Webwords

The trailers in the beach parking lot are the first clue — the dressing rooms, the film caterers, the equipment. The set is set up in the park, separated from the beach by a walkway. People walk, jog, and cycle past. A sign indicates that the crew is filming the pilot to something, but the show isn’t named on the sign.

I lean my bike against a log and sit down to watch. As it takes a while to see where the action is among all the people and equipment, I do more listening than watching at first.

“Background!” “Background!” For some reason, every one-word shouted command is repeated by someone else at least once.

“You guys, be quiet. You aren’t paid to stand around talking.”

“When you walk across, walk this way, OK?” The director motions with his arm.

“Rolling!” “Rolling!”

I finally see where the action is. There’s a young woman with long blonde hair wearing a yellow shirt with a red shirt under it, and she’s sitting on a bench. A young man with brown hair and a green-brown shirt walks onto the scene and sits on the bench next to her. They talk for a bit, but I can’t hear them. Then he gets up and walks away.

“Background!” “Background!” “Quiet, everyone!” “Rolling!” “Rolling!”

Everyone is quiet, and they start to film the scene again. An ice cream truck drives into the parking lot with its music playing. “Cut!” “Cut!”

They go again. “Background!” “Background!” “Background!” “Rolling!” “Rolling!” The young woman and man repeat the scene. From where I sit, it appears that they got it right this time because they take a short break afterwards.

A few minutes later, they set up the scene differently. I strain to see what they’re filming this time. It is…the same park bench facing a different direction, and the same young woman and man.

It’s just another day in Hollywood North.

How not to have a flat tire

Have a flat tire (or puncture / tyre):

• On a cold day, so cold that your fingers can’t work properly
• When it’s raining
• When your bike rims are filthy and the rain turns the guck to slime
• Nowhere near an overhang or other shelter
• Nowhere near a pay phone where you can call for a taxi (you don’t have a cell phone with you)
• When you’re in a hurry to get somewhere

How not to fix a flat tire

To fix your flat tire (or puncture / tyre):

• Discover that your patch glue has dried up.
• Resort to metal tire levers because the tire is on the rim so tightly that nylon levers can’t get it off. While you’re putting the tire back on the rim, puncture the tube with one of these levers.
• Overlook the second puncture created when you punctured the tube with the tire lever because the lever went right through the tube.
• After you’ve patched the tube three times and gotten it back on the wheel again, pump it up, only to watch it go flat again in a few minutes.
• Find out that your spare tube isn’t the right size or type.

Fellow cyclists will understand.

The sun was hot, and the tide was out. I took off my sandals and felt my bare feet press into the sand. Into the water, and the memories came like waves. I’d forgotten how the ocean caresses your legs, how the temperature goes from cool to warm even in shallow water, and how the seaweed wraps around your ankles.

I don’t want to forget again.

I mingled with the crowd, and then I accidentally ended up in another country.

I’d been bicycling to the border for a drug run, and when I got to the turnoff on 8th Avenue, the police were rerouting traffic to the truck crossing a mile or so east.

“What happened?” I asked, imagining bombs or terrorists at the border. But it was nothing like that. The border and neighbouring Peace Arch Park were where a large event called “Hands Across the Border” was being held, so the Peace Arch border crossing was closed for this event.

Travelling by bicycle has its advantages. Today, instead of being sent along 8th Avenue to the truck crossing with the motor vehicle traffic, I was told to ride down to the border and go left on Zero Avenue so that I could avoid riding in traffic. “Just head down to Customs, and when you see kids playing in the park on the left, cut across to Zero Avenue.”

Zero Avenue is a quiet road running along the Canadian side of the border between Canada and the US. It starts at the Peace Arch border crossing south of Vancouver and parallels the line between the countries.

I rode towards the border with crowds of people on either side of the road — adults, children, band members carrying their instruments, police officers. I kept looking for Zero Avenue on the left, but I didn’t see it. I moved to the other side of the road, where traffic would normally be coming from the other direction. The only other road I could see was a one-way road merging into the main road.

I cycled down it. A police car and two police officers were blocking it at the other end, but there was room for a bicycle to get past the police car, so I rode past the police officers and onto what I hoped was Zero Avenue.

A US flag in front of a house, gas priced in gallons instead of litres, centre spelled center…I’d just crossed the border illegally in front of two police officers. And when I was on my way to get drugs.

Coming back to Canada, I crossed the border legally. The Customs officer asked what my nationality was and what I’d bought, and then he said I could go. No bag search, not even a request to see my ID. My drug run was successful.

I still have that innocent face.

He saw, he liked, he took. And he got caught.

The piece of artwork had been on display in a public area. Its shape and colours would go well in his lobby, he thought. When he picked it up, another one just like it remained.

He took it to his place of business and positioned it prominently. People came in off the street to look at it and study it, and while they were there, they browsed in his shop. Ah, this new way of acquiring display items was so convenient. If people didn’t put their content behind bars or put up “Do not steal” signs, taking it for himself was a simple matter.

The artist, however, happened to see her work in the thief’s lobby. She notified the authorities. A high-speed police chase, a standoff with guns drawn, an arrest…no, nothing like that happened. The person she’d sold the artwork to contacted the thief directly. The owner informed the thief that his action was illegal and that she would file an injunction if he didn’t take down the stolen artwork within 48 hours. He removed it.

Should the police have been called? Does it make any difference that the piece of artwork was in fact a website article that its owner had bought exclusive rights to? Is it relevant that the writer had spent numerous hours researching, writing, and shaping the content for this owner, and that she earns her living in part from writing?

“What happened to that new piece of artwork?” the thief’s friends ask.

“Oh, some anal-rententive person said I wasn’t allowed to have it in my lobby because it wasn’t mine. What’s the big deal?”