4th Branch

As per the yearly tradition, Hennessy has chosen a new collaboration for their VS Limited Edition artist series. The idea behind the line is essentially a reinterpretation of the brand's bulletproof legacy, a legacy moulded by both exceptional style and superior taste. This year, Hennessy has chosen celebrity tattoo and visual artist, Scott Campbell. I was blessed enough to spend the day with Scott during his visit to Toronto over an intimate lunch and interview, and the subsequent Hennessy VS launch party.

The name may ring a bell to you. Scott Campbell was the creator of an art installation entitled Whole Glory. The concept is incredible, truly pushing the boundaries on the relationship and trust between an artist and their client. Participants who submit to the process (selected randomly from a hat) sit on one side of a wall, and stick their arm through a small hole. Scott is seated on the other side, ready to tattoo the perfect stranger with a piece of his choosing. "There is a real magic in the ritual of tattooing that is personal and spontaneous. It's that really amazing exchange between the artist and recipient," Scott says.

Scott and I spoke extensively about the differences between tattooing anonymously on opposite sides of a wall, traditional tattooing, and the fine arts (in which he has also developed a remarkable reputation).

"As I started to do more work in fine art and the other mediums, I started to feel the difference between painting on canvas and tattooing on skin become more and more profound, and I found myself switching modes back and forth from painting on a canvas and having total freedom, and then going back to tattooing where I had to ask permission, and respond to people's opinions. So I just wanted to close that gap, I wanted to tattoo with the freedom that this other craft has to offer, so that's how it came about."

Fans of Scott Campbell are well aware of his affinity for the number 3. When I asked him about his dedication to that number (and symbolism in general), his explanations were interesting. He wasn't a fan of the term superstition, but he admitted he does things a certain way for a certain personal reason. He described the number 3 as being very powerful, to the point that he incorporates it whenever possible (if someone wants flowers tattooed, he designs them in multiples of 3).

Scott also talked about the fact that he is referred to as a "celebrity tattoo artist", a term coined by those around him in the community and the general public at large. "The way other people describe my job has no bearing on the way I spend the hours of my day. Call it whatever you want, as long as I just get to draw pictures all day, I'm good."

We discussed whether or not his Glory Hole approach to tattooing was an attempt at a pushback to traditional tattooing, and he admitted he didn't intend it to be. Scott's deep interest in fine arts and mixed mediums is certainly indicative of the fact that this artist doesn't feel boundaries in his work. "Tattooers are like the strippers of the art world. You get into it when you're young, and it's really kind of sexy and exciting, and you think it's freedom, because you know, you get to listen to whatever music when you do it, and you get to live in this little fringe society, but at the end of the day no matter how far you take that, it's still a service industry. You're still accommodating someone else." With the notoriety he's gained recently in fine arts, he's been trying to correct the public perception, demanding the same respect for tattoo art, just as the other mediums receive.

One of my favourite things to discuss is the transition society has gone through in regards to tattoo acceptance, and Scott's views were rather congruent with my own. "Tattoos have changed so much in the eyes of pop culture that they are more accepted now. I feel that 20 years ago if I went through customs without covering all my tattoos, they'd search my bags, assuming I'm smuggling drugs, whereas now with tattoo reality shows, and everything as out in the open as it is, I don't feel that judgement as much." He spoke about tattoos as a way of now controlling your own identity; it's no longer whether or not you have tattoos, it's what do you have. As an example, he says "I'm going to walk into this tattoo shop and get a rose on my arm, and for the rest of my life, I will be a person with a rose on my arm, and I think that's really powerful."

Scott is also a dedicated family man, married to actress Lake Bell with their daughter Nova, who just turned 2. I joked about whether or not he'd be willing to tattoo his daughter if and when she decides she wants ink, and he said "Totally, if she wants me to. I mean, I can't tell her no, it'd be the most hypocritical thing ever. As every parent knows, if you make something taboo you make it attractive." He said he didn't have aspirations of being a father, but "meeting a capable mother was a big part of it."

