Decades of journalism had taken their toll on Clark Kent. He’d covered every epic news event throughout his career. He reported live from the jungles of Vietnam, and watched as Falkland Islands burned.  He was on-site when Iraqi tanks rolled onto Kuwaiti sand, and reported live when General Zod’s clone army from the Phantom Zone attacked Earth. For thirty years, Clark had pledged himself to the pursuit of objective journalism and unbiased coverage. In return, he had received a massive ulcer and a crumbling 401k retirement fund. He had survived countless hostile takeover attempts by supervillians. But could he now survive a hostile corporate takeover?

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I’m incredibly proud to announce today’s launch of Bankrupt Magazine — Vancouver’s newest online literary magazine.

Bankrupt is the brainspawn of Meredith Hambrock and I. It’s a place for up-and-coming Vancouver writers to share their work with the world.

We’re looking for fiction and literary non-fiction that’s written for readers, not just other writers. Reading should be exciting; it should grab you and say “Hold on tight, this is going to be wild.” It should be accessible, not elitist. Anyone should be able to pick up a piece of good writing and say: “You were right, that was one hell of a ride.”

Live in Metro Vancouver and want to share your story with us? Or just looking for a damn good read? Then check out our site:

http://bankruptmag.com

A huge shout-out goes to Marty Batten for all his help with the site. Bankrupt wouldn’t have been possible without him.

Evening descended upon the Ou river in Laos, and still we had not found shelter. Our hand-scrawled map of the river was not drawn to scale. The next village could be mere minutes away, or many miles yet.

Arms sore, I laid down my paddle across the front of our canoe. Looking up at the towering limestone cliffs that enclosed both sides of the river, I asked the question on everyone’s mind:

“What if they don’t let us stay?”

We had encountered only one other village that day. They dismissed us with a simple head shake. Whether out of mistrust or misunderstanding, we didn’t know.

The canoe rounded a bend in the river. The American, James, sat up suddenly at the stern. “There it is!” he shouted, pointing towards the river’s edge.

Along the shore, women in argyle sarongs bathed themselves in the murky river water. A lone man in shorts scrubbed his laundry against a boulder. Children chased each other along the water’s edge. One child spotted our approaching canoe and halted.

“Fallang!” the boy shouted out. Foreigners.

The villagers stopped and faced us. In the middle of our boat, Annike turned around towards Ellen. “Get the paper out.”

Ellen stopped bailing out water, then pulled out our Rosetta stone: a single piece of paper containing every phrase of Lao we knew.

“Sabaidee!” she read aloud. “Náwn yuu nîi dâi baw?” Can we stay here tonight?

The villagers continued staring for a moment. The man turned to the women. The women shrugged. He faced us again, evaluating the four canoeing backpackers in front of him. A radiant smile dawned upon his face. He dived into the river, swam out to the canoe, and towed us back to shore.

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I’m reporting at The Tyee — an independent online magazine based in Vancouver — over the next few months.

Check out a few of my recent posts there:

• Nuclear arms ban is hot again
• Police conduct report shows flaws with complaint process: Pivot
• Canada slow to track human trafficking: UBC legal prof
• Vancouver may loan Millennium up to $100-million
• Union jobs at risk in BC’s largest security firm

See a list of all my Tyee posts here.

Coffee is the new smoking. It seems like everyone’s trying to give it up. I’ve overheard it everywhere recently: “I’ve been trying to quit since last week / My friend’s felt fantastic since giving it up / My manager picked the wrong day to get in a fight with me, it’d been three days since I had a cup / Decaf makes me want to stab someone.”

The pros to cigarettes and coffee are almost identical. Both offer an amazing pick-me-up mental boost. Both serve as a great tool for social interaction. There’s no better way to start the day than a drag of smoke or a slurp of brew. However, they also leave you feeling edgy and twitchy. And darken pearly white teeth. And let’s not forget the hopeless addiction. Apart from the lung cancer, they’re basically the same vice.

