Triple Overhead Swell in Suburbia Brings Out the Bikers

i will love the way you look at me,
the way you look into my eyes, and show me
everything's all right.
across these waters that has come between us,
my heart beats fast...

That Unexpected Swell Spits Green


You follow the right forecasts and head for the right shores and you too could hit on the unexpected swell of the season. Largest for the country. Look out The Mansbridge is on his way.

Traversing the barren plains of near-suburbia, the land where I have been forced to rest my head for now, heading south, and out and out and out -- towards the cusp of it all -- the new oil and mineral fueled explosion: nouveau suburbia. On my bike. The unexpected happens.

A giant turquoise wave rises up. Untouched. Pristine. Just begging its hardest for some rider to carve out the perfect line and read it like a book. That rider was me. The time was ideal. I laid low while a white work half-ton drove by on the ridge behind. But then I was off. And in the flying greenish shit and slippery mud I gave'er hell. As I was pounding along I realized there was a good chance shit that green was poisonous or carcinogenic. But then again, what isn't these days? What doesn't pollute your body/mind/soul? My grandma always told me not to eat coloured Rice Crispies since food colouring gives you cancer. Nope. What I was doing was the most freeing, relaxing and healthy thing I could possibly do. Just follow the patterns, in even the most banal mockry of existence and you too could find yourself "surfing" a triple overhead.

Before: "Danger"

After: Well-ridden thank you very much.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++

Destiny Shone Down and So I Listened


A white light shone down off in the distance where a magnificent outcropping of identical houses had popped up. I had seen this before -- in Alberta last year. When I bussed through -- this is the exact same feeling I got when I looked out on the outskirt construction there. Now imported to Saskatchewan. A tide moves East. Oil under the ground. To be exploited with no real regulation. Poor Chinese labourers double their money through the real estate market.


The were selling bliss. So regal. Just like castles. But without the tradition. Nothing to hold us back. Nouveau riche eat up that pie in the sky. Upward mobility is the name of the game.


It feels like Baghdad out there. Powerful trucks bob up and down along wavy dirt roads while daily life goes on. Half the homes are lived in the other half are skeletons. There's no real distinction or separation here between the shirtless work crews and the soccer moms (one mini-van had a license plate that said "I Love Ringette"). A mother pushes a stroller. Of course the difference is this is the result of a resource extraction fueled economic explosion in a lucky country, not a CNN-style shock-and-awe cluster-fuck bombed out "progress" explosion.


I was nosing around at the scent of good-paying work. There were a few guys working on cement at the mouth of the beast. There was much paving to be done. And so much landscaping. Just tons. The bosses all want you to know them by their first names, they'll go right over everything they'd be looking for, and go out of their way to get you a business card. In short, they're hurting for guys. One company just has a shitload of sod to lay here, and it has to be done in the next few weeks, the guy said.

To catch these things in the middle of the day is kind of fun, and you see interesting contraptions and things. Watch bobcats spinning around, for example. Or like, there was one guy on the back of a truck loading shingles onto a conveyor belt, kind of like the ones we have in the grind section of the burger factory for loading meat onto the line, except modified specifically for shingles. Then there was another guy at the top who would grab the shingles once they reached the top, and set them down right next to the last package. It was kind of methodical. Grab, set, rise, grab, plonk! Grab, set, rise, grab, plonk! Grab, set, rise, grab, plonk! And on and on in the heavy sun. No speech. Just work. Just the pure, enduring, gradual, pace of economic expansion.


It's like I stepped into another whole dimension or something. Where everything goes. Your normality is half baked but overcooked. Golf ball sits on the side of the road with no course in sight. Pink rubber boots lay out at the front of the house while the one next to it has no steps. There are price tags on the doorknobs and miniature bushes. I pass by clusters of people, within feet of them, and they don't even notice me. Only saying, "Yep. 500 watt metal halogen. Right about there for the sign. Uh-huh. Pointing up from the sod." A lady in a leopard print dress smiles at me though. She looks at me the way almost-grandmothers look at me when they're thinking about a time their child roared and they didn't get to see it, but were proud of them for it. I was really glad she waved.