The entire experience was one of a kind. Scott's design for the Hennessy bottle is breathtaking, and very true to form with his style. It's incredible to see collaborations like these between the unlikely, and Hennessy should be commended for blending the unexpected. Definitely try and get a bottle before the run ends - mine is nestled safely on my bar beside the amazing stainless steel photobook he launched.

Next time there's a hole in a wall, stick your arm through and see if it comes back tattooed.

Hop over to Scott’s website to watch an amazing video on Whole Glory.

I am bored, but I’m not tired. Withering, yet still inspired. Pen to paper finally, and I lack a rhyming structure. Such is life.

I fail to write because I am happy, which is horrific because nobody wants to hear the grievances of a happy writer.

Write. White.

When you’re up mentally you’re down physically, and vice versa.

Who put versa in a vice? How rude.

I have an inkling...

Write. White.

The night is so young and yet I stand no chance of it continuing. Young slash broke, broke slash young. Beautifully, poetically cyclical. Things to do tomorrow stacked upon aspirations of taking over the world.

When everything you think you knew about your life gets thrown back at your face, you either adapt and raise, or you fold. The house always wins.

I’m not happy, I lied earlier. I’m on the road to happiness. What a journey it’s been, littered with failure, confusion, drug addiction, redemption, more failure, and a level of support from the people I truly love that reminded me of why I love them. I’m on my way home, existentially, and I’ve never been more excited for anything. The caterpillar is en route to his wings, and it’s only uphill from here.

I’d like to thank the academy.

Be excellent,

I decided to quit drinking yesterday, for personal reasons.

Went to the grocery store today and found non-alcoholic Grolsch. 

So a few friends of mine decided to do a parody interview with Buck Martinez, the play-by-play commentator of the Jays, and John Gibbons, the manager. Hilarity ensues!

Check out the full article I wrote on the Huffington Post here.

She wasn’t in my two year plan.

She wasn’t in my plan, period. No one was. But the tide changes, the planets align, a face card and an ace show up, and before you know it you can’t even begin to imagine a day without this soul that you didn’t foresee crashing into your life, like the series of small explosions that she is.

Christ almighty, what an explosion it’s been so far. Insecurities and doubts about the other dancing into our thoughts, free-styling. An acapella, almost. An entirely impromptu relationship written entirely in prose.

Shakespearean, isn’t it?

It’s insane to look at it objectively and realize how unplanned it really was. Getting to know someone, and learning the dark secrets and meeting the skeletons before ever even being sexual with them. A seemingly discordant dance, an unlikely duo, and yet the pieces all fit better than one could ever imagine. Unintentional though it may have been, I regret nothing.

I’m blessed to lay beside this remarkable human as I write.

Be excellent.

For a week or two now I’ve been intending to write my thoughts on the current dating habits of people my age. Recently though, I’ve been noticing a plethora of articles popping up on the subject, so I figure now is better than never to stack my two cents onto the pile of opinions. After all, everyone is entitled to an opinion. Except for the writers at Elite Daily. They need to put the keyboard down and let everyone go.

I suppose if I’m going to sucker punch Elite Daily, I’ll pull out a specific article to talk about. ‘How Accepting The Hook-Up Culture Is Getting 20-Somethings Nowhere' is the article that caught my attention, both because of the very direct and accusatory title, but also because at a glance I don't necessarily disagree. Realize that I'm not writing this to defend or attack hook-up culture, or dating, or any other facet of sexuality and relationships. I'm just as involved in all of it as anyone, and I ultimately don't know what is best for us. Hell, no one does.

The overall gist of the article is that our current dating culture involves low-risk sexual hookups with very little investment, and thus a low opportunity for loss or disappointment (but as a result, a low opportunity for any value). By never entering any sort of relationship with anyone, the inevitable breakup (and heartbreak) can be avoided. This point I can’t argue in the slightest, since its simply obvious that if you don’t let anyone in, they can’t hurt you.

What I don’t like is the continuous implication throughout the article that the only culprits for this aloof, low-risk dating behaviour are male. Constantly encouraging the reader to find ‘a man who doesn’t do this, and instead does that’ puts the entire brunt of the issue on the male counterpart in this flawed hookup culture. What an ignorant thought, one that will easily exacerbate this issue further if both sexes think the other is ‘out to get them’.

