Mostly true stuff…

Tulips pushing through soil.

Bike rides along the sea wall.

Drive-by shootings with the top down.

I LOVE Vancouver in the Spring.

I’m ready to teach a new art term. My work as a writer/comic/radio broadcaster fills me up, for sure. But, this is a colourful and immature diversion. I love dipping my fingers in crimson, magenta, and sunflower yellow. I also like inhaling the fumes. Which is probably why I’m a sub-standard artist. Luckily, I’m teaching modern art. Besides, I have been compared to Picasso with my paintings of one-eyed, three-breasted men. (His, apparently, were on purpose).

The term begins: Eight weeks of sculpting little boys and girls into aspiring artists. We will explore the Dutch Masters. Navigate Cubism. Discuss advanced art concepts (abject poverty, insanity, sleeping with the gallery owner).  This time, having learned my lesson, I will avoid mentioning Van Gogh’s trysts with a prostitute (it did, however, prove advantageous in the CanWest Spelling Bee for the word ‘Gonorrhea’).

I teach these classes in French. While the language sometimes flows smoothly from my lips, most of the time I grasp. Stutter. Regress into my high school lessons. We paint Guy a la Bibliotheque. Sketch Monique a la Discotheque. Sculpt a large Pamplemousse.

I wait for the bell to ring. I’ve yet to meet my young Salvador Dali-ians. Some will return from last term. Others will be new – a blank canvas. But, please – a little prayer to the God of Colour Wheels – that ONE boy from last time. Please, not this term. Give me a rest. His constant tugging at my sleeve. The tantrums. The stomp of his stubborn little feet. The endless, inane questions. Tap on my shoulder. Tap. Tap. Tap. Stomp. I have 25 children to tend to. He blocks my every move.

Bell buzzes. Children stream into the room. There is a shriek. A yelp of delight. “Oh! Fantastique! C’est bien! He pushes through the tide of students. Arms outstretched. “Mademoiselle Colleen!” He propels his body into mine. Arms sling around my neck. “C’est bien. C’est magnifique! Mademoiselle! Je t’aime!”

He is warm. He is soft.

He smells like Fruit Roll-up.

I bite my lip. Then, dissolve into a big, slanted grin. “Silly Goose.”

How the Hell am I supposed to write dark, satirical comedy material with this sort of nonsense going on?