I noticed a few things while giving myself an on-the-ground history lesson, riding from the old housing developments to the new up-and-coming ones. First off they are way fucking huger now than they used to be -- by about three times, just count the number of garage doors and cars parked out front. Second, instead of being laid out in a grid, they are way more pointless boulevards, cul-de-sacs and that sort of thing. And third, the homes are more identical to each other than the older ones I passed. I can only think of how this trend models the wealth expansion that took place in this country over the exact same time period as labour resources were harassed in emerging states around the world to a degree never seen before, where a man could easily make twice as much what his father had made. Does money make us fat and boring?

+++++++++++++++++

Mass Coffee Saloon


So I go into the new local watering hole. Surprise, surprise. Tim Horton's. The guy that runs the company thinks he's all gangster and shit. Told a newspaper one time that he knows how things work on the streets. I fucking laughed my ass off since I was reading the article on the streetcar while passing through the ghetto downtown. Those kids don't drink Tim Horton's. There isn't even one at all around in the area. But what they do know is money -- and how to make it. And I couldn't help but deny that they too had hit a sweet spot. They were prepped for success.

As I walked inside, even though it was only a commercial coffee shop, I felt like I was walking into a roadhouse bar down in New Mexico or Nevada or something. I had just come from the modern Canadian equivalent of the frontier -- where those looking to live rich are just staking out their existence, their lifestyle. This was the watering hole for construction kids, travelers and the newly minted locals. I thought I'd just sit back with a drink and soak it in.

Chilled out, exhausted from the rough terrain and hard riding, this is what I could have swore I heard playing over the bland radio:

"...The money has died ahhhh!!!!!! Ohahahahahah! Hahahaeuahahahya!!!! [end of song] ... It will show you a life you can understand... Hate without love.... Iraqi road..."

This is the shitty music these people listen to, drive to, party to. I felt like it was trying to tell me something by I couldn't quite make it out.

I tried to catch up with a construction guy to see if he had any cash-cow gig leads before he jetted out of the Timmie's, but I swerved back inside after I realized he was too far ahead and I wasn't THAT desperate (I mean, shit, the odds were in MY favour after all anyways).

It was then that I caught sight of the lady with dark dyed hair and heavy makeup heading inside too. I had first noticed her on the way in and I was a bit curious. Seemed like she had a story. But I had forgotten about her until now, as I trudged back inside.

And then all of the sudden there she was again, as I walked past the far counter and I actually almost bumped into her. This kind of scared me because I was afraid she might think I was some creep who had been following that construction dude. But to my amazement she nervously laughed and said, "Oh, don't worry. I wasn't following you or anything like that." See she was afraid of the exact same thing I was. And so we got to talking.

I wasn't quite sure how to approach her. She wasn't young at all. But somehow she didn't feel old. Like the auntie your mom never wanted you to meet. She had a big Merlin wizard with a crescent moon over it tattooed on her shoulder. I remembered some of Patrick's stuff he put up in his room had that flavour. And when James moved into my old room the first thing he put up was this big wizard-type thing just outside the door. Plus I've known other bikers who dig wizards. I just thought it looked rad. I asked her about it and she let me check the big one of some sort of goddess on her back. Smooth, healthy skin.

A metal worker, she knew the value of hard work. Look to the unions for a good job, she advised me a couple times. Course, I'm already in a union right now. But I got her point.

It was when I asked her about her motorcycle, though, that instantly she hit her stride. Turns out Gayle's a road-warrior to the death, one of the true riders. She's been going about 30 years and won't be stopping anytime soon. She looked me in the eyes and said comically, "You know, when it gets in your blood after first doing it, you can't get it out." But I knew better. She wasn't joking. Fearless but relaxed, she'll ride with the best of 'em -- putting men in their place left and right when she has to. Good on her, fuck! One of the stickers on her helmet reads: "If your dick was half the size of your mouth I might be interested!" She knows how the scene runs. And this is her life.

