BARBED WIRE webzine Vancouver's only FREE webzine with a COMPLETE money-back guarantee also available in glorious technicolour at http://home.istar.ca/~paull/wire Comments are welcome. Email paull@istar.ca Barbed Wire is produced by a group of enthusiastic malcontents. This is a short- term project, a premeditated cultural blip, planned for 12 issues. Original illustrations are by Geoff Carter. ISSUE 11 - The Issue Issue C O N T E N T S Message From the Editor Taking Issue THE (IR)REGULARS IN BOX Readers write: lifestock people and email from someone's sister. Lost and Found Alex Mackenzie discovers a snap of a young girl in a blue leotard. The Issue Issue Thematically linked stories from the Barbed Wire stable I S S U E S Club Coffee Kathy Paris is left with a bad taste in her mouth after downing a cup of Java at her local Starbucks - "the place to go to gauge yourself against the measuring stick of the coffee klatch," she thinks. Tales from the Dreamer's Crypt Jeff McDonald remembers an doomed love affair with duplicitous, married, therapy-enhanced woman. "(she) made my life more than I thought it could be, a presence embedded in my being that I miss every day, and someone who doesn't deserve to lick dog shit off my boots for the way she's treated me," he laments. Beiging Bites Adam Florance visits the capital of the world's most populated country. "The harsh grate of phlegm being brought up from the boots and hurled willy nilly in all directions is the most impressive first impression Beijing offers," he tells us. The Terrible Truth About Badminton Paul Levine takes issue with those who associate the worlds fastest racket sport with butterflies and picnics. "I loath a particular miniscule niche of the populous whose misguided notions of a sport I've played since childhood impinge upon my tiny sphere of influence," he declares. Polaroids from the Crapper Local artist Tom Wren finds time in his morning routine to snap instant pix of his most private expulsions. Message From the Editor Taking Issue Consider this, the second to last issue of Barbed Wire, the summer filler issue - since many writers were either too distracted by the heat, or absent on their holiday jaunts, to find time to contribute. Nonetheless, those who did make it each had their own particular axe to grind for this - the Issue Issue. Kathy Paris gives it to the ubiquitous Starbucks chain in Club Coffee, while Jeff McDonald laments a soured love affair in Tales from the Dreamer's Crypt. Adam Florence delivers his assessment of the capital of the world's most populated nation in Beiging Bites, while I rant on about misconceptions surrounding a seemingly innocuous racket sport in the Terrible Truth about Badminton. Issue 10's "Shit" section was so popular that, even at the risk of redundancy, we've added more shit to this issue. Since our sanitized, Western society provides us with little first-hand experience with other people's excrement, we're forced to either extrapolate from our own discharges or hope for a lucky break in the public restroom as we spend time trying to imagine what other people's shit looks like. Tom Wren tries to alleviate the strain as he takes the plunge(r) and the camera along with him to his morning ritual in Polariods from the Crapper. There is only one issue of Barbed Wire left to go until we evaporate. The theme for Issue 12 is "Death". Stay tuned for Barbed Wire Offline - the entire 12 issue collection on CD rom with sound, video and graphics by guest contributors. We welcome contributions for future issues to paull@istar.ca as long as you keep in mind that we have low standards and if you don't meet them your submission will not be published. Feel free to throw your story ideas in our direction if you're uncertain about their suitability. Writer's guidelines are here. We also welcome your feedback. Please address all correspondence to paull@istar.ca Paul Levine Vancouver, Canada August 1998 INBOX LIVESTOCK PEOPLE good thoughts about your page i have never admitted my attraction to animal sex......but i am..i have been this way since childhood and know several livestock people that have simalar interests and will not admit it.. i have witnessed several times ,,during horse breeding people have been very turned on watching...i know of a couple of cases where men have screwed girls that were underage because they were turned on....and went home and told the parents what had happened and the men were arrested for rape!!!!!!!!!!!! in one of the cases my freinds dad did 24 months in prison and due to embarrasment when he got out killed himself. sad story because he was a hell of a nice guy that fucked a consenting 15 yr old girl in heat "Ted Fulton" I DON'T HAVE A SISTER Hi bro How are you doing? How is your new job? I hear you are going to Boston on the 5th of July WoW!!It is sure great to be back with istar,oh how I have missed it.Have you heard from mum and dad?? Nan is well. She went to the doctor today and the doctor gave here a new prescription but Joan won't get it filled until Joan comes home to stay! Nan said she has to make sure she doesn't