The Lyin' King's New Pro's: A Different Kind of Cat

Truth?  Remorse?  Nun of the above.

I must confess. 

Manely I've been lyin'. Livestrong is a wonderful thing.  I was so wrong for so long but now I see the truth and the error of my ways.  

I have no pride. I'll admit it promotes strong principles for healthy living.

I was a bad person before because I wanted to be right at all costs. It was a sick, dogged determination to live a dog's life, I suppose. Doggone scary. I'm not like that any more, not since earlier this week, anyway, when I turned tale and decided to tell the truth. I would go and make amends but it's probably best to let sleeping dogs lie. 

It's waaaaaaaay too late, for sure, but hey, I'm not lyin' now.

Sorry. 

People are wrong all of the time, though, you know.  And you have to admit that I was the best at being the worst.

Um, so... yeah. That's it. 

Sorry.

Jeez. 

It sucks to be wrong. I want to be right again.

Oh wait.  I am right. Look what I found!

 16 Reasons to Have Daily Sex.    

Like you'd need a reason, right?

There are some really great reasons to do it every day, though, which is handy if you have a partner who just doesn't get it.  Take, for example, reason number five:

Daily Sex...

5. Makes You Look Younger

Making love three times a week can make you look 10 years younger, claims a Scottish researcher. "It's good for you to have good sex," says David Weeks, a clinical neuropsychologist at the Royal Edinburgh Hospital, whose study on the effects of sex on aging appears in his book,Secrets of the Superyoung.:

Yuh huh. That's what I'm talking about. Ten years.  People spend thousands of dollars and days in pain to achieve results like that, whereas sex... well it just feels good from start to stop, doesn't it?  But the benefits go much deeper than that.  Not only does it knock a few years off your face, it adds those years to your life expectancy.  Yes, you read that right. Lots of sex makes you

15. Live longer

A healthy heart, stronger muscles, increased circulation of oxygen and happiness are some of the factors that add life to the years and as a result - years to your life.

Not only do you live longer, but you look good doing it.  And since you're doing it, you're also having fun.  That's what you call a win/win/win. That's a win in every dimension.  It doesn't get any better than that.

Still not convinced? Your stress levels are a bio-chemical reality.  Cortisol is the culprit, and it's usually at its highest levels in the morning. Cortisol triggers ageing and all the other nasty possibilities hiding in your dna, so dropping the stress first thing is always a really good thing. A spot of sex, a bit of Kundalini yoga, a short period of meditation and a ride into work, and you've set yourself up for a good day.

Even if the city is shrouded in black ice and you wipe out on a downhill corner on the way in to the office...

five days on

 Sex heals. 

The dopamine, endorphins and oxytocin your body produces when you're making love are the very best antidote to any and all stress. "It's also a great form of exercise. Doing it three times a week for fifteen minutes a day over the course of a year is the equivalent of running seventy-five miles.  It lowers the diastolic number of your blood pressure (that's the bottom number) and strengthens your core and pelvic muscles".  Sex is a good sleep aid, too, a much less problematic one than the pharmaceutical alternative. Plus "it regulates your hormone levels," so it helps to regulate menstrual cycles for women and slows the progression of hair loss for men, amongst other things.

"Regular sex prevents erectile dysfunction." Did you know that?  That makes sense, doesn't it? It's like any other muscle: the more you use it, the stronger and healthier it becomes." Erections keep the blood flowing throughout the penile arteries, which keeps the tissue healthy.  It's like athletic training:  the more you train the more capable you are to perform."

McDuh.

There are so many sweet benefits to a healthy sex life. Sex also helps to protect you from cancer, particularly prostate cancer for men.  Actually, cancer  stands a snowball's chance in hell in a body flooded with all those biochemical goodies. What's particularly useful in the dead of winter is that having plenty of sex will increase the effectiveness of your immune response so that you are much less susceptible to the flu.

That's lucky.

My big fat, pre-inflated ego loves it when science confirms what I've been saying for ages.

Here's the thing.  There is a way to trigger quantum healing, and it has everything to do with what you put in your body, with what you do with that body, and the thoughts you think as you inhabit that body.  The bodies we live in are actually designed to experience bliss.  Ecstasy is your birthright, and joy your natural state.

"I was raised Catholic. I can feel guilty about anything." (Moriarty-Law & Order)

Confession is supposed to be good for the soul, but I'm pretty sure that only counts when the confession is a symptom of true contrition and remorse.  

I still want to be the Pope, but I'd be the Lyin' King if I told you I'm a devout Catholic.
Perish the thought.

 I like to think I got over all that, though they say a leopard can't change his spots.