"Let's go out for a smoke." And so we did. The perfect antidote to a pre-fab grandiose mortgaged subdivision.

She was just on her way to take her bike in to get all stenciled up. Big huge fucking things all the way down the back. She's been saving up for this for awhile. "Maybe the Harley dealership will give me a loner," she said. Probably not.

I sat down first, and she decided she'd follow.

The road is a harsh mistress sometimes though, and the semis and vans can be life threatening. Gayle told me about a friend of hers who was sucked under a vehicle off her bike. She had been riding with her kid. The kid survived. She didn't. That was just a little while back. The danger rings fresh in the mind. I thought about Micheal J. Sinclair.

I told her about surfing. How much it meant to me to do it and all that. It didn't surprise me that she understood. She just seemed like she would. In fact, a lot of my rides and people I meet can really connect with it. Moreso even than my friends can. It's kind of weird how that happens. For me surfing has become this fun bridge-builder and boundary-eraser. And that's exactly what it should be.

And as we sat, just chilling on the newly formed curb in front of her Harley, a boy followed his father out of the Tim Horton's entranceway. In large bright letters the only thing his shirt said was: "OCEAN".

And so she told me about a run down to California and Mexico she just got back from. Tijuana's just nuts, she says. Like so many of the others, to save having to get her vehicle licensed, she parked at the border and walked on down in. She just loved all the little shops of all kinds everywhere. There's all sorts of commotion. She went around and bought a bunch of silver bracelets for nothing. Then she brought them back and had them appraised -- turns out they're real silver.

And she knows about the bandits, the drugs and the questionable policing and legal practices. "Boy, you don't want to get caught doing anything down there," she said. "Nope. If you go to jail there you're done. Lock you up and throw away the key."

Hearing her talk about her trip and just how the general atmosphere and everything is down there made me really excited. For her. And it gave me a boost too, for my plans. It made me want to be there so bad. It was just so fresh on my ears to hear it from someone who'd actually been there and done it up right. In style. With a Harley.

But cigarettes go out. Appointments need to be kept. And dreams need preparing (via making it to work at the factory on time). And so we had to head our separate ways.

But with someone as rad as her floating around up and down the highways and byways of the world, and she said it too, you never know what might happen. "You meet the most unexpected people in the strangest places," she said. And I couldn't agree more.

Maybe I'll see her again. I told her I hoped so.


I head back to work, to do what I can to keep my own ride moving along...

I've been living through the boom, hitting and missing, everything slightly chaotic.

But I'm really starting to feel it...

Just wait...

I promise you.... I'm almost there (I tell myself this over and over again).

All I need is an exit strategy.

++++++++++++++++++++++


Listen to:

-> yo, thanks a mil Bryan for the tunes

-Bombs Over Providence "May Cruise Missile Diplomacy Keep Us Truthful Good and Mild"
-Van Atta High "Eyes on the Prize"
-Panic! at the Disco "The Only Difference Between Martyrdom and Suicide is Press Coverage"
-The International Noise Conspiracy "My Star"
-Spoken "Across these Waters"
-The Whilhelm Scream "The Kids Can Eat a Bag of Dicks"
-Ninjaspy "Hit by a Cement Mixer"

*Here's some tunage that falls a little more towards the adolescent screamo-punk-and-moving-towards-electro end of the spectrum -- a suburban development over the last half-decade I swear. How can you not like the titles???????

I mean.

For serious.

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Rushing Saharan Winds -- As Chilling as Tim Horton's Air Conditioning

I wrote this last month while sitting in a Tim Horton's munching on a chocolate danish and sipping a double double, in the middle of my break in a split shift at work, after I found out I was working alongside a ex-Sudanese youth warrior, who had already felt the rush of battle and the power of loss:

I feel the rush of wind throughout my veins, sending ripples to the tips of my fingers and toes. All my skin is shivering. But it's not the warm breeze swaying the maroon planters outside the glass so lazily that's doing it. And it's not the swaying afternoon trees by the curb. And it's not the lulling air conditioning inside, circulating the atmosphere constantly, artificially, which is doing this to me either.

