Bulletproof © by adrian

I just came back from my uncle Rocco's

one hundred and first birthday party.
To have lived this long the man must be bulletproof.

One hundred and one years old – extraordinary!

I thought I would write a little about him in this chapter of my memoirs. I’m almost seventy and he’s lived close to half again as long as me. We have the same genes and he was one of the people who saved my life by giving me a direct blood transfusion when I was a baby (see my story; My Mother, the Sister) so maybe some of it will rub off on me and I can look forward (or dread, depending on the mood of the day) to living another thirty years or so.

He attributes his longevity to eating three bananas a day and never having gotten married. I could have tolerated three bananas a day I guess but I enjoy the company of women too much to ever have attempted the latter.

Rocco stayed at home almost all his life and then became the caregiver of his parents as they aged and died. He lived alone for the next twenty years in a three storey house until he was ninety five years old. Then came "the fall" it seems all active elderly people are destined to have. He lay on the floor for a day and a half because he couldn’t get up. Since being found he has lived in his own apartment in an assisted care facility.

Each year after Rocco turned eighty-five my cousin and I would get in touch to talk about going to uncle Rocco’s probable last birthday party. We don’t bother with that anymore, now it’s simply, "I’ll see you at the birthday party this year."

When he was going on ninety-four he announced to anybody who would listen that what he really wanted for his birthday was one of those long garden hose extension poles so he could clean the eavestrough on his three story house easier because he was now starting to find it a bit difficult to get up the ladder.

The extended family took him to a restaurant for his hundredth birthday and when the cake came (yes, with a hundred candles, anything less would have insulted him) he broke into operatic song to prove to all present that his lungs were easily up to the job of blowing the candles out.

It seems fashionable to always say the elderly are still sharp, but in his case I swear the man is as sharp as a tack. He still reads the paper everyday. You can start a conversation on almost any current subject and he will join in. Linda and I had a major house disaster a few months ago that has disrupted our lives tremendously (the reason I’ve been off line recently, a story will follow) and as soon as he saw us he called us over and commiserated with us about our difficulty and related details he had been told about the event that even we had forgotten.

All his life he was an avid photo hobbyist and among other things he used to make his own emulsion to coat paper for making prints. Up to a couple of years ago he always said that as soon as he could get some spare time he was going to set up his darkroom again. He still has one of those old Omega enlargers that uses four by five inch negative film (good grief, I just realized I still have one of those in my basement too). Nowadays he is fully knowledgeable about digital equipment and when I showed him the first professional digital camera I bought he ran around the residence he lives in like a kid excitedly showing it to anybody he could find. While I was shooting some digital photos today he joked about how amazing it was that all this happens without any chemicals and then reminded me that we used to cart around cameras that used single sheets of four by five inch film just to get one or two shots. He and I have both used cameras whose film size is eight by ten inches.

He's not always in top form and sometimes he gets into conversational loops that are a little tedious. Reminds me of my old stoner days when you would listen to someone talk for twenty minutes (sometimes yourself) before you realized you had no idea what anybody was talking about. If you've read any of my previous stories you will notice I have a bit of the same approach to communication. Anyway, I can get him to refocus by simply telling him he's in a loop and he should change the subject or I will pass out. He just smiles and starts on a different thought. Maybe he's faking it, but it sure always impresses the hell out of me. I should be so lucid when I'm over a hundred years old.

At one point in today’s festivities as my cousin and I were helping Rocco get to a different chair, he explained to us that as soon as he gets back to his house he will start exercising again and then be able to get around without needing any help.

I tell you, the man is bulletproof.

I’m busy at the composter © by adrian

But I will be back soon.

Cleaning out the composting toilet at the cottage. As soon as I hose down, I’ll get back to some more writing.

Little Adri’s big adventure © by adrian

“Thank you so much, you just saved me a trip into town.” Oh my god, what have I just heard myself say. I forgot to check the marquee outside the theater when I came in. Have I ended up in another western movie? Can’t be, her name isn’t Clementine, and anyway I didn’t finish my sentence with “little lady” but if I had, I bet it would have passed unnoticed. She saved me a trip to town because she just faxed an important document for me and I know they definitely don’t have fax machines in westerns.

I’ve been here three days.

You’d think by now I would have a firm grip on where here is. I quickly scan the horizon to get my bearings. No help at all. Rolling hills covered in snow. One hundred yards away, a lake, covered in melting ice with shimmering patches of water pushing through. The Alps maybe?

This can’t be an Acid flashback, that was way too long ago.

I remember now, and if you knew me like I thought I knew me, you would understand why being in this place is incomprehensible to me. I am in the Laurentiens, it’s late April now, and I’m on a big adventure.

I think this is how it happened.

About nine years ago I ran an ad in the Toronto Star companion section. It’s title was, “Bohemian hermit stuck in the 60’s seeks companion and lover.” I gave my age and a few important details, then went on to write cute and clever things about myself. I could walk and chew gum at the same time, that sort of stuff. If someone is interested in an ad they phone your box number and then listen to any message you choose to put in a voice mail, and if they’re still interested, they leave you their contact information.

During the next six weeks or so, I talked to many women. A few came to my studio for dinner, but nothing really came of those meetings, no sparks. In the voice mail replies I had gotten, only one person sounded like she had any idea of who I might be, and what I hoped to find. She didn’t say much about herself, but I liked her voice and what she did say. She also said she was a school teacher and away on vacation, and I should contact her when she returned in six weeks if I was interested.

So, six and a half weeks later, I phoned her.

Our first conversation was very comfortable and casual as we each described a few small details about ourselves. She mentioned that she was a widow, her 21 year old gay son lived with her, and she didn’t shave her armpits. I mentioned that I earned my living taking provocative photos that some people regarded as pornography. That the lady who had been my partner in the swinging lifestyle for the past twelve years lived in an apartment above my studio and still used my shower everyday because hers didn’t work.

Nothing too substantial really, just some minor details you’d like to get out of the way before you actually bothered to meet up.

One thing we both definitely had in common was that neither of us was interested in a binding or committed relationship, we both abhorred the concept of anything “domestic”.

A little over a year after that first conversation, Linda and I got married.

Now, nine years later, I’m in the Laurentiens. Temporarily on my own, “starting up” the cottage that Linda and her step-sister bought from their parents last fall.

Before I met Linda, I’d been to cottages maybe half dozen times in my life. Cottage life had never appealed to me whatsoever. To begin with, I discovered long ago that I am incapable of walking on water. About three seconds after I learned that, I found out that I’m also incapable of swimming in water. It’s always damp. In this case, we’re fifteen feet from the lake, so it’s really damp. It’s always cold at night. Those that love this call it “crisp”, those of us that know better call it “cold”.

Then there is the province of Quebec. Regardless of the number of cereal boxes I’ve read, or messages from Bell Canada in French and English I’ve heard, I never picked up the language. I also look French. I look mostly old and used now, but if you wanted to identify my background, you would probably pick French. When I am in Quebec, I am often mistaken for Quebecois, and seeing as I can only communicate in English this confuses people.

Half my manufacturing plant was Italian, but I don’t look Italian. I know from a reliable source I shouldn’t claim myself as Italian. About twenty years ago I had an Italian girlfriend who briefly passed through my bedchamber. When she got mad at me (which was often) she would scream out (didn’t matter where we were) “You, you’re not an Italian, you’re a manga cake!” She would then turn slightly sideways and pantomime a huge spit that she would direct to the ground. Ah, Stephania, what a delightfully insane firecracker she was. Anyways, I don’t look Italian.

Buying this cottage was not an easy task. It’s part of two separate deeds, one property is the main house and the other a small cottage. During the past forty years they have intertwined themselves in an elaborate encroachment on each other. Some of the electrical comes from the other place, the septic system is on this property, but services the other house. A water line runs through the middle of this landscape, but is used by the other place. It’s all very baroque.

Her parents could no longer manage the physical maintenance and needed to sell them both and move to more suitable accommodations. They were convinced that because both properties depended on each other, they would have to be sold as one unit and were not prepared to compromise.

I encouraged my bride to make an offer to buy the cottage separately anyway. It was rejected. Her step-sister got briefly interested but then decided it was financially risky and far too difficult to separate the two properties and backed off. I continued working on Linda to keep trying to buy it. Over the years other members of the family had also stayed at the cottage, but it was always Linda’s special place. Of course, I had the advantage of not being discouraged by a fifty year history of dealing with her family. I’m also pretty relentless and not usually swayed by obstacles (a delightful trait in good times, really irritating in bad).

