When Doves Cry

Not all my friends are train wrecks.

Carl and Francine, in fact, are the perfect couple: smart, funny, attractive, and clearly crazy about each other. They've been married for going on 15 years now. I was at their wedding, on a boat cruise on the St. Lawrence River. One of the best parties I've ever been to, despite the fact that I accidentally caught the bouquet.

(I tried to throw it back, but Francine had turned her head away, and I didn't want to bonk her with it.)

They are wildly successful: Carl owns a small winemaking business, and Francine is an executive recruiter. They live in a stunning half-million dollar house in an upscale neighbourhood near the Danforth. And they are wonderful people to know.

Carl and his best friend, Adam, who still lives in Montreal, are the big brothers I never had. I've known them since my first year at university, when they were in the MBA program. Carl took me under his wing at Radio McGill, introduced me to the cool people in the graduate club, taught me key Yiddish phrases to use when the perfect insult is called for, and made sure I got home safely if I'd had too much to drink at a party. He grew pot and tomatoes in his apartment, and always had the best parties.

Still does.

Carl and Francine have a beautiful daughter, Anastasia, whom we call Ana for short. I'm not a big fan of kids, but I enjoy talking to Ana. She's eight now, but seems more mature than that. Ten, at least.

Which is why I was disappointed that she wasn't there last night. Carl left me a message on Friday saying, in his inimitable Carl manner, "Party tomorrow night. Be there."

Of course I went. Parties at Carl and Francine's place are not to be missed, whether they are 100 body bashes, or sit-down dinner parties for 15. Last night's was the latter. The food is always scrumptious and the company is always smashing. And though we have many mutual friends, and I've met many of their friends over the years, last night I didn't know anyone.

Caroline is a lawyer, and plays double-bass in the symphony. Paul is a writer for the National Post. Erica owns a restaurant in the same block as Carl's store. And George is the pastry chef at the Royal York Hotel. He described how he made 1,700 desserts, for four separate parties, just before coming to this party. Mascarpone mousse with sour cherries, in an espresso chocolate cup. Mass production of mascarpone requires an assembly line of eight pastriites, working in assembly line fashion. Go ahead and picture I Love Lucy, I did. As they come off the line the desserts are placed on the Queen Mary. That's what they call the ship-size rolling rack they use to deliver the desserts to their destinations.

Carl and Francine are no slouches themselves when it comes to desserts. It was approaching midnight, and we'd had three — or was it four? — courses, punctuated by patio smoke breaks, when Francine called me into the kitchen to help her make dessert.

Now, Francine knows, as perhaps do you, Gentle Reader, if you've been following my adventures, that food preparation is not a skill I'm well acquainted with. Carl knows, too, and has on more than one occasion made fun of me, in that way that only big brothers are allowed to: Sass... blah blah... kitchen... ha! ha!... never the twain... come to the potluck but please don't bring anything, unless it's a pot. We can always use another one of those.

Francine was making Clafoutis with Chocolate and Pears in Red Wine. The pears were already prepeared; all that remained was the sauce. How hard could that be? Fortunately, it was even easier than that. All Francine wanted me to do was read from the cookbook.

I can do that.

Can u picture this?

It was while I was helping Francine with the clafoutis that the small, dark-haired woman whose name I didn't remember from the introductions came into the kitchen with her digital camera. She had a look about her that promised sarcasm, and I regretted not having spoken with her earlier. Dark, almost black hair was parted in the middle and hung straight to below her shoulders. She had a narrow face, flat features, dark eyes, and darker eyeliner, barely shaded with razor-thin eyebrows. She was dressed all in black, but lest you picture a Goth she was not; she was rather too old for that. Her look could best be described as friendly mendacity.

She was excited about her camera, and held it towards me so I could see the images on the LCD.

"That's Jake, from last night, when we were singing karaoke..."

(I knew I liked her!)

"...and that's him this morning... oh, and those are my tools."

It was a picture of a stainless steel table, or counter, with several terrifