“It would be nice,” said Mr. Vancouveriste’s niece, who is six, “if you two showed up at one of my games before the season is over.”

Mr. Vancouveriste is something of a soccer geek, and had been assistant-coaching her older brother all season, which meant a Monday night practice and a Saturday morning game most weekends. But by the time the afternoons came, he had vacated the pitch to attend to the errands and detritus of modern life. He’d seen only a few of his niece’s games, while I’d only taken in the season opener. And so we were duly summoned to the last regular game of the season.

We listened to Everclear’s “Volvo-Driving Soccer Mom” as we drove to the park, and were delighted on arrival to find a convenient parking spot. This happens so rarely in Vancouver, we were sure it augured well for the game.

Kids’ soccer season is a long affair in Vancouver, stretching from early September to early March, mainly because everyone believes our weather is balmy. But on this last Saturday in February balmy weather was nowhere to be found. The sky was overcast, which was nothing new, and a very cold wind was making its presence felt despite my carefully layered attire.

Dozens of soccer parents, more dedicated and doubtlessly more warmly dressed than I, huddled about the edges of pitches that, like the little girls running around on them, were about one-quarter regulation-adult-size. The girls’ uniforms were efficiently designed. Knee-high socks and royal blue shorts were topped with jerseys that reversed from royal blue to mustard yellow, to make it easy for the adults to tell who was on who’s team. Or so the theory went.

One little girl, a talented distance kicker, wore a hooded sweater knitted in multi-colour stripes; another wore an elegant lavender raincoat. Our niece topped off her uniform with a white zip up fleecy and an orange k-way windbreaker, worn open and off-the-shoulder, with the left sleeve-end pretty much constantly in her mouth, no doubt for comfort during her current baby-teeth-losing phase. And so it went, a veritable parade of six-year-olds, expressing their nascent fashion sense and trying to stay warm in the biting wind.

Six months is an eternity in the lives of six-year-olds, and I was looking forward to seeing how their soccer skills had improved. But this game was pretty much like their season opener: Packs of little girls ran after a kid-sized soccer ball, for the most part not quite sure why they were out there.

There were a few girls with natural skills, and one or two who looked to be in touch with their competitive spirit. But most of them were still learning what to do with their feet and how to cooperate with the strange beings who were teammates while competing against similarly strange beings who apparently were not.

Despite the cold, goalie position seemed to be popular. A little girl lucky enough to be called to sub in as goalie could practice her somersaults, or daydream, at least until the adults began to shriek at her “Look! Look! Here comes the ball!” as if the little girl should care as much as they did.

The soccer gods, otherwise known as coaches, were all well over six feet tall. Patient and indulgent, they took pains to make sure each of their little charges got to play every position, even if it did take 45 minutes a half.

At half-time the athletes gathered around a Tupperware container filled with orange quarters and held aloft by an obliging soccer mom. I was informed that this replenishing of glucose, potassium, and hydration levels is a ritual that is observed on every kids’ soccer pitch in Canada.

Oranges consumed, the little girls dutifully filed back on the field for another 45-minute go. Just at that moment the snow flakes began to fall. Let’s not exaggerate, this was no blizzard, but here was physical proof that it was literally freezing. Wasn’t it just about time to wrap this baby up, I thought out loud, and get these little warriors some hot chocolate?

Nope. Not at all. These games go on, through sun, wind, hail, and Vancouver’s nasty, cold winter rains, so long as the Parks Board declares the pitch playable. Children, coaches, and parents soldier on, in service of the greater good of sports and athletics and the credo of “No pain, no gain.”

At least until I got there. I’m positive my kvetching cut at least 5 minutes off the second half.

Two-year-old Chutney Villa, near the Broadway and Main intersection of Vancouver’s arriviste Soma neighbourhood, inhabits a room that was for many years a chop suey joint.The room, with its green and orange walls, dark carpet, and darker plastic chairs, has a not-quite-tarted-up feeling, possibly because of less than artfully draped scarves attempting to camouflage pedestrian neon lights.

But the decor was a mere detail. My companions and I were happy to be there, the room was warm, the evening cold, and we’d only heard good things about this restaurant’s spicy south Indian food, which relies more on spice, and far less on ghee than do the biriyani’s, kormas, and masalas served in most of Vancouver’s Indian restaurants, and which Mr. Vancouveriste and I love to distraction.

