The Homeless: Postscript

As a postscript, I want to address an issue that is currently in the media because of A Million Little Pieces by James Frey. Some may read the past few entries with a jaundiced eye because of the fraud committed by Frey. And rightly so.

What I have presented here is one-sided based on recollections and feelings. I have tried to be honest and true to what happened during those months on the street. Yet what I have to say is filtered through the lens called Louis C. Vroomen. It should be taken with a grain of salt.

My goal was not to present a complete history but to present issues I dealt with and saw when I was on the street. I tried not to sensationalize incidents or emotions. But the mind is selective and murky.

What I want is to let people see the homeless as people not things. Many have problems which need to be addressed yet few people are doing so. And those that find themselves swamped.

The average person has no idea of the obstacles the homeless face and I hoped I have addressed some of them. Enough to educate a little.

When I went onto the streets in October 2003, I was a fractured person. I still am but starting to put the pieces together. I was lucky. But there are many out there who are not so lucky.

They have been damaged for many different reasons. Each homeless person is a story onto him/herself. Yet once you become homeless, a stigma becomes attached to you. Something that is difficult to removed

And it follows you. People are incredulous when they find out I’ve been homeless. Yet what they see is the outside Loekie, not the inside Loekie. At work, I have one mask and while I am at Brutopia, I have another. But here, instead of a solid mask, I am trying to present a translucent mask. There are areas of me I have hard enough time revealing to myself, let alone anyone else.

My goal, the past while, was to scratch the surface on the issue of the homeless. It was meant to be one post but grew. And now, maybe I can go back and make it into some sort of article or short book for publication. It may start like:

As I walked through the doors of the Place D’Armes Metro, I thought I had hit rock bottom. If I had a sense I was just starting, I would not crossed an empty parking lot to the awaiting squat, non-descript gray five story building.

Before I leave, I want to spend another couple of words on me and then back to the subject at hand.

This long piece has made me stop and realize what strides I have taken over the past couple of years. When I left the OBM in July 2003, I was embarking on reconstructing my life. The past couple of years I have screwed up badly but have been able to continue on. It has been tough but I found out I am made of stern stuff than I thought. I am still a work in progress, with a long way to go.

I made it out. One of so many who do not. One place the average person can help is trying to be there for the homeless. Ignore the stigma, look at a homeless person as a person, not a thing. Go out there and do something for them.

There are good, honest people out there that are trying to help. There is a place in Verdun, Oasis, run by Penny who has a great heart. But it is tough meeting the needs of so some and having a few that are willing to help out. And some of the volunteers are going it out a sense of duty, Christian duty. They are not doing it because they really want to help.

And the people who come to Oasis sense this. You can tell when people are there because they really wish to make a difference. I’ve been there a couple of times, helping out and saw that.

Giving a quarter or dollar every so often can help, yet that is a short term solution. But what the homeless really need is people out there helping out. Be it serving a hot meal in a soup kitchen with a genuine smile or organizing a food drive in April to give canned goods to the shelters that need it. And as I suggested before, just smiling and acknowledging a homeless person can do wonders.

Throwing money at the problem is not going to solve it. People need to see the homeless in a different light. Then it may be easier for them to get a job, get an apartment, move from the life on the street to being part of society again, not on the margins.

But in the end, I ask the question to those that give money to the homeless, especially at Christmas: why are you doing it? Is it for you or them?

The Homeless: Ryan

There are parasites everywhere, even amongst the homeless. And I am going to give you a case study of one such parasite I became acquainted with as my last main post in this series.

In mid-December, I met Ryan. I had seen him around. I noticed him because he was young and good-looking. Also cocky, not putting up with any shit. And yes, I had the hots for him.

We started chatting over breakfast and then moved on out of the OBM. Quickly, our mornings became a routine. Start at McDonald’s and head off one of the malls. It helped to get through the morning. And because of him, I learnt the ropes about living on the street, like getting my welfare check cashed.

He told me about himself right off the bat. He was adopted and had upper-middle class parents outside Toronto. But when they found out he was gay, they kicked him out. He then had an accident and was on disability. And then because of a mistake at a hospital, when he was attacked, he was given tainted blood. So he was on the street, HIV-positive.

Now Ryan had plans. When he was in Toronto, he had found, in a burnt down building, some insurance files containing personal information on different people. He had a few on him while the rest were up north at a friend’s place.

What he was going to do was apply for credit cards with this information and with them, get off the streets. The idiot I was followed along to help out, knowing full well what he wanted to do was illegal. But part of me saw a way to get some money to help me get off the street. At least get me some decent clothes for interviews.

The first step was to scout for places to mail the cards to. The mail box had to be outside. Then we had to make sure no one was home during the day. And then see when the postman came by. Once a few places were targeted, it was time to apply for the cards, usually AMEX.

This was all done using the Internet. There is a place up on Papineau where people can gather to play games, talk, relax, etc. They also have a few terminals so people surf the net. This is where Ryan put his plans into motion.

I can hear the groan now about being a stupid idiot getting involved in this. I never filled out any of the applications or picked up the cards. Ryan did all of that. But I went along with it, hoping for a card for myself. Desperate times calls for desperate measures.

What happened with the first batch of cards, I don’t know. Around Christmas, I was with some friends for a day or so and Ryan wasn’t at the OBM. It wasn’t until a couple of days after New Years that I saw him.

He told me that a couple of cards had come in and with them, he got some stuff. And moved in with a person he knew. He didn’t dare to leave a message at the OBM, so he was hoping to catch me some time during the day but couldn’t.

The problem was that person he had moved in was maniac-depressive and went psycho on him. Threatening to call the cops. So he had to leave with just some clothes. Without the stuff he got and the cards.

Since I had been through a similar situation, I knew what he was talking about. I had lived with a person who I had trusted but went completely psycho on me so I ended up losing over $20,000 of my stuff. But that is for another post.

To make things worse, his disability check had not come in and he needed to get his HIV medication. It was going to take a week or so to get the check sorted out. So I loaned him the money for the medication.

Several things were going on which made me stupid. I was lonely, horny and felt sorry for him. If he was HIV-positive, he needed the medication especially in the cold days of winter. And I believed his story about getting the check in a week or so.

But at the same time, he did get me a cell phone which worked for a couple of months. These helped me stay in contact with some people. And gave me a contact number for my resume. This prevented any warning signals from going off as some of you have already had going off.
Of course, the check never came. It didn’t help I was starting to slip into a depression which he deftly manipulated. At the same time, he would disappear for a little while and then reappear, making my mornings long.

And when he did reappear, he was still in the motions of getting new cards. And once he got them, I would reap in the benefits. At the same time, he used my good will and depression to get a bit more money off of me.

Once the weather started to change in March, it broke my depression (as it always does) and I started to see clearly. But by then I was out of close to $300. Money I really should not have been giving to someone else.

And Ryan was still trying to get credit cards and cell phones but I did not see any results. But by now, I did not give him any money. I stayed friendly but kept a distant. Until the end of March. And that is when things clicked.

I was at Brutopia, having a pint when Ryan came in. He was smartly dressed and carried a couple of bags. A credit card had come in and he was going to max it out. And he promised I would be able to share in it. He suggested we go shopping in a day or so for some stuff. I was heading off to the OBM and he decided he was going to enjoy the night. He asked me to hold onto his bags until the morning.

I did see him the next morning. He thanked me for holding onto the bag and once again said we would go shopping. But not today. How about tomorrow. Which, of course never happened.
He disappeared again for a little while. Now I am a creature of habit. In the morning, I had a specific routine. From the OBM I would go to the McDonald’s at University and Ste. Catherine. After that I would usually go to the Cafemania in Cours Mont Royal. After that, it would either be off to Chapters or the McGill library.

Ryan knew this so when he reappeared in April, he knew where to find me. It was now mid-April and he found me at McDonald’s. Once again things did not work out for him.
He had lost all his paperwork and had to get up north for the rest. But he was flat broke. Frantic, he explained to me he needed bus fare to go up north to his friends. I tried not to get snarky but couldn’t resist a dig about him not sharing before. He apologized and said things would be different.

I gave him twenty just to get rid of him. There was no pity nor concern on my part. I just wanted to get rid of him.

I didn’t see him again until some time in June or July. He was sitting outside, near the OBM. I was late because I had a job where I worked until 8:30. So I was in a hurry to get in before they locked up. At the same time, I thought I would see him in the morning. But he wasn’t there when I got up.

The last time I saw Ryan was late October 2003, from what I remember. I was off the streets, had a job and life was starting to turn around. I was walking to work, along Ste. Catherine. It was a gray fall day with drizzle. I was heading east, he was heading west.

He was holding a broken umbrella that barely covered him. His clothes were dishevelled, his hair a mess. He looked pale and his shoulders hunched. He had not shaved in a day or two. Ryan was looking down, not watching where he was going.

As I passed him, I almost stopped to call out to him. But I didn’t. The receding figure was part of my past. I had a job and an apartment. I was starting to rebuild my life.

There was nothing to gain by calling out to him. I lost my money and would never see it again. Ryan was a user who only cared about himself. He played the system and sometimes won. But more than often lost.

How much of what he told me was true, I don’t know. Ryan, like most of us, was dealt a raw deal. But when someone has no problems manipulating someone who is down for their own personal gain, that is wrong.

But the homeless are easy targets. Be it the corner stores, the bars, the drug dealers or even themselves. It is easy to prey on someone who is down and out. Even when you are down and out.