Our dating scene is absolutely fucked up, there’s no denying that. Never before (other than the 70’s maybe) has there existed less commitment and more promiscuity, with zero investment and very little work. We need to realize it’s a cyclical issue we’re facing, and everything that we’re doing is only compounding on the problem.

As I said earlier, I don’t have the solution, I’m just talking out loud. I’m no different then the next young adult right now, managing to have plenty of sex without actually showing any feelings or investing anything. Am I content? Absolutely. Am I happy? Not even in the slightest. Realistically, we can pretend this entire dance is emotionless, but we know it isn’t. We just quash the emotions before they get out, potentially leaving us vulnerable for pain and disappointment. Is that any way to live? No, but it’s the rut that we’ve gotten ourselves into as a generation.

Everyone needs to take a step towards blatant honesty. People avoid honesty when doing the dating or hookup dance because it opens up the risk of the entire thing exploding and going to shit. If you never announce your intentions they can never be shut down, right? I think everyone would change their thoughts on that immediately if they tried doing it honestly. Telling that server at your favourite bar that you think she’s gorgeous. Admitting to the person you’re sleeping with regularly that you actually like her, even if dating may not be on the agenda at the moment. Being out for a pint with someone and saying you’d like to kiss them, instead of sitting there wondering, doing nothing, and mulling over the potential missed opportunity later that night, kicking yourself in the head for not being more open and impulsive. Fuck it people, just say it! We’ll all be better off, I promise. It’s working for me. If I’m wrong, I’ll start writing for Elite Daily as punishment.

The other side of this coin is that if over-the-top hookup culture isn’t ideal, are relationships the answer? 

I don’t think so. I don’t necessarily think all relationships in your 20’s are a bad thing. That being said, I’ve realized in my very short life that while relationships are something to be celebrated, there are also a lot of other things that you missed the celebration on as a result. We’re in the prime of our lives, trying to figure who we are. Nothing is more satisfying than meeting people that you like hanging with, having sex with, or travelling with, and learning more about them. There comes a point though where you risk dedicating too much of your focus to helping them find them, when in reality it’s you who needs to figure out you at this point in your life. It always seems like a good idea at first. Two people with so much in common, deciding to do it all together, promising you’ll be different then the other couples. Promising you’ll never slow the other down in their self-exploration. But you will. So will they. It might take weeks, months, or years, but eventually you’ll realize that you’re compromising yourself in the wrong way, to accommodate the feelings, needs, or expectations of the other. Compromise in relationships is necessary, but we’re 20-something. Why compromise?

No solutions. Just thoughts. 

It feels good to move the fingers again.

Be excellent.

She was a cadaverous lay.

It's always a toss-up when he brings a new girl home. Sometimes they fuck like a seasoned veteran. Sometimes the sex is so bad he's just waiting for it to end. Victoria was the latter. Or maybe her name was Alicia. He couldn't remember and couldn't really care less.

She was absolutely gorgeous though, she had that working in her favour. Laying on his bed, arms crossed behind his neck, he could see her naked body through his open bathroom door. Women who run have a distinctive body shape. Slim, yet muscular, she had a tight butt and toned legs. His eyes followed the curve of her breasts as he got up to pour himself a glass of whiskey.  'I have work early in the morning tomorrow,' he said to the open door as he dropped in a few cubes of ice.

'That's fine. I'll be out in a minute,' she retorted as she left the bathroom, gathering her clothes from his bedroom floor. He set his drink on the bedside table and opened his laptop, now watching her get dressed. She really was a gorgeous specimen, dark brown hair and big brown eyes. Italian, he presumed.

After slipping her shoes on, she grabbed her purse and kissed him on the cheek. 'Call me?'

'Yeah,' he said quietly, eyeing her legs as she opened his apartment door.

He took a sip of his drink and stared at his laptop blankly as the door clicked shut.                                                   *     *     *

He was at the same bar again the next night. He liked the place, for no specific reason other than that it was close to his apartment, just west of the downtown core.

'Another Jack on the rocks, Tim?' 

He looked down at his empty glass. 'Yeah why not, I've got nowhere to be.'