Instead, I shake from the silent screams I know are still emanating from desert-covered village wells that now serves as burial grounds for so many of Sudan's non-Arab Darfurians -- where the water supply is now poisoned. I hear the wide sweeping gusts of sand along the Sahara. So far, so foreign, to these pretty cars cruising slowly through the intersections and past traffic lights. The closest we might come to hearing echoes of a similar scene is the now-laughable epic electronic dance number they still play at the club by Darude called "Sandstorm". And we might be able to comprehend a prairie whirlwind. But nothing could really capture the sorrow of the 400,000 that died in only four years in the Darfur region, or the half-century of civil war and rebel conflicts that we have had a hand in perpetuating. But listen well and you might just hear the aftershock. Eyes wide open. Tears well. Muscles spasm.

Because just knowing is such a struggle for some reason out here. It's so hard to find people who give a shit. So fucking hard to tap into what's really going on. And sometimes the only way is through the back channels. And it's strange how liberating it can feel to uncover the truth behind disaster and tragedy. Finally piercing the thick wall of bullshit our protectors and authorities set up for us is like reaching the surface again after an agonizing struggle with volatile waves on an ocean has kept you under and totally disoriented. Savour that first breath. Drink it in son. For it might be awhile until you get another.

"The discovery of oil in Africa can be a blessing or a curse, as is the case in southern Sudan. Against all odds and predictions, the Sudanese regime, backed by Chinese, Malaysian, and Canadian oil companies -- was able to forcibly clear out the populations of huge swathes of south-central Sudan in order to secure the way for the oil companies to begin exploiting the oil. Hundreds of thousands of people were killed or displaced by these vicious scorched earth campaigns -- in which everything is burned including crops, villages, and houses -- in the oil fields and the manipulation of relief flights was an effective complement to government air strikes and ground assaults."

The Sudanese government recruited Janjaweed from the poorest reaches of Sudan's north. Khartoum "released criminals from jail, recruited fighters from neighboring countries, and gave cash handouts of around $100 to anyone who would take up arms against Darfur's non-Arab tribes. The government provided the Janjaweed with new rifles and heavy weapons, and some of them even got uniforms."

"Beyond indifference and the ghosts of Somalia, responding to Darfur has an additional obstacle. Sudanese government officials, who were close to Osama bin Laden when he lived in that country from 1991 until 1996, are now cooperating with American counterterrorism authorities. The regime in Khartoum rightly concluded that if they provided nuggets of information about al-Qaeda suspects and detainees to the Americans, the value of this information would outweigh outrage over their state-supported genocide. In other words, when U.S. counterterrorism objectives meet up with anti-genocide objectives, Sudanese officials had a hunch that counterterrorism would win every time. These officials have been right in their calculations so far. As of this writing, near the end of 2006, the United States had done little to seriously confront the Sudanese regime over its policies."
--From Not On Our Watch by Don Cheadle and John Prendergast

I have just so many questions I want and need but can't really ask of that kid who says he's an ex-Janjaweed from Sudan. I don't know how much to believe, but he can't be lying about everything. Why would he? And I mean, I work with him, but I'm not really sure how I would go about asking. But just seeing him. Hearing the stories about cutting off the enemy and pounding out slaughter. About the thrill of having an army of your fellow rebels outfitted with American firearms (note: the U.S. is not allowed to sell Sudan weapons). Feeling where the bullet went into his chest was a shock. It was like his ribcage bent inwards. Just watching the transition, his own recovery and switch into materialistic North American society -- the finesse and silence -- says quite a lot on its own though. Girls love the dude.

But when you were shot in the chest in a foreign war and had two of your brothers fucking die there -- I can't imagine how hard it would be to try to fit in to a world where the hugest damn issue the kids out here are in emotional turmoil over is: whether it's a big deal or not that they kissed another girl and liked it.

One day we'll be sultans again, oh glorious Fur who have suffered so much.

Now go watch Leonardo DiCaprio in Blood Diamond to get a sense of modern African conflict, the influence of Western consumers and the culture of child warriors.

Or read more about an Alberta company's oil work in Sudan.

One of the hottest tunes of the season, they play this song at least twice each night at the club: Kate Perry "I Kissed a Girl"



(Or just in case that one craps out on us again, here's another vid cut with Degrassi the Next Generation clips -- almost more relevant since there are actually chicks kissing in it instead of the official music video which just teases the consumer, seeking controversy but not too much controversy, eyes squarely on your pocketbook... yumm)

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The Kenora Post: A Cold Return

An old clearcut north of the city.

Cruising down toward the mill.

The creek behind Safeway.

Tearing down the old water treatment plant.

This is probably considered the most dangerous place in the city -- the angsty graffiti-filled footbridge over the CP Rail tracks.

Bryan is my Kenora music dealer -- passing along old Chronicbreaker, Quietophobics, the Chemical Agents, When We Get There and the like.

This was the first mill to shut down.

Popular tunes, as displayed in this high school art piece, is often towards the heavy end of the musical spectrum.

On the left you're looking at a common sight in the area -- mind boggling amounts of wood sitting in piles around the industries.

Just before the beginning of May the city was hit by a foot and a half of snow in one go that shut down all the highways. I couldn't have hitchhiked out even if I had wanted to.

Sexy.

This is how you hear about the upcoming community centre punk/hardcore/indie shows. When they happen anyways. Props to Jordan McDonald for keeping the scene alive.

Spinning out on corners like this one is a bucket of fun.

There's been snow sticking around here even late into May.

Northern Ontario suburbia.

I'm told the writings on this mosaic for the new skatepark say "some pretty deep shit".

The Kenora skatepark, made a reality by the local telecom company, now attracts skaters from out of town, who want to check out the state of the art facility.

Bored as hell, chilling outside of Tim Horton's.

Boston Pizza is one of the most popular eat-out joints.

So I stopped off in my old stomping ground of Kenora, Ontario, for a bit, before heading continuing my journey west towards work and the waves. It was cool to see all the places I had kind of forgotten, and to remember all the crazy things we used to get ourselves into just to amuse ourselves. It was really weird seeing how some of my old best friends have changed, for good, bad, and otherwise. And I had a rad time hanging out with a lot of different people -- mostly at Tim Horton's. I was still peeling from the massive sunburn I got sweating buckets just days earlier, wearing only a bathing suit, and yet outside it looked like the Arctic or something. The whole experience could somehow be summed up by The Forbidden Kingdom Jackie Chan/Jet Lee movie about a funky monkey king, a skinny white boy, and an old man that likes to drink, if only I could find some crafty metaphor. I dunno, something about wanting to go to all these mythical places but kind of getting bogged down in the problems of your own locale, but using kung-fu to break through all the bullshit. Work with me. Anyways, I thought I'd prepare a little "backgrounder" for the city. Just in case you get stuck there and wonder how to make the most of the creative time-warp.

Things to understand about Kenora to really "get" it:

-The first thing you need to know about Kenora is Tim Horton's. If you don't go anywhere else, go here. Not only is it the lowest common denominator -- this could be anywhere, there's nothing unique about it -- but it's the only place to hang out after 10 p.m. really. There's a bar or two you can go to, but pick the wrong one on the wrong night and you just might be the only one there. Yes, this happened to me. But everyone goes to Timmy's, so it's cool. Like a good portion of the population, I went there at least once a day, every day. In the words of a friend: "Well, generally, around here, if you want to find out what's going on in town you just go to Tim Horton's. Stay around long enough and you'll eventually run into at least SOMEONE you know."

-The historic Kenricia building that's not really up to fire code caught fire several weeks back, and no one was surprised.