The Homeless: Attitudes

I was lucky during my time on the streets. I never looked dishevelled. I shaved, had reasonably clean clothes and showered every day.

But being in this situation, I became more sensitive to the attitudes and reactions about me when I saw fellow OBMers at McDonald’s or on the street. And there were times it would get me into a fury.

There was a time in the McDonald’s on Ste. Catherine that was my normal morning spot. A couple came in regularly to have breakfast. They were retired and had money. One morning, there was another couple they started to chat with. One of the more dishevelled looking OBMers walked by the McDonald’s which lead to the guy to get into a tirade about the homeless.

He could not understand how they could be out on the street begging for money when they did not have any problems to worry about. They had a roof over their heads and three meals a day. The guy I was with, Ryan, just rolled his eyes but my blood started to boil.

It takes a lot to get me going, but when I do, stand back! I laced into the guy, telling him he did not know what he was talking about. He was a moron and should just shut up.

Of course this got him going. He made the mistake of asking why was I defending these lazy bums. Shaking with anger, I told him I was one of them and started to go through some of the points I have brought up in the previous blogs.

Thing is, I was wasting my time. Nothing I could say would go through his thick skull. That was when Ryan suggested we move on. Through the haze of anger, I saw he was right. And we left before I made a complete fool of myself.

As the previous blogs attest to, there are many misconceptions about the homeless. Some do not wish to change where they are. Some don’t know better. But there are some who are trying to just get by. And I still get angry when I hear people put down the homeless.

Yes, there are the bad variety. The ones who get abusive when you don’t give them any money. Who are pushy and step into your personal space. But most just stand there, hoping for a coin or two.

The problem of the homeless is a complex issue. The past few posts just scratches the surface. The reality is that here are people who have slipped through the cracks and find themselves in a shitty situation. It is bad enough that they have no control over their own lives but this gets compounded by the disdain thrown in their faces by the general public.

There are times, sitting in the Metro, going to work, when there is a homeless person sitting with his couple of bags of his only belongings. His whole world contained in a couple of plastic bags. He is slightly unkempt and a little bleary eyed.

The look of disgust and disdain angers me. I sit there, clutching my book wanting to scream out: this could be you! Many people don’t realize they are but a couple of paychecks away from possibly living in a shelter.

They had no idea who he is and how he got there. I suppose being the prejudiced people we all are, we like to have someone to look down on. Looking at the homeless makes us feel better. I may have problems but at least I am not him.

And the homeless provides a salve for the average person. During Christmas time, people give generously to the shelters and the panhandlers. A salve to get them through the year because they did some good for those who are under-privileged. An absolution for the guilt bottled in them.

Since I have gotten my life back on track, I am involved with different things, including a soup kitchen in Verdun. One thing has stuck in my mind that, to me, encapsulates what people should be doing.

One time, I was behind the counter, serving up the meals. A young man came in, nervous, furtive and confused. I served him, smiled and said: enjoy. A ghost of a smile came to his face. He wolfed down his food. It was obvious he had not eaten in some time. Then he came back and sheepishly asked if he could have more.

Since we had more than enough, not a problem. He was taken aback but it seemed as if a little of the worry in him sluiced out. And there was a ghost of a smile.

As he was finishing his second plate, I went out to have a cigarette. He came out in a bit. When he saw me smoking, he cautiously asked if he could have a cigarette. Sure, no problem and I gave him a couple. Finally a smile came to his face. As he walked away, he was not moving as if the weight of the world was on him.

The homeless are marginalized. They are on the fringe of society. Often all they want is to be acknowledged as a human being not a thing. If you have no money or don’t want to give any, all you have to do is smile and say sorry. That short exchange can do wonders. Something money can’t buy.

The Homeless: The Mentally Ill

Years ago, the Quebec government cut funding on some of the wards that housed the mentally ill. This sent many onto the street. This, for me, is one of the saddest things I saw living at the OBM.

There was one young guy, maybe mid-20’s. Extremely good-looking with a a mop of curly brown hair. He would constantly have animated conversations with his invisible friends. Which often included giving them a friendly punch on their shoulder.

Then there was one older man who I had talked to before. He came in and sat down in front of me. He talked about seeing his girlfriend and how much fun it was. Then he asked if I wanted to meet her. I said tomorrow, why not? No, no, now. This had me confused because the OBM has no women bunking there. So I thought she was outside. And said so. No, no, she is right here. Standing beside me. And then he asked me if I wanted to fuck her?

One guy had various symbols, including an inverted swastika on his clothes and on his arms. He warned me to watch out because they are watching and listening. You need to be protected otherwise they will know what you are thinking. And even though he was protected, they were trying to still get to him.

Another young guy, again in his 20’s spent all the time just sitting about smiling, somewhat oblivious of the world around him. One time he was sitting stark naked in a garbage can, near the showers masturbating. The last I saw of him he was being arrested by some police and had the same blank smile.

The scariest was a thin, gaunt man with salt and pepper hair and appropriate scraggly beard. He walked about with a constant, almost violent tick. He would grimace in pain as his neck tensed showing the sinews and veins.

The night in the dorms would be the worst. He would start to spit onto the wall. Then he would get up and start rambling in French about homosexuals, the Pope and tons of other things. What had me scared was the anger in his voice, especially when he suggested all homosexuals should be put to death.

These are but a small sample of the mentally ill people that lived at the OBM when I was there. The tragedy was that they were there in the first place. Many of them had meds but there was no one to give them the right amount or the right pills.

Some of my friends will suggest that with my own nervous breakdown was what precipitated my living on the street puts me in the same boat as the others I briefly described. But that is not the same.

Yes meds and therapy would have helped me and possibly prevented what had happened. But I also put myself into this situation. I could have gotten help but I didn’t. The only blame for my problems is directed to myself.

Yet those I saw at the OBM did not have a chance. They did not have tools or the meds to help them. They were forgotten by the system and left to fend for themselves.

For me, the OBM was a wake-up call. I had enough wits about me to try to get out of the situation. These guys have nothing. I had some friends that supported me as best as they could. These guys didn’t.

Most of the people I met at the OBM got there because of problems in their lives, be it addiction, financial difficulties or bad choices. Yet many did not see being at the OBM as a sign that something needs to be done. You made some bad choices but you can try again.

Agreed the system is against them but they could try. The mentally ill at the OBM and the other shelters have no choices. That is the biggest tragedy I saw when I was there. The abandonment of people who really need help but do not know how to get it. Or have it offered.

Things That Make You Go “Hum!”

My good buddy from work, Jason, is an evil man. He recently posted a blog about hitting his 100th post and the discussions he had with a couple of friends about blogging. And be it his blog or our totally tangential conversations, he gets me to think. And at times, it can be painful because he will bring something I had not thought about and I stop and go “hum!” He has shut me down a few times with his counter-arguments.

In his current post, he mentions that one of his friends believes blogging is self-indulgent and a waste of time. And yes, there are many blogs that are just pieces of mental masturbation that should be relegated to a litter of paper and then burnt.

But I do see where he is coming from. Before Jason, I had no real interest in blogging. I would read blogs where people would just repeat the mindless actions of their days and bitch about how horrible life is. It was just a bunch of people caterwauling who did not have a life and should.
But after going through Jason’s blog, I saw a powerful format to express oneself. So I jumped in, both feet, straight into the deep end.

As Jason mentioned, and it is the same for me, he is not interested in the number of hits he may get. What I want is to make people stop and go “hum!”. It doesn’t have to be deep like my on-going series on the homeless. It could be a recommendation of a good film I saw that someone did not consider checking out.

As in any media, we are awash of tons of channels of shit. You have to sort through it and find the blogs that have something to say.

What I am finding I like is the ability to speak my mind, let all those out there decide if my words have any merit. And if they stop and think about something I have said, or investigate a link or an idea, then I am ecstatic. I’ve done my job.

I am an artist. My media is writing. From early on, I was not writing to change the world. I had no interest in persuading people to the way I think. I do not want people who revere me and hang on my every word. I want to spark dialogue, debate.

Be it issues like gay politics, many of my straight friends have gotten valuable insights from my rants. They get to see more than just what is presented in the media. But at the same time, I have made some enemies.

I will give you an example of dialogue. My friend Brian is a conservation Christian who believes homosexuality is a sin. But we can discuss it. We can agree to disagree. This is not a pissing contest. I have my point of view and he has his. And each of us, within our own paradigm, are right. I do not ask him to compromise his beliefs as he does not ask me to do the same thing.
Now where Jason and I will disagree (Monday could be interesting), is I do see blogging as self-indulgent. An artist is self-indulgent. They do not live in isolation. They want people to read their words or look at their paintings and get a reaction.

And bluntly, artists have big egos. That is why they have such a drive to get their stuff out. When someone reacts, there is reaction, validation. I know when someone has commented about my fledgling blog, be it positive or negative, a faint thrill goes through me. It is the same when I get reviews on my short stories or my massive series Tangled Threads from people who I have entrusted to read what I have created.

Yet this is not a bad thing. A true artist has a voice that needs to be heard. He or she is pointing to something that they had identified as important. And we should listen.
I can hear some people going “tut-tut”. This is blogging. But there are a lot of people out there that have a voice that need to be heard. And unlike magazines, papers, etc., here is an avenue that lets one have free expression without the constraint of an editor.

So for Jason’s friend who thinks blogging is a waste of time, I believe he is wrong. Over the short time I have been blogging, I have been able to express things I have wanted to. My two-part rant on suicide helped me through that couple of days. My writing on being homeless has allowed me to see what amazing steps I have accomplished over the past couple of years that I was not seeing.

