Hey Nostradamus! By Douglas Coupland

Just don't screw your life up the way I did, but you're young, and because you're young, you won't listen
to anybody, anyway, so what's the point of advice? This whole letter is a pointless exercise.
Wait - here's a biggie: you're prone to blacking out when you drink. Using something else along with the
booze gives you longer blackouts more quickly, and a blacked-out experience can never be retrieved. At
least, I have yet to retrieve one, and I've tried, thank you. I even went to a hypnotist a few years ago,
one I know was a medically trained hypnotist, not some quack, and . . . nada.
What else? What else? It's better to eat lots of meals throughout the day instead of just three. Also, if
you want to get close to somebody, you have to tell him or her something intimate about yourself. They'll
tell you something intimate in return, and if you keep this going, maybe you'll end up in love.
You probably won't be very talkative, but your mind ought to be pretty alive most of the time. Find a
puppet and make it do the talking for you.
Finally: You will be able to sing. You will have a lovely voice. Find something valuable to sing, and go
out and sing it. It's what I ought to have done.
The hospital just phoned. My father slipped on his kitchen floor and cracked some ribs and possibly did
some cardiac bruising. Could I please go to his place and gather some basic items for him?
"He gave you my phone number? I'm unlisted."
"He did."
"But he's never even phoned me."
"He knew it by heart."
The nurse said she'd leave a list of items and a key in an envelope down by reception. "I have a hunch
you two don't get along and he needs a few days without incident. You don't have to see him."
"Right."
Dad's apartment is somewhere in North Vancouver - off Lonsdale, not even that far from Mom's condo.
I could simply not go, but I have to admit, I'm tempted.
* * *
Dad lives on the eighteenth floor; God must like elevators. The apartment is a generic unit built in maybe
1982, about ten minutes before the entire city went crazy on teal green, a color I'm forced to endure at
least a few times a week as a subcontractor. Dad's place is dark yellow with plastic mock-Tiffany
lampshades, and brown-and-orange freckled indoor-outdoor carpeting. My job in the renovation
business has turned me into a fixtures snob: the hardware-store cupboard door fronts are all stained like
burnt coffee; the Dijon-colored walls have remained unmodified since the the rollers were put away in
Page 53