TALES FROM THE BARSTOOL
By: Clint Lien

"The North and the South."

When I was first asked to write this column it was suggested that I might have something interesting to say about the fundamental differences between Canada and the United States from the viewpoint of a screenwriter working and living in Hollywood. To date I've avoided the topic all together. Why, you ask? Because every time I sat down to do it I realized that the differences, the differences I noticed, were not light. They were not funny. They would not make you, the reader, smile and I wanted my column to make you smile.

First of all I have to make it clear that I am not qualified to say anything on what separates "Canada" from the "United States." I've never been further east than Alberta on the Canadian side and apart from six days I spent in a motel in New Jersey and three days in Birmingham, I've not been outside of Los Angeles on the State's side. So what I can talk about is Victoria compared to Los Angeles - which will be like comparing an ant hill to a bird's nest. This still doesn't address my original problem - the comedy level of the topic. Oh well, shit just ain't funny sometimes and sometimes it's just so sad it makes you laugh.

Of course there's the obvious things: the beaches, the weather, the population, the tap water and the air. Those are the things any tourist could pick out after being here for about six hours. What the tourist isn't going to see in their two week stay in Anaheim is the desperation and the environment of fear that hangs over the city like the ever-present smog.

Fear makes people crazy, and in Los Angeles there are a lot of frightened people. They're afraid of everything. They're afraid they won't get the part - the one that'll bust 'em out. And worse than that, they're afraid they're not good enough to get the part. They're afraid they're wasting their time with their current screenplay - the one about the writer who falls in love with the movie star. They're afraid that if they fail at this then they'll have to get a real job and work it for the rest of their unsatisfied lives. Those are some of the big fears. But for most Los Angelinos, their days are filled with a plethora of smaller, less significant fears. Will they be late for the meeting and will they find a parking space when they get there? Will the valet steal the change from the ashtray? Will they get by the guy at the door of the Sunset Room or will they have to wait in line and pay fifteen bucks like some kind of nameless plebe?

Of course, the L.A. I'm seeing is the "industry" side of L.A. - it's the wide side - the only side you see if you're a part of it.

What else? The L.A. driver is superior to the Victoria driver. He has to be if he wants to get anywhere on time. The L.A. driver is seldom found driving slow in the fast lane. That could get you shot. In Victoria it might get you the bird but even that's not likely. Victoria, like L.A., has a substantial number of homeless people roaming the streets. It stands to reason, as Victoria is said to be the warmest Canadian city. However, Victoria's homeless differ substantially from L.A.'s. The homeless in Victoria are a younger more vigorous crowd. They'll sell you anything you want. They walk with their heads held high and their eyes shine with intelligence and contempt. They scare the hell out of me.

The homeless in Los Angeles look like they were born on the street and never imagined another life. They look down at their shoes, if they have them, as you pass by. Clouds of shame seem to hang above them as they humbly ask for money. The street kids in Victoria demand money like it was owed to them.

Romance in the two cities differs about as much as the hundred meter dash and the marathon. They're two different races run by different runners, but I think the goal is still the same. In Victoria, it seems, for the most part, to work the way it should. Two people meet, they express an interest in one another and then the relationship moves along at the pace their passion dictates until such a time as they grow old and die together or, more likely, they decide they're not for each other and move off in different directions. It's not without its pain and joy, but it's a fairly standard procedure.

It doesn't work at all like that in Los Angeles. Here, you meet somewhere - a bar or a party, and sleep together as fast as you're able to find a private room. Then, if the woman decides she wants to give up her real number she does. If the fellow decides he wants to call that number he waits the prerequisite six days and calls. At that time they will set up a "date" where the gentleman takes the lady out for sushi; afterwards they return to one or the other's apartment where they engage in more sex. The relationship is now set. Over the next six months they will meet several times a week to have a bit of dinner and exchange bodily fluids (only figuratively as everyone gloves up.) They introduce each other as "my friend." Nobody in L.A. has a boyfriend or girlfriend. That would take them off the market and they may miss something better that might come along at the next party.

The good folks of Victoria perceive L.A. to be a shallow plastic place filled with phony people. L.A., the city, may be just that, but the people are not. How is that, you ask? While it's true that there are more silicone implants in this city than there is sand on the beach and people do wear their sunglasses at night, I have found that each one of those hard chested women and sullen black-clad young men has a story to tell. They all have a mom and dad and few of them are from LA. They came from somewhere else and are now playing by the rules that the city imposes on any would-be players. Take these people for a walk on the beach and you'll find a real person.

I think the people of Los Angeles know a little bit of what the gold rushers in the Klondike must have felt like. Some struck it rich but most left with less than they carried in and many more still were buried in the cold mountains. The players in this town know this in their bones and it leaks out of their pores like some kind of fetid sweat. I don't think there's anything to be done about it, but perhaps awareness may help. There is, however, one thing I do know that would make this place a kinder gentler city - bicycles. It's so simple and obvious. If more people rode bicycles, the way they do in Victoria, 73.2 percent of all the problems in this town would disappear along with the smog. The bicycler is improving his own health and state of mind while not polluting the air. There'd be less traffic jams and parking wouldn't be such a beast. Over night people would start being nicer to each other. The city could open up its collective lungs and breathe and maybe then the good citizens wouldn't be so afraid anymore.

I could write seventeen more columns on this subject and only begin to scratch the surface, but I won't. It kinda makes me sad.

Reactions? Comments? Write me at barfly@netlistings.com