Somewhere along the line her step-sister got reinvigorated and signed on again. A campaign was launched. Linda was in school (learning, not teaching) and was not available so I was dispatched to Quebec to help her step-sister with negotiations. We had been friends since I first appeared in Linda’s life, but had never been involved in anything this complicated before. Our styles are enormously different and sometimes we each wanted to kill the other, and at other times we were a spectacular team together. Linda’s step-sister is inclined to examine everything in miniscule detail, I have more of a put your head down, run across the street and hope there are no cars coming approach to life. One of Linda’s step-brothers also got briefly involved and somehow it all came about, the cottage was co-bought, with half the time allocated to Linda, and the other to her step-sister.

And here I am on my big adventure.

Cottage life seems to revolve around getting water in, septic systems, and getting waste out. Very elemental. The task at hand right now is getting lake water in for washing, and getting what is pleasantly referred to as the “grey water” out. This is achieved here by an elaborate array of holding tanks and pumps (that may or may not still work). As an added bit of silliness the kitchen hot water tap runs cold and vice versa. There are drainage taps that can only be reached by crawling in a semi basement past a very unpleasantly odored composting toilet. The plumbing definitely needs some work. Electrical that previously came from the other house needs to be re-wired. Now that the cottage is owned rather than borrowed, I have been dispatched to fix all these inconveniences and any others I find before anybody stays here.


I have so far completed the re-plumbing tasks and am now working on the pump that brings water in from the lake. Having worked with many pumps in various darkrooms in my career I know it needs to be primed (simply add a bit of water to the intake pipe) and start it up. Any pump I ever primed needed a cup at most of liquid to work. So far I have added a gallon of water and all I’m getting is concerned.

I discover we still have an extension phone connected to the other property that has now been sold to someone else, so I steal their phone line and use my portable computer to dial up and go online to do a search of cottage water pumps. I get pages of information about the best things to buy to prime water pumps. I quickly reason that if someone is prepared to spend $75.00 to buy something to accomplish this task then this sucker probably needs a lot of water in it’s throat to remind it of it’s destiny. I have brought a few five gallon jugs of precious clean drinking water for my stay here, and must now give them up to the pump to get it to work. I’m convinced the pump will work, but saddened to know I will be found dead, having died of thirst because I had no more drinking water. Sigh...

I pour in five more gallons, and it finally starts to gurgle. I pour some more, seal it up and start it. I get water running out the taps and nothing is leaking!

It’s midnight now and the plumbing is completed, I fill the hot water tank and go to bed full of myself.

The next morning I steal the phone line again and send an email to my bride. The subject line is: Wood. The message reads:

Lord, I had a woody the size of a monkey wrench almost all night long that would have made everybody delirious with joy.

I got the shower & wash basin working, and I am full of man testosterone...

Prepare your body for a ravenous feast when I regain ground. You could stop washing anytime now. (see my story on smells and odors I'll be home soon, don't wash)

Love,

MAN

Eventually I get two of the outdoor “grey water” exit tanks and pumps working but the third will need some serious repairs and re-wiring to get it working. The black ABS pipe has broken away from it’s tank and will take some time to deal with and it’s still way too cold to work outside comfortably. As everything sits now this place is fully habitable for about two weeks before the third tank must be online and functional. I decide to leave and will make that fix when Linda and I return in May.

What’s special about this place for me is this is where my lovely bride always came to for a retreat on her vacations before we met.

Every time I come here I learn new things about this place and often new things about myself. Everything about this place reminds me of Linda. Almost every day while I am away from her, I discover things about this place that explain why she loves it and thus after nine years of being together I still discover something new and exciting about her.

While I'm here I find I can do things I never dreamt I was capable of, and can no longer do things I always thought I could. It’s just like when I first met Linda, this place is open and yielding, challenging and hesitant. Full of mystery and mischievousness.

When I return home I am full of the newness and discovery of the cottage. The cottage has magically become my mistress, and my mistress is my wife.

The long drive home © by adrian

We’re driving east from Little Rock, Arkansas, along highway 40. It's early evening, just past seven o'clock, and this has been a beautiful, sunny spring day. We are just a few miles from our planned stopover for this leg of the trip. We're going to stay at the Lorraine Hotel in Memphis, Tennessee, tonight. We picked the Lorraine simply because that's the name of one of my sisters, and we thought it would be cute to stay there.

After three years of living in the United States, a land seemingly full of contradictions for us, we're finally moving back home to Canada. Our last residence had been Houston, Texas. In Houston, among other things, they had what was called “the brown bag” law. If you wanted any booze to drink with your dinner in a restaurant, you had to bring it yourself in a “brown bag”. In some restaurants, they would serve you liquor only if you signed a membership card, so that you could be a “club member” during your dinner. At the same time in Houston, it was legal to carry around a pistol anywhere, as long as it was visible.

We've also had our fill of America's social difficulties and racial tension. We will never have to deal with any of that stuff again. It's clear sailing now, we feel good, and know we have an easy drive ahead of us.

"We" is myself, the girl I just married after four years of us living together, (you can check out my blog story Of Nomads and Amazons © by adrian) and the Lab/Shepherd mix dog "Brutus" we acquired a few years ago in California. We're in a large window van we bought a few weeks ago. We're travelling with everything in the world we own in it and tied on it. Every time we exit the van, we need to keep pushing items that tumble out back in. Stuffed to the gills is the descriptor that comes to mind. I also have eleven hundred dollars cash in my pocket. Eleven hundred dollars is the grub stake you needed back then to move to a different city. That way you had enough to pay rent and supplies for a few months until you got resettled in your new place.

Further down the highway, as we comfortably cruise along, we begin to see signs of some kind of commotion ahead. Can't quite figure it out yet, but flashing lights abound, perhaps, we reason, there's been an accident.

As we get closer, we can see the road ahead is barricaded in both directions, and state troopers are everywhere. As we come to a stop, a trooper comes to our van and excitedly tells us that we must turn back, we will not be allowed to go any further forward. We are instructed to make a U turn across the median and drive back in the direction we came. No explanation is, or will, be given. "Go back!" is the order. Memphis has been sealed off, and no one will be allowed in or out.

We drive back and find a small motel in a little place called Mound City. The clerk has no idea what the problem in Memphis is, and would like twenty seven dollars for the nights lodging, please.

We start getting settled in our room and turn on the television. The date is April 4th, 1968, and we now find out that one hour ago, Martin Luther King had been assassinated at the Lorraine hotel, in Memphis. If we had been one hour earlier, we would have been in that tragic place.

We watch the news for a few hours, this is long before the days of CNN and their ilk, and mostly all we get is confused reporting. The one thing that is consistent is that the icon of Americas' civil rights has been assassinated. Memphis is sealed off, and no one will be allowed in or out.

As a Canadian, I was never able to make much sense of the difficulties that plagued the southern states and much of the U.S. Certainly not because I felt pure or better than them, I would say naivety was the main reason. I grew up in a decidedly different environment, and simply was never affected by the racial divide.

My very first contact with segregation and what it meant was during a time that I did a lot of hitch-hiking while I was young. Occasionally, if I could afford it, I would take a bus as part of my trip so that I could relax and use the shower facilities that were available for passengers in bus stations in those days.

On one of my bus rides, going south into Georgia, I had been talking to a black kid who was about my age (seventeen) in the seat next to me. When we got off the bus at one rest stop, I suggested we get a drink at the lunch counter. He pointed to the signs above two separate doors and said that would not be possible. Not this far south. I was dumbfounded. Talk about naive, I truly had never encountered such a thing, and had never heard any hint of anything like this discussed in any schools I ever attended. I knew I had blinkers on as I was growing up. That was one of the reasons I went hitch-hiking in the first place, so I could learn more about the world, but at that moment I realized how little I understood about what was around me. At that time, I suggested that we should both get what we wanted at our designated places, and if he wanted, we would have our snack at the side of the road, which we did.

The next morning at our motel the news was bleak. America had started a slow burn, and riots were engulfing many cities. Like it or not, we were in for a difficult ride ahead.

Needless to say, we bypassed Memphis and headed north along highway 55 to St. Louis.

During the remainder of our trip, we literally drove around and through bigger cities listening to our car radio for instructions on which areas were and were not safe to drive in. That information was always very race specific, with information on where whites were thought to be in danger, as well as where blacks were in danger.

We went east on highway 70 to Indianapolis, and then on to Columbus, Ohio. There was serious tension everywhere. In coffee shops along the highway, if black people came into the restaurant, everyone would stop what they were doing, to wait to see if there was going to be an incident. We travelled up highway 71 to Cleveland, and at all times were mindful of the danger that was mostly in larger cities. Our trip was scary but apart from the tension of all the burning and rioting in the large cities our trip was uneventful and we were never confronted with personal hostility. However, this was anything but a comfortable trip. Definitely not the way to travel.

