2013-05-23T18:51:00-04:00 Tristan Risk http://www.huffingtonpost.ca/author/index.php?author=tristan-risk Copyright 2008, HuffingtonPost.com, Inc. HuffingtonPost Blogger Feed for Tristan Risk Good old fashioned elbow grease. tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2989536 2013-04-01T19:15:24-04:00 2013-04-01T19:16:41-04:00

Tristan Risk http://www.huffingtonpost.com/tristan-risk/
On the bus, when I'm removing my foot from under someone else's and getting bopped with a University of British Columbia student's backpack, it's important to take a deep breath, relax and remember two key things: we are still a city in the throes of growing pains and also that Daniel Boone was a twit.

A brilliant writer once described Boone's tendency to pick up and move homesteads whenever he could see smoke in the distance. Coming from a man who routinely sported a dead raccoon as headwear, you can imagine he'd have a few eccentricities. Evidently, one of these was the desire to be as far from people as possible.

While I might be somewhat miserable packed into a crowded bus and accidentally dry-humping the ridership, Boone might have become suicidal. Or homicidal. However, had Daniel Boone visited our city and province of British Columbia in the '50s and '60s, he might have found a world better to his liking.

I'd like to point out I've spent a lot of time driving around B.C. doing everything from performing to taking family holidays. The scale of B.C. is impressive and still remains a very wild place. It was not always so civilized, developed, and full of people, as Mr. Boone would say. Even in the '50s this was wild territory, and the stories that accompany it rival those told about our U.S. frontiersmen, but aren't classic folk tales just yet.

TRUE WILD WEST

This is kind of a shame, since B.C. was for Canada the true Wild West. The last province to be somewhat tamed, and even then it was still undomesticated at large by her European invaders. The majority of my best stories that I've collected from her come from my grandfather who traveled for BC Hydro laying cable throughout the province in the '50s. The people reflected their wild surrounding, living with this tough frontiersman mindset, because one bad winter in these places could easily chew up an unsuspecting buttercup with no idea what life in a northern town meant. These stories stories told by my granddad became the stuff of legends, equal in my mind to Annie Oakley and Davy Crockett.

In 1959, my grandfather's crew were using the town as a base of operations since it was one of the bigger northern towns. Originally established during the Gold Rush the town managed to survive after the gold ran out. It instead found a richness in other things like forestry that prevented it from becoming a ghost town like many other gold rush towns at the time. The miners became loggers, and no matter what the profession, the gentlemen who undertook these tasks were tough. They had to be.

Granddad told me about some of the toughest ladies I'd ever heard about from Dawson Creek. They were barmaids named Black Betty, for her raven locks, and Red Betty who had auburn hair. Both were tough as nails and didn't cotton to any guff-taking from their clientele which wasn't exactly what I would call progressive or liberal-minded.

One evening, when one of the guys had too much beer and was getting rowdy, Black Betty, the taller of the two women, told him to calm down. "Or you'll what?" he sneered, "You'll call the Mounties on me?" Black Betty didn't hesitate to come around the bar, grab him by the scruff of his neck and the back of his belt and pick him up and throw him out the door. She came back in muttering, "I don't need any Mounties to help me run my bar."

HANGING TOUGH

People who lived in these remote areas just got tough. It was the only way that they could be self reliant when they were so far away from other human beings. Mother Beatty, who lived and worked the Beatty Ranch til she was well into her 80s, was one of these folks. The Beatty Ranch was off of the beaten track so while her sons were coming and going to and from town, Mother Beatty was often alone and found companionship in an orphaned calf.

Whether it was necessity or empty nest syndrome, Mother Beatty nursed the calf back to health. When it was strong enough, she kept it in the yard near the house in a small paddock where she could keep an eye over it. One day while in the kitchen, she heard it lowing in distress, and saw there was a grizzly bear snuffling around the fence. Mother Beatty grabbed the shotgun and put two into the bear's head, point-blank. "I nursed that calf back from death," she told my granddad. "I did not do that so some damn bear could make a snack of it."

Thinking of these stories while standing in line at Whole Foods makes you feel far removed from tough, gritty places. It's humbling to remember that only a few generations ago, Vancouver, one of the largest cities in B.C., was closer to that wild world than its current reputation as Glass City. Less than 100 years ago, Granville Street was a swathe cut through the forest on the south side of False Creek. The "jungles" of Vancouver were shanty towns along the waterfront occupied by men looking for work, and with that we were still a mecca of cosmopolitan sophistication in our province.

Now, black bears occasionally amble into North Vancouver yards to pick through garbage or eat a small yappy dog and the only cougars you see downtown gather at The Sandbar in Granville Island. But cast an eye to the mountains, kids and remember that no matter how much glass and concrete we've got now, we are still very much still frontiers people at nature's mercy, and interlopers in that world. I'm fairly certain Daniel Boone would agree.


]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2820732 2013-03-07T11:54:45-05:00 2013-05-07T05:12:01-04:00

Tristan Risk http://www.huffingtonpost.com/tristan-risk/
This isn't because they've invested vast sums of money in what could easily buy entire houses elsewhere in North America. It's not because they are immune to the charm of having the Seawall, Main Street, or Mount Pleasant on their doorstop.

I think what befuddles me me about them is they just don't know what they f%&king want. They have moved in from other suburbs, cities and countries to take up residence in areas of vibrance only to do strange things, like complain about their immediate surroundings.

I know this might sound strange. I know that if I were going to have a serious financial commitment over the course of years I might be persuaded to do some research on the area, but it would seem that many people who buy/live in these condos are outraged to find it either too noisy or -- wait for it -- too quiet.

I know, I know. I'm shaking my head too. I'm trying to understand the mentality behind this. But here are some examples.