That said, we were feeling very enthusiastic about trying new regional interpretations of old, much-loved standards. Since there were three of us at dinner that night, we decided to order family style, and share as many flavours as possible.

My companions each ordered a beer from a limited menu that included some Indian brands, while I ordered a chai, which had an odd, tangy, sour taste that sugar could not disguise. It was very unlike the warm spicy chais I am used to, with their top notes of cinnamon, cardamom, ginger, and star anise, and not altogether pleasant to drink.

Compared to most Indian restaurants in Vancouver, the price point at Chutney Villa is mid-range. “A la carte” entries which are accompanied with raita, papad, rice, and sambar—a kind of runny dahl—start around $15, with thalli plates that add vadai, soup, and dessert for an extra $3 charge.

There are vegetarian choices, and no pork or beef on the menu. We decided on three curries—lamb, fish, and chicken—one as a thalli platter so we could sample a range of the restaurant’s menu. We ordered all meals with medium heat, and were glad we did. Despite the heat, however, we really didn’t find much to write home about.

The chicken curry was passable; it may have been better if the kitchen had finished the dish with more coconut, and removed the whole anise stars before dishing it up, saving me the trouble of picking them off my fork.

The fish curry, made from Indian king fish, a sort of mackerel, was fishy and slightly unpleasant.

The lamb dish was a disaster; greasy, and with an odd crunchy texture and very poor mouth feel, it was a real disappointment for Mr. V, who loves his lamb biriyani.

Chutney is the highlight of Chutney Villa, and we tried all four on offer that evening. The coconut, banana-pear, and cranberry were all tasty accompaniments, but the spiciness of the ginger nearly took my head off. Not exactly the pause that refreshed, and thank the gods for the raita, which I normally leave untouched.

Service was somewhere between perfunctory and efficient, and our server appeared bored throughout our stay. A touch of warmth or enthusiasm may have enhanced the flavour of our food.

To be fair, the restaurant was full during most of our visit, and many patrons appeared to be regulars. However, with Vij’s less than a 10-minute drive away, and many other wonderful, less-expensive Indian restaurants in Vancouver, it’s not likely we’ll re-visit Chutney Villa anytime soon.

Much is being made of our Premier Gordon Campbell’s European vacation in the company of his brother-in-law, Dr. Les Vertesi.

BC Health Minister George Abbot defends this strangely incestuous fact-finding mission by assuring us that Dr. Les has offered to pay his own way, and not only that, but he is the BC Representative for the Health Council of Canada.

What Mr. Abbot, who has not yet read Dr. Les’ book advocating two-tier medicare, neglects to mention, is that Vertesi is on the Health Council of Canada because his brother-in-law put him there.

It is indeed rich to imagine these two titans of the British Columbia’s governing elite on vacation together.

First, of course, there is the Olympic closing ceremonies, where the flag and flame will be passed on to Vancouver, and preparations for our own “party for the rich” will begin in earnest.

No doubt, tears of triumph will be shed when our underdog-makes-good mayor, Smiling Sammy, receives the flag and parades it in his motorized wheelchair. This is the sort of spectacle our masters, so burdened with shoving down our throats what is good for us, delight in.

Then the grand tour will begin in earnest, with Dr. Les always at Gordo’s ear, helping him to think the right thoughts and come up with the right ideas about how to help our ailing medical system.

Those who know and tongues that wag have made much of the simple truth that the Premier’s siblings, Michael and Professor Katherine—who is married to Dr. Les—have always considered Gordo the dim bulb of the family.

Whatever our Premier’s cognitive limitations, methinks this cure for medicare may be worse than its disease.

Most of the time, taking the bus in Vancouver seems a self-sacrificial and nonsensical act.

Why pay for the privilege of standing for 40 minutes while mp3 players scratch and thump out bass lines; unselfconscious freaks scream into cell phones about their sex lives and other catastrophes; overfull day packs threaten to decapitate anyone too close; and drivers careen through impossible traffic, shaking up passengers and endangering anyone unfortunate enough to be in their way?

More often than not, you can get there by car in less than half the time, and pay just a bit more for parking than the cost of a round-trip bus fare.

Nevertheless, I try to do my part for our air quality. And when I do, my mind is generally focused on surviving the trip, hopefully supported by that rarest of luxuries—a vacant seat.