As we went further north and east, we began to feel some comfort in the fact that we were getting closer to Canada. We travelled across highway 90 and bypassed Buffalo, then went on to Niagara Falls. We drove overnight so that we were able to cross the Peace Bridge into Canada in the morning, just a few days after the dreadful event that had started the rioting.

I vowed to never return to The U.S., but of course over the years that has proved to be a false vow. When I now travel to the States, I'm always mindful of what I perceive as the edginess in the way the races deal with each other there. I don't suggest that Canadians are exempt from racial tension, but so far, we have managed to deal with our differences a little more subtly than in the States.

It seemed that this past April, everybody had a story about the 40th anniversary of the assassination of Martin Luther King. This is mine.

Going digital with Dr. Sternfinger © by adrian

Becoming married, as I did after a long and comfortable life of semi bachelorhood, has allowed me many adventures I could never have imagined. Fortunately for me, marriage is continuing to be an extremely successful experience. My bride, Linda, has the courtesy of also frequently expressing pleasure that we mixed our lives together.

There are however, a few things that I deal with now that I never expected I would need to face.

I can't say for sure what I am about to describe is endemic in all marriages, but with mine, and my research suggests many others, it seems wives don't have much faith in their husbands' ability or interest to look after their own medical needs.

After getting married, I found out that asking Bill in the back lane if he thinks that new growth on my arm is anything I should worry about, is no longer an acceptable approach to my well being.

Not only that, but get this. I discovered quite by accident one day, that asking one of my former girlfriends to check out my hemorrhoids for me is also apparently frowned on. Who knew?

I hadn't really noticed it in all the excitement of the wedding day, nor during the vows we exchanged, but apparently there was some promise made that, from that time on, I would need to have a doctor look after things along this line.

I learned how this was expected to play out, about two years into our marriage.

Let me first explain why I would prefer to get Bill's input on the state of my health, and not go to a doctor...

More than forty years ago, while I was still a puppy, I had a vasectomy. Forty years in medical terms is prehistoric by today's standard, and finding someone to perform that procedure was a real challenge. To do such a thing on someone who didn't already have children was unheard of. Many doctors at the time thought it was extremely unethical, and I was actually physically escorted out of one doctor's office when I inquired about having this done (those Catholics are everywhere, it seems). Eventually, after a two year search, I did find one, and although this wasn't exactly done on a kitchen table, it was pretty close to it.

The procedure was not covered by any medical insurance, so I needed to pay him with a bunch of ten dollar bills stuffed in an envelope; this added to the ambiance of the doctor's house/operating room.

After signing as many forms as the good doctor could find where I promised to never hold him, his children, grandchildren, or any of his friends (by now I was beginning to suspect he probably didn't have too many friends) responsible for anything that was about to happen, we began. I went into an office at the back of his house and disrobed. I sat down in what under different circumstances would be described as an easy chair and was told to "Just relax" as my legs were spread and strapped into stirrups. I now noticed there was no nurse available to assist. Not even a kindly old grandmother to offer me soup or a blankie if I became more uncomfortable, it was just him and me.

After that, things did not go well. There was no local anesthetic. He produced a can of something that he spayed on my testes with the intention of freezing everything. I did feel a slight chill, but really, not much more than one feels as they read an Edgar Allan Poe story on a stormy night. Nothing froze, and the pain was excruciating. The fine doctor did his best to distract me from concentrating on my pain by carefully choosing to make as much small talk as he could think of about sports. Even today, I can't think of a subject that would be of less interest to me.

I soon convinced myself that I had made a very bad choice, and continued to scream in pain. He explained to me that he was sorry, but the freezing just doesn't seem to work in one out of every twenty cases. Apparently I was number twenty. Once this procedure is started, it's pretty difficult to tuck everything back inside and explain to your body you were just joking, so, even though I was convinced by now that he was really putting a light switch in my scrotum, there was, as they say, no way to turn back.

Eventually he finished, and I was un-shackled. After a short rest I was sent on my way. Not only my "vas deferens" was severed, but as far as I was concerned, from that moment on, so was any future contact with the medical profession.

The following year was very difficult, none of that "you'll be back to work in a few hours, and ready to service a Harem in a week," stuff. I suffered. It took a few years for me to reconcile it all, but I definitely feel it was well worth it. I could never have lived the life I have if I had spent any of it producing replicants.

I need to add another point to my story.

One of the things that some women find really charming about me (I must confess, some have also found really tedious), is that I don't care much about having a climax while I'm exploring the pleasures of sex. I phoned around to a few old girlfriends just to make sure I had this part of my story right, and everybody agreed. It seems that I only bother climaxing on average about one out of ten times that I have sex. We're not talking Bill Clinton "I did not have sexual relations with that woman" kind if sex here. I've always felt that if I had my nose or any other part of my body in someone's crotch, butt or mouth, (or vise versa) that pretty well constitutes sex.

This, however, led to one little unexpected side effect because of my vasectomy.

I now have an extra build up of fluid that creates a blockage and occasionally I end up with what is called a "hydrocele". Every once in a while this dormant hydrocele grows to about the size of a baseball. There is no pattern to when this will happen, but I have determined it's not influenced by how much sex I'm having at any particular time. Sometimes it shows up every few years, sometimes the gap is six or seven years.

Prior to marriage, whenever this happened, I would take a lot of aspirin, and the pain, discomfort and swelling would be gone in about two days. Anyways, it was always great fun to pull out my bonus large testicle if I was given the opportunity to play "Show and Tell" in any group setting. This time though, my new bride insisted that I go to a doctor to have it looked at properly.

During the following month there were extended visits to four different specialists, as well as regular doctors. I was given various shots, had three ultra sounds complete with pictures, graphs, charts and explanations. The medical profession managed to turn an event which had always given me discomfort two or three days at most into a marathon than lasted for one full month of pain and suffering. When it was over, nobody had anything to offer other than the next time it happens, I should maybe just try taking some aspirins. I once again pledged to never go back to a doctor.

A few years later, when Linda assumed I had forgotten about all of this, she pointed out that as an old man, I was long overdue for a colonoscopy and needed to get one done.

I immediately phoned Bill and asked if he would help me out. After all, we had spent many years working together in the photography business. Surely between the two of us we could throw together some kind of small camera that he could help guide up my butt and look around. He, on the other hand felt that forty years of friendship was not enough to earn that kind of assistance, and fell in line with Linda's "I should go to the doctor" suggestion. It was further decided for me, that while I was at it, I would also get my hemorrhoids tended to.

I went to a well know colorectal clinic in downtown Toronto.

There had been normal but minor preparations made for my first visit. I had taken an enema and done other reasonable things one would expect to do in preparing for someone to shove a camera up their butt. The doctor I was assigned to, who became affectionately known to me, my lover and friends as Dr. Sternfinger, took me to his office. I immediately sensed this was not going to be the fun time I had pretended it would be.

It had been decided we would start with a sigmoidoscopy, which for lack of a better explanation, is a mini colonoscopy. They just go in a bit and peek around, nothing too invasive. I took my pants off and bent over a bench so that my flank was exposed to him and his young female assistant. He was very charming (dare I say, gentle) and all the while he patiently explained to me what he was doing, or was about to do.

I tried to concentrate on what he was saying while he started lubricating my butt with his greased, gloved finger. As he spread the opening and I apprehensively waited for the camera's tube to enter, all I could hear was the echoed distant voices of every women I had ever been with, screaming out, "You want to put THAT!, in WHERE?". The gods had found me, and I knew I wasn't going to get off easy, this was definitely payback time.

I wondered if I should write Oprah Winfrey and tell her about this "Aha!" moment I was having. Would I ever be able to suggest anal sex to another woman again? Should I smile for the camera? Most importantly, how will I be able to explain this, if I really, really, like it?

I decided to flee to my happy place, and eventually heard him announce that everything looked fine, he was finished, and I could get dressed and go home now. I made an appointment for the following week, so that he could start attacking my hemorrhoids.

When I met Dr. Sternfinger the following week, he looked a little jollier than he had the week before. I felt he was perhaps a little too excited about the prospect of destroying the hemorrhoids I had spent so many years developing. I felt a touch of sadness knowing my personal relationship with them was about to come to an end. But, they had to go.

I should point out for the technically minded that the procedure they use involves injecting the hemorrhoid with a chemical that forces it to dry up and eventually fall off. Again, there was the pulling down my pants and bending over the bench. Dr. Sternfinger's assistant this time was another young female who was in training so that she too would one day be able to earn a living exploring the underside of mankind. He explained to both of us along the way what he was doing, and I stayed hidden in my happy place, humming silently to myself. When he was finished, he explained there may be a bit of blood spotting, but nothing to worry about. We made an appointment for three weeks down the road to do some more "Work" as he called it.