die in the summer time.OH ME NERVES.!! BYE FOR NOW BROTHER OF ME BRENXOXO doreyb@istar.ca LAUGHED Howdy. I am writing to let you know that I laughed at your issue. Well, not _at_ your issue, but really, _with_ it. It was funny, insightful, etc, etc. Anyways, I really liked it and think y'all should keep up the good work. I've already sent you one note subscribing to know when you'll come out with new issues. O'tay. ttfn `danielle theboss@snipr.com Club Coffee by Kathy Paris The steam curls seductively over the edge of the cup. The slightly burnt aroma of coffee permeates the busy shop. Customers queue for their favourite combinations of coffee: Cafe Latte, Americano, Cappucino, a hit, a fix, a rush of caffeine. And they do it at Starbucks. Where the living is stylish and the coffee is expensive, hot and bitter. That's only good thing about Starbucks coffee. It's hot. That's my main complaint about coffee. It's never hot enough. And that's the only thing Starbucks gets right-if you don't count the fact that they have duped hundreds of thousands of people into believing that a bitter cup of coffee is a good one. It isn't. The best cup of coffee I've ever had was at a small cedar shake shack perched on the edge of the Georgia Straight in a minuscule fishing town called Lund. Long gone, they used to serve great coffee, make fabulous hot chocolate and delectable treats. A cup of coffee was hot, smooth, fragrant and rolled over my tongue with sensuous satisfaction. Delicious. Of course that was long ago and far away, where the terms "target market" and "demographics" were never in the lexicon. Here in Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada, Starbucks rules. All the little middle class folks striving for upward mobility frequent Starbucks. You can see them in their workout gear, their office clothing, their union ditch digging outfits, lined up like so many lemmings to receive their needed jolt of caffeine. They look around reassuringly and know that they are among their own kind. People they identify with; youthful, vigorous, stylish. The cool, the hip, spending their disposable income on a high priced, poor quality product that temporarily satisfies a powerful craving and does more for the bank accounts of Starbucks executives than it does for their taste buds. Starbucks is the place to go to gauge yourself against the measuring stick of the coffee klatch. If you don't measure up, maybe that non-spill cup with the cool graphics will bump you up a notch. Oh, I have to admit that Starbucks has a master marketing plan. They peddle an addictive product, they package it cleverly with add on merchandise and they don't give a shit about the taste. Why should they? Their customers don't. They have come to love that sticky, bitter, overroasted taste. They think it's good. What it is is mediocre. It's endemic evidence of a large cross section of society that is duped, lied to, and stolen from by corporations on a daily basis. Somehow that's ok. No one cares about the lies, cause they really are quite small. Starbucks never claimed to have the best coffee in town. They only imply it. That means it's not really a lie. And so what if those people like the taste of bitter coffee? So what if they don't know it's crap? They enjoy it. And what about McDonalds, what about the millions of other companies that provide questionable products to millions of adoring fans. Why shouldn't they? Who really cares, anyway? Are we really that dumb? I don't think so. Are we that tired or bored? Maybe. Are we so eager to be a part of something, anything, that we will ignore the implications of our actions? I think so. The strength of the community lies not in the products we have in common but the ties we have with the people in it. Community is about what we do with each other, not what we buy. But that message has been lost in a commuter culture, instant gratification, corporate entities, marketing messages and two income families with little time for kids sitting in front of TV babysitters. The corporate culture of Starbucks doesn't respect it's customers. It uses them. It provides nifty little gadgets, kicky graphics by talented designers, and a convenient place to grab an overpriced cup of over roasted coffee. By all means, enjoy the experience. But know it for what it is. Starbucks is a corporation that attempts to fool you into believing that they fill your personal craving with coffee or a pretty cup. Perhaps a closer look would reveal a personal emptiness that needs people to fill it, family, community, truth and respect. Then, if you still need a jolt of caffeine, do your taste buds a favour and try somewhere other than Starbucks. I can guarantee you that the coffee will taste better. Kathy Paris Tales from the Dreamer's Crypt by Jeff McDonald removed by request of author Beijing Bites by Adam R Florance The unfamiliarly brisk air stings face and nostrils pleasantly and uplifts briefly before the acrid reality of raw fossil fuels burning inefficiently wipes the romantic memory of childhood skiing holidays and sparks a harsh hack that persists and (gradually) makes you realize why Beijingers spit so much. "Spit and bicycles," was how a (diplomat) acquaintance described the capital of the world's most populous country after a forced visit in the early part of this decade. "Poor facilities" is the only thing I can really add to that description, half a decade later, but admittedly a diplomat is less likely to be exposed to the day-to-day reality of the average Peking Dunny than a low-budget visitor like I. The harsh grate of phlegm being brought up "from the boots" and hurled willy nilly in all directions is the most impressive first impression Beijing offers, followed by the cacophony of an accent that can never sound anything but angry. Even other mainlanders don't like Beijing people. But you have to take in to consideration the fact that they've been through about two centuries worth of challenging leadership, live in a harsh climate with stinking hot summers, freezing cold winters and rain in between, have to fight amongst a billion of their fellow citizens for everything, and (the real clincher) there's not a decent loo in the whole damn city. Acquaintance with one's excretory system does become more intimate in this part of the world, but even serious "time" in South East Asia can't prepare one for the commodes of the people's republic. I believe the term "shocking", not inappropriate. Still, an excuse to check out the lobby of every 5-star hotel in town, even if viewed through wincing eyes as a beeline is made for the marked door in the back corner, is always welcome.Scatology aside, Beijing is an efficient city and on the surface appears quite modern and international but as soon as you descend to street level it's immediately apparent why locals are willing to spend "6 months in a leaky boat" to get out. Thai students in Beijing invariably answer, "I Like Beijing, it's just the people." Or as one more diplomatically minded Bangkokian expat put it "I don't want to say there are no good people in Beijing, it's just that they are hard to find." The difference between the Thai happy-go-lucky attitude to life and that of natives in this cold, windy, unforgiving place is remarkable. And the lack of comprehension between the peoples of the two towns extreme. Why anyone would fight wars for this locale is a mystery to every expat Bangkokian in the home of Peking Duck (which you can find a better version of in several Yaowarat restaurants than at the "original" outlets here). But they have and they do (on a daily basis) and the efficiency is impressive (if the service non-existent) and Beijing as a regional megalopolis is a relatively attractive one, but when they spend so much time telling you how they were sipping tea while we were still living in caves, one can't help thinking, "5,000 years of civilization, and you still can't build a decent toilet?" Adam R Florance The Terrible Truth about Badminton by Paul Levine They say April is the cruelest month but to my mind September is the most irritating. Not that I have anything against the slow chill that settles on the city anticipating the death of leaves and the spirits of west coast sun- worshippers whose vapid smiles are propped up by the rising sun. No. Unlike many Vancouverites, I'm immune to the ravages of Seasonal Affective Disorder. In fact, the reverse is probably true - the Pavlovian misery that others feel when the sun is taken from them leaves me positively invigorated. This is probably because I spend the summer practising for the fall. I stay indoors as much as possible, avoid discussing the weather, and I neglect my plants so that their leaves turn brown and fall off. By the time September actually rolls around I'm non-plussed, au courant and oh la la. Unfortunately, others are not so blessed. Having spent the summer months slavishly devoted to the idea that hot weather is a call to arms to take to the beaches, camp sites, mountains and patios, their sun-drenched neurons stop firing when the light goes out. And as the blackness falls they describe themselves inaccurately as "blue", start taking large doses of Enchinacia and St. John's Wort, and resolve to "get out more". Sometimes the fall lineup saves them from doing themselves in but failing anything interesting on TV (try to imagine that) these poor misguided souls sign up for programs at the local community centre. Now I have nothing against community centres. To me, they're giant doll's houses of incongruous activities. Ever walked by one and looked into the windows. In one room people are making candle holders out of toilet rolls, in another strangers are hugging one another (presumably "building community") and right next door to them flat earthers are discussing the lack of cube-shaped globes in our school system. Hey, all part of the Canadian cultural mosaic, I like to tell myself. I embrace diversity as long as no one tries to embrace me. Yet despite my tolerance for the myriad forms the human spirit takes as it soars on its path to actualization, I loath a particular miniscule niche of the populous whose misguided notions of a sport I've played since childhood