-For the most part the people who succeed are those whose families have lived there for several generations. It helps if you play hockey too.

-Stoners, and everyone else for that matter, love their metal -- we're talking Iron Maiden, Anthrax, Metallica, Black Sabbath, and more. Maybe hit the garage shop to work on vehicles with your dad and the listening process just might become a family affair.

-Travel the world and visit some place like China son? Maybe teach English. See a foreign land. But we expect one day you'll probably be returning home. Or at least settling down.

-People go fishing and hunting here not clubbing. Just get me a good job and let me fish on the weekends. Maybe set up a shack on the ice, cut a hole right by your folding chair. Hop on the Ski-Doo and have a rad time.

-Kids here have a big thing for extreme sports. And extreme sport endorsement and sponsorship is considered the ultimate success. Boys with packs on twirl into snowbanks on BMXs or hop up and down on mountain bikes while waiting at the streetcorner for the light to change to "walk". It's cool to go to the local ski hill "Mount" Evergreen for rad snowboarding action. And one of the biggest developments for youth culture recently has been the state-of-the-art skatepark that was built next to the recreation centre. It's situated on a hill behind the rink, overlooking the lake, and kids seem to think the flow between sections is pretty chill.

-Oh ya, I'd be doing you a huge disservice if I failed to mention this one: The landscape is one of segregation -- whites coming out on top with a majority of the best jobs, natives struggling in large part, just to get by. Reserves act as isolated suburbs, teenagers coming into "town" or "the city" -- as it's described -- to buy CDs, alcohol or hit the bars. The ghetto areas (the low-income housing at Minto for example -- "the Apartments") are populated, by and large, with poorer Aboriginal families. Businesses instruct clerks not to sell Listerine to at-risk natives. The same sorts are seen rummaging through the trash in the city centre. This leads to embarrassment for Aboriginals, and frustration for business-minded whites. It's a central aspect of Kenora's genetic makeup, and although to deny is to promote ignorance, it's a feature the Chamber of Commerce likes to keep out of their brochures -- for obvious reasons. But ironically, two of the city's biggest industries, forestry-based mills, shut down recently, and so residential school government payouts are likely to bring a large chunk of needed revenue to this commerce's own businesses.

-Sometimes I wonder if Kenora itself is becoming more isolated, or losing its identity or something. I mean, back in the day I'm told suburban Torontonians would load up the ole' station wagon and pack in the kids, to come on up to see the wonders of this small northern town -- to bask in frozen stare of Husky the Muskie, our giant lakeside statue. Those days are long gone. Now the tourism market has totally transformed. RVs park outside the new Wal-Mart that rolled into town in the last couple years. Family cabins can't compete with the force of large tourism conglomerates. And the whole mindset has seemingly shifted south -- like much of Canada, falling in line with the desires of the United States, catering to corporate mid-management America.

Anyways, at some point I realized that I was just spinning my wheels, driving around and around the same bush dirt roads, buying the same Tim Horton's coffee, making the same damn arguments, and I was getting nowhere fast. I was glad I passed through, and learned a lot from a lot of people. But at some point you just have to leave. So I got a ride with a family leaving a funeral, and headed on up towards Winnipeg.

Songs: - Less Than Jake "Welcome to the New South"
-Iron Maiden "The Trooper"
-Penneywise "Bro Hymn"
-Voodoo Glow Skulls "Fat Randy"
-The Postal Service "Natural Anthem"

Just Some Local Shit:

-Derty Thought "Cradle to the Coffin"
www.myspace.com/dertythought

-Matt Chapeskie
www.myspace.com/mattchapeskie

-Jordan McDonald
www.myspace.com/jordanmcdonald

-Chronicbreaker "The Late Night"
radio3.cbc.ca/bands/chronicbreaker

-The Chemical Agents
www.myspace.com/chemicalagentskenora

-Bryan King
www.myspace.com/bryankingmusic

-Mickey D
www.myspace.com/dieslowrecords