Journalling has helped me focus but it is personal and no one normally reads that. But when I put out my thoughts out onto the web, it is now out in the open. Open for debate and derision. It can be an exhilarating thing, well for me that is. It almost like therapy.

And the final thing, before I sign off and try to get back to my stuff on the homeless, what I love about all of this is I can go off on tangents. My mind is awash with thoughts and ideas. Sometimes, too many. But to sit down, here in my room, usually with a bottle of Sleemans, I have some time where I can completely focus on one idea. Which still goes all over the page because of my constantly shifting thoughts.

Yeah, blogging is self-indulgent. Many of them out there are just wasted electrons out on the ether. But I hope people like Jason and myself make up for that, giving posts where at the end you stop and go ‘hum!’ If I do that occasionally, I am happy. I do not expect more.

The Homeless: Get a Job

One of the most prevalent things I hear is why don’t the homeless get a job? There are so many jobs out there so they should get off their asses and work. Well, easier said than done.

The first major hurtle is your address. This may not seem like much but it is a stumbling block. You cannot put down the address of the OBM because most people in HR will recognize it. The government has offices (CLEs) to help but again, the address sets off bells. Many places will just dump the resume and move on.

Then there is the telephone. If HR does consider your resume, how do they contact you? They can’t leave a message at the OBM but you most likely won’t get it. They can leave a message at the CLEs but it means repeated trips back on the off chance you received a call back.

After that, one has to consider your clothes. Places like the OBM do provide some clothing but they are hand-me downs and rejects from stores. Often they do not fit well. So where does one get decent clothes on $545 on month. On top of that, where do you store them when you do have them?

Transportation is the next thing to think about. Even though our public transport is inexpensive, it costs. One ride costs $2.50. A book of 6 tickets is $11.50. A weekly pass is $18.50. A monthly pass is over $60. Again this cuts quickly into the little cash you already have.

Another consideration is what do you tell the interviewer about what you are doing now. The interviewer will see a gap of time between the interview and your last job. and they will want to know why. So you have to resort to lying or skating around the questions. You certainly not going to tell them you are on the streets.

The next thing to consider is time. You have to have a job that is between 7 AM to 9 PM because if you do not show up before 9, the OBM is closed and you don’t have a bed. You sleep on the streets. There are a lot of jobs, but many are evening or night shift, be it janitorial or telemarketing because most people don’t want to work at night. The OBM does let people in after 9, if you have a job but you still have to get up at 6.

All of these things need to be considered if you want to get off the street and get a job. No wonder many of the homeless just give up. It is not worth the effort. Or as one person once told me: people prefer the pain they know than the one they don’t know.

Yes, there are those who don’t want to get a job. They get enough with welfare and panhandling to get by. But for people like myself, there are these obstacles. And for myself, there is also the age issue. I had not worked for a couple of years and I’m an old fart. Many companies don’t want old people, save telemarketers.Which I ended up in.

I was lucky. My friends, Brian & Jude, let me use their place for clothes, laundry and as a contact point. So I never ended up looking a mess. And through Brian I was able to get a job in May 2003 which allowed me to start to get back on my feet. Which lead me to getting an apartment and more permanent work in the telephone business.

It is simple to ask why don’t they get a job but the homeless face problems the average person does not. We are rejected by society and lose hope. You lose your drive and just give up. Society has forsaken you so why would you want to become part of it again?

The Homeless: Money

Well, life has settled down and I can go back to the regularly scheduled program. But before I do, the babbling of the past couple of days has helped alot. Anyway, back to the topic at hand...

The age-old problem of the homeless is money. Where do you get it? The government is supposed to help and does a bit. Yet the money you get is a mere handout.

What had me furious was that I had put into the system since I started working in 1975. Never once had I taken any money from the system. So when I needed it, I thought the government would be there for me. Not!

For a brief time, when I got to the OBM, I had a job in November at a boiler room called DSI. But that only lasted three weeks. So I had to apply for welfare so I would be able to live.
I went to the downtown office and started to fill in all the paperwork. Which got screwed up so I received nothing until January. And it was $545.00 for a month.

Some would say, that is not bad. That gives you about $20 a day. You are not paying rent and your food is taken care of, so that is pure cash in your pocket. And that is true if you plan to just exist.

First of all, there is food available at the OBM and other places. Yet because of the volume, you are served things like spaghetti with just tomato sauce. And some of the soup kitchens are only open once or twice a week. You can barely exist on the food. And that is assuming you get food.
If you did not get there early, there would be nothing left. And of course, you would have to wait in line for at least an hour or so, hoping there would be something.

So from the $20, you would have to shell out money for some food. Even at places like McDonald’s or the food courts, you can’t get anything decent under $5. And if you want a cup of coffee, you are looking at over $1. All too quickly $20 becomes nothing.

As with anything to do with being homeless, getting money is dehumanizing. If you don’t have a bank account, you have to go to the main welfare office to pick up your check. Which opens its doors at 8:30. Often the line-up starts before 7.

So you stand in line to get into the main waiting room. Where you are given a number. And then wait to be called up to one of the main booths. There they check your ID and make sure your name is on the list. If it is, then you go to another waiting area to get the check. When they call your name, you go up, sign a form and finally have your check.

This whole ordeal would take a couple of hours. I would get into line by 8 and be out usually around 10:30. Then the next ordeal starts: how do you cash the check?

At that time, places like Money Mart did not cash government checks. And regular banks would not cash the check unless you had an account with them. So the only place was the Caisse Pops but that would be were all the people with checks would go. You were looking at another couple of hours in line just to get the check cashed.

That is when I found out about an underground industry. One of the guys I had met at the OBM (more about him later) told me of a bar on Ste. Catherine that would cash the check. I had to photocopy a piece of ID and give it to them with the check. They would take $10 from the check and expect you to have at least one beer.

When Ryan brought me there, I felt I was in an episode of the Sopranos. The two guys running the place looked just like characters from the show. But I got the check cashed minus $14.
What stunned me was the parasites out there. Along the walk to the bar, there were quite a few people hawking drugs. And then in the bar, there was a whole wall of video poker machines. All manned by people I recognized from the OBM. The waitress walked about with shot glasses and some booze. And people came off the street, selling things like watches, etc. All out for some of the little money we had received.

One of the things that struck me was that on the first of the month, the OBM would be half full that night and for a couple of nights after. I quickly found out that many of them would get a room in some dive and spend their money gambling and drinking. And once the money dried up, they would return to the OBM.

It was a vicious cycle. But I’m not surprised. In this situation, you are looking for escape. Something to numb the pain. Something to give you hope. Something to escape from the boredom.

The end result is going crazy for a couple of days on the video poker machines, drinking and doing drugs. For the briefest moment, there is something to do. And once the money is gone, back to the same routine.

That is one thing I learnt while I was on the street. Many of the people out there begging do get some money from the government. But for a short time, they try to escape. And when they can’t, they are back to scraping an existence asking for money. Chasing the elusive dragon, hoping for a fast way out. But it is always just outside their reach.

Suicide, Redux....

Originally I was going to just respond to a good buddy of mine at work, after his comment but it made me think.

Jason brought up a good point about "distracting" someone who is thinking about suicide. There is some merit to that but that does not address the core of the problem. I should know.

Thing is, that is what people tried to do to me. Be it good intentions or not the proper tools, my friends thought that the problems would pass and life would go on. But that does not happen.

The past while, the flood gates have opened. Last year, at this time, my brother John-Paul committed suicide. I got the call from a friend of his to tell me because he could not reach my parents. So I had to call down to Florida to tell them the news. That is not something a son should have to do but it had to be done. And that sent shockwaves through the family that still are pulsating.

My family puts the dys into dysfunctional. And the past year we have hit new lows. Anyway, my brother and I had not been close for many years. But when I heard about what drove him to kill himself, it ripped me apart. There may have been something I could have said or done that would have given him that little sliver of hope.

You walk a fine line when someone you care about is so down that they believe that killing themselves is the best solution. You can't ignore it and you can't confront it. Thing is, people often believe people who are contemplating suicide are desperate. They aren't. The problems they are facing are overwhelming and they are seeking a solution. And all too often, a simple solution.

It is hard to describe how seductive that little voice can be when you are in pain. It reminds you that not only you are in pain but those about you also. If you are gone, they can go on with their lives. You are not as self-absorbed as many would say. But the focus is completely on you.

You can't think straight. You hear what people are saying but it is filtered. The pain, be it physical or psychological is all consuming. And what do we do, we try to find the simple way, the easy solution. Something short term, because long term means work and possibly more pain.

As to the last entry, I believe things are working out, based on the conversation I had earlier today. Our talk did help. For now. But I feel rudderless at times, hoping that I can help and did not make a mistake. But I also have to back up and realize that there is only so much I can do. Getting too involved is not helping but rescuing. And rescuing leads to disaster.

My life seems to be a constant running soap opera. Even though I am sitting here, ranting and babbling, I would not have it any other way. Excluding all that I, my friends and family, have gone through, this gives me stuff for my writing. My life is never boring. Agreed it cuts into things like work and other things.

Thing is, I look about me and see people who do not care. Friends are a convenience. Partners are needed, not loved. There are times I want to just pack it in. Not care. But I can't do that. I can't save the world. But if I can help someone in need, I should. One person at a time.

