politically colour blind

Spotted on Premier of B.C. Gordon Campbell, last week at a tourism conference in Penticton: black trousers with a dark-but-still-definitely-navy blazer. Quelle horreur! Who is this man's public image consultant?? Where was his wife?? Everyone knows that black and navy is the ultimate No in mens (and ladies but usually it's the men who are guilty) fashion.

Did he think they were the same colour?

Was he in such a hurry that morning that he just grabbed the first dark jacket (or trousers) he could, not noticing that they were so obviously not the same colour?

Or did he, in fact, genuinely believe it was okay?

How many martinis did he have this time?

You'd think he'd learn by now.

photo by Lori-Anne Charlton

Gordon Campbell being awarded Tourism Leader of the Year at the B.C. Tourism Industry Conference in Penticton last week, by some tourism guy named Kevin Walker (who's jacket and pants actually match). The distinction was obviously not based on Campbell's sharp eye for colour.

addicted to love

My mouth is raw and festery. It burns when I brush my teeth. Yet I. Can't. Stop. Eating cinnamon candy hearts.

I need 'em, man - I NEED 'em.

It started a few years ago, this addiction to the Valentines Day Red Demon. I'd sit in front of my computer, writing, popping back three, four, five at a time. La brûlure, c'est magnifique.

After a day or so of this, however, my mouth gets kind of tender - tongue, cheeks, roof, gums. My blood sugar level must soar through the roof, making me grateful they're not available all year round.

I thought I found a substitute, last autumn in Vancouver, when Alicia introduced me to "The Original Celebrated Curiously Strong Altoids." Three at a time of those and I'm not responsible for my actions. Hu-wah!

But still, they can't compare to the delicious, red cinnamon kick the hearts provide. I'm downing them now, as I write - although I've limited myself to two at a time because last night when I tried to eat Kyle's pineapple-laced stirfry my ulcerated mouth didn't take it well. It's been stripped, you see, of all its natural buffers. But yet, here I am again this morning, like a dog to its vomit, like a junkie to his drug. It could rot the teeth out of my mouth. I could become a diabetic. But still . . . "just two more," I rationalize. "Okay, maybe three."

I thought I'd go without this year. Just don't buy them, and I won't fall into the familiar downward spiral. But there they were, stacked neatly, bag after bag, in the Valentines Day display at Stupid Store, right where you walk in. No avoiding them. At least I only bought one 454 g bag - I almost bought more, thinking I could set myself up for the whole entire year. Now, as regular toothpaste bites angrily into what's left of the lining of my mouth, I'm glad I resisted the urge. One bender a year is really more than plenty.

And anyway, I've noticed they're starting to get the Easter stuff out now. I might have to disfigure what's left of my mouth with a binge of malt eggs. Or I could just take up licking cheese graters.

I think I need some help.