That night while I was explaining to my bride how easy it was, and what a hero I had been, I got up from my easy chair to get something from the kitchen. As I turned around, Linda screamed in horror. I didn't know it at the time, but while I was sitting there I had been seriously bleeding. The chair, and I, were covered in blood. With the aid of some ice packs and a sitz bath, we were able to stop the flow.

I phoned the clinic the next day, and was instructed not to worry about it.

I bled on and off for two full weeks, and when I went back for my next appointment, I was again told not to worry about it. We attacked more hemorrhoids in a similar manner as before.

This time I bled for almost three weeks straight, and even Linda was beginning to agree with me that a colonoscopy at this time in my life no longer looked like a good idea.

Four sessions, and almost three months of non stop bleeding later I called Dr. Sternfinger and cancelled the colonoscopy and all my future appointments. My ass and I looked forward to a well deserved rest.

Last year, which was four years after the good Dr. Sternfinger had had his way with me, I was ready for another try at getting my colonoscopy and I went to a different clinic in north east Toronto. I was tended to by a Dr. Byrne, and a magnificent and caring staff. Everything went very easily and my comfort was obviously important to all of them. As an added bonus, I got a gold star and passed my test. They didn't even need to do any of that horrifying "we'll cut off this little bit and send it away for testing" that I had dreaded might happen.

Before I got there, I had assumed that I would not be interested in watching anything on the video screen they use, it just seemed too weird. But I did watch, and in hindsight, if you will pardon the pun, I must confess it was an amazing view of my world.

Lord, the pictures I could have made in my studio if I had that camera available to me. It brings a whole new meaning to the expression, "Intimate Photography".

The Squirrel Whisperer © by adrian Episode two: Peanuts

I get on the subway car, sit down and put my hand into my jacket pocket. Just another kid, really. I’m almost thirteen years old and no one has even noticed me come into the car. Not yet, anyway. I reach further into my pocket and scoop my hand underneath the warm little fur ball I find there. I pull it out of my pocket and the ball of fur I’m now holding in my hand begins to stir. The little grey squirrel I’ve named Peanuts, who accompanies me almost everywhere, drowsily looks up at me and yawns.

We met a year and a half ago, and have been inseparable ever since.

I'm playing on my porch one day in early Spring, and across the street from me I hear a commotion and know something is definitely wrong in the local animal kingdom. Just down the street I locate the cause of the ruckus.

Three baby squirrels are huddled together in the corner of a porch roof, and a large grey squirrel with huge teats is fighting with a fourth baby squirrel. She's chasing him off the roof, squawking and being very aggressive towards him. He crawls back up, wailing all the while, and she attacks him again. It seems that she's trying to kill him.

If you have read my story titled, "My Mother, the Sister © by adrian", you will understand how easy it was for me to immediately identify with this baby squirrel. What I saw happening was not a mystery to me. This squirrel's mother, for whatever reason, did not want the little fellow around anymore. The others were obviously not being threatened by her right now, this was exclusively between him and her, and the others knew it. After his fourth time of being chased and thrown from the roof by his mother, I intervened. I went over and hesitantly picked him up off the ground. I had no idea if he would bite me, or if the mother would attack me now. She was in a hysterical rage, and I realized very unpredictable. Well, the mother instantly stopped squawking, calmly walked over to the remaining litter, called at them, and they followed her around the corner of the roof, and out of sight. The little guy just stared at me. I didn't know if he was frightened or not, but at the time I felt he definitely knew that whatever was going to happen, was going to be a hell of a lot better than what had just happened.

I decided immediately that he would be my pet, we would be motherless buddies together. From this moment on, it was going to be him and me behind the tree. I would teach him to be strong, and he would teach me the squirrels' secret ways. He would show me the proper way to bury and hoard, so that everywhere we went all we would need to do is scratch the ground and there would be the possibility of discovering buried treasure under our feet. We would fly from tree to tree together, and take on the world...

Then I remembered I was late for dinner.

This realization presented itself rather urgently, because with that thought, I remembered that I also had a set of parents. I knew it would be pretty hard to sneak to the dinner table without someone noticing this new addition, and that they were probably going to play a figural role in any possibility of my being able to keep and care for this guy. There was something else I couldn't quite put my finger on, and then it dawned on me. I already had a pet. I was currently responsible for a five year old beagle dog named Towser whose full time hobby, (I'm sure he thought of it as a vocation,) was chasing squirrels.

I figured through stealth, cajoling, or promising to put out the coal furnace ashes for a month next winter, I might be able to sway the parents. I did, however, have some misgiving about my ability to convince Towser that this squirrel was not to be chased, and would be living in the house, just like him. I felt that no matter how upbeat and positively I tried to explain that to him, it was going to be a tough sell. I foresaw that I had a long night ahead of me.

As soon as I entered the house, Towser knew my secret. He ran towards me and jumped up, gaily barking. He knew I had brought him a treat that was better than anything I had ever given him before. Finally, he would have his very own squirrel to maul. He knew the other dogs on the block would be so envious of him.

I held my new ward above my head and called for someone to help pull Towser off me. One of my sisters rushed to my aid and pulled Towser back. The hallway we were in quickly filled, because added to this mix of dog, sister, squirrel and me, the parents rushed into the hallway to see what the commotion was. Their hysterical yelling along with the barking of the dog was quite a combination. I had single handedly pulled off the biggest family shit disturb of this month, and I wondered if the little fellow I was still holding above my head was reconsidering his options.

It didn't come about easily, but eventually the parents forgo their determined resistance and agree to let me try to look after him. We acknowledge that Towser will be a huge disadvantage to the squirrels well being, but I convince them I will be able to train him to look the other way when the squirrel is around.

I am the youngest in the family, but because I am a boy and must be kept away from my three older sisters as much as possible in order to protect my morals, I have always had my own bedroom. It's negotiated that as long as I keep my bedroom door closed whenever I'm at school or not at home, the squirrel can live in my room with me until he is old enough to fend for himself and be set free.

I name my new companion Peanuts.

Checking at the library determines that Peanuts is probably between six to eight weeks old. He did have his fur, but not a full coat yet. He still didn't know what to do with solid food, (nuts or whatever,) so I mostly fed him from an eyedropper or gave him mashed up food or peanut butter I would spread on the end of my finger. He would lick it off, or gently nibble my finger to get at it.

I got a huge box and placed tree branches, bits of cloth and hamster wood shavings in it so that he would have a room of his own. After a few days he dismissed the idea of his own area and decided to always get on the bed with me whenever I was in my room. I would put him in his box at night when it was time for lights out, but in a few minutes I would feel him crawling up the side of the bed and then he would snuggle up to me. He quickly got into the habit of curling up at my neck and sleeping in bed with me every night.

After a few weeks, we started to stumble through a form of semi satisfactory communication. Peanuts would make little grunting or what sounded like chirping noises when he wanted or needed any attention, and he started to come to me when I called him. Towser, of course was not amused by any of this. Amazingly though, Towser did quickly soften to Peanut's presence. Sometimes when Towser would go and lie down on his doggie bed Peanuts would march over to him and curl up on Towser's stomach and go to sleep. If Towser had ever been able to learn how to use a can opener, so that he could feed himself, I'm sure he would never have put up with such indignity. Peanuts simply became part of the household.

I soon started to take Peanuts outside to the backyard. He was still too young to look after himself, but I wanted him to at least have a sense of the outdoors. I never had any intention of keeping him permanently as an indoor pet, and felt he would go free as soon as he was more mature. I always assumed that when he was free to roam, he would drop by for visits on occasion if he felt like it.

About a month after I started living with him, he had his first attack. I realized he was sick, and at the time, I thought he was dying. Perhaps this explained why his mother had been trying to get rid of him.

Some squirrels have an illness with symptoms that seem to be similar to epilepsy. They occasionally have seizures where they go completely rigid and/or tremble, and stay in that state for a few minutes whenever this occurs. Peanuts was afflicted with this illness.

The Secord Animal Clinic was near Ramsden Park on Yonge Street in Toronto, close to where I lived. The doctor's name was Alan Secord, and over time I became very indebted to him. I took Peanuts there right after his first attack. Naturally I was scared and had no idea what was wrong with him. Because I was eleven years old, I had no money. When I explained that to Dr. Alan, as he became known to me, he said it didn't matter, and he would do what he could to help. I don't remember if he gave Peanuts any medication, but he certainly gave me hope that Peanuts was generally healthy, except for this flaw. During the year and a half that Peanuts and I were together, he had about six more seizures, and Dr. Alan ministered to him without ever charging me a penny.