But that comes with a price. You have to go into the mud and get dirty. And get hurt. I suppose the point of this babbling is it's rough but worth it. You win some and you lose some. The important point is that you tried.

Suicide...

We take a break from our regularly scheduled program.

Normally I spend time typing in my stuff and review it before posting it but after the past while I have been in the twilight zone, and I want to keep it raw.

One of the hardest things I have found being a friend is how to deal with someone who is losing it. What do you say or do when they are at the point they feel it is best to just end it all? A bitch slap just doesn't work. Words come out hollow and meaningless. There is nothing you can do that can stop the pain. Let's alone find a good reason to continue living in screwed up world.

It is even worse when you are talking over the phone. Face to face, there is more you can do. Be it holding the person's hand, be it a hug or a tear. But when it is just a voice with pregnant silences it becomes a fucking nightmare.

I draw on my own personal experiences and hope they hear what I have to say. I've been there. I've been an idiot that almost died twice at my own hands but survived. Be it sheer stubbornness or the naive belief there is more to all of this, I am still here. But how do you put this in words? How do you find the right words of comfort or inspiration?

It has been a rough little while and I hope, in a small way my talk on the phone has helped. I can't say for sure. All I can do is wait. It is so much easier to go through life as an uncaring son-of-a-bitch but I can't do that. I just hope what little I could say and put out helps. Now all I can do is pray and hope. Right now, I need some sleep.

The Homeless: Boredom

There is a set routine for the homeless in Montreal, when you are at the OBM. Out on the streets before 7 AM and back in line to get in by 6:30 PM. So you have almost 12 hours to kill.
The day starts around 5:30 AM, when the lights go on. You shuffle downstairs to get in line to get into the cafeteria. And once you are there, again in line for usually lumpy oatmeal and some sort of eggs with a piece of toast. And a cup of coffee which was more like brown swill. You have 15 minutes to eat your stuff before you have to leave. And then you were out on the streets.

So usually you were out by 6. The question would be where to go? What can you do that early in the morning? Well, for most of us, it was finding a McDonald’s to get a decent cup of coffee (well two because you get a refill). This is the first lesson I learnt really fast.

But how do you spend the day? In Montreal, there are a couple of places like the Red Roof for the homeless, which are open to let you do stuff but they don’t open until 9. And even then, they are crowded because there are not enough places in the downtown area.

So all you can do is wander. Move place to place, just killing time because the shelters do not open until after 6:30 in the afternoon. That means sitting in the malls, reading discarded newspapers, sitting in McDonald’s, sitting on a street corner, sleeping on the Metro, anything to pass the time. You have 12 hours a day, 7 days a week to try to kill before going back to crash in your bunk, only to wake up the next day to do the same thing over again.

Boredom is the way of life for the homeless. When you have no money, no permanent place, nowhere to store anything, what can you do during the day? All I had was my backpack and myself.

What helped my sanity was reading. Luckily, some of the major book stores have chairs so people could go through books. So I would shuttle between the book stores. It gave me warmth and kept my mind going.

But it did not kill the 3 hours before the stores opened. With winter coming in, it was often dark when you left the OBM. And if you sat in the malls at that time, you would have to deal with security guards. Well, that is true for any time of the day. They don’t want you sitting around so the regular people can see you.

Except for holidays, the worst was the weekends. The morning would drag because there was nothing open save the McDonalds. The malls would be empty so you stuck out like a sore thumb.

But the worst were the holidays. Since most people are not out on days like Christmas or New Years, the city is a completely different place. Most of the malls are shut down. I mean locked up. The stores are closed.

Something simple like having to go to the bathroom becomes an adventure. Save the bus or train station, there is nothing around. And even places like McDonald’s are not always open.

In the end, I was lucky because of book stores and the Concordia and McGill library. I took care of myself so I did not look dishevelled and people left me alone. But for most of the homeless I lived with, they did not have that option. The minute they would enter a book store, security would be on them. So they had nowhere, nothing to do for the day.

The winter is the worst because you cannot be outside. It is freezing and you have to be indoors unless you are panhandling. At least from late spring to early fall, you can go to places like Mont Royal and find quiet places to do nothing. And during the summer, with all the festivals, there are always free open-air events to check out.

I never imagined how boredom could be so draining. You lose hope because when you get up in the morning, what do you have to look forward to? You lose your drive and just go into automatic. You become resigned and go through the motions. Your life doesn’t have much meaning left.

The Homeless: Conditions

The homeless is a subject that is often treated superficially. Some people who write about it are well meaning, while others uneducated. But all in all, the homeless are a group in our society people would prefer not to acknowledge.

As we hustle about the street with our busy lives, the homeless are objects of annoyance, sometimes pity and generally disdain. Questions flit in our minds like: How can they let themselves come to this? Why don’t they get a job? Why can’t the government just put them somewhere so we don’t see them?

The end result is the homeless become social and political outcasts. Save a few people, no one really cares about them except at Christmas time. And I should know, I was one of them.
The next few blogs, this week, will focus on the topic of the homeless. When I started I didn’t realize how long it would become, so I broke them into themes.

From October 2002 to August 2003, I lived on the streets of Montreal. The only person to blame is myself even though 2 people had major contributions to my decline and will have to answer for their actions. And will be a subject of a blog in a future time.

Suffice it to say that I had a major breakdown in December 2000 which ended up putting me in a serious spiral. To be perfectly blunt, I was a toxic person at that time. The few friends that were there to help me could only do so much. The end result was I ended up on the streets.
One important caveat here. The following are my adventures in Montreal. What I experienced is not the same for different cities in different provinces and states, especially when it comes to the government. But there are some universal elements.

So I found myself at the Old Brewery Mission (OBM), a homeless shelter just across from the main convention centre. I ended up there because that is the only shelter I had knew about. As I found out there are others, like Welcome Hall and the Salvation Army.

The OBM is a non-descript five story building. The ground floor have the offices and the main cafeteria. The second and fifth floor are where the transients stay while the permanent residents are on the third and fourth floor.

The main floor, the second floor, has three dorms and two isolation rooms. The two smaller dorms are meant for the younger men while the large dorm is for the rest and it holds around 45 - 60 men.

The isolation rooms were for those that were sick or causing problems. These two rooms did not have any beds, the people had to sleep on the floor.

In the big dorm, save for a few single beds for the older, regulars, the rest are metal bunk beds. A thin blue mattress on the upper and lower bunk.

The regime is simple. The doors open at 6:30 - 6:45. The line-up starts around 6. They let you in and then you have to ‘sign-in’. There you have to give things like knifes, drugs, food, etc. If you had a bunk the night before, usually it is yours again. But don’t count on it. Then you go into the cafeteria to wait for upstairs to open.

Around 7, a line-up starts for going upstairs. Usually we would go up around 7:30. Into an elevator which holds four and have your name checked on a list. Once upstairs, you had to get in line to take a shower. And again, to have your name checked on a list while you get a towel.
After the shower, it was time to settle in and go to sleep. The lights would go out at 9. To come on at 5:30 to head back downstairs for breakfast. Because of capacity, you had to stand in line to wait to get into the cafeteria and when in, once again stand in line to get breakfast.

After a piece of toast, lumpy oatmeal, usually some sort of eggs and a weak cup of coffee, you were out on the street before 7 to start your day.

To say the beds were uncomfortable would be an understatement. But when you are in a dorm with over 40 men and not used to it, it is difficult to sleep. And then the problems having so many different men in one room.

There was one person who talked to himself incessantly. There were many a time he would be awake at 2 or 3, going on about the Pope, homosexuality, spitting on the wall, etc. Then there was the time when one guy was pissed off at another because of his snoring. He shook the bed violently causing it to collapse. Sending the guy to the hospital with a broken nose.

It is important to note that, generally the place was not violent. But tempers would flare. Even I almost lost my temper and started a fight. And some of the homeless are mentally ill and are not properly treated. A melting pot that can explode at any time.

So yes, many of the homeless have a roof over their head. But the conditions are dehumanizing. All too often it would feel as if we were just cattle being shuttled from one place to another. Always standing in line to get nowhere.

And we are at the mercy of the people working there. I lost my bed a few times because they could not find my name. I had been there the night before but they had no record so I had to wait and hope for an available bed, which was no guarantee.

The homeless are not in control of anything. Be it the kindness of strangers or the staff at the shelter, they depend on others. They have little recourse if they have no room or food. You quickly become resigned to the fact all you can do is exist.

What is a Loekie?

Throughout my life, I have been asked about my nickname, Loekie. Especially in school and at work, because my name is Louis. Or Louis Clemens Henricus. So I will bore you with what I was told by my parents.

It ends ups being like Robert. An older Robert may be called Bob, while the younger one will be called Bobbie. In Dutch, Louis becomes Loek. Why, I don’t know.

When my mother was carrying me, she was sure that she had a girl. So much so, they did not have a male name for the potential arrival. When I arrived into this world, unceremoniously ass-first, my parents realized they had a boy.

So I was named after my father, Louis. And since my mum, called my dad Loek, I became Loekie. It is that simple, yet is caused major problems as I got older.

When I started school, when teachers called on me, I did not react right away because I was used to being called Loekie.

Then as I started to gain friends, years later, Loekie was the name I used with my close friends. Something intimate and special for us. Of course this caused introductions to be confusing and halting. I have lost count when friends like Brian would say “This is my friend, Loekie ... ah Louis.”

But over the past few years, with the trials and tribulations I have had, my old skin has been shedding. Except for Holland and amongst Dutch ex-pats, Loekie is a unique name. So it is becoming more and more the name that identifies me.