Too extreme of a comparison? Perhaps. But consider the marketing behind both addictions. Not too many years ago, most advertisers portrayed smoking as the habit of the suave and sophisticated. Celebrities proudly endorsed their favourite brands. Marketers presented tobacco consumption as a cultural activity, an edifying practice.

Sound familiar?

1951 du Maurier ad

2008 Nespresso ad with George Clooney

Marketing has subtly turned a simple caffeinated beverage into a fashionable lifestyle, just as they did with cigarettes. Friends showed North America that cafes were the place to be. Celebrity powerhouses, such as George Clooney, have helped brands like Nespresso obtain global revenues nearing almost a billion dollars. And we, the consumers? We have gradually substituted one addiction for another, trading cigarette packs for soy lattes.

I’ve been both a smoker and a coffee fiend. I’ve managed to quit the cigarettes, but giving up coffee has been virtually impossible. I tried joining the abstinence trend last week by switching to tea, the caffeine addict’s methadone. But it’s just not the same high. Besides, the battle was lost from the moment the coffee beans in the kitchen cupboard began to whisper my name.

Nicorette marketers take note: caffeine patches will be the next big thing.

Top photo credit: Thought Sparks

“Pleasantly shocked” best describes my reaction to David Eby’s announcement today that he is seeking a nomination for City Council for the November elections, and will be running under Vision Vancouver’s flag.

If you don’t know who David is, here’s a quick run-down: he’s a social activist lawyer who has worked with the Pivot Legal Society for the past three years, and has become one of the leading advocates for social housing and homeless rights in the Downtown Eastside. He co-authored the 2006 Cracks in the Foundation report, which exposed the numerous roots and causes of the housing/homeless crisis in Vancouver. In a short amount of time, he has become a leading human rights activist in the city and a noble example of how one person alone can make a difference.

I interviewed Mr. Eby a few weeks ago for a profile piece. I was convinced he wouldn’t make his election bid until the next term in 2011. However, I’m glad that he’s making his move sooner than later. If there’s one person that Vancouver needs on the city council to prevent the city from further becoming a property developer’s playground at the cost of basic human rights, it’s him.

Photo of David Eby courtesy of The Blackbird

[Photos by Brett Beadle]

In the grey Sunday morning light, a costumed procession marches through the quiet streets of Downtown Vancouver’s financial district. Dressed in matching black business suits and stylized Guy Fawkes masks, the sombre group looks more like a displaced Day of the Dead parade than members of an organized protest.

A loud cheer greets the group as they swing onto West Hastings Street. Over a hundred fellow protestors await them, most of whom also have their faces hidden behind Halloween masks. The two groups merge, and the protest commences. Pamphlets are handed out to curious passerbys. Picket signs rise high. A man with a microphone begins a chant: “Brain-washed, brain-washed, brain-washed!”

On the opposite side of the road, the Church of Scientology doors swing open. Two members strut out proudly, unfurl a banner, then raise it high on poles. “Scientologists For Peace,” it boldly proclaims.

The protestors break out in mocking laughter. A new chant starts, aimed at the banner: “Lies, lies, lies!” A section of the protestors splinter off and sprint across the street to the church. They raise their picket signs high, blocking the banner from view. One protester, her face hidden with a plaid handkerchief, wields a simple cardboard sign: “Religion is free. $cientology isn’t.” A veiled man beside her holds up a hand-written plea: “Free Tom Cruise.”

It’s difficult to describe the inside of the Scientology building in Vancouver as a church. Devoid of the scents of melted wax or burning incense, the Vancouver mission looks more like a marketing office than a sanctuary of religious devotion. Tall promotional signs line each wall. The receptionist’s desk is adorned with a bookshelf full of Scientology material for sale. In two cubicles behind reception, Scientologist members place follow-up phone calls to potential members.

George, a Scientologist for over 27 years, sits at a promotional table near the church doors. The table is decorated with E-meters and books on Dianetics, the foundational belief system of Scientology. George calmly sips on a cup of coffee as he offers a demonstration of the E-meter, paying no attention to the protest across the street.