So I don’t know why it caught my eye the other day. The decal, that is. Coast Mountain Bus Company was awarded “Transit System of the Year” or something similar, back in 1996. Apparently, they haven’t won anything since.

Either they are still very proud of themselves, or their bean counters have decided that it is “fiscally prudent” to leave those damn decals where they are.

For the grisly bits of this report, you’ll have to skip to the closing paragraphs. There was more than the macabre to our visit to the VAG, and BC-born artist Brian Jungen’s show is worth more than a passing mention.

Jungen is a young artist who has been getting a lot of international attention and critical acclaim of late. The 40-piece, comprehensive collection of his work on display at the VAG includes three large-scale whale sculptures reconstructed from white plastic lawn chairs as well as his Prototype for Understanding masks, made from Nike footwear.

Other fascinating pieces in Jungen’s exhibit include a living aviary constructed mainly from Ikea filing boxes, and a usable, plywood scale model of the Gamble House, one of the icons of American architecture.

What makes Jungen’s art so satisfying is his ingenious ability to interpret, deconstruct, and reconstruct the commonplace, mashing it up with reference and reverence to other cultural realities. His vision is rarified, and his potential seems limitless.

The 15 minutes or so it takes to watch the video interview between Jungen and curator Daina Augaitis (which is available in one of the small alcoves adjacent to mask exhibit) was well worth the time and helpful in understanding how Jungen sees the world and approaches his work.

We also took in the “British Masters, Group of Seven, and Pop Icons” exhibition on the main floor of the gallery. This featured paintings, drawings, and works in a variety of other media that are part of VAG’s permanent collection.

This is the first of a series of exhibitions that will be displayed during the yearlong retrospective “75 Years of Collecting” to highlight the breadth of works that VAG has acquired, often through donation.

There were many remarkable pieces in this retrospective including some from the Group of Seven, a couple of Warhol prints, and a number of British works.

Perhaps that’s why we missed the Sickert on our first go. This unmemorable painting, which Sickert called “Still Life”, was tucked away in one of the little alcoves off the main gallery area. Easy to miss and soon forgotten.

Both Mr. Vancouverist and I drew blanks when a friendly English gentleman accosted us and asked if we had seen the painting done by the murderer. Being friendly sorts ourselves, we followed him back to the Sickert alcove, wondering what all the fuss was about.

Looking at Sickert’s painting one would never guess the artist was talented, much less a major British painter who had been mentored by Degas and Whistler. It is painted in bilious greens and browns, without much reference to perspective. The elements look as if they are floating on unrelated planes.

Still Life is exactly that: a simple composition cobbled together from found kitchen objects and painted rather quickly. There is a loaf of bread, a bit of cheese or butter, a knife, a frying pan, and a colander. Or so it seems.

Before our newfound friend told us about his years of experience as a mortuary attendant, he reminded us of Patricia Cornwell’s book, Portrait of a Killer, published in 2003, that claimed Sickert was the famous killer Jack the Ripper.

And no, according to our new friend, that was no loaf of bread, but rather a working girl’s liver made cirrhotic by bad gin, and no, not a knife either, but a surgical scalpel. And the colander, well, that’s what they use in the morgue to drain blood off organs.

Liver or loaf? You’ll have to go to the VAG and judge for yourself. The only thing I know for certain is there were no fava beans in the picture.

Unfortunately, after all this commotion, we were a little too enervated to take in much of the Tanabe show on the third floor. We did see a couple of beautiful scenic paintings, though, and will no doubt pop back in later to take a better look.

Like pretty much everyone who lives here, towards the middle of the interminable rainstorm that was January in Vancouver, I needed a break.

With neither the budget nor the time for jaunting off to Baja or Kauai, I needed something that was cheap, quick, and could be repeated as necessary with no ill effects.

My solution was Alba Organics Papaya Mango Body Cream, which has a gorgeously rich botanical fragrance, and is made, according to the label, from 72% certified organic ingredients like shea butter and kikui nut oil.

Just opening the lid and taking a whiff provides the needed quick hit of pleasure, but this is actually a body cream that lives up to its claims. My skin feels great. Unlike the women who wail on certain TV commercials about their “right” to freedom from dry skin, I have it.

I get compliments everywhere I go when I wear this stuff, though some folks mistake the lovely mango-papaya fragrance for pineapple. No worries, they’re all wonderful tropical scents, and I’ll be enjoying this body cream all through summer as well.

