Natural enemies

There are some people who really enjoy nature. People who are more than happy to spend their winters taking in the majesty of 100-year-old, snow-covered oak trees, marvelling at the sweetness of fresh apple blossoms in the spring, the quiet coolness of a lake in the summer and the vibrant pointillism of autumn leaves on the ground. They walk through forests, filling their lungs with the earthy dampness of the air and stop to quietly marvel at a lake where a beaver builds his dam and fills their hearts with the wonderment that is the miracle of life.

I hate these people.

I’m not a nature buff. I don’t like the outdoors and I’m not about to throw some snowshoes on and go traipsing into the wilderness to look at some cold trees. Stick me in a forest and I’ll have no idea what to do. Actually, I know exactly what I would do: get the fuck out of there and find the nearest Wi-Fi signal so I can check my e-mail on my smartphone. Sure, I can walk up on the mountain and appreciate how non-city-like it is. But it doesn’t take long before I get really, really bored.

My friends don’t understand. They try and take me on nature walks to share their enthusiasm. “Wow,” they gasp, “listen to how quiet it is.” “Yep. It’s pretty quiet all right,” I respond. “Oooh! Look over there,” they hush, “a mama bird is feeding her chicks. Shhhhhh. Isn’t that magical?” “Yep. Pretty magical.” Then my phone would ring super loud and it would echo through the forest, and all the animals would have heart attacks and I’d totally answer it because it is totally important.

But I don’t like hating nature. In fact, I feel terrible about it. I feel like I’m a bad Canadian or something. After all, aren’t we supposed to love the great outdoors? You know, our nation was founded by badass rugged pioneer type guys who wore animal skins on their heads and paddled canoes and blah blah blah. “I can be a badass,” I think to myself. “I totally wear leather.” But when it comes to doing something like climbing a tree or pitching a tent or foraging for firewood, I’m totally at a loss. If a zombie apocalypse does arrive, I think I’d just curl up into a ball and wait for someone to either eat my brains or rescue me and whisk me off to their underground bunker. (Hopefully they’d have Internet so I could check my Facebook and update my status to “is not a zombie.”)

Maybe I’m just scared. Maybe I’ve seen too many movies where people go into forests and end up either being chased by a homicidal maniac with an ice pick and a face made of other people’s faces, or trapped in a cabin where the only recourse is to eat each other to survive. Those movies never end well. Besides, I can’t swim or skate, so there goes enjoying water in two forms. I hate heights, so there goes mountain climbing. And I hate tightly enclosed spaces, so spelunking is out too. What am I supposed to do?

I can say that I like going on walks. But only in the city. Instead of marvelling at majestic oaks and beaver dams, I like to look at shitty graffiti and crusty punk lean-tos. Instead of caves and lakes, I like to go spelunking in rundown Québécois country bars and wading through shitty kitschy flea markets. I’m fascinated by the social habits of the East End metalheads and the strange mating rituals of the North Shore ginos. Yes, my forest is the city. The scummy, seedy, shitty side of the city.

Sometimes I like to take my friends around to share my enthusiasm. “Listen,” I’d gasp, “you hear that jackhammer? Isn’t it insane!” “Oooh! Look over there,” I’d hush, “a tranny hooker is about to get into that businessman’s Dodge Stratus. Shhhhhh. Isn’t that magical?” But they don’t understand.

In the end, I suppose I can see where nature freaks are coming from. When people complain about how mankind is destroying nature, I can actually understand. We all have our delicate environments that are in danger of being destroyed. I feel that way about the downtown core. But instead of crying over how acres of boreal forests are being destroyed to expand oil sands, I weep because so many sex shops, strip clubs and seedy bars are being closed down to make way for condos, over-priced coffee houses and corny festival grounds. Maybe we both have causes worth fighting for. But forget the seals, I say, “Save the tranny hookers!”

RIFF-RAFF@SYMPATICO.CA