Back on the home front, on one of our ventures in the back yard, his mother came into the yard. Of course, I had no idea what to expect (that seems to be a constant theme in my life, even back then).

If you don't know much about squirrels, you might find it hard to believe they are individually identifiable, but they definitely are. In a city environment as they run frantically about, that fact might be hard to accept, but they all do have their very own discernable personality traits. Apart from looks they definitely interact with the world as individuals. The way they forage, approach, squawk or even flick their tail, makes them easy to identify.

I offered his mother a nut and she came closer to us. She totally ignored Peanuts, and he ignored her. Of course I was relieved. When I first saw her I thought she would either attack him again, or he would go off with her. Over the next few months, whenever she came by, I would stand in the middle of the yard with Peanuts on my shoulder, and I trained her to jump from the fence to my other shoulder to get a treat. She would sit there and eat it and then the two of them would run up and down my back and around my torso and sort of play with each other. In those interludes, I was their scratching post and tree trunk.

At various times during the next year and a half I would leave Peanuts alone in the yard in the belief that he was ready to go out on his own. He would run and play in the trees, sometimes even with his mother and then when he had enough, he would come to the back door and lie down or just sit there until I let him in. He would scamper in, and run past me up to our room. Towser would watch, and I'm sure he wondered how everything could have gone so wrong in his life.

If I took him to the park and put him down, he would follow along, just like we were going for a walk together. When he got tired, he would squawk and I would wait for him to jump up on my leg and then I would pick him up and put him in my jacket pocket where he would curl up and go to sleep.

Back in the Subway car, I put Peanuts on the window sill behind us and he romps back and forth while a crowd gathers around. Not surprisingly, people are excited, amazed, and have many questions. When we arrive near our stop I call him to come to me and pick him up and slip him back in my pocket. He will quickly nod off to sleep, and I leave the car full of childhood feelings of importance.

About a year and a half after I rescued him, Peanuts had a final seizure and died. I was devastated, but I had always known that sooner or later he would be gone. It's the price you have to pay if you befriend animals from the wild. We had a wondrous and magical time together, and I learned almost all the secrets of the squirrels from him. Little did I know then that I would need to call on those secrets later on as other squirrels passed through my life.

I'll be home soon, don't wash © by Adrian

I'm attending an online writers workshop with other oldsters, and one of the assignments given is to write about smells and odors. In deference to the age of the others in the group I try to sanitize what I write, so as not to offend them. I don't know why, but have you ever noticed how really square old people tend to be. You'd think with all the living they'd done they would be open and flexible, but sadly that's rarely the case.

Good grief though, smells? How can any self respecting libertine be expected to behave themselves with that as the topic? My repeated attempts to sanitize what I'm writing proves unsuccessful, so I present to you this meandering and previously unpublished manuscript.

I call out to lovely Linda, who is down the hall in her home office, "Oh Lord, this time they want me to write about smells. I smell a class expulsion in the air on this one."

I've tried a number of times to make a list of odors I like, but every time I sanitize the list, it mysteriously disappears. I don't seem able to do it successfully, so I will summarize how I feel about odor, discuss some smells that excite me, and then mention a few I don't much care for.

The Good:
I just threw together a mincemeat pie (hey, it's the season). When I started cooking it I was quickly reminded of the joyful smell of food simmering on the stove or baking in the oven. I would be hard pressed though, to find a difference between food and sex. For me, they are very interchangeable.

Somewhere along the line I discovered that my analytical, intellectual self was a hindrance to my life's enjoyment. With that discovery, I relinquished as much control of my senses as I could to my animal nature. Smell, not surprisingly, has ended up very high on my list of important senses.

The incredible smells that can emanate from a woman influence me far more than looks ever have. My visual disinterest stems from the fact that everybody always shows up for their photo sessions at their finest, so I have always tried not to let the way a person looks rule my sensations. Armpits, crotch, sweat, (we're talking fresh odor here, not old and stale). Odors from all of the places you think you can imagine someone full of lust would crave, but so much more. I love to inhale flesh. Odor has always been paramount to my sexual enjoyment, I am an animal.

I believe Napoleon definitely had it right when he wrote to his wife Josephine, "I'll be home soon, don't wash." I envy a dog's approach to meeting and getting to know each other; a nose up the butt seems to be so much more sensible than a sudden look in the eyes and a hesitant handshake. Anyway, think of all the dreadful germs you can get from a handshake. Disgusting! Definitely not for me, thanks just the same.

Some of my photographic assignments are extremely intimate affairs, which occasionally involve some form of sex between the subjects. After a session I am often reminded of actor Robert Duvall's memorable speech while standing on the beach in the movie Apocalypse Now. He begins with, "You smell that? Do you smell that? Napalm, son. Nothing else in the world smells like that. I love the smell of napalm in the morning." After a bit more, he finishes with "The smell, you know that gasoline smell, the whole hill. Smelled like... victory." Well, to paraphrase, I love the smell of sex, nothing else in the world smells like that. I used to love relaxing on my own in the studio after a photo session and re-discovering the odor in the air of what had just transpired. Do you smell that? The studio. The whole studio, smelled like... intimacy.

The Bad:
Then, of course, there are the bad smells. I am horrified by the smell of perfumes, colognes, after shave, scented soaps and the like. Apart from the fact that many are just plain dreadful, I am offended that anyone would want to mask their naturalness. I feel robbed of the opportunity to take in and experience the smell of that person.

Flowers? You won't get any bouquets from me. Almost all flowers just plain reek as far as I'm concerned, and once picked, it's all downhill from there. People are forever shoving flowers in my face as they exclaim, "smell that, it's just so lovely!". Well, I don't agree.

The Ugly:
I am allergic to garlic, so naturally the smell of garlic distresses me greatly. It's beyond me how garlic ended up being attributed to the Italians. I am a lapsed Italian myself, and have spent my life explaining to people that there was never a hint of garlic at our house, or any of the Italian relatives we ever visited.

The list of things that most people never consider have garlic in them is endless, including almost every commercial condiment or sauce. There are some brands that don't use garlic, so I use them exclusively.

If I am out shopping, you will see me with my pocket magnifying glass carefully scrutinizing the small print list of ingredients on tins or packages of food. I assume that anybody who sees me these days thinks that funny looking old hippie is probably checking for healthy ingredients, but all I'm looking for is the dreaded word "garlic", I don't care a wit about what else is in the product. If you see me in a restaurant I can often be found hunched over a plate of food, very animal like, sniffing for traces of garlic to see if I should risk eating it. Asking in restaurants if there is garlic in food is rarely enlightening, although I have noticed lately they take the question much more seriously. I guess they are afraid of lawsuits these days.

I rely on my sense of smell to alert me to the possibility of potential pleasure nearby, and I count on it to let me know if I should or shouldn't eat what is being offered me. Whether I'm in the bedroom or a restaurant.

Of Nomads and Amazons © by adrian

I want you to know right off, I'm about 5 feet 9½ inches tall, I have no idea what that translates to in those other measurement number thingies that Prime Minister Trudeau bequeathed to us Canadians, but let's just say, I'm average height. I've pretty well stayed that height since my teens. When I bend over I'm a bit shorter, but when I stand up straight, I don't get any taller. I have a slim build, and since my teens I've weighed in at about 150 pounds. When I bend over, my weight doesn't change a bit.

There's something else I need to explain, but I want your help on this. You don't need to get up or anything, I'll get it myself, but I need you to believe me on this one (if not, for the sake of my story, just pretend you do). Women in general, are taller now than they used to be. In the fifties, sixties and seventies, if a woman was tall, she often stooped to minimize the impact of her height. It was rare indeed to find a woman who carried herself with the full grandeur her height would allow.

Damn, I just remembered something else. Cigarette Girls. If you're older, you might remember them. Some of you young whippersnappers might know them from old movies, or even parties. They became quite campy a few years back, so you may have seen them, or at least pictures of them. These women did tend to be a little taller than average, and often wore brightly coloured tight tunics with black fishnet stockings. Inevitably, high heeled spike shoes were added for more effect. They carried, and balanced in front of them, huge trays of cigarettes and cigars that hung from large straps that went around their necks and came down to their waists. They were hired to walk around in fancier bars selling, you guessed it, cigars and cigarettes.

When I was a puppy, I used to hang around in a bar called The Regency Towers, on Avenue Road near Bloor Street in Toronto. The legal drinking age in Ontario was twenty-one at the time. I was only twenty, but as long as you acted civilized no one ever questioned you or asked for ID in classy joints. This was a classy joint.

