Flip Flop Flying

I like Douglas Coupland. I like most of his books, he seems like an incredibly interesting fellow, and I think he comes across as a nice guy. So when I arrived in Toronto, one of things I wanted to see the most was Toronto Park, a park that he recently designed that opened in September last year. Before I got there, though, and just a five minute walk away, there’s a Coupland sculpture, “Monument to the War of 1812.” I know nothing about the War of 1812, but apparently the Brits won. So, y’know, yay! Here’s the Wikipedia article about that war, should you give a monkeys.

The first thing I noticed about Toronto Park was the canoe. You can see the canoe on top of a raised bit of land from the big road that runs along one side of the park.

These things are pretty, too. I assume they are fishing floats. Or maybe I’m wrong. I dunno…

But the best and most interesting thing about the park is the route around the edge with big pictures and plaques all about Terry Fox. Two laps of the park equals one mile, what they have called the Terry Fox Miracle Mile. Slight tangent: you may remember that Terry was the person I chose to do as the 1,000th Minipop last year. I won’t write any more, except to say, it’s a really nice little park with people walking around, picnicking, playing soccer, walking the dog; but most of all, it’s interesting which is something that can’t often be said about new public spaces these days. Here’s some more photos.

So, Toronto. Getting here began by dragging a rucksack, backpack, and big-ass suitcase from Barnet (at the northern edge of London), to Gatwick airport (south of London). A fairly harmless journey apart from the bit where I had to change from the Northern Line to the Victoria Line on the Tube. Trains came and went and were uniformly packed full of people. People who were waiting to get on the trains avoided my gaze; the gaze that was trying to say, “C’mon chaps, gimme a break, I know I’m gonna take up the space of three people but I kinda do need to get somewhere just like you do.” Eventually, I just did what the other people did: thought about myself. Positioned myself right in front of where a door would be and launched myself on there.

Here’s a piece of advice, which I wish I’d looked into before choosing to fly with Air Transat: check the baggage allowance before booking what seems like a reasonably-priced flight. My excess baggage more-or-less doubled the price of the flight. But it left on time, arrived on time, and I had an aisle seat to stretch out in.

Getting into Canada, though, was a piece of piss compared to the nation to its south. Just a couple of questions about why I was visiting and if I had any meat or vegetables with me, and I was in. A cab ride later and I’m opening the door to my friend Scott’s place, my home for the next three months. And within two hours of that, I was doing what I’d been looking forward to for quite some time: sitting, drinking a beer at a baseball game.

The Toronto Blue Jays beat the Texas Rangers 16-10, Scott, his (and my) house mate Kevin, and I went for a couple of beers in a local bar, then ate the food that has made my saliva glands overproduce ever since Scott described it to me. I’d not heard of poutine before, but it’s essentially chips and gravy with cheese curds in it. Mag. Nif. I. Cent. I’m glad I went for the small, though. It’s very, very filling.

Saturday, I was up early, out to get coffee, and for a walk. About ten minutes away is a wonderful area called Kensington Market. Good fruit and veg, grocery stores, some clothes shops, plenty of cafes and bars of many nationalities. I’ve been back there most days so far, partly because there’s a pleasant bar with a not-unattractive waitress working there and I’ve been enjoying an afternoon pint now and then, but mostly because there’s all these enticing looking places to eat that need to be tried out.

Another baseball game on Saturday afternoon (this time a 6-0 win for the Jays), followed in the evening by going to hang out with a bunch of Scott’s pals who get together now and then to draw. Essentially, it’s friends hanging out, having a beer, but with everyone doodling away at the same time. Naturally, after forgetting everyone’s name within moments of shaking their hands, I sat down and stared at a blank page for a good half hour. I’m not used to this public drawing. And even if I do draw in public, like in a cafe or something, I tend to hunch over my notebook so nobody can see what I’m doing. Mostly because I spend my time drawing giant flaming swastikas.

Sunday – oh yes, we’re going day by day – and I tag along with Kevin when he goes out to do a bit of shopping. A “quick pint” at lunch time turns into a good eight hour long crawl, which I justified quite easily: I’m getting to know Toronto. Something I repeated, mostly alone, on Tuesday. I’d been at another Blue Jays game (an 11-2 victory over the Minnesota Twins). I’d intended not to drink at all. It was a 12.30pm start, so I imagined it’d be easy to stay away from the booze. When I arrived at the Skydome (it’s current name is Rogers Centre, but that’s a horrible corporate name compared to the lovely futuristic Skydome), there was that unmistakable sound of thousands of children. Understandable, really, that on a midweek afternoon game, the Blue Jays should do some sort of deal with schools to get a ton of kids to come out and buy fizzy drinks and popcorn, but for the adult customer, well, it very literally drove me to drink. I went to the same beer stand each time I bought one, and the first time, had a little chat with the two ladies serving. They asked about my accent, I told them I’d lived in Germany, one of them told me her best friend was studying in Mönchengladbach. Very pleasant interaction. Next time I went back, they said hello in that way that acknowledges we’ve spoken before, and one of the women asks for my ID again. Each of the four times I went to buy a beer she asked to see my ID. I began to think she was stood underneath a security camera, a bit like a casino worker, constantly being watched by the Blue Jays’ Beer Police. Those four afternoon pints ended up being a good, solid twelve hours of drinking. I need to slow down a bit, really.

The last couple of days, I’ve been trying to do a bit of work on the book, but it’s not really been that easy. There’s a big, wonderful-seeming city out there to be explored. Today, though, I’m determined not to explore; to sit in front of my computer and try and have a normal day. Even typing those words, I can feel my willpower draining away.

Finally, in Tic Tac news, not only do Canadian fresh mint flavour (menthe fraîcheur, if you must) have “More Enjoyable Freshness”; they also have an interesting lid flap that I’ve not seen in Tic Tacs elsewhere. It’s got a kinda plug thing. I’m guessing that helps keep the Tic Tacs’ freshness intact.

Title of this blog post translates as “toasted flakes of corn.” It’s what’s written on the pack of Corn Flakes on the table.

I’m not sure it should feel like this. I’ve felt differently at other exhibitions. There were a couple that I didn’t go to, but there was one in Amsterdam in 2003 where I felt great on the opening night. I was way more nervous, but after a few drinks I felt good, chatty, and enjoyed it. And the exhibition of my work at the Rock en Seine festival in 2007 was fun because I could be totally anonymous and I could watch people looking at my work, which was incredibly enjoyable. Plus, the stuff that was on show there, I was already fond of and confident about. This time it was different.

As I’ve said recently, I was nervous leading up to the show. I wasn’t confident about the worth of my work. All day Saturday I felt oddly blank. The nerves weren’t manifesting themselves in my belly like they ordinarily should. I felt… nothing. Empty.

In the afternoon, I went for a walk along the Rhine. It was a nice day. The sun was out and it was warm, so I abandoned my plan to go to a couple of museums and just enjoyed the sunshine by the river with my headphones on. Before the opening, Nina and I went to a fantastic sushi restaurant called Na Ni Wa, picked up the DJ, and headed to the gallery. That would be the perfect time for a beer to loosen up a bit, but my cluster headaches mean no alcohol at the moment.

Shortly after 8pm, the first people arrived, and I couldn’t make eye contact with them. I couldn’t watch them looking at the paintings. The gallery has two adjoining rooms, and when they were in one of them, I was in the other. More people arrive and there were no longer places to hide. I could go outside and smoke, though. And I could stand in the kitchen talking to Nina’s mum.

After a while, I was annoying myself with my behaviour. I still stood in an uncrowded corner of the gallery, talking to Nina’s sister Julia, and their father mostly, but as the night wore on, I ended up talking to a few people. I’m sure some people thrive on being told their work is good, but it just makes me feel awkward. I try and be gracious, I try to be chatty, but it doesn’t come naturally. It not that it’s fake, but it does feel forced. And when a couple of the paintings sold, well, how am I to cope with that? I know it sounds stupid, but it blows my mind, it’s overwhelming to think that these pictures I did whilst sat in my apartment in my slippers, drinking tea, listening to ESPN podcasts, that they will be in someone’s home.

And that’s the stupid dichotomy: if one is – for want of a better word – an artist, you want people to look at your work, and you want people to like your work. I crave it a lot of the time. If I put something online and it doesn’t get many comments or emails, it gets me down, especially if I’m particularly fond of the work in question. So there is obviously some sort of need for that validation. But I guess it says something about my personality that I’m more comfortable receiving that validation electronically.

You’d think it would get easier, (well, I feel it should be getting easier) but as time goes on, it seems to get more difficult. Part of the joy of the baseball-related infographics stuff I’ve been doing is that what I’m doing is essentially filtering information that is already there. With drawing, stories, paintings, it’s more exposed. Putting them online or in a gallery is saying, I have these ideas and I think you should look at them. And by extension, you should look at them, consider them, then tell me I’m great.