I do know that truth just is.  It has it's own signature in space and time.  Everything, every thought, every word, every action leaves an imprint on the fabric of reality.  

It exists.  Truth just is.

* This is from one lovely reader... :D

A new name for the Manskin: are you fore or against?

Did you hear the news about Luke Durbridge in Duninyonglongdong, winning the Australia Road National Championship?

And the wiener takes it all!

He's not cocky, he just put in a good showing.  He's raised the bar for the rest of his generation, and now he's circumspect. He's made the cut.  He's an active member of the cycling community, and if he's too revealing, he shouldn't be penilised. He's going to dicktate the direction of road cycling for the next little while, but don't worry. He's not necessarily a crazy cyclist just because you can see his nutz.

I'm sorry. That was just wrong. 

I can't help it, though, it's like an involuntary tic, this need to explore the hidden depths and outer limits of bad comedy. I'm frustrated, because I've scanned my limited lexicon looking for a word for this phenomenon, for these looky-loo man-bits, but de nada.  I checked the urban dicktionary, too, but again...

It's not like it's anything new.  It's out there everywhere from Freddy Merury to Rudolph Nureyev, but nobody is talking about it.  I am here to change all that.

 After all, everyone knows you'll find a few camel toes amongst Canada's beaver population. 

 It's a given.

Yet no-one can tell me what you call that special, sports-specific look on a guy.  I'm not talking about the nasty, moose-knuckle you see on elderly, overweight car salesmen in too-tight polyester suits, or sometimes on shrink-wrapped 1970's rock stars.

I'm talking about the full-frontal happiness sported by guys mounting the podium.

For gals who don't go for Cipo, it's a no fly zone, but no matter what you call it, I call it proof positive that riding a bike feels good. If you're Mark Cavendish, and you have more than one sweeeeeeet ride, then win or lose, you'll have something to celebrate...

For those of us girls looking for reasons to celebrate, the skin-suit is an often overlooked little gem. Even winter sports offer a few options.  You could check out the Bits'n'Bobsledding, or the Doubles Luge, for example.

the KY team giving a new spin on going down

In Vancouver 's flamboyant West End, you'll find tons of guys walking down Davie Street in tight yoga pants. That's the thought which comes to mind when I hear the words LuluLemons. 

In the Olympics the whole phenomenon caused quite a row, didn't it? 

Don't be too hard-on him.

Heh heh.  I'm really enjoying this. Again, my humble apologies. Seriously. I've been looking forward to reporting back to you on what I find at Taboo, remember. My mind is in my pants, which is why I've gone waaaaay beyond stretching the boundaries of good taste.

The Taboo Naughty but Nice Sex Show provides an upscale adult playground dedicated to enhancing lifestyles,  encouraging romance, personal betterment and all things Taboo. Enjoy entertainment, provocative and educational seminars, unique shopping, fashion shows and LIVE demonstrations.  Everything from your hearts' desires to inconceivable delights.  This is a 'can't miss' event.

Ooooh... live demonstrations.  Me likey.  I wonder if we can test drive the gear, too...

I dared the man to dress up for the event and wear something to show off his assets, a la Freddie...

you know, to put his best foot forward,

but he claims he's a bit shy of twelve inches 

and he says you won't catch him out in spandicks unless it's astride the Argon 18.

Aha!

 That's it.  Out of the mouth of babes... my word. 

 Spandicks.

Now I'm happy.

Thinning the gene pool and my religious aspirations.

Oh dear. Another candidate for the Darwin Awards?

A nineteen year old longboarder was airlifted to hospital this week.  

 "It appears he was towed by his father up this significant hill that they were using to board on, so he was being towed up at about 15 miles (25k) per hour,  basically fell off and hit his noggin and lost consciousness."

Pinkewycz says it was either raining or snowing at the time and advises longboarders not to attempt stunts in those conditions. 

The kid's a classic Adrenaline Junky, with fool-hardy genes passed along from his enabling dad. I wonder if he was praying to God as he went down...? 
                                                             Here he is in ten years time:  

 90km (55m) per hour.

Not that I'm judging.  For sure we never ever even once hung on behind Uncle Clarence's Suburban  bumper surfing the fresh Alberta snows on crazy carpets before church of a Sunday morning... not ever. Yeah.  That's it.

More than one dumbass move has landed my name in that Darwinian hat in the past.  And as soon as I saw this smooth move, my poor besotted brain went into over-drive trying to figure out how to do it, and where.  (note to self: Down Girl. NO.)

Officer Pinkywicks up there, who can't tell whether it's raining or snowing, advises longboarders not to try stunts in either event, rain or snow.