Alba Organics Papaya Mango Body Cream is available in Vancouver at Capers, Choices, and London Drugs.

When it comes to take out Chinese, Mr. Vancouveriste and I have got it down to two words—On Lok—where we’ve identified six or seven always hot, always fresh, and always impeccably spiced dishes that we both like. Order any two for take out, with a side order of rice, and we have plenty for dinner, along with enough for a left over lunch.

So, I was surprised the other day when the dear man brought in an order of take out from Ho Ho Fresh Food on Commercial Drive. Surprised, but willing to keep my mind open and my control meister in my back pocket, knowing as I do what “they” say about variety.

My surprise turned to just the teeniest inkling of dread the moment he opened the containers. I’ve yet to master the art of a home-cooked stir fry myself, but the Ho Ho’s looked like something I’d whipped up, put aside, then heated up a couple of days later. Which of course I’d only do in the direst of emergencies, like an earthquake or the end of the world as we know it.

Still, I tasted, and I ate. And it was not very good. But I persisted, at least until I found the rock in my mouth. It was an interesting little pebble, black with brown specks.

Perhaps the folks at Ho Ho thought it was a black bean. Or maybe it came from rice that wasn’t washed properly. But we were eating noodles, not rice, and I’m at a loss to understand how it got into my dinner.

Even though I left most of my dinner untouched, it re-visited me soon after, and I was obliged to leave an important meeting for the comfort of my salle de bain. Mr. Vancouveriste reports a similar day-after experience.

Ho Ho Fast Food, a place not soon forgotten, yet never to be revisited. “Was that a rock from your rice, or were you just trying to fleece me??

I was just beginning to love this moody Byzantine CBC spinoff of daVinci’s Inquest. It did get off to a bit of a slow start, but has recently begun to capture many of the issues that make Vancouver what it is.

Perhaps the brilliant minds that run mothercorp have something better up their sleeves. Either that or their new masters in Ottawa have the hatchets out.

The blow has been dealt. Score one more for western alienation and one less for Canadian content.

Yesterday, I got an email from a Uclulet-based friend, a writer of no small talent, expressing his outrage about “l’affaire Emerson.”

Despite my friend’s geographical distance from Emerson’s riding, he not only wrote to Emerson, but also to a group of friends and contacts, providing us with words we might like to use, should we also decide to contact Emerson. My friend’s email said:

Sorry folks, but I’m climbing the walls with outrage (again). Here’s the contact info for the MP who, scarcely two weeks after he was elected on a Liberal platform, crossed the floor to sit as a Conservative — with a plum cabinet position.

Just in case you’d like to send him a word, my message to the quisling is pasted below.
Yours in bemusement,
Xxxx

Contact details for the quisling:
+ David Emerson (Hon), MP (Liberal)
+ Main Listing: Government of Canada
+ 2148 Kingsway
+ Vancouver, BC V5N 2T5
+
+ 604-775-6263 Fax: 604-775-6284
+ E-mail: emersd@parl.gc.ca

Mr. Emerson, MP:
I am not a member of your riding but if I were, I would be calling for an immediate byelection.
When people choose whom to vote for, they take into account not just the person but the whole party ideology that goes along with that person. How utterly cynical of you to disregard this.
For you to so casually flip the bird to your supporters who believe in liberal principles — and so soon after they elected you — demonstrates a callousness and cupidity that, in my view, disqualifies you from public service, and further erodes public confidence in our politics.
Please make room for a person who has principles and stands by them. Do the honourable thing and resign.

Sincerely,
Xxxx Xxxxxxxxxxx

My response to my Uclulet-bound friend is below:

Nicely put, Xxxx. but what’s the point?

Business has been running the government since at least the 1960s. Mr. Emerson’s behaviour just makes it plainer. I heard Ujjal Dosanjh explaining it on CBC the other morning…for Emerson, the move was just a move from one “corporation” to another.

Still, it will be interesting to see how this plays out. Obviously, the “conservatives” did not think this one through, which speaks to their inability to think deeply and strategically about issues. The country is in the hands of quislings, and callow ones at that.

I’m watching with interest the twin Canadian scandals–Emerson and Gretzky–to see how the truly privileged handle pressure. Are they men or merely lucky mice?

Cheers,
Xxxxxx

My further thoughts on “l’affaire Emerson”:
Although I was once a member of the Conservative Party of Canada, for one long David Orchard moment, I have never actually voted for them.