So that’s it in a nutshell. Short for a change, not long-winded. And now I will leave you with one of my favourite quotes:

There are two ways of spreading light: to be the candle or the mirror that reflects it.
--- Edith Wharton

Radio Shows

One lost art form is the radio show. Well, it isn’t lost but not popular and hard to find. For most people, radio is something for news, sports and radio. Yet it can be a great medium for entertainment. And not just Garrison Keillor and his excellent radio show.

For me, the first taste of this was in The Goon Show. I think I first heard it on the CBC but really don’t remember. But I knew of the show because I was into Monty Python and heard about the influences of this show.

The Goon Show was a radio show that started in 1951 and ran until 1960 on the BBC. It starred Spike Milligan, Peter Sellers and Harry Secombe. It is a scathing commentary on mankind and authority.

When I started to hear some of the shows I was entranced. The show had surreal storylines, puns galore, absurd logic, and lasting catchphrases. And amazing sound effects.

Being a child of TV, I did not know you could do something like this with radio. It was almost like reading. The words were coming out and letting my imagination create images. And of course, the humour was right up my alley. Here is some examples:

Seagoon: We can't stand around here doing nothing. People will think we're workmen!

Chisholm: Hairy Scots, tonight we march north to England!
Secombe: But England's south!
Chisholm: Aye, we're gonna march right round the world and sneak up on them from behind!

Grytpype-Thynne: The oasis is only ten feet long, they'll never get a battleship in it.
Moriarty: They could stand it up on one end.
Grytpype-Thynne: The British don't operate that way.
Moriarty: Nonsense. I've seen them walking to work like that!

But what has gotten this blog started is my finding The Hitch-Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. For many of you, you know this series because of the film that just came out and/or the TV show and/or the five books that were published. Yet it all started on Radio 4.

The original radio show was broadcast from 1978 to 1980. I got to hear it a few years later when my father’s secretary at the time, Jeanette gave me some tapes of it. I was totally mesmerized.
Excluding peeing myself laughing, the voice acting, the music and sound-effects drew me right into the story. And it all worked. Like Douglas Adams wrote in the foreword for the book that compiles all the original radio scripts:

It seemed to me, listening to radio comedy, that we hadn’t progressed much beyond Door Slam A, Door Slam B, Footsteps on a Gravel Path and the odd Cosmic Boing ... I wanted Hitch-Hiker to sound like a rock album. I wanted the voices and the effects and the music to be so seemlessly orchestrated as to create a coherent sound picture of a whole other world ...
Which the show did. And that jumped at me when I picked up the book in 1987: a coherent sound picture.

There were things like Stephen Moore, the actor who did Marvin. The voice projected the paranoia and depression. Or as it is written in the script: lugubrious. And could pull off lines like:

... and then of course I’ve got this terrible pain in all the diodes down my left side ...

or

I suppose you’ll want to see the aliens now. Do you want me to sit in a corner and rust or just fall apart where I’m standing?

I could babble on for some time just on this show. But I will leave that for another blog. The focus of this blog is the genre.

Relistening to the Hitch-hiker guide last night reminded me what a great format radio can be. A good radio show is like reading a book. And listening to it again, you find something new, be it a sound effect or tone inflection. Instead of having your mind filled with images from someone else’s mind, you can use your imagination to its fullest. It’s too bad more are not exploring this exciting way of story-telling.

Personal Idea: Star Trek - Next, Next Gen

I have been a Star Trek fan from day one. I remember when it first came out (yes, I’m an old fart). And the cartoons when they came out.

So I was there, with all the Star Trek geeks when Next Generation. It had a slow start. I found the first season inconsistent and they did not know what to do with some of the characters. But when it hit is stride, there were a few really good seasons. But the show lost stream when many of the writers went to Deep Space 9 (DS9).

I loved DS9 from the onset. The characters were well-drawn out and I loved the look and feel of the show. But after a few seasons, they got back into flying around space and brought in, once again, almost invincible bad guys. But the last season, especially the last eight episodes were masterpieces.

Then came Star Trek Voyager. Talk about a wet fart with chunks. Let’s have some people lost zillion of light years away from home and every second or third episode find something that might get them home. Not!

Finally, there was Enterprise. Personally, I like the first three seasons, especially the third. In that season, the writers could be totally inventive without worrying about Star Trek canon. But the fourth season lost it. They tried to throw in the kitchen sink and link the show to the previous shows. It could have been a good series.

So why am I babbling about this? Well, I have an idea for the next Star Trek series. And my idea tried to take the strengths of some of the previous shows and put it into one.

The new, untitled series, would have one plot thread focusing on adventure and exploration which Star Trek is good at. And then there would be politics and intrigue as another plot thread, which DS9 showed could be done. And finally, the third thread would be something new. A on-going mystery that slowly unravels are the seasons go by.

The centre point would be a Deep Space station on the edge of the Beta quadrant, orbiting a verdant planet. The station would be the main focus for the politics and intrigue. The head, or ‘governor’ is corrupt and someone from Starfleet has been sent to clean up the mess.

With the station there would be a Galaxy class or whatever class we are at now ship. They would be going into the Beta quadrant to explore, bring back people of trade negotiations, protect the station, etc. etc. Here we get exploration and phasers and new species.

The mystery is the verdant planet. The planet is a treasure trove of animals and plants. Yet humans can only be on the surface for 30 days or so before they become violently ill. And just before the series starts, they have discovered an ancient set of ruins of an advanced civilization from thousands of years ago.

As a backdrop, the Federation is falling apart. After all the stuff, like the Dominion, Borg, wars, etc. etc., the Federation is starting to fray. And there is an internal threat, which I bring back from one Next Gen stopped to explore. Because of that, there are pockets of freedom fighters, terrorists, and old wounds being opened.

The main character would be a fresh-faced graduate from the Academy on his first assignment. He gets pulled into the politics of the station and is used in some of the stories on the planet and in the Beta quadrant.

Even though he is the focus, he is not the main character. This would be an ensemble cast where not one character is primary.

With this idea, there would be three story arcs going on. Sometime they would intersect while other times they wouldn’t. And the seasons would not end with a cliff hanger, that is for sure.
And being a science fiction writer, I would put in things all of the Star Trek series seemed to miss. The main transportation to the planet’s surface would be through stalks or space elevators. One plot line would revolved around a ringworld or orbital. And these are not new ideas. The ringworld dates back to the 1970’s.

The other key thing would be: no particle of the week. One thing that hurt Star Trek was when they wrote themselves into a corner, a particle would mysteriously pop up and save the day.
So that is the basic idea. It needs a lot fleshing out but I believe this idea would give most of the Trek fans a little of everything and a new direction for Star Trek to go in. Over the next while, as I start put things on paper, I’ll give updates. And feedback would be appreciated.

Of course there is the obvious question: don’t I have enough to do with Tangled Threads? Yup. But I think focusing a little bit on science fiction again will keep me fresh when I return to fantasy of Tangled Threads.

Valentine’s Day

Ah, Valentine’s Day! One of the most repellent days on the calendar. A day to celebrate the love one’s has their partner. A day of romance. Well, really a day built on consumerism and guilt.

I have nothing against celebrating your love for your partner but the idea of one specific day for this is absurd. Celebrating love should be spontaneous not forced. It should not be encapsulated with a Hallmark card and a box of Laura Secord chocolates. And it should not be relegated to a cold day during winter.

But as always, an idea has been hijacked by the corporations to make money. Hearts go up, ads come on to remind us of the importance to tell our loved ones how important they are in our lives. So buy a card, a box of chocolates, some flowers, a diamond ring to show your love. Otherwise you will be in the dog house for the next few months.

The implicit message is that if you don’t, you are a cad. This whole day is predicated on guilt. These big companies pressure us to buy their crap because if you don’t, then you don’t love your partner.
Yet from early on we are taught this. And the delicious taste of rejection. In elementary school, we had to make cards for people we liked and on the 14th it became a pissing contest for who got the most Valentines.

For someone like me, shifting from school to school every couple of years, I never really got to know anyone so I was always the outsider. What a great message to send to a kid! You got no Valentines so you are not worth while.

And what message does it send to people who are not in a relationship or in a bad one? The reality of this day is it is just consumerism gone mad. Between Christmas and Easter we can’t make any money so let us construct a day where people have to spend money.

If I were currently in a relationship, it would be understood that this a day I will have nothing to do with. I prefer surprising him with a rose on the whim of a moment. I prefer to make him a special meal because it felt right. I’m not going to do it because I have to or it is expected of me. That is not love, that is manipulation.

Migraines

Migraines are nasty things. I should know. I spent the weekend with one.

What gets me is how misunderstood migraines are. Many people are quick to dismiss migraines as just headaches. Then again, they have never had them, so they do not understand the hell migraines can be.

We are not just dealing with a simple headache. We are dealing with agony that affects the whole body. For me, when a migraine kicks in, I have to be in the dark because my eyes are hypersensitive. I can’t eat because of the nausea. My skin is sensitive. So not only does my head feel like a jackhammer is running riot, the rest of my body is reacting.

All I can do is take some codeine pills, and let is pass. Which means being in my room, alone curled up on my bed praying the pain will end. And it fucks up my plans.

For here, there is no problem. I have already few threads written for this week, so this weekend, it was just cut and paste. But I wanted to finish the fourth chapter of Tangled Threads. So that is been deferred.