And there we are, back at the beginning: I want to be told I’m great but can’t handle it if someone tells me I’m great. It’s a big fucking mess in my head. Times like this, it’s very easy to understand the Henry Dargers of the world, who do things to only please themselves. It’s tempting. But I know my ego ultimately won’t allow it. And, yep, I know what you are thinking: I should shut up, stop being a moany dick, and enjoy it while I can. Stupid brain.

And the stupid dilated blood vessels near my stupid brain caused pressure on the stupid trigeminal nerve and gave me a stupid cluster headache. Of course, after recently feeling that I’d started to figure out ways of dampening their effects, this time it came out and gave me a five hour headache, despite chugging down Red Bull and oxygen. Five hours has never felt so long. So it was nice to have a leisurely breakfast with Nina and Julia after just four hours of sleep. And I took advantage of the bath tub in Nina’s apartment (I only have a shower in mine) before packing my bag and heading out into the windy Düsseldorf afternoon to get the train.

For the train journey back, I’d not reserved a seat. I need not have bothered on the outbound journey, and not making another reservation saved me 4.50 euros (that’s a packet of fags). Not really a problem at the start of the journey, but as we intermittently shot through the windy and rainy countryside, the weather creating several long periods of the train sitting inactive waiting for something. Each station stop filled the train up a little more until the inevitable happened and some guy told me I was sitting in his reserved seat. Fine. Not particularly stressed out to have to spend the rest of the journey standing up. I’ve got my headphones on, listening to some Black Mountain, and reading all about the 1975 Cincinnati Reds in Joe Posnanski’s thoroughly enjoyable book, The Machine. I was stood next to the door of a carriage, but there was enough room for people to get by without having to move. Not perfect, but okay.

Then – and there had to be a “then,” right? – this guy walks towards me. He’s probably in his mid-forties, kinda longish grey hair. (Note to Brits: he looked a lot like Brookside and Grange Hill creator Phil Redmond.) He walked towards the doorway and kinda came to a stop next to me and started talking. I didn’t hear his words because of my headphones, but I did recognise the slight sway, and the fumes coming from his mouth. Without removing my headphones I told him, in English, that I don’t speak German, which is a handy tactic more often than you’d imagine, especially with people wanting to sign you up for charity stuff on the street. He leant in this time, breathing that warm boozy breath all over me, and started talking again, semi-leaning on my shoulder. I pushed him off my shoulder. He leant in again and started singing along to the tune of the Black Mountain song – Druganaut – that was on my headphones, which was a bit odd. Again leaning on me, but a bit more in my face. I pushed him away again; nothing over the top, nothing aggressive, just a leave-me-alone push. He did it again and asked in English if I was American. That’s when I gave up with the charade of pretending to continue reading, and raised my voice, telling him to fuck off.

He leant in again, this time, though, I gave him a proper angry push. Considering he was drunk, he was amazingly surefooted. He called me an arschloch. And then I pulled out a German swear word that I wish I’d never learnt; once you learn the German word for cunt, its only a matter of time before you use it. I used it. Fotze. In my experience, Germans don’t use their word for cunt as willy nilly as some British people (me) do. I noticed the face of an elderly lady sat nearby. She looked as shocked as she would’ve been if I’d just done a poo on her sudoku book.

By this time, a youngish guy sat nearby had turned around to see if he could help with the situation, and another studious, friendly-faced guy had walked up the aisle. He asked if I needed help. I told him it was okay. The drunk guy was never threatening, just persistant and foul-breathed. He kept on talking, I kept doing my best to ignore him. I repeated several times that I wanted him to leave me alone. Each time he told me, “I want to tell you-” and each time I shushed him. Then friendly-faced man came back with a conductor, and drunk man was preparing himself to be taken away by offerin
g to shake my hand. I refused cos his hand with filthy and had a big open cut and dried blood on one of the fingers. I got some sympathetic looks from people around me and five minutes later the conductor returned to apologise. I smiled, told him it was no problem, and caught the gaze of the elderly woman who still looked at me like I’d soiled her puzzles.