At that time, I was going out with my former brother-in-law's housemate. I met her when he invited me to a party at their place. She had a voracious sexual appetite and was driving him crazy with what he felt were unreasonable sexual demands. He reasoned that she might find me attractive, and I probably wouldn't think her enormous sexual appetite was something that needed to be avoided. Well, he got that right on both counts. She lived across the street from the Regency Towers and was fifteen years older than me. There is no question that lady was certainly a great experience in my life, but this is not her story. This is the story of me and my first wife, the beautiful nomadic Amazon I married.

I was sitting at a table in the Regency waiting for my girlfriend, when from behind my chair I heard a young lady walking towards me with the familiar chant of "Cigars? Cigarettes?", "Cigars? Cigarettes?".

I turned around in my chair to buy a pack (yes, I did smoke back then), and all I could see were legs. Above my head and obstructing my view of the rest of her, was the tray full of cigarettes. I could see nothing else, just legs and thighs. Unbelievably long legs, in black fishnet stockings and high heels, asking me if I wanted to buy any cigars or cigarettes. Now, I want you to know, I was a leg man back then, a true connoisseur of legs. I favour rear ends now, but at that time, I thought legs were the most beautiful body part that any women had (that was before I understood about minds). My present wife, Linda, occasionally reminds me that she doubts I've ever met a female body part I didn't think was my favourite. She does have a valid point. This though, was the most spectacular set of legs and thighs I had ever seen; lord forgive me, we called them "gams" in those days.

I remember asking those legs if they could step back a bit so I could have the pleasure of meeting their owner, and they did. She was gorgeous! Fine lovely features, slim, with long hair flowing almost to her waist, and she was about my age. I fell instantly in lust. If you have read any of my previous ruminations, you may have noticed I don't have much hesitation in being direct, and didn't back then either.

I told her I was in lust with her, that I would like to marry her, but if she couldn't make up her mind right away, then maybe we could do something else in the meantime. She said she was sorry, but she didn't go out with her customers, and if she ever did, the bar would fire her. So I explained that if that was the case, then I would never buy any cigarettes from her. I didn't, and we left it at that.

Over the next few months while we flirted with each other in the bar, I learned quite a bit about her and we became playfully friendly with each other. I discovered she was single, and didn't often have much success with men. You see, she was six feet three and one half inches tall, and also extremely independent. Most men, even the tall ones, were intimidated by her height. It seemed that everybody she met didn't quite know how to treat her. Female independence was not usually enjoyed or encouraged in days of yore either.

I have always been a great fan of strong, independent women. Among other things, it's always seemed obvious to me that if I was with a capable women, on the occasions that my brain stops working (which it does from time to time) my capable companion could guide our ship for us. I'm also fearless and not prone to intimidation. I don't mean to give you the impression that my thoughts were pure though. My god, when I was twenty I couldn't possibly ignore how good it would look on my resume if I was able to bed the tallest chick on the block. Well, I didn't bed her, but the flirting continued.

One day when I dropped into the bar she announced she was going to Europe in a few days. She planned on buying a scooter when she got there, and was going to travel around the country for a year or so. She gave me a forwarding address to write her if I wanted, and I gave her my address. We kissed each other goodbye hesitantly. This was our first kiss, and I don't think either of us thought we would ever see the other again.

A few months later I received a letter from her. She wrote that she missed me! I wrote back immediately, and we began an ongoing, increasingly intimate, communication. Seduction by mail is an easy road to travel, you don't even need to get up and wash afterwards. You can write majestic things, and they slide into the body with far more ease than the mechanics of sex allows. On the strength of our one kiss we became lovers by mail. It was extremely horny and exciting and went on until her return a year and a half later.

We got together as soon as she came back and acted like inexperienced teenagers with each other. We had consummated our relationship a hundred different ways by mail, and yet had only kissed each other once.

There was much fumbling about. It was so bad and amateurish that at one point we joked that perhaps we would have more success if we went to separate rooms and just slipped notes back and forth under the door. Eventually our bodies found their own way of communicating and we glided together. We were both very proud of ourselves, and became, as they used to say "an item".

Lord, we were a sight! As I said, women were rarely as tall as her, so when people saw us together it was cognitively difficult to understand that I was average height, and she was very tall. We were always referred to as "that lady with the really short man." I used to occasionally wear a beret, and if we were out together, I have to admit that standing beside her, with my beret on, I looked like I was about four feet tall. It was great fun; it added to our individuality as a couple, and we always enjoyed the gaping stares of others. I was way too young to be a sugar daddy, so others were forced to imagine all sorts of reasons what this gorgeous creature could see in a perceived little runt like me. It added immensely to what others thought must be my enormous sexual prowess.

We continued to enjoy being with each other, and a year or so later, we moved in together.

In 1965 we decided to move to California and look for the proverbial pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. We also hated the cold Canadian winters. As soon as we got our American immigration papers, we shipped our belongings to Monterey, California, got in our little British two-seater MGA convertible and drove off to greener pastures. Upon arrival, we rented a house in Pacific Grove, California and settled in. I started a photo-finishing company for other photographers, shot weddings and did jobs for the local Chamber of Commerce. She got a job as a switchboard operator.

California dreaming: At that time the singing duo of Sonny and Cher were just becoming famous. Cher has an average female height of about five foot six inches, but because she wore heels all the time, she always appeared to be much taller than Sonny. Whenever we went out, because of our height differences, people often mistook us for Sonny and Cher and wanted our autographs. Initially we protested and insisted we weren't them, but that just pissed people off and they would become verbally abusive. It didn't take long to figure out it was just easier to reach for our pens and get ready to sign away whenever we saw people running toward us. If you're a collector of autographs, I'd recommend you check the authenticity of any Sonny and Cher ones you might be interested in buying.

California was good for us, but that "it's cold, and it's damp" line from the Frank Sinatra song rings true. We went to be warm, and ended up unhappy with the mid California climate. After a year, it was time to move on. We still wanted warmth, so Houston, Texas became our next target. We didn't understand that although Texas is indeed warm, someone forgot to add air flow to the State, so unfortunately, breathing is rather difficult. I was also just beginning to notice that the nomadic life didn't appeal to me as much as I thought it might.

We hated Houston when we got there. It was a city that was intolerant of almost everything unusual, and we were certainly unusual. Among other oddities, I was probably one of only four people in the whole state who had a goatee. Eventually I got a job with Gittings Studios, a very upscale high society photographer. I soon became a novelty item for the rich and famous and started getting many requests to attend and photograph important functions. I was always encouraged to bring my girlfriend along. We weren't signing autographs, but we were once again in demand. During this high rolling period of success we decided it was time to make plans for marriage.

We had wedding rings inscribed with a Latin expression that roughly translates into "We can, because we think we can". In San Antonio, we found an accommodating United Church minister who agreed to remove the U.S. flag that was flown in his chapel, and he let us write our own words for the service (unusual in those days). We were married in a delightful and very private ceremony. A couple we knew joined us at the church to act as witnesses, and I had a friend from work join in to take pictures. After the service they left and we drove to Mexico for a two week honeymoon.

We eventually tired of America. In the States, it seemed that we constantly needed to explain ourselves, whereas in Canada, we found that people generally didn't care what you did as long as it didn't hinder them. Longing for this ideological freedom, we moved back to Toronto.

We didn't live happily ever after though, but we did have a great time that spanned ten exciting and wonderful years together. Over those years we both changed dramatically, me certainly more than her, (check my Image in the mirror © by adrian story) and we became incompatible. We still occasionally see each other, but long ago decided being good friends was a better deal for us than marriage.

Through all of the years that we shared a wanderlust together, her need to travel was much greater than mine, and she often went away on her own to exotic places to explore new experiences. She has spent her life searching for something. I found what I was looking for a long time ago.

Maybe it's more accurate to say that she always went out looking to find life, and I always preferred to wait and let life come and find me. It certainly always has!

Image in the mirror © by adrian

It's early morning, Linda and I are at the table, reacquainting ourselves with each other and the new day. For the past six months or so, since we bought a decent nineteen hundred dollar bed we mostly chat about the dreadful sleep we each had last night. During the two years before that, we mostly chatted about how, as soon as we got a decent bed, we would finally be able to get a good sleep. Prior to that, we slept comfortably on a seventy five dollar waterbed which I put together in 1967 and brought to Linda's house as part of my dowry when we were married. Apart from the occasional bag change over the years, it had never cost me any loss of sleep. Inexplicably one day, we both decided it was time to change to a regular bed, and neither of us has slept properly since.