As he waited for his drink, his eyes slowly surveyed the bar around him. People were chatting away, laughing and smiling. It was Thursday, and everyone was eager for their week to end. He couldn't care less, every day was basically the same. In the morning, he'd head to the coffee shop he worked at. It was a fairly popular spot, and it wasn't uncommon for him to get a few numbers just while at work. Afterwards, he'd take the subway back to his house to eat alone, or he would pull one of the seemingly infinite numbers from his phone and dine out with one of the gorgeous women he had amassed. Most times, she would come home with him after. If she didn't, he was never phased. A quick shower at home and a change of clothes and he'd be off to the bar.

And here he was. He wasn't even looking for anything in particular. He wasn't a try-hard, apparently he just knew what to say to get women in bed.

He had a different woman with him almost every night, and yet still, he was completely alone. He despised himself for his revolving door of women, but he didn't know how to live any other way. It never crossed his mind that maybe he could enjoy the company of one of these women outside the bedroom, in a meaningful way.

Across the bar, he caught a blonde staring at him, for the second time.

His friends assumed he could only be the happiest man alive, they couldn't dream of having the success with women he had. They had no idea that he hated himself. He was an addict, and his drug of choice was the female species. And for him, it was the easiest drug to score on Earth. It was never enough though. He'd take them home and have fun with it in the moment, almost feeling a wave of relief, of satisfaction. But the second it was done, he felt absent. Sick, almost. Why do I do this?

And yet he continued, night after night, blonde after brunette. Never getting closer to what he wanted, because he didn't have a fucking clue what that was. 

When he looked up from his drink the blonde was smiling slightly at him.

This was all he knew. What do I want? Will picking up another woman tonight satisfy me as a person? Probably not, he thought, as he got out of his seat. It won't change a thing, and tomorrow morning I'll despise myself, just like I always do.

Fuck it, I have nothing to do tonight, he thought, as he circled the bar, headed to the young blonde.

This is all I know.

I was somewhat lost on what I should write about to get myself back into the blogging mindset. After talking to some friends, the concept of status came up. At face value it seems a tad dry, but it's certainly an interesting thing to spend some time thinking about.

I did some background reading just to get a feel for what scholars have to say about the subject, and came across some fairly distinct definitions. Ascribed status is assumed at birth, or is incurred involuntarily at some point later in life. On the opposite end of the spectrum, an achieved status is one that is taken on voluntarily, based on things like personal ability and ambition to attain said status.

Many factors contribute to ascribed statuses, including age, sex, race, family economic status, and the like. Think of the Indian Caste system as an example, where everyone is born into a specific caste based on the parents' caste, as opposed to personal ability or merit.

I assumed that individuals with an ascribed status were generally on the lower end of the social spectrum or hierarchy (eg. being born into poverty), but quickly realized this couldn't be less true. Consider royalty or the monarch. Their status is ascribed, as they were born into being royalty, and they didn't need to 'achieve' their place in the upper echelon of society.

Digging deeper, it also becomes evident that not all ascribed statuses are irreversible. The ascribed status of something like citizenship, for example, is reversible, simply by changing geographical location (legally, that is). Age, however, is an irreversible ascribed status. It's all a rather arbitrary classification system.

That being said, so is status itself. What is status? Is it power, wealth, breadth of knowledge? Who decides what status is, and how the hierarchy of status pans out? Generally, status is a completely social phenomenon. Granted, we could argue that something like physical status is biologically or physiologically-based, but we won't, since that's not something that comes to mind at the mention of the word status.

Status goes hand-in-hand with expectations of how an individual should behave and what the expected treatment of that individual should be. Consider then if a person lies about a certain social accomplishment or achievement and the lie is not discovered. This person's status will be based on the lie, and behaviour toward the person will be in congruence with the accepted (unnoticed) falsity. This is a rather valid testament to how arbitrary status is, seeing as there is no biological basis or all-knowing truth for assigning societal ranks to individuals.

I suppose I convey a rather cynical view of status here, devaluing it and saying it is irrelevant. In reality, status is a very real thing. Imagine me trying to explain to a  family born into poverty that status isn't real. I wouldn't have the gall to do it, because they are one of a myriad of examples illustrating that status is very real in this world.