I'm advised not to ride in the rain and snow sometimes, too, though of course I never listen.

Are you coming?

You know what I am going to listen to, though, don't you?  Oprah's captured edited and trademarked edition of Lance's confession.  Yessum.  And I really can't wait for the 60 Minute version.  It just keeps getting better, this story. It has all the makings of a tale of epic proportions. I'm just ever so slightly, secretly envious of Oprah.  No! It's not because of Steadman.  Ew gross. It's not her money,either. Not directly, anyway.

You see, I've always secretly wanted to be the Pope. 

There's all that lovely gold. The Pope has a lot of gold and other shiny, sparkling stuff. I have a weakness for shiny things, you see. (I have a friend.  She is very tolerant. I make her read this. She's nodding emphatically about my weakness for shiny things right now.) When you have lots and lots of gold like the Pope does, you can find ways to give lots and lots of things away.

Oprah has a lot of sparkling, shiny stuff.

It would be cool to be the Pope because he has tons of really cool places, too, some of the prettiest buildings in the world situated on gorgeous plots. I love pretty plots and lovely things.  

Oprah is the Queen of Pretty Plots

and Gorgeous Things!

As I gained an education, I realised that the library in Vatican City holds a few juicy mysteries which most of us will never be privileged enough to read, and if I were the Pope I could start the best book club in the world.   What do you know? 

Oprah has a Book Club!

But the best bit is the confessions, though.  People pour their stories into her ear...

I'll be listening.  This should be interesting and entertaining. The Mail sez 

Lance Armstrong is to take the route of many a disgraced public figure and offer himself up for a no-holds-barred interview with Oprah Winfrey.  

My mum's mum, Baba, used to love Oprah.  She would watch religiously, volume full blast because she hated to wear her hearing aid.  I've never watched an episode that I can recall, but I know she's one of the most powerful people in the world and when I look at my Pope Hope and then look at her, I can't help but notice that she's gone and done it.  She's achieved my secret dream.

Lance, please kiss the toe of the POPE-RAH, will you?

You see why I'm tinged slightly green?
The only real difference is that if I were pope I would immediately set about ensuring that all that silly dogma around sex gets set to right, and I see no sign of POprah going there.

But you know I'll be going there every chance I get. I 'm always closest to God when I'm calling out "Oh My God!!" from between the sheets every night.

In fact, be sure to tune in after next weekend.  I'm excited about honing my investigative journalism/intrepid bike blogging skills at the sex show TABOO. Time to see what kind of kinkiness we can bring to two wheels.

There are bound to be lots of fun things to ride, and who knows?  If I listen carefully, maybe I'll hear some juicy confessions.  Better yet, by the end of the weekend I plan to have a religious experience of my own which is worthy of a confession on Oprah's sofa.  Then I can be the one giving the dope to the Pope-rah.

Smiling astraddle the saddle: may the breast man win.

It's January in Vancouver. 

 It's cold and dark and sometimes foggy on the way to work in the morning.  

This is a temperate rainforest, so this time of year most mornings see rain.

At this very moment it's chucking buckets out there, as it was on the ride home from work today.

It was wonderful. 

Fun.

I felt like a kid splashing through the puddles.

  I watched how many people were huddled under umbrellas and hiding in buildings and under awnings, 

 all fogged in and musty and contained like cattle in their cars and trains and buses and I feel sorry for them all.

Seriously.

THAT's what lovely Snobbers calls

moments of inflated smugness.

People ask how I manage to get to work on a bike looking the way I do.

Dressed for work-ish, that is.

I am not doing anything special.

It's all in the bike.  

The fenders, the mud flaps, the fully enclosed chain guard, the step-through frame.  

It's quite comfortable, too, being upright like that. 

The pedals are set slightly forward, 

which allows you to remain seated with your feet flat on the ground at stop signs and street lights.  

A lower centre of gravity means you're more stable, too, 

which is nice when it's frosty and slick.

Once you've got the bike, you just dress for the weather.  

I like to wear skirt suits and dresses 

with stockings or tights 

especially when its wet, 

because they dry quickly and easily. 

And boots, of course, sometimes with various layers of leg-warmers,

fuzzy and otherwise.

Sometimes all it takes is the waterproof boots,

so I can play in the rain. 

Today someone called me brave 

for riding in the downpour. 

Bless his kind heart. 

He doesn't understand, poor thing.

 I just shook my head, and said

"It's the best way to live."

As I was leaving work I discovered a flat tire of uncommon complication.  

The man says it's not the worst sort of flat, but I say it is. 

