsbcusa.com/ourcompany/pressroom/2008/news_10292008_hsbc_campaign.html)

Last week a cab driver in Ottawa told me how multiculturalism in Canada is not working. Trudeau ruined the country and Stephen Harper is doing a good job. The cabbie - not a real taxi driver but a retired guy driving a cab - pointed out that he was an immigrant himself 40 years ago. Now he is thinking of suing the federal government because the Anglo Saxon country he signed up for doesn't exist. "You can't have so many different people here who all expect to keep on with their cultures. Enough of this political correctness. Oh I am sick of it!" Then he helped me with my bags when we arrived at my destination.

Eating oatmeal and berries and nuts and seeds makes you "one of those health nuts"; direct is perceived as aggressive; ignorant equals stupid; drinking is acceptable but smoking pot is a problem; boards of directors never say "OK, we've made enough."; unruly kids are stamped with ADHD while their busy parents run to the pharmacy for the solution.

So we have options and opinions and agree to disagree on things a) black b) white or c) grey. There are almost seven billion of us and counting. Too many perceptions and not enough water.

It's mid February and there are houses on my street that still have Christmas lights up. This, it would appear, is flat out denial.

Looking in the mirror is pointless. You can never see what others see. Whether it's how they perceive themselves, what they see in you, or their idea about a monkey in tree tossing turds at tourists.

If through experimental forensic futuristic manipulation we evolve to a point where we are able to dissect the perceptions of our families, friends, enemies, animals, politicians, foreigners, lovers and acquaintances and they in turn, will understand ours...what a dull existence it will be.

But that's just my perception.