The E-meter looks like a volt meter, the kind available at Radio Shack, attached to two tin cylinders. He turns on the device. The needle on the meter hovers at neutral. The E-meter, George explains, measures the electrical current in the human body, and can be used to observe changes in a person’s mental energy. “Hold the cylinders and think of a stressful moment in your life,” he says. “The needle will react to your thoughts.”

The needle fails to budge.

“Are you concentrating? Here, let me make an adjustment.” He turns the dials on the meter. Suddenly the needle violently swings back and forth.

“See?” he says, smiling affably.

Back outside at the protest, an altercation has broken out. Two muscular passerbys become enraged when videotaped by a protestor. They corner her, demanding the tape. Other protestors rush over, surrounding the two men. While outnumbered, they still pose a potential physical threat. The men begin shouting. “Why are you hiding behind masks? Stand up for what you believe in!”

“We are,” counters one protestor. “This is about free speech.”

Rain begins to drizzle. “Then prove it! All of your shit stands for nothing. Take off the masks! You’re all a joke. Behind a mask you’re nobody.” The two men storm off.

“We’re not nobody,” another protestor weakly retorts, his voice muffled under a Guy Fawkes mask. “We’re Anonymous.”

[Photos by Lung Liu]

Seen through the lens of Lung Liu, a scarred victim of a motorcycle accident becomes buoyantly handsome. A half-nude woman lying in a condom-strewn alleyway transforms into a caricature of beauty. Photos from his series on the Downtown Eastside capture Vancouver’s ignored and isolated denizens, of those forced to live in SRO hotels or on the street. While Lung’s street photography lacks any candidness, the black-and-white portraits humanize his subjects without capitalizing on shock value.

Lung claims the beauty in his work is neither contrived nor created by him. “It’s everywhere. If you stop and really look, there’s something beautiful about everyone.” He spins around in his seat. “Like that girl right behind us, she’s fucking gorgeous!”

I lean past Lung and look. Until now, I hadn’t noticed the woman he points to. She hovers over a pile of textbooks, oblivious to us. She sips on coffee and nods her head in rhythm with the beats flowing out of her headphones. Sure, she’s moderately attractive, but gorgeous? I don’t see it. She’s not someone that would cause a look-back if passed on the street.

Lung continues unabashed. “Sometimes you have to just go up to someone and say you’re really lovely. People aren’t going to be weirded out.”

I don’t buy it. A random stranger claiming that you’re beautiful? Surely a hidden agenda would be assumed. It can’t be as simple as that, I tell him.

Lung’s out of his seat before I complete the thought. He walks across the café and taps the girl on the shoulder. The words “I just wanted to say you’re beautiful” float across the room. The girl smiles. A thank-you forms on her lips.

Lung sits down again nonchalantly. “Just like that,” he declares without a trace of embarrassment.

I look back at the girl. She hovers over the textbooks once again, only now the headphones remain off. The curved edges of her mouth betray the remnants of the compliment.

The confidence to approach and profess admiration to complete strangers is relatively new to Lung. Adolescence and his early 20s were marked with little social interaction. Friends were few, girls were admired from afar. His idea of fun on weekends during high school was memorizing Pi to 120 decimal places.

His social isolation may have been due to the upheaval in the formative years of his life. Born in northern Vietnam, Lung’s family fled to China during the war in the early ‘70s. Five-year old Lung spent the next few months in a refugee camp in Macao, before his family was sponsored for immigration to Canada by a church in British Columbia.

As with many children of immigrant families, parental pressure was placed on young Lung to excel academically above all others, to earn a prestigious and secure financial future. His parents wanted him to become a doctor, a path he initially followed: after high school he went directly to UBC and earned a degree in microbiology.