 Most tires are simple to change, but Bea bike's back end, 

bless her, 

is a bitch. 

It's an ordeal.

It takes a good long time, 

(about three beers and a dozen curses) 

even if you're really good at fixing bikes.

Which I am not.

Sure.

I can change a normal tire, 

as long as there isn't any great time pressure, 

but there's no way I could ever change this beast.

When I called and broke the news to the man, 

I thought he might be deflated

but instead he took it with his usual aplomb.

Which is one of the reasons he's the man.

And the reason I was speaking to him on the phone instead of face to face

 is that he, too, discovered a flat tire at the end of his day,

 and was delayed changing it.

Coincidence?  He thinks so.

I think not.

(We ride the same route of a morning.)

As we disconnected,

 a lovely, well-appointed woman stopped in her tracks in the pouring rain to say

"Hey! I saw you riding your bike in the summer in your platform heels - that's so hot!  You make me want to get on a bike again."  

That's the reason I rode home with a song in my heart and a big grin on my face.  Whoever you are out there, lovely lady, I thank you. You made my day. And as I said to you, OH please do!

I love making girlfriends on the bike path to world peace.

There are more and more women on their bikes all the time now. 

This is a good sign, since apparently, women are more risk-averse than men, 

though I didn't get that memo. 

Momentum Mag named Vancouver fifth in it's list of cities it claims are Changing Gears, 

and bike friendly.

It is pretty sweet these days.

And hey, at least here in Vancouver, we're not forced to ride side saddle.

In a misguided attempt to "save people's morals and behaviours," an Indonesian city in the Aceh province is banning women from straddling motorbikes.  

Because they might like it.

Sharia Forbid.

See their hands?  Women are also not allowed to hold on to the driver,   

which makes it easy to dump your girlfriend.

Handy, that, in a world where women are disposable.

Personally?

I wouldn't like to live under Sharia Law.

Poor Pammy Anderson would struggle with it, too. 

She was the first star voted off Dancing on Ice, all because of a wardrobe malfunction.  

It wasn't her fault.

This is certainly not a case of may the breast man win.

They were the best pair in the competition.

Well, like Pam, my tire's no longer flat, 

and like my bike I'm all pumped up

and ready for the morning's commute

across the bridge.

Rain or shine.

Prolly rain.

Totems for Dummies: building my family totem pole.

Sometimes people ask if I have First Nations blood.  I would like to say yes, because their culture had a fair few things figured out which ours is sadly lacking. No, I am of the mad Caucasion persuasion.  My mum's family is from somewhere near the Black Sea in the Ukraine. My dad's family is from a place on the border between France and Germany, which goes some way toward explaining this insatiable urge to invade myself and then surrender.

I'm a Canadian of European heritage, living in Pole-land, BC.(Museum of Anthropology, UBC)

This modern world of ours is sort of broken, don't you think? 

Maybe the best way forward is if we take a step back and re-evaluate our priorities. Many First Nation traditions make perfect sense because they are expressions of the understanding that we are all connected.  This is important to me because it reiterates and reinforces my minuscule and profoundly limited understanding of each relativity, quantum mechanics and string theory. 

 It's good to heed a message when the universe sends it to you from various different directions - it's a sign that there's some truth in it. Did you know that everyone has animal totems? They're akin to Joseph Campbell's mythical heroes and Carl Jung's archetypes.  Many cultures use animal totems. They're tools which offer valuable insight into the human psyche. 

(These totems are one of the most photographed places in BC -Stanley Park)

On Haida Gwaii, totem poles are address markers.  It's like a family crest of sorts, a sign telling you which family, or clan, lives where.  It's a giant, family-tree sign-post. 

  

(Museum of Anthropology, UBC)

The various totems associated with a clan are stacked one on top of the other all the way up the pole.  

My family tree is stacked with nuts, but I still want to know what our pole would look like. We're probably some crazy kind of curly willow, all loopy and twisted... or maybe our pole is even a monument to blatant consumerism, à la:

Le Totem des Hermés, s'il vous plait.

Whatever it ends up looking like, I wanted to uncover my totems and delve into the archetypes near and dear to my psyche, so we set off on an urban Vision Quest.

In the Arctic Inukshuks stand out for miles around.  In Vancouver, they are well camouflaged  in amongst the high-rises.

In Canada's high north, up north of the Arctic Circle, Inukshuks are a sort of pre-GPS way-finding totem. Water is ubiquitous up there; the world is more water than land in most places.  The horizon giiiiiiiinormous, so you can see the Inukshuk from miles away.  You can literally see forever looking into the skies sometimes, and then virtually nothing at all when the weather closes in a short while later.  That's why the Inuit language has a multitude of different ways to express distance and direction, and it's also why an Inukshuk is such an important cultural icon in Canada's far north. 