That is the thing about migraines, you become completely non-functional. Even when the drugs kick in, you are in a fuzzy and can’t focus. I tried to write something for a future blog but is just ended up being a meandering piece of shit.

There are known triggers for migraines. For me, it is MSG, red wine and cheeses like blue cheese. But the worst trigger is stress. There were some problems last week with my roommate, Errol which just festered. It shouldn’t have but I was pissed off and let it get to me. So it built up and hit me on Saturday. And lasted until early this afternoon.

Thing is that a migraine is not just a simple headache. It normally lasts 24 to 48 hours. Once it hits, you’re fucked. All you can do is curl up and hope it will go away. And in time, it will. There ain’t much one can do.

Which pisses me off when I see ads like Advil that promote their migraine pills. They do not work. I take codeine pills which are over the counter that only dull the pain. Let me sleep and handle the pain. Their gel-caps do nothing. But it is the latest niche market to target.

So what is the moral of this story? Migraines are nasty. They are not just simple headaches. They are debilitating. So don’t be dismissive if you know you someone who has them. You have no idea what pain they are going through.

Barebacking

You want a subject that creates a firestorm in the gay community, this is. This is a hot button topic and it shouldn’t be.

Barebacking is having anal sex without a condom. And for me one of the most stupidest things anyone can do. As one local columnist in Montreal aptly put it, you might as well put a loaded gun to your head.

Personally, I do not like condoms. But they are a necessity in today’s sexual arena. And it is not just because of AIDS/HIV but lots of other goodies you can get.

Safer sex (I hate the term safe sex!) is a requirement unless you are in a pure monogamous relationship. And for most gay men, the idea of monogamy is foreign. So danger lurks in every anus out there.

It is a simple situation. Be is straight or gay, when you have multiple partners, you are having sex with history. You are not alone with that partner. And you may be sharing more than just sex.

Thing is, STDs have become manageable. AIDS now for many people is like diabetes. You get it, it is not a death sentence. It is a manageable condition with the right drugs. Death is deferred to years into the future, so it is not a deterrent.

But the indiscriminate sexual behaviour we have brings in new, more virulent strains and it is it not just AIDS. Before syphilis or gonorrhoea could be cleared up with penicillin. There are strains out there now heavy duty stuff can’t take care of.

But what makes barebacking even more disgusting is the complete lack of regard for the other person. Many within the gay culture revel in the idea of having sex when they want to and as many times as they want to.

For me, this dehumanizes the partner you are with. Having sex with two or three persons in one night is a simple case of masturbation. You are getting your rocks off and the person with you is just a vessel to do so.

I find something hollow in the one night stands, and I have had a few. You wake up and can’t remember their name let alone what they like. You had that moment of orgasm and that is it. I might as well have be masturbating with my toys.

Way back, AIDS was a scary thing. The idea of becoming HIV positive was terrifying. It condemned people to a long and lingering death. And I lost few people that way. It cast a pall over the gay community and brought a sense of responsibility toward sex. But once the cocktails came into our lives, the ‘death’ sentence was gone and people went back to their old habits.

For me, human beings (male or female) are not naturally monogamous. But unlike the animals around us, we do not have a period of heat where we runt and burn off our sexual energy and have kids. We are always in heat. And that is why we have such a plethora of STDs. Nature’s way of trying to teach us responsibility but no one is listening.

We live in a society where love is equated to sex. And how many teenage girls have gotten pregnant because of that line: If you love me you’ll have sex with me. We live in a society where our personal gratification is tantamount. My satisfaction is more important than yours. Talk about objectifying your fellow human being.

The “I don’t give a shit” attitude behind barebacking is scary. And it is something that people should be concerned about. The casual attitude to AIDS/HIV is dangerous. The long term results can be devastating.

Someone who is diabetic did not choice in the matter. And in many places, the cost of their insulin is covered. Yet young gay people are expecting the same blanket. If they become HIV positive, oh well, I’ll just go onto a cocktail. And for what? Getting their rocks off?

Barebacking is a one of the many things I see about me in our current society that is a cancer. We live in a society where people are self-absorbed and see others as just vehicles. A means to an end.

I care about the people about me, even those I work with. Maybe that it is why people talk to me and tell me their problems and secrets. I cannot be callous and just see other people as cattle, objects for me to play with. And I can be as self-absorbed as those around me.

But I am not an island onto myself. I have been with vampires who want to suck out our energy just for their own pleasure and need. And they end up becoming cold and bitter people. When things get tough, they have no one to turn to.

I have been blessed. I have friends like Brian, Jude and Errol who I have known for over 20 years. We’ve had our tough times and fall outs. At times my life rivals plot lines in soap operas. But they are still an integral part of my life. And I have gotten some new friends along the way.
I look about me and see people who have no life. They use and abuse their friends to get what they want. So friendship becomes quick and fleeting. And that is a constant within much of the gay community.

They know alot of people but have no real friends. The centre of their universe is themselves and the others are there for them. So when shit hits the fan, they find themselves alone.

It is sad commentary but a reality in our current society. Be it straight or gay, people are obsessed with themselves. People around them are accessories and only useful when necessary. Love is but a vehicle to satisfaction. And the end result is people are sick and dying. And lonely.

A Recommendation: Iain Banks

And now for something completely different. Every so often, I plan to recommend something, be it a TV show, author, film, etc. etc. But at the same time, there will be tons of dissing planned to.
My first recommendation is the Scottish writer, Iain Banks. A friend, Katey, from Hurley’s Irish pub loaned me his first book, The Wasp Factory, because she thought this book would be up my alley. Oh boy, was it. But it wasn’t until a few years later, when my good friend Mike really got me into him.

What impresses me about Banks is that, unlike Irvine Welsh (Trainspotting, Acid House, etc.), another Scottish writer, he does not cover the same ground over and over again. His fiction is varied and rich. And his science fiction is great.

One problem I find with writers is that once they have made it, they start to coast. Just look at people like Anne Rice and Stephen King. Even worse, Robert Jordan. Once they are established, they can publish whatever shit they want without the all important knife of an editor. So they can publish bloated books which would be good if it was editted but they have reached a point in their career they believe they do not need an editor.

At this moment in time, that cannot be said for Iain Banks. I have yet to read a book that disappointed me. But not all of his books that I have read were great. Which is fine with me.
As always I will be long-winded but what I want to do, as a recommendation, is give a quick review on the books I’ve read without giving too much away. All too often, Banks writes books that twists and turns and I don’t want to give away some of the amazing surprise endings he has come up with.

Here you will find a ‘brief’ overview of this fictional books:

• The Wasp Factory,
• The Bridge,
• The Crow Road,
• Complicity
• The Business.

In the science fiction area, you will find here:

• Consider Phelbas,
• The Player of Games,
• The Use of Weapons,
• The State of Art,
• Against a Dark Background.

Fiction
His first book was The Wasp Factory (1984). To say it was controversial is an understatement. The Wasp Factory was reviled by many reviewers on account of its violence and sadism. I found the book riveting. It was dark and witty and unlike others, I found the ending worked. It is macabre to say the least.

Next I read The Bridge. It starts with a man, Orr, waking up on a bridge which stretches out from one end of the horizon to another. The story has a strange Kafka feel to it but peppered with Bank’s dark humour. The feel is quite oppressive and confusing but you want to find out the mystery of the bridge. My only complaint is the book lost steam toward the end and the climax was not great.

Then there is The Crow Road. The first line is: It was the day my grandmother exploded. To date my favourite opening lines. And the book doesn’t disappoint. The story revolves Prentice McHoan returning to his multi-generational Scottish family. Instead of using stock characters, this story is rich with full characters and mysteries. Some may find the flipping back in forth in time a bit of a hard read but I loved it.

Complicity is a dark and twisted tale of morality. It has a serial killer who is an ‘avenging angel’ tailoring his punishments to fit his victim’s supposed crimes. The main character Cameron Colley is a journalist is models himself after Hunter S. Thompson who is investigating the killings and who the police are investigating because the obvious clues are pointing to Colley. Definitely not for the faint at heart.

The last fiction I read was The Business. It revolves around something called The Business, which is a powerful and massively discreet transglobal organisation. Bigger than the Church and more powerful. It was a good read but not my favourite. But I don’t want to say too much because of spoilers.

Science Fiction
His science fiction, written under Iain M. Banks blew me away. His dark humour laces the books as does his characterizations. Up to now, I have read five of his SF books.

The first one is Consider Phlebas. It is a high concept space opera. It introduces a running theme in most of his SF: The Culture. It is a moral ambiguous loose group of planets that is technologically driven. Sort of Ayn Rand meets hedonism.

The main character, Horza, despises the Culture. Thing is, Horza is an amoral criminal but through the debacles and disasters he goes through, you come to care about him. And some of the scenes, like a massive ship hitting an iceberg has scenes right out of Indiana Jones.

The pendulum shifts with his next book, The Player of Games. The focus is on Jernau Gergeh, a professional game player. We see much more of the Culture where it seems to be some sort of Utopia. The people have longevity, prosperity and plenty of space. Even sentient machines share the same status of people. And often these machines are the high points of the novels.
Yet in this Utopia, people are bored. They take whatever drugs they want, even change their gender many times. And Gergeh finds himself bored because he was won all the games that can be won. There is nothing much more to do.

One of the key elements is that the Culture has no problems in interfering with other Cultures. They have no ‘Prime Directive’. And they want Gergeh to go to Azad to participate in their ultimate game.