“The future was all set for me, and I couldn’t handle it,” Lung recalls. “I had ulcers because I was so stressed about academics. I had these fantasies about just getting away, seeing things I hadn’t seen before, about getting away from life as I knew it. I kept dreaming of things like going on a trip and finding a cave which exits into Shangri-La, where no one has to work, and people can be happy and do whatever they want.”

His relationship with microbiology after university was brief and bitter, lasting a mere three months. On the rebound, he started anew as a systems analyst for a market research company. Life outside of academia became mundane and routine: “I would wake up, have breakfast, go to work, come home, cook myself dinner, go to sleep, do the same thing every day. After three years I realized I couldn’t differentiate one day from the next.”

Lung knew he had to change, but logically he couldn’t figure out what needed to be altered. He was at a loss.

And then the planets aligned, and Venus entered his life.

They met at a costume party. Lung was dressed as a woman; Venus was into drag queens. She approached him and complimented his beauty, and they chatted throughout the night.

Their next rendezvous was on his birthday. For a present, she promised him a print from her photography. She showed him her portfolio, containing nudes of every man she had been friends with. Conservative Lung told her that he could never pose nude. His resolve lasted a full week.

They went down to Wreck Beach. While taking photos of Lung, she removed her own clothing to make him more comfortable. “That’s how I started photography. I thought: If she can do this, so can I.”

Venus moved to Montreal for film school a few months later. Hundreds showed up to her going-away party. Many were so affected by her departure that they literally burst into tears. Her life was in an opposing orbit to his: loved by many, chasing her true passions. The party was a catalyst for Lung: “I just realized that, wow, what was I doing with my life? I had no real ties with anyone, I was working at a job I hated, all for a nebulous goal that I really didn’t know.”

In a pitted moment, he made his first unplanned, irrational decision. He moved to Montreal as well.

Jobless and unable to parle français, resources became scarce in Montreal. Desperate for cash, he tried to become a dancer at Club Adonis, a gay strip club, even though he is straight.

But could he actually dance?

“No, but I figured I could work the small Asian kid angle. I figured I was the type that could attract the Bears, that I could be a cage dancer or something. It was the only thing I could think of that would give me money and time to pursue my photography.”

Quebec’s governmental employment agency saved him from cages and bears, however, by sponsoring him to learn French full-time. Freed from financial worries, he pursued his hobby of photography, and excelled quickly in both language and imagery.

Separated from structures of family and familiarity, Lung was forced out of his introverted shell, forced to experience life less passively. Two years later when he moved back to Vancouver, the reserved persona was gone, replaced by an outgoing, freer personality. As Venus had first approached him years previously, he now had the confidence to do the same.

The change in confidence parallels the evolution of his photography. Over the course of the past four years, his work has progressed from traditional nature shots to complex, narrative portraits. Lung credits the escape from introversion as the key to his work. “Everything you need to know about photography, the technical aspects of it, can be learned in a day. The difference between a great photographer and a brilliant photographer is just social skills, that’s all.”

His art has developed a large following on several community websites, such as Livejournal and Flickr. His four major series – centered on the Salton Sea, Northern Vietnam, Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside, and Majico in Mexico – have won praise from viewers around the world, which has not gone unnoticed by photography community. Last summer, he was awarded Editorial Non-Professional Photographer of the Year by the International Photographer’s Association, an organization which annually draws in nearly 20,000 entries from over 90 countries.

“When you take a picture of someone, you take them at that moment you see something in them that reminds you of how you feel about them,” Lung says as my coffee grows cold. “Your audience will clue in on that.”

Lung’s gorgeous girl gathers up her textbooks and exits the café. She turns and glides past the window we sit behind. I look up as she nears, and comprehension comes together like the click of a shutter.

This woman will never be on the cover of Cosmo. She will never star in the next summer blockbuster. She will never drink Diet Coke on a commercial. And that’s the point. She’s beautiful in a way I have forgotten exists, gorgeous in a way that doesn’t require silicone or Photoshop.

I ask Lung if he ever falls in love with his subjects.

“All the time,” he says.