One could argue that they could go from the ascribed status of poverty to an achieved status of wealth and whatnot, but that's easier said than done in third-world and developing countries. Access to education and the resources necessary to get ahead in life are scarce. Here in Western society, accessibility to these things is a little more widespread, yet still unreachable by some. It's a harsh reality we often don't take the time to think about. Which is sad. Or perhaps, it's just easier to feign ignorance instead. What we don't know can't hurt us, right?

Think about it.

Never will I forgive my mother and father for not being abusive alcoholics.

Mine was a childhood of endless nurturing, and undying encouragement. I was never neglected, or forgotten about on a late weekend night by my parents.  Never was I told that I'd amount to little, or that it was highly unfortunate that I had ever been born. Not once was I pushed, shoved or even belittled by my father. I never felt the the deep burn of a cigar on my arm or the great down-swing of my father's belt. Not once did my mother come home drunk with a man, and proceed to have relations with him.

She was too busy helping me with my seemingly endless supply of homework. Or showing my glowing report card to Dad, bragging about how bright their son is. Or making us all delicious dinners (even if the caloric contents of which would later send us to our graves early). Or packing my lunch. Every single day. Or washing my god-awful hockey equipment. Or telling me that whatever 13 year-old girl had broken my heart that week wasn’t good enough for me.

At the time, I didn’t mind having such a perfect upbringing. But Jesus, how I now wish that my father could have been corrupted by Mr. Daniels himself, and plagued by fits of displaced aggression in the days when I was young. The fact that I was denied any such sort of mistreatment has greatly hindered my chances of becoming a brilliant poet or novelist, naturally.

Neither my Dad nor I knew that that each time he played catch with me, took me fishing or read me a Goosebumps novel before bed, he was destroying my future. The fact that he was doing so unwittingly is no excuse. He was my father, and fathers need to make their sons tough and do whatever it takes to unveil their true potential. With my scrawny little teen body, need-it-all nature and inability to shut the hell up as a child, my father had to have known I was destined to be a writer. But he did little to help me achieve my destiny, and he will have to live with that for the rest of his life. And it will be a long, guilt-ridden life, since the old bastard has never abused alcohol, cigarettes or drugs.

Now, I’m not saying that I had a childhood that was completely devoid of mistreatment from my parents. For instance, I will never forget the time my Dad would not buy me the top-of-the line $250 hockey stick I had my heart set on when I was 12, and instead made me settle for a mere $150 one-piece hockey stick that was used by most pros. The resulting inner fury and rage I experienced, however, was too manageable and short-lived to have any lasting impact on my artistic creativity and ingenuity as an adult.

I experienced a slightly stronger spark when my mother and father refused to let me sleep at friends' houses. That incident begat a bitterness and resentment that lasted weeks, and resulted in a rather inspired essay I wrote soon thereafter about how my parents, like, totally sucked. But the essay was never published. In fact, I tore it up after my dad bought himself a sweet little car that could lug around our damn lacrosse equipment for my brother and I. I realized he needed to be pitied, not despised.

So I mean, yeah, I did suffer some emotional abuse and multiple injustices at the hands of my godforsaken parents during my childhood, but, unfortunately, it was nowhere near enough to make me a depressed genius artistically. If I had the opportunity to relive those years, I would display such a level of insubordinate and rebellious behavior that my parents would have no other choice but to smack me around and throw insults and threats that, hopefully, would provide me with the deep emotional scarring needed to produce multiple works of true literary merit.

If only my father had served in 'Nam, and become physically dependent on heroine and opium. If only my mother had been smacked in the head so hard by Grandpa that it caused her to exhibit schizophrenic tendencies as an adult; then perhaps, just maybe, you would not be reading the self-obsessed grievances of a shitty writer you’ve never heard of, with absolutely no subject matter to whine about, but rather a chapter from the critically acclaimed autobiography of an astonishingly innovative Pulitzer and Nobel Prize-winning man of letters.

Damn you, mom and dad. Damn you both to hell for the care and love you showed me as a child and continue to show me now. 

Love,