He has no clear picture what the Culture wants out of this but he is interested in the Azadian culture and the game so he agrees. There he finds a hierarchical, crowded and violent world where status is all-important. Basically a mirror upon our world.

Even though this book is about games and game playing, it is compelling and brings up many thought-provoking questions.

The next book, The Use of Weapons is brilliant. Banks alternates between narrative going forward in time and narrative going back in time. For some people, this would be a hard read.
The main character is Cheradenine Zakalwe is not a Culture citizen but is employed by the Special Circumstances branch of the Culture's Contact section. Basically, he is a mercenary that is sent into conflicts to influence them so they are resolved in the direction the Culture wants. And often to shocking and violent conclusions.

Zakalwe has “retired” at the beginning of the book. Diziet Sma, his old “control”, is summoned to find Zakalwe and recruit him for one more mission.

The forward moving narrative has Sma searching and finding Zakalwe. Then they head off to accomplish the mission for the SC. The backward narrative branch presents Zakalwe’s career as an SC agent, careening back toward a pivotal point in his life.

Both narratives give us a view into the tortured individual of Zakalwe. And when you get to the climax, you do not have a surprise ending just for the sake of it. The Use of Weapons transcends the good adventure story it is to a much deeper and rewarding meaning. So far, for me, the best of the SF I have read from Banks.

The State of the Art is a collection of his short stories. The stories are interesting and cover a wide range but I was not too impressed by most.

The last book is Against A Dark Background. This is a non-Culture book set in Golter, a system far away from anything. They are completely isolated. They have colonized all their planets and moons but have no chance of reaching anyone one else.

The main character, Lady Sharrow once the leader of a personality-attuned combat team. She is being legally hunted by the Huhsz, a religious cult which believes that she is the last obstacle before the faith's apotheosis.

The cult is looking for the last Lazy Gun which is a weapon of mass destruction that has can only be imagined. Her family had the last one but no one knows where it is. So it is a race to find the Lazy Gun and not get killed by the Huhsz. There are twists and turns through out the book and as always his dialogue sparkles and is witty.

Golter is a fascinating society and Sharrow is a complex character. And as usual, Banks is brutal and realistic but it is never gratuitous or over the top.

So all in all, I highly recommend Iain Banks, for both fiction and science fiction. His stuff is witty, realistic, dark and often brutal. His stuff can be slow and then speedup to break-neck without taking away from the story. I have yet to read a single book from Banks I did not like, which I can’t say for other writers like Irvine Welsh.

Personal Aside: Current Project

I don’t want this blog to be just about my rants and raves. So I want to take a little down time to let you know a bit about what I am up to, personally. And as always, this will be a little long winded.

First of all, I am a writer. I have been writing since the 1980’s and have a few rejections letters to prove it. All in all, I have written about 40 short stories, mostly science fiction. And I am starting to post them on my website.

But right now I am focused (or obsessed) with a fantasy series that started back in 1996. Before that, I had written a couple of connected short stories in a fantasy world I created for my Dungeons & Dragons group.

I was starting a third one but realized that I needed some background for the island; a history for the characters to drawn on and comment on.

Which is important, because we are a product of history. We use historical pinions in our conversations. And the characters in the Elegy Series did not have any anchor points.
So I started to work on a timeline, a bit of a history of the island and the world. The Elegy Series takes place around 1400 so I had quite a lot of history to fill in. Initially it was simple lines like:

• 182: Rhiogannedd is slain in battle, at 25 years of age, with no children

Yet when I hit 974, single lines became paragraphs. Paragraphs become prose. Suddenly I had about 10 pages of prose just for one specific time period, way before the Elegies Series takes place.

I realized that I was onto something. I saw a short story in the making. And I took the notes and prose with me to Ireland in August 1996 where I had planned a 3 week vacation.

I had no real plans save to explore the ideas and see where it might lead. When I left Ireland, I had written 70 pages of prose and realized I was not dealing with a short story.

What is important to note here, is that over the three weeks, I did not just focus on this. I wrote a travel journal, was sight-seeing, meeting many locals and drinks copious amounts of Guinness.

In Ireland, especially on the west coast, I actually felt my soul singing. Things just flowed. Be it sitting in a pub with a pint, or on a stone wall with grazing cows behind me or in a rickety chair, under a street lamp as thick fog rolled in and wrapped around me. I tapped into something special.

Thing is, I had never written that much in my life before. Not only had I written 70 pages of prose but also over 130 pages in my travel journal. And I met some amazing people, learnt Jenga and saw awe inspiring scenery.

When I returned to Montreal, I thought that was the end of it. The initial burst of inspiration would leave me and this would become a project forgotten as has happened before. But that did not happen.

During the next four years, I wrote a complete full draft of the first volume, much of a second volume and the beginnings of a third. Even with the dry spells, I was stunned by the amount of pages that came out of me.

Up to this point, I had written short stories and novellas. I had tried a couple of times to try writing a novel but the attempts just fizzled. I now had tapped into something which I could not explain. And it was fucking scary.

Almost every short story or novella I have written had a start and a finish. I just had to figure out the middle. But things were constrained. The piece would be finished in 10 to 20 odd pages. There was focus and control.

Not so with Tangled Threads. I had a beginning and a vague idea of the end. I found myself walking a tight-rope without a net. Something I have never done before.

To be perfectly honest, there were times I felt overwhelmed and wanted to regulate Tangled Threads to my nice try pile. But it would not let go. It had a life of it’s own. So I just resigned myself and gave into it. This was something I had to write, come hell or high water.

Well, the hell came. At the end of 2000, I had a complete and utter breakdown. Which was the main focus of 2001. At that time, my writing went to 0. Any energy I had was focused inwards.
It was in the New Year, 2002 that I thought things were changing. My focus started to change but the fates were conspiring against me. I was in a situation where I was living with a psychotic vampire that was trying to drain me of myself. When that didn’t work, I had to flee. But the damage was done and because of this, I ended up living on the streets for close to 10 months.

The funny thing is that is the best thing that could have happened to Tangled Threads. The first draft of the series was good but lacked any focus. I had no idea where the series was going. Great ideas but no underlying heart. The violent separation that occurred in March 2002 ripped me away from Tangled Threads and kept me away for some time.

A critical point needs to be addressed here. I had to leave the psycho’s place without any of my stuff. All my notes, books, CDs, videos, etc. were downstairs in her basement. When I tried to retrieve all my stuff, she flipped out and in the end, destroyed everything I owned, or so she said. That is over $20,000 of stuff.

The CDs, books, etc. is a bitch because some of that stuff will be hard to replace. The essential point here is that all my hand written notes, maps, etc. were destroyed. I lost invaluable material that cannot be replaced. And this is not just for Tangled Threads. I had notebooks from 1982 with ideas for short stories, novels, movies, etc. that were never entered into the computer. And for that, I will never forgive her.

Okay, this psycho bitch did all of this. The good part of it was that when I returned to Tangled Threads, I do so fresh. I was not bound by my notes and ideas. I could look at what I had put together from a new perspective. At least I had an electronic copy of the main chapters of Tangled Threads.

Things restarted in January 2003. To handle the boredom that comes with being homeless, I started to hang around McGill and the main library. This afforded me time to explore issues I wanted to bring up in Tangled Threads.

This allowed me to get deeper in Nietzsche, aspects of Christianity and other points. This research started to give me a focus for Tangled Threads. Unburdened by the old notes and ideas, the series started to finally congeal. I could see the beginning, middle and end.
The problem was that to get from the beginning to the end, I was looking at least 5 to 6 books. There was no way I could put it into a simple trilogy.

I cannot explain the extreme importance of that time in the McGill library. I was homeless, without hope and had no direction. But the research on the sixth floor of the McGill library gave me an anchor during the dark, cold months of a Montreal winter.

It wasn’t until September 2003 when I was able to move in with a friend and get a job that I could benefit of the fruits of the labour I had done earlier that year. It was then the new stuff poured out. Volume 1 went through massive revisions and Volume 2 was completed. And over half of Volume 3 became solid. Along the way, I wrote bits and pieces of the other volumes to the point where I now have over 1000 pages.

This does not include all the research material,which amounts to another 1000 pages or more. But to me, one of the key elements of creating your own world is having a comprehensive background. This is not just history. One has to consider the types of religions that are dominant. Current and past philosophical concepts. Legal issues. Types of governments. What plants are prevalent and what do they do.

Some people might complain I spend too much on the details. But they are important. Details on how a plant looks like and what is it used for may not be essential to the plot line but it gives the reader an anchor on the reality of the world I am creating. And builds a richness which I believe is needed for a proper fantasy series.

So what of Tangled Threads, you may ask? Well 2004 was the year where I pulled things together. And that is when I started to have people read what I had written. And I went deeper and deeper into my research on the origins of various religions, different philosophical thoughts, the use of strategies in conflict and different legal systems such as the ancient Roman law to the Brehon law.

All of that has lead up to today. Based on the feedback I got and the research I have done, I am now working on the final draft of Volume 1: A House Fractured. The first three chapters are done and I am now finishing the fourth chapter. At the same time, I am building comprehensive appendices for when I get the first volume published.

So my current project is a project that has been ongoing for almost a decade. I had no idea what I was getting into at that time and I still don’t, at times. But it has been a constant in my life which has pulled me through some of the roughest times of my life. And if the fates will let me, I hope that Volume 1 will get published in the autumn. But I don’t want to put any hard deadlines on myself because I thought Volume 1 was going to be published in 2001. Until then, it will be available on-line. And the writing will continue at whatever pace the fates deem.