impinge upon my tiny sphere of influence. Of course, I'm taking about badminton. Now I know what you're thinking - you're imagining that perfect childhood picnic that never happened - where butterflies danced over mommy's parasol while daddy sipped wine and read poetry as you and your adorable sibling gently bashed Canadian Tire shuttlecocks across the daisy speckled lawn, laughing as only innocents can at a high flying birdie, at your comic mis-hits, at the fantastic frivolity of a game that offers nothing but a trivial respite from the challenges of modern life. It all makes me want to lobby for the return of lawn darts. Admit it - you are thinking this and so are so many other wayward souls who think the spoonful of sugar to chase away their Fall blues comes in the form of a rousing round of badminton at the local community centre. Now I don't begrudge anyone a "good time" unless it happens to impinge upon my good time. So, to save you the heartache of having to deal with the spectre of crushed illusions first- hand, let me tell you a few things about badminton. Badminton, like life, is not all fun. It's a rapid-fire, bloodthirsty game requiring lightening fast reflexes, a high degree of mental and physical acuity and equal measures of power and finesse. It has none of the lumbering pomposity of tennis and lacks the pointless pounding of Squash or Racquetball. At its higher levels, it's the martial art of racket sports, requiring grace, deception, accuracy, timing and the presence of mind to choose, at the very last second, whether to marshal all your power to thrash the birdie at your opponent at 200 miles an hour or drop it, cunningly, lazily, mockingly, just beyond his reach. As always, it takes the British to latch onto a good idea and make a tea party out of it, and we can blame the officers stationed in India during the mid- 1800's for taking the game back to England and launching its popularity among picnickers. While the Brits adopted the game and named it after the Duke of Beaufort's "Badminton" estate where it was first displayed for the amusement of the chattering classes, the game in its original form was invented long ago; its origins dating back at least two thousand years to ancient Greece, India and China. Serious badminton is extremely popular in Great Britain and Asia primarily because, unlike North America, these cultures don't necessarily equate masculinity with muscle mass. Badminton is a game for twitchy ectomorphs and in Vancouver about 80% of serious players are from Hong Kong, China, Sri Lanka, and other parts of Asia. My interest and skill at badminton is somewhat perplexing to many of the people I play with regularly who are well-attuned the North American view of the game as a benign amusement. Occasionally, a lumbering, gym-enhanced caucasion "all rounder" will show up at a badminton session, having heard of the aerobic benefits, and he'll eye the gym full of skinny runts with a contemptuous glee as he prepares himself for victory. These guys always leave with their bulked-up, steroid enhanced tails between their legs after humiliating defeats by those with quicker reflexes and less cumbersome physiques. Now, I feel for the jocks because I know that they're misguided but well intentioned; they don't come for the "fun" but rather for the savagery. As they approach the gym they're not thinking idyllic grassy settings, they're not anticipating the belly-laugh that a missed birdie delivers, they're not thinking that the object of the game is to keep the shuttlecock in play as long as possible, hitting it a high as you can so the other guy has a good chance of hitting it back. I'll give them that. But, unfortunately, many people's heads remain populated with the sustaining images of Badminton as a frivolous diversion, the perfect antidote to the fall blues. So they show up at community centres (inevitably as couples looking for "fun") and they can barely suppress their giggles as they saunter onto the court. Then, when their high arching volleys are met with piercing smashes, you can see the joy drain out of their faces as they try desperately to cling to the fictions cemented into their brains. Every fall they come, taking up valuable court space in search of an inane amusement. They play a couple of demoralizing games and then leave, saddened but educated. And somehow, most likely because the whole encounter was so painful, they neglect to tell their friends about their experience and thereby perpetuate the conspiracy of silence that surrounds the sport. So, if you're considering a trip to the community centre this fall, do yourself and everyone else a favour and avoid the unnecessary pain of discovering first hand the terrible truth about badminton. Rather, consider the reassuring predictability of a couple of hours of candle-making which will be much less likely to plunge you further into the depths of seasonal despair. Paul Levine Vancouver's only FREE webzine with a COMPLETE money-back guarantee also available in glorious technicolour at http://home.istar.ca/~paull/wire Comments are welcome. Email paull@istar.ca