It was good to get the paintings on the wall. For the last couple of weeks, I’ve panicked that I’d not done enough, but seeing them on the walls of the gallery, with space around them, it’s almost a perfect amount. Kinda looking forward to the tomorrow night’s opening now. And it was fun to put them up, too. Headphones on, listening to Band of Horses, Miniature Tigers, and Michael Jackson, banging nails in the wall… And any time I get to use a spirit level, I feel more of a man. It only took a couple of hours, so I had an afternoon free to explore the town. I could see a big tower, and I’d been told the river was that way, so I walked towards it. It’s a very cool tower.

It’s called the Rheinturm (Rhine Tower), it is (in my head) where Kraftwerk live. It’s where they sleep, where they have breakfast, where they play with their robots, and where they make their music. It stands on the bank of the Rhine which is fucking massive. A really wide river, and at the moment, the water is quite high. And it flows quick, too.

I stood on the thin walkway underneath a bridge, took a couple of photos, and then walked towards the town. As I left the walkway, I found myself right in front of an old man who was pissing against the bridge. I apologised, but, y’know, really, he should’ve apologised for public urination, and exposing his old man cock to me. It was stinky. Either he’d been drinking sewage smoothies, or it was a popular place to piss.

The centre of the town is kinda pretty, but kinda generically West German. Some nice buildings, but a lot of that post-war town planning, with pedestrianised areas full of McDonald’s and H&M-type; stores. I went into Starbucks to get a coffee, and found myself behind that worst possible collection of people in a Starbucks queue: four teenage girls spending their pocket money on venti-iced-tiramisu-accinos-with-three-pumps-of-cherry-syrup.

(I like how on this stone carving of Jesus on the cross, he looks more like a member of a 1970s German rock band than our Lord and Saviour.)

In hindsight, I’m kinda surprised that anyone was working today in Düsseldorf because – flappy hands – Depeche Mode are playing LIVE! HERE! TONITE! OMG! It’s a vast generalisation, but EVERY PERSON IN GERMANY LOVES DEPECHE MODE MORE THAN THEIR OWN MOTHER. If Rapunzel was set in modern day Germany, the wicked enchantress would be staying at home tonight, and you’d be going to the show and giving up your blond-haired daughter in a few months. Lots of black-haired folks milling around the centre of town, and a few Brits in Depeche Mode sweatshirts – sweatshirts! – getting their beer on. The Depeche Mode sweatshirt: for those times when you wanna show you love for the Peche, but it’s a bit nippy out. I say all this, of course, in the knowledge that I spent my whole time wandering around Düsseldorf listening to Kraftwerk. And I do kinda like Depeche Mode, and if I had a ticket for the show, I’d like to go.

Düsseldorf smells weird. Like wet dogs.

Even though I’ve been here before, and made the pilgrimage last time, I couldn’t come here without walking down Mintropstrasse to see the place where Kraftwerk’s Kling Klang studio is (was).

Last time, the big metal shutters were closed, but this time not, so I walked into the courtyard and, well, I don’t know where exactly their studio was, but I like to think it was next to the awesome grey Mercedes. Of course, I spent the whole time imagining people in the building looking out, thinking, Oh Jeez, another nerdy bloke taking bloody photos of nothing in particular because “Autobahn” was made here.

As I left the courtyard, I bumped into this older guy. “Hey!,” I said, “you’re Ralf Hütter, leader of Kraftwerk and keen cyclist!”
“Ja, I am,” said Ralf.
“Awesome! Listen to this!” I took off my headphones and thrust them onto his head. He pulled away like I was invading his personal space, but I was tenacious and managed to get them on his ears.
“Das ist Daft Punk,” said Ralf.
“Oh,” I said, “Well, I was listening to Kraftwerk a moment ago.”
“Yes, very good. Thank you. I must go now.”
“No, no, no, hold on a second.” I said, my knuckles whitening as I gripped his arms. “Listen, do you know who I am? I’m Craig Robinson.”
“Oh yes, I am looking very much forward to seeing Hot Tub Time Machine. And I like you in The Office. You use a lot of make-up in the movies, right?”
“No, I’m not that Craig Robinson. I’m the one who does Minipops and I did an animated thing about a duck called Ralf named after you.”
“Oh, I see. You are him. Well, I don’t like you.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Ralf. I like you very much. I think your music is fantastic, and quite frankly, I was disappointed when I saw that “The Catalogue” box set had pixiliated artwork and you never asked me to do it. It, and I’m not over-exaggerating here, would’ve been my dream job.”
“Well, as I said, Other Craig Robinson, I think your work is shit, so I could not give a – how you say – toss what you think. Good day to you, please let go of my ankles.”