Political Correctness Breeds Mediocrity

Ah, the thread continues. One modern social development I fully abhor is political correctness. To me, this is a movement by a misguided people who do not have a realistic view of human society. In many ways, a mind-think that is trying to reduce the world into a mediocre mixture of pablum.

The focus of this entry is labels. I remember, in the beginning, when the goose-stepping PC minions rose to the surface with ideas like calling blind people visually impaired or retarded people as mentally challenged to get rid of prejudice. In their narrow views, they believed that by changing the label, this would change peoples' perceptions and attitudes. What a crock!

My brother, Erich, has Down's Syndrome. The PC police want people to call him mentally challenged or some other nice euphemism. But in their minds they still say retarded, as most people do. Changing one label for another does not change what people think.

Erich will not be any more accepted if he is called mentally challenged. People will still move away or stare. Changing a label does not equate to educating. But the PC minions does see that because that takes time. They want a quick fix. Point of fact, Erich is retarded based on the definition of the word. He was never challenged mentally because he will be forever at the same mental stage. There is nothing that can be done.

This does not diminish Erich's accomplishments. He is a great guy. He is an amazing bowler and swimmer. He has many medals and trophies to his name. Physically he is an adult but mentally he is an 8 year old child. Affixing a new and improved label on him is not going to change Erich or the reactions he gets from people who do not know him, or his accomplishments. Calling him mentally challenged did not prevent him from being fired from a job when a new boss came in and felt he would give the place a bad name.

To me, the PC police see the world in a simplistic way. As I said in my previous blog, by changing or claiming a label will not change the attitudes behind the label. I do not feel more empowered be calling myself queer especially when I am called queer by a group of guys at a street corner. The words like queer or nigger, when said by hateful people is not blunted by claiming the word. It is the hate behind the word, not the word itself.

The PC police want the world to be simple, controllable. Everything fitting in their simple categories. This makes life easy one when you have pigeon-holed people. Labels become important in a PC world. Things have to be black or white.

Yet the PC police are quick to use labels as weapons. You slap on a label such as misogynist and then that person is dismissed by a set of groups. If you are a feminist, a complete catalogue is placed upon you. I could go on but the point is that this dehumanizes the person, categorizes people in nice safe cubby-holes. We want the world to be set up neatly and orderly. And then life will be better.

A good example is an argument I got into with someone I once knew. He was adamant about me being a gay writer. Or a queer writer, depending on the moment. I countered that we don't say that of person who is straight.

The response was you don't need to, it is assumed. Which I could see, up to a point. The conversation started to spiral and I got a little silly. I don't write gay literature. I write different things. So to end the argument, I suggested I be called a white single gay fantasy writer. The guy I was arguing with was not impressed.

But it did make me start to think about labels. Now the person I was speaking to was a full blown PC adherent. Whereas I could see an aspect of his argument, I was bothered by the idea of limiting oneself. Yes, I am a writer, I am gay, I am white, etc. etc. Different things conspired to make me who I am, not just my sexuality. In the end, I drew a quick Venn diagram of some of the labels which could describe me:


The circles show how each 'sphere' that defines me interacts with others. Yet all the 'spheres' intersect in on area, where the black dot is. That black dot is me. With what I have here, I should call myself a white English cat loving engineer over 40 writer who was left handed.

The absurd thing of this, these labels can be changed or added to. I'm inexperienced (gay-wise), male, I've been homeless, had a nervous breakdown, three major depressions, was an annoying telemarketer, have one tattoo, fractured my hip, a Scorpio through and through, sometime drink too much beer and I can go on. So to me labels are completely arbitrary.

I do not see 'gay writer' as an appropriate label to define me. Especially since I have never written any gay short stories or novels. Some of my stuff has gay content, and the current series I am working one does have some gay themes and characters, yet the story is not a 'gay' story. It is just a story.

From my POV and experiences, the worst when it comes to PC are the feminists and gays. There is a mind-think you must adhere to else you are not one of them. I have been labelled misogynist by feminists and an assimilationist by gays. All of this because I dare to disagree with them and not fall the party line. Which is the dogma of any PC group.

And in the end, that is all political correctness is. A stifling dogma. Doctrines you must accept as truth without question. And all dogma does is breed conformity and mediocrity. It prevents honest dialogue because the vocal minority stridently drown out any dissenting voices. And it makes those who wish to speak out afraid to do so because they will be labelled as racism, homophobic, misogynist, etc. etc.

I have been called a self-loathing queer by one person because of things like my views on 'marriage' and that I don't go to gay pride functions because there is no floats for gay engineers or lawyers. I should be celebrating the diversity of the gay culture. I should embrace the uniqueness of the community. And I should not voice any dissenting opinions.

Wel I am not a self-loathing queer. I am Louis C. Vroomen, a complex human being forged by elements from the past 48 years of my life. And I am an on-going project. And hope to continue to evolve over the next 40 or more years, God willing. And you will not be able to define me by mere labels. I will not acquiesce to mediocrity and the boring view of the simple life the PC police wish to force on us, whether we like it or not.

Political correctness != free speech

One of main pet peeves is those who are politically correct. I have no time or patience for those that are politically correct. And the next couple of blogs will be focused on that.

It is important to know I am a staunch supporter of freedom of speech. Yet if you believe in free speech, you stand on a sharp edge. There will be things people say you do not agree with, and at times, quite vehemently. But you cannot have free speech with limits. And that is where PC fails, for me.

Personally I believe the PC police have a right to voice their opinions but have no business telling me or anyone else what to say or how to think. Many of them live in a fantasy world where they believe by changing terms or ideas the world will be a better place. That ain’t gonna happen. Prejudice against blind people will not stop by calling them visual impaired. Calling severely retarded people mentally challenged is not going to stop them from being called "retarded".

As a gay man, I am not more empowered by calling myself queer or a fag. But the PC belief is that taking back the word will diminish the power of the hatred behind the word. But that is absurd. So it is alright for black people to use the word nigger, gay people to use the word fag? Because we embrace the word the hate behind the word will go away? Well in reality, that doesn't happen. The hate is still there when someone on St. Catherine street calls out 'fag' when I pass by whether I embrace the word or not.

Inherently I am an optimist. There is good out there. Each one of us can make a difference, in a small way. But change is incremental. The civil rights movement brought important change for blacks, African-Americans or whatever the current vogue term is. But the prejudice is still extremely prevalent.

For myself, as a gay man, laws have changed aspects of my life. There is more of a chance to get benefits for my better half. I can get married here in Canada. Within the civil realm, certain rights are now available to me. But that is not changing the redneck homophobes out there. Advances in legal issues does not mean the average person will change. But in time, as we chip away with education, dialogue and standing firm, attitudes may change. Yet that takes time, which the PC police don't have.

Thing is laws will not cause change. It is a start but will not affect major change. And that is why I got annoyed when gay politicians, here in Canada, wanted to make it a hate crime if someone said something that was homophobic. Saying something like God hates fags would have become illegal. My reaction was anger toward these politicians.

First of all, words only have power if you give it to them. Second of all, if you honestly believe in free speech, you will hear things you do not like or agree with. Third of all, a law like this will not change anything. Those who say these hateful things will not stop just because the law of the land tells them not to. They will find a way to spread their hate. And finally, get thicker skin! I do not like it, when I walk down the street and someone calls me a fag. But having him arrested or muzzled is not going to stop him from saying what he is saying. He will say it again and potentially with more fervour.

For me, change comes down to a personal level. A good example is witnessing. As a Christian, you witness by the life you live. That will bring about change, one person at a time. You set an example. And you perservere. You hit brick walls, have shit thrown at you. But you keep on going. When you stumble, you get back up and brush off the dust. No law in the land will stop a homophobe from yelling at me or threatening me. But by example, some may stop and think. Then again, most will not.

The problem is that the PC police want to make change on a massive scale which would never happen. They believe they can affect change immediately and then the world would be a better place. I wish I had those rose-tinted glasses. It would make my life so much easier.

But I do have to throw in a caveat. When I was younger, I thought I could change the world. Be it myself or through my writing, I hoped my voice would convince those that needed convincing. Reality killed that hope real fast. Of course it did not help that when a mirror was put up in my face, I did not see a perfect person. I saw a man with his own biases and prejudices. It sort of killed the 'holier than thou' part of me.

Yet that is what I see in the PC police. They believe they are above the petty biases and prejudices that plague the average human. They have the solution. With the right mind-think, prejudice will be eradicated. We just recondition you with the proper labels and your prejudices will just melt away.

But in the end, the PC police casts a dangerous pall on general dialogue. People feel they have to use the new, appropriate labels else they will be branded as 'bad'. People start to censor what they really want to say and this curbs free speech.

If you believe in free speech then you believe in honest debate and dialogue. You have to accept that there will be people who disagree with you. One of my best friends believes homosexuality is a sin and because of that I may go to hell. He knows where I stand and I know where he stands. But that has not stopped our friendship or debate.

Even though I believe Brian is wrong, I will be there, in the front lines, if ever someone tries to abrograte his right to say that he believes homosexuality is a sin. He has the right to present his point of view and opinion. Yet the PC police want him to change his mind or suppress what he has to say. They would want to force acceptance onto him, whether he believes it or not. And that is something I will not stand for. That is not free speech, that is coercion. So let's build a society of pablum where everyone thinks the same. And that is for the next blog, in a continuing series.