I have deep disrespect for their childcare policy and its poorly veiled attempt at social retro-engineering. Shades of St. Milton Friedman.

Their tax policy, aimed at lowering the GST and concomitantly increasing minimum levels of personal tax, I would find laughable, were it not obvious that it is another Friedmanesque attempt to obliterate the middle class and to gradually introduce a regressive flat tax on income.

Still, once the election votes were counted, I was willing to give this new minority government a chance. That lasted just about two weeks. When I first heard the news that Emerson had joined Harper’s cabinet, I naively thought Emerson was going to retain his seat and status as a Liberal. And for a moment I thought, now that is really innovative.

But it was not to be.

When the writ was dropped for our January election, I couldn’t have cared less. I had become a disinterested cynic, one who begrudged the time it would take me to vote, but who would vote nonetheless, if only to help preserve our freedom to vote.

For a couple of weeks after the votes were counted I had a small hope that, despite my differences with it, perhaps this new government would be different. Clearly, nothing has changed, at least not for the better.

And now, my inner cynic is back, and it’s bigger and badder than ever.

I’ve been a Telus customer for years, way back since the either were, or ate, BC Tel. They have my landline, cell, long distance, and, worst of all, my adsl accounts. I’ve been nothing if not loyal.

During summer 2003,Telus truly made many lives miserable while they “modernized” the way they did business and made the future friendly. I’m still waiting for the insulting $20 credit they offered to compensate me for three months of spotty internet service. It has never appeared on my bill.

It was an exhausting fight to get Telus out to fix the problem. My time and opportunities costs cannot be measured. Suffice it to say they cancelled my summer.

Still I hang on, not so much out of misguided loyalty as out of fear of the devil I don’t know. Would another telecom provider do a better job?

Truthfully, I’ve never had any trouble with their phone, cell, or long distance service, other than the “extra” charge that used to appear on my bill each month for the privilege of subscribing to one of Telus’ long distance plans.

Since November, it’s been happening again. Spotty adsl service. Very slow download time. Every time I call Telus, someone says they want to help.

First, they blamed it on the cable from the phone jack to my modem. Switched that, but it didn’t help.

Next call to Telus, they assured me it was my router, but sorry I didn’t buy their router, so they can’t help with that.

Calls to a very friendly and helpful Cisco guy (who sounded like he was working in a phone room on the other side of the world) left me with the assurances that at least someone cares about their customers, even if Telus doesn’t, and more important, there was nothing wrong with the router.

Next call to Telus, I bypass the router and plug in straight to the modem. My service is still spotty. Download speed was testing at 80kbps at dslreports.com/speedtest.

I figured I finally had them in a corner; Telus would have to accept responsibility and fix this damn thing.

But no, they don’t. Something is wrong with my computer. Look at all the packets it’s downloading. No wonder I can’t get on their pipe. Some ghost in my machine is using all my bandwidth. Or so they say.

Unfortunately, I’m no techie. I’m just confused. Maybe Telus is right this time. Maybe they aren’t. But it doesn’t matter, because Telus is always right, and there’s not a darn thing I can do about it.

Telus cannot help. Or will not. I have a choice. Either call in Geek Squad and pay their minimum $149 fee, or pay for some spyware. I’ve been using AdAware’s free personal version for a couple of years. All it ever comes up with is tracking cookies.

I opt for Spyware Doctor’s paid version. Not a bad deal for around $36 Canadian for a year’s subscription. About the same price as Telus spyware, but I won’t even go there. Not to mention that Telus has never suggested it as a remedy for my troubles.

Spyware Doctor finds and eliminates a couple of things. Bandwidth is better. But one of the first lessons you learn in statistics class is that correlation is not causation. Will the better bandwidth hold? Time will tell.

Meanwhile, Telus has left a very bad taste in my mouth. I dream about cutting all ties with them. But there is that saying about the devil you know, and there is also the time commitment to update all my email subscriptions and sign ins.

I can’t spare the time to make those changes, and so the months go by. For now, I’m stuck in a bad marriage with a telecom spouse who’s cheating on me.

But I’m getting a little action on the side myself now. For the past few months, Mr. V. and I have been placing all our long distance calls through “Less2talk.” We just dial 10-10-969 before we make a call.

We know Telus is still getting a cut of the deal. After all, they own the phone lines. But our calls are cheaper, and it makes us feel better for the time being.