My grandfather Jimmy steps, steps, steps into the living room, led by a stainless steel walker. He lowers himself into the nearest chair, and pulls the dinner table towards him. An empty glass sits beside his daily can of Guinness.

Jimmy struggles to grasp the can with his left hand. Two major strokes have deadened the entire right side of his body. His hand trembles violently as he pours out the dark stout, so much that I worry it will spill everywhere.

It doesn’t though. He fills the glass to the top, takes a sip, and lets out a satisfied ahhhh. He winks at me. “Still got it,” he says.

* * *

My first memory of Jimmy is the strongest. I was seven, on a family pilgrimage back to England, running around maniacally with my cousins in their garden in Middlesex.

“Hey kids,” Jimmy called. “Come here for a second.”

We ran over to the man I barely knew but nonetheless called grandad.

“Watch this,” he whispered. Jimmy opened his mouth wide. The top row of his teeth fell out of his gums.

We fled in terror to our parents, screaming about bewitched teeth. Our parents looked back at Jimmy. “I don’t know what they’re talking about,” he said, smiling with two sets of perfectly aligned teeth.

Our parents returned to their conversation. Still smiling, Jimmy looked back down at us, then dropped his dentures from his skull yet again, sending his grandchildren fleeing once more.

* * *

The years pass, and yet I still know little about Jimmy beyond his cursed teeth. The Atlantic separates us. The little knowledge I have of him comes out of the stories told by visiting uncles.

“I was 16 years old the first time I flew in a plane,” says my uncle Gerald, the youngest of Jimmy’s children. “As we’re about to go on, Dad suddenly tells me that near the end of the war, planes were assembled so quick and carelessly that most of them fell completely apart on take off. I’ve been a nervous wreck on flights ever since.”

Jimmy rarely spoke of the war. His sons have only a few small anecdotes of his experiences. “Like the time I introduced him to Sue,” his son Chris says, recounting the first time Jimmy met his future daughter-in-law.

“And whereabouts are you from?” Jimmy asked Sue.

She named a small town in northern France.

“Oh yes,” he said. “I was there once. Back in the early ‘40s.”

She was surprised. Her Norman hometown was far off the tourist track. What was he doing all the way out there?

He shrugged absently. “Bombing it from the sky.”

* * *

I return to England over a decade later and tour the Imperial War Museum in London with Kevin, the eldest son. He points out a replica of a Lancaster, the bomber plane Jimmy served in. “He once told me how everyone in the plane would be chatting and smoking as they flew over the Channel, laughing like they didn’t have a care in the world,” Kevin says. “Then the pilot would shout out from the front – twenty minutes to target! – and all of the boys in the back would fall utterly silent.”

Jimmy was positioned in the rear turret, an exposed glass dome that hung from the tail of the plane. The turret was uninsulated and unheated; the gunner had to wear an electrically heated suit to prevent frostbite. I climb into the Lancaster replica, through its fuselage, and drop down into the gunner’s nest. I try to imagine what it must have been like waiting here, shivering, alone with my thoughts and my machine guns. I try to envision black clouds of flak detonating around me. I lean forward and listen for the whistle of falling bombs. I try to imagine what it felt like to be Jimmy, but can’t.

* * *

By the time I’m old enough to appreciate that there’s more to Jimmy than false teeth, it’s too late. Another stroke destroys his memory.

“Remember the time I came to Vancouver for Expo?”

It’s the third time he’s told me the story today. I look across the living room to the man who once dangled in a frozen glass bubble twenty thousand feet in the air. There’s no chance of recovering the experience. Born in a generation that didn’t worship the individual, his experiences were never recorded in a diary, or a movie, or a blog. His memories die as his neurons do.

“I can tell you everything that happened a decade or two ago,” he tells me. “But everything else…”

What about fifty years ago?

“Nothing,” he says. “Were you here yesterday?”

Yes, I tell him. And earlier this morning.

“Oh. I see,” he says, polishing off his glass of Guinness.