 The Inukshuk lets travellers know both where they are, and which way to go. It's also a rest stop of sorts.  Many travellers would find supplies between the legs of an Inukshuk to aid them along on their way, and in return they would leave what payment they could. It was an honour system which worked because of that understanding that we are all connected. 

Inukshuks are always a welcome sign.

I spoke with a local Chief.  The man pours sweat-lodges for some of Vancouver's First Nations people, and he said that we usually know our totems when we consider which animals we have an affinity for, which animals we hold fear around, and those animals we have had significant contact or conflict with.  He said to look for signs and symbols from the Animal Kingdom, and so the man and I set off on my journey of discovery.

(I wonder if  this is what the Chief was referring to: my strange fear of green bugs on fern fiddle-heads.)

Aaaaand wouldn't you know it? Check out the first creatures we encountered on our journey.

I had a giggle over this gaggle:

It's true, too.

I've always been a bit of a silly Canada goose.

Serendipitously, one kind soul gave the small boy a book called Animal Speak, because he loves anything with a face.  The book explores the symbolism in various totems, and all of the archetypes we associate them with.  I looked up the goose to discover it is the writer's totem. (It's the quill thing.) That's where the storytelling old Mother Goose comes from. As you can imagine, that went over rather well with my ego: :D 

The goose is also a symbol of fidelity and fecundity.  I like that word, fecundity.  The bit in the middle reminds me of one of my favourite things. 

I'm happy owning my inner goose. 

And yes, there's some truth in our next encounter, too, at least every once in a while.

Claws and Effect. (Museum of Vancouver)

 Back in my university days I traded services (non tax-deductible) with a a woman who makes these really pretty pictures of how the sky looked the moment you were born.  It's a circle with points which connect and intersect to create rather beautiful shapes. She says my moon is in Cancer, which must be why I sometimes get crabby every several weeks.  (Dr Hal says that particular  brand of periodic crabbiness is often a simple B6 deficiency, and he has this marvellous little concoction of B vitamins which makes all that nonsense simply vanish.  You see why I love my naturopath, right?  The man's happy with him, too... ;)

Where were we?  Oh yeah, the totem quest.

Round the next bend, and what did we find?

Nothing less than an eagle overlooking the Kits Point bike park.  That seemed note-worthy, somehow.  

The boy's book had a huge section on eagles, but it had an awful lot of words, so I just looked at the pictures.  You've gotta love the pretty birds.

Did you know that eagles are such efficient hunters that they have enough time in their lives to do things just for fun?  It's true.  When I lived in White Rock, one of my favourite things to do was to ride to the top of the  bluff on the south western tip of the Semihamoo Peninsula, because the eagles would convocate to surf the up-drafts blasting off the steep slopes of the cliff.  They definitely play. There's likely a higher purpose behind it, but no matter.  Their smiles are plastered all over their body language.  

There must be a guiding, life-enriching principle in there somewhere.

Eagle medicine touches something deep inside of all of us, doesn't it?  It certainly seems to play a significant role in our cultural psyche here in North America, at any rate.

And what of the wolf?  I am definitely an old horn dog. Bit ruff around the edges, if you will. And I like doggy style once in a while, too, so it must be one of my totems.  For sure.  And you know my pole has got to have some beavers on it.  I expect a happy clam will show up somewhere, too, and maybe a couple of tasty oysters like the kind we indulged in at Joe Fortes that day.  Oh!  And a pussy.  There has to be a pussy on my pole. There's a big black neighbourhood cat which is trying to take over the house and rule our lives, and surely that counts toward totem-hood.  

It makes me happy, just thinking of all the gorgeous creatures on my totem pole.

It's just like going to my happy place.

This isn't my happy place.   I can't show my happy place here, but this is a pretty happy-looking place, don't you think?  Again, the Museum of Anthropology at UBC.

Oh, and I found the perfect foundation for my towering pole.  As soon as I saw it I knew I had to have two.

Just imagine...

You get the picture.

I can't wait to erect my pole!

No, sorry. I'm not likely to ever grow up.  

With neither sign nor symptom of maturity, even after this many innings,

it's just not going to happen.

I'm good with that, too.

More to the point: we're definitely on to something here. You'd know for sure it was my house if you paddled by that particular pole, wouldn't you? 

This whole totem thing is going to make redundant that old, ridiculous, messy postal-code system that nobody ever liked anyway.  

You see?

Win/Win.