I am drinking my first of two cups of instant coffee which will glide me through the day until late afternoon when I will begin to consider whether I am ready to ingest some food. I occasionally graze in the daytime, but for most of my life, my first food of any day starts at dinnertime. Linda, on the other hand, is busy doing things that she and other devotees of breakfast often do. Cooking oats, sometimes eggs, cutting apples, squeezing oranges, making coffee using complicated filter systems, and general preparations for her morning feast. With luck, whatever she does now will get her as far as noon before she challenges her stomach to once again get into action. For myself, and I assume many others that don't eat in the morning, it is a sight full of mystery.

In our current conversation, I mention that I have not heard back from the naked pregnant lady I photographed last week, nor have I heard back from the older Chinese lady that was interested in some sexy photos of herself before, as she put it "she fell apart anymore". I wonder aloud that I may have offended each of them in some of last week's emails. Linda looks up from the orange she is squeezing and smiles that delicious wry smile she displays when she has another insight into who I am and says, "So you think you offended another two people. I guess you would say last week was a pretty good week for you then."

It wasn't always like that for me. From adolescence to my thirties, I was extremely conservative in thought, dress, manner and deportment. I always saw to it that I was impeccably dressed whenever I went out. I always wore a suit and tie or ascot. The most casual I could accept of myself was if I was in the darkroom developing prints, I would occasionally take my suit jacket off, but never my tie. If I felt like really slumming, I would roll my sleeves up. I was, as they say, a tight ass. I was over thirty before I put on my first pair of jeans.

I was also in turmoil. I considered myself an intellectual, but I was filled with never ending lust. I could not accept that someone as intelligent as I could be so base and animalistic in my desires. I can't explain why I thought the two could not co-exist, I just did. I felt someone as smart as me should be able to control their instincts. I believed that life could only be appreciated fully as an intellectual experience, to be reasoned with, and not felt. I lived in dreadful fear of my inner self. I was convinced I harbored a monster that was determined to escape and overpower my intellect. I continually waged a war against my instincts to prevent this from happening.

Near the end of the sixties, when I was about to turn thirty, the rest of the world was busy going crazy on drugs and many people were trying to "find themselves". I decided it was time for me to try to face my monster. In those days, the road most easily traveled for insight was the drug LSD. So I took it. Without a doubt, that became one of the pivotal experiences of my life.

What LSD essentially does is temporarily modify the way one can process information. At the same time, you are given conscious access to immensely more information than you normally have. The information you get when under the influence of LSD is not reliably true information, but it is far more than we normally perceive. It overwhelms the senses and produces a very dreamlike state, but you are generally aware that you are the conductor of your own dreams and perceptions. Anyway, in a hallucinogenic state, filled with fear, literally trembling, I stared into a mirror and demanded that I should see my true self. I prepared myself as best I could for the most hideous vision possible, I braced myself, expecting to see the horrible monster I had hidden inside me come forth. Instead, I roared with laughter and ended up with me.

In that hallucination, I appeared to age very quickly, and among other things, my short dark hair grew out very long and white. I liked what I saw. I realized my internal engine was calm, and I was full of humour. I also realized that the animal I had been so afraid of was definitely harmless, and I decided at that moment if that was who I was, I better stop trying not to be that. Thirty eight years ago, in a mirror, I saw the guy that's in this picture here. I immediately decided that I would not do anything to create what I saw, I would simply stop doing things that might prevent me from being what I now realized was far more honest. So, for example, I didn't decide to grow my hair long, I simply decided to stop cutting it. I became determined to stop getting in the way of my own life's experience. I had "gone clear" without the need of Scientology. I was stunned that I had previously been so fearful of such a delightful and comfortable human.

I don't suggest that we should all march over to Wal-Mart, buy a tab of LSD from the drug counter and drop it. I know there is much urban myth about the dreadful things that drugs do, and I have no doubt that some of it is true. For me though, it was a life giver. Over time, I became free of my own self imposed shackles and realized that I could be sane and at the same time truly enjoy my insanity as much as I wanted. I no longer needed to care what the world thought about me. I understood that my fulfillment was completely my responsibility, no one else's. I was no longer dependent on what others wanted me to be or do. Finally free to experience life on it's own terms, beholden to no preconceived notions.

Candid Shots © by adrian Photographic memory: Episode Two

A few random, sometimes pointless thoughts from my life of pictures:

Photography for me is magic, it's like fortune telling. You show up at my door, I've never seen you before, we are strangers and yet you want me to present you with an insightful representation of your inner being. Forgetting about the sexuality of my particular specialty, even regular photography is a very intimate experience. In seconds, I need to get you to remove your pretence and mask, trust me, and reveal who you are. If I do it right, you end up showing me parts of yourself you didn't even know existed. How crazy is it that we both believe this is possible? I tell you, it's magic!

Mary, from the treasuresintheattic and a private workshop blog I belong to wrote in a comment to me once, "When I read your writing, I feel like I've signed on for a carnival ride."

During one period of my career, I kept coming across a photographer who had his own studio but wanted to work with me. Every time we would meet, he would repeat the same story, that he liked my style etc., and wanted to partner and work with me. He always explained that he was well off and could easily pay the bulk of my rent if I would allow him this privilege. I would thank him, and explain repeatedly this was not possible, as I worked alone. In a moment of weakness once, (maybe I was having trouble with my rent, I don’t remember why) I told him to come to my studio for a meeting, and we would talk about it.

My studios have always been an expression of my being, the studios themselves are theater. I always set my studios up as huge play rooms for grownups. This seems to help enormously in getting so much playfulness out of my clients, and thus onto the film.

I always had on display everything imaginable, and much unimaginable, all strewn about, in what I would call studied carelessness. Great flowing pieces of fabric, underwear of every description, heavy leather gear, satin, fur, whips, dildos, butter. In one period of time I even had a life size papier-mâché horse that I would occasionally put out onto the sidewalk in front of my studio. A little something for everyone. You knew you could act the fool if you wanted, be as free as you wanted, and no one would laugh or point at you.

I arranged everything so that the deeper you ventured into the studio, the more provocative my samples became. That way, you could stop at any point if you felt uncomfortable. If you asked to see something more revealing, I would show you samples of my special signature works that I create called "carnalsnaps" (if you Google them, visit at your own risk).

The other photographer showed up for the appointment he had sought for so long. He solemnly walked through my studio, constantly shaking his head. When he was finished he stared at me wide eyed and exclaimed "This isn't a photography studio, it's a carnival ride. I could never work in a place like this!" He then stormed out. His reaction gave me a warm and toasty feeling, and he never bothered me again.

Well, Mary's comment also made me feel warm and toasty, but this time for a very different reason. It's great to know that even in writing, I can sometimes still throw together a good carnival ride.

I have been on many strange journeys doing what I do for a living. I've seen things and been where it would have been impossible to be if it wasn't for my work. I suppose I have satisfied every imaginable fantasy a man could have, certainly any I ever had, at least three times in my life. The great part for me is that most of the time I didn't even get splashed. Everybody did most of the grunt work for me, and all I had to do was encourage, cheer, watch and take a few well timed snaps.

I have always been amused by peoples reaction to what I do. We constantly see photos of mayhem everywhere these days and hardly ever think about the photographer's involvement in what they have just witnessed. I'm sure it's safe to say we don't anticipate that when they return from their assignments they will refuse to take another picture unless there is a body nearby.

I used to do photojournalism shoots early in my career, dreadful fires, car accidents, that kind of stuff, no one ever wanted to talk about the event I had just witnessed. No one ever seemed to be the least bit interested.

Mix some sex into photography though, and most peoples brains don't seem to work properly. My experience is that you can't get people to stop talking about it.

I have earlier mentioned that I mostly live as a hermit. The friends I do have I've known for forty or so years and that's about it. I did end up with one extra photographer friend about fifteen years ago. The only reason that worked out was because he used to do still photos on the old porno movie sets in California. It was easy for both of us to become friends because we didn't have to waste each others time talking about sex and photography. We had both given at the office.

When I was younger and my ego lived in a different place I believed that my ability to get everybody naked was entirely because of me and my imagined sexiness. I eventually came to understand this was not the case. As I continued in my field, I realized that it had never been about me at all. Of course I contribute, I do seem to have an ability to give people permission to do whatever they want, and to have no embarrassment or shame about it. People do trust that I have no moral interest in what they do, and I will honour whatever their choice is.

I realize that I am dealing with a selective clientele, but it's always seemed to me that most people are able to abandon much of their moral restraint if given the opportunity. After forty-five years of this work, I still wonder what it is about photography that gives so many people the excuse to act differently than they normally do. I always enjoy challenging people to express that same freedom without the aid of a camera.