Richards On Richards, The Cobalt, Boss, and dozens of other venues in downtown Vancouver closed their doors or were in danger of having to close them, because of the area being too noisy for residents. I never went to college, but if I'm looking at my prospective home and I notice a nightclub across the street, it might cross my mind to ask if it will be noisy, or should I sign the papers and just invest in ear plugs.

The Biltmore Cabaret continues to have this kind of problem. Their regular Sunday night burlesque dance party has fielded complaints if the music goes til 1:02 a.m. I can only imagine some irate yuppie with their finger poised on speed dial waiting for the clock hands to pass to call and vocalize a lament about how the neighbourhood noise level isn't being respected. I know. I kind of want to smack them, too.

On the other end of the spectrum, we have people who find it too quiet such as False Creek residents including Laura MacCormack who are protesting the conversion of a building into the Kearney Funeral Home. For real. Because condo owners are now concerned that the proximity of a funeral home, of all things, is going to bring their property values down.

Residents who are against the funeral home, which is poised to go into a heritage site that has stood empty for years, have a range of complaints such as it will lower property value, make a nightmare of parking, and damage the neighbourhood's morale. Being a commercially zoned site, Kearney didn't have to seek permission from area residents. And according to BC Assessment, the funeral home's presence shouldn't have any negative effect on area properties future marketability.

I have, in my mind, come up with a solution that I think is fair: for those seeking to live in a vibrant area, live over a busy bar and nightclub to be part of Vancouver's local colour.

Those who want a quiet space that doesn't have loud noise after 7 p.m., I invite to move next to Kearney in the Cambie and 2nd area -- I hear some folks might be looking to sell their condos now. Failing that, there is a large urban sprawl called the Fraser Valley. I hear it's pretty quiet there.


]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2648937 2013-02-08T17:07:58-05:00 2013-04-10T05:12:01-04:00

Tristan Risk http://www.huffingtonpost.com/tristan-risk/
While I'm happy enough in the company of lumberjacks, people who look like extras from "North Of 60," and who are listening Gowan or Platinum Blond — I've toured through Canada quite a bit off the beaten track — but the NHL just pisses me off.

I guess it's for a few reasons. First of all, I don't understand modern hockey. In my more formative years, I grew up dressing "Jem and the Hologram" dolls while male family members swirled around and watched "Hockey Night In Canada" in the living room.

Worst of the culprits of leaving this on and becoming engrossed in these games was my grandmother. There is something unsettling about an tiny old Scottish lady swearing ad spitting poison at her team when they are playing poorly. But back in the day, the hockey players were pretty manly — hairy, broken teeth, bruised, and aggressive.

There is little point in denying that even in my young pre-pubescent brain something primal clicked that recognized these were good goons to have on your side in a fight, all pretenses of hunter-gatherer aside. These were he-men, burly and brawny and deft at swinging a hockey stick whether it's a the puck or an opponent's mouth. They'd have gone into the rink with battering rams if you had let them.

These days, I watch hockey and all I see is fresh-faced little boys. While still far from fragile, they still have puppy fat on some of them. I would hazard a guess that a few of them would totally grow playoff beards if they could cultivate the facial hair to do so. I don't want them to get hurt, but they're so well padded that I doubt that's a concern. Not to mention they have amazing health plans and doctors of the highest skill waiting to do mad surgery on them if they bump into the boards.

These kids don't throw down quite like the old school players, but let's face it — you put these rookies out in the rink with the players from the early '80s in their prime, then shit will go down, and the ice will likely get decorated by confetti of expensive dental work.

Speaking of expensive, doesn't anyone else think that these guys are just a teeny-tiny bit overpaid? Just in the slightest? For playing a game? No? I'm the only one that thinks this? That's probably because the one time I went to a Vancouver Canucks game I was appalled at the capital outlay required.

The tickets alone were not cheap (I didn't pay for them but if you had asked me I may have laughed in your face. I was there in an emergency date capacity). So it cost an arm and a leg to get in the door. Booze was prohibitively expensive which seems ridiculous — isn't the only way to get through a game to get kind of chateau shit-faced?

It was while I was watching all this and a kind of hockey fight broke out (I've seen more blood spilled over electronics at a Boxing Day sale) which is why I really don't care for hockey. There's nothing engaging about watching two millionaires skating around on the ice beating the grunt out of each other, except that you're not likely to see that loss of dignity happen anywhere else.

Last Friday night, deep in East Vancouver, there's a little hall that's home to a regular burlesque show. For whatever reason, I have seen three incredible shows there, and none of them were packed the way shows of that quality should be. The straw that broke this camel's back was while there were a number of hugely talented people doing a fundraiser for the arts, attention was riveted to a bunch of ice-skating gorillas.

I can't say I'm surprised, but I am a little bit disappointed in my Vancouver brethren. But I suppose what slays me is that people prefer to watch these pro players, who get more to skate on the ice for a single game than most of these folks will make in a year, and more than this buffet of talented artists (who happen to be stripteasers) all holed up at the WISE Hall on a Friday night.

I honestly died a little bit. The other times it happened, I chalked it up to people just being kind of stupid, but now I honestly have confirmation. Vancouver, I totally judge you with my judging eyes.

In order to re-shift the focus back to the arts, I'm forced to do something I didn't want to have to do: I'm going to do an effing pin-up shoot in a Canucks jersey. Hopefully, people will look at it and say, "GO CANUCKS! Oh, hey, cute girl, um, with no pants. And really great shoes... ummm...."

Then they scratch their heads, have a minor debate about hockey versus tits and hopefully tits will tip the scales. Here's hoping.

Hockey players: you may be able to stop goals and passes, but burlesque girls can stop traffic. We win.

XOXO


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