Accidentally black © by adrian Photographic memory: Episode One

It's 1972, I'm working in the basement of the studio/photo-finishing plant I run. Bill my friend and co-worker comes downstairs looking ashen faced and shaken. He says "There are two really serious looking black guys upstairs. They want to talk to the owner."

I go upstairs to the reception room, and rounding the corner see that Bill has not exaggerated. Two very intense looking guys are sitting there, both dressed in tight black suits, slim briefcases on their laps. These guys are definitely not Jehovah's witnesses. As I enter and say "Hello, I'm the owner." they stand simultaneously. It is immediately apparent there will be no hearty handshakes or "Hello's." to be had from this crew.

One of them walks over to the reception desk, flattens his briefcase, opens and starts rummaging thru it. The case is too small to hold a baseball bat. What is he looking for? Why did I come to work today?

The other walks up to me, very close, inches from me, into my space. Very intimidating. I intentionally move two inches closer to him, It's a defense mechanism I've always used when people try to crowd me. I think this lets them know I get their body language and it won't work on me. He almost smiles as he hands me his business card and says simply, "Don't you think it's about time you start advertising with us?" The card I've been handed has "Contrast" written across it.

Contrast is the name of a militant black newspaper in Toronto during the 70's. These are the days of the Black Power movement, Black Panthers, Black & Proud, and everything is "Soul".

These guys are not here to give me a sales pitch. In some strange way I understand I've just been invited. Normally, this would be the simplest of business decisions, advertise. This is different than normally. I would be reaching a market I knew nothing about and could never have had the audacity to consider. Taking this step alters much of the next twenty or so years of my life.

Listen to this...

I ran a photo-finishing company, had a staff of four and a very crowded house. I decided to move everything out of the house, and at the same time I would throw a little studio into the new location to play in. Photography for me is theater, all smoke and mirrors. Point a camera at most people, and they will smile or take their clothes off, or both, at the first hint, in an instant. What great fun!

I dug up some of my old sample photos and put them in the window. The early seventies in Toronto was the beginning of a large migration of immigrants from the West Indies and several African countries. In a short time, the black population grew to over two hundred and fifty thousand people. So, I found the requisite token black person shot I had, and added that to the window.

Photography is one of the few businesses that attracts exactly what you display. If I put pictures of little old ladies in my window, that's what will come inside. Babies in the window, that's what I'll get. Nothing could be simpler. It's like fly paper. What I didn't know, was that for most photographers, black people are a difficult photographic challenge. I had often heard that black people were hard to photograph, but I swear, I always thought it was some kind of goofy racial thing someone thought up, but it's true. It's also pretty obvious if you think about it, white objects reflect light, black objects absorb it. Put a dark subject on a dark background in a photo, and if not properly lit, they will likely disappear.

I almost always use dark backgrounds in my work, that's what appeals to me.

So, the token black person I put in the window wasn't part of any plan, it was just a simple portrait of a black lady. I had used a dark background in the shot, as is my fashion, and she showed up plain as day. I didn't consider for a moment there was anything unusual about it.

Soon, there were various clusters of black people outside the window talking amongst themselves about this shot. I'm still amazed this one photo started it all. This was "the face that launched a thousand ... " (oops, sorry, wrong story).

In the seventies in Toronto, we didn't have the dreadful gangs that are around these days, but it was still pretty unnerving to have a group of black people gathered about and looking into my studio. It was all new, and when they started coming in for portraits, it was a struggle for them as well as myself. Many of these early immigrants had heavy accents and often spoke the Patois dialect, something I certainly wasn't used to, and at first I had great difficulty understanding them.

I make few decisions in my life with any thought about what the final destination or outcome will be. Climax simply doesn't interest me, never did. I'm far more interested in what I will discover on the trip to anywhere, not what I will find at destinations end. When the West Indians and blacks from other countries started showing up, and then Contrast invited me in, I signed on for the trip.

When I began this section of my life, if there was a group of black guys outside my studio window I would be wary. When I finished, if there was a group of white guys outside my studio window, I would be wary. Everything in my life eventually changed from what I had previously known, and turned completely around. Absolutely everything I knew became accidentally black.

The first ads were simple, nothing gaudy. I also advertised in a publication called Spear, which had a more militant approach to the thorny issue of our different cultures. Eventually I ran ads in the other black papers, Share, and then, Pride.

Black people started coming in for portraits. Saturdays they would line up outside, I would shoot twenty or more sittings a day. Prior to this, I would shoot a couple of sittings a week. Initially they were new immigrants and would come in wanting shots of their new watch, holding their first paycheck, anything, and everything, to send back home. They were having fun, and so was I.

White people would come in acting like they were at the dentists. Explain the photo being made was to shut up some relative they hadn't seen in years, and they didn't want to be here. I was instructed to just get it over with quickly so they could get back to their lives.

The blacks were consistently exciting and yes, colourful. Many would show up in outrageous costumes and plumage. This was during the time that the "hip" all dressed in flamboyant velvet suits, innovative hats, goofy platform shoes and that incredible afro hair cut of the time. If a group came in and I set up a pose they liked, everybody would spontaneously clap to show their approval. There was a "black is beautiful" mentality and they wanted me to capture the history of it.

During this period I began dressing pretty outrageously myself. Sort of a cross between early beatnik and late hippie. Long great frocks, beads, very long hair. I've always been a suit and tie man when shooting weddings, so I would make exceptions for that. The long hair with a suit was theater unto itself.

The whites on the other hand were bland and boring. They never hesitated to display how much they hated every minute of what was happening. The blacks I encountered were visceral. Communication was not tainted by hidden meanings. No euphemisms here, everything was direct, emotional and on the surface. It didn't take long to realize I had stumbled into an area that my Italian temperament was more than suited to, this was definitely where I belonged.

At the same time it was an enormous culture shock. Sometime scary. I would shoot a wedding, at the reception there would be a huge gathering and I would be the only white boy in sight. I would attend raucous church services similar to what I had seen only in newsreels, and there I was, up at the alter, recording it. In the beginning it was very weird, no question about it. For them too, I guess.

Seeing as I stuck out so much, everybody quickly got used to the strange white guy with goatee and long grey hair. As I said, photography for me is theater, I am fast on my feet and usually put on a pretty good show. I always do my best to entertain my clients, that way I know they will go out of their way to entertain me, for the camera. Soon the black papers started hiring me to shoot some of their work, and occasionally they would print stories about me. I was welcomed in.

Photography for me is magic, sometimes the magic works, sometimes it doesn't. With black people, for me, it almost always worked. It's about communication, not equipment, and once I got the rhythm of the speech and the personalities right, it easily fell into place.

I closed the photo-finishing section of my business and moved the studio to the middle of what was then the "black section" of town, Bathurst and Dupont Street.

I started advertising on black radio programs, and began using the catch phrase, "The Almost Soul studio" in my ads. It was nervy and all very presumptuous. I now used black people exclusively for samples, with one token white person in the window. We joked that the only time a white person came into my studio was if they needed change for the parking meter. As I said, all unplanned and very weird.

As the community expanded and changed, I moved my studio to follow it. I moved to Jane & Lawrence Ave., and then eventually settled down on Eglinton at Oakwood Ave. This area is still a hub of black activity in Toronto.

For the reader that may have been wondering if I would ever get to it, yes, there were the women. Up till then in my life, my contact with black women had been by way of National Geographic magazine. Well, I found out that in real life, they are way more fun than in the magazine. Who knew?

Photographers get turned on by various things. Some of us get excited about buildings, hillsides, rocks, babies, horses, whatever. Black women photographically intoxicate me. I can't explain it, would be a fool to try. They just knock my socks off. Doesn't matter what shape, how old, how tall or any of that stuff, many just seem to have an attitude that drives me nuts. More fun!

I don't know if I drove them nuts too, but for many years almost all my female companions were black. It was just a natural progression of my life at that time. All the people I knew, met, worked with and saw on a daily basis were black, so naturally that's where I would meet my lovers. Eventually I started a semi-permanent relationship with the sister of a black lady that worked in one of my studios, and we lived together for quite some time.

Later, into the 80's, the area around Eglinton and Oakwood Ave., started to get run down. The shops nearby were deteriorating, taxes were becoming unmanageable, and that section of Toronto temporarily fell apart, so it became time to move on.

Many clients followed me to my new location on Bloor Street West, but it was never quite the same as the intense activity during that twenty year hit. By that time, I had also realized that although it might be initially distasteful, I may as well try to get used to doing business with, and taking money from, the white folk...

They talked a little different than me, but I figured in time I might get used to the idiom of their speech patterns and be able to learn how to deal with them. I even began to notice that some of their white women didn't look too bad either. Not as much "Junk in the Trunk" as I was familiar with, but isn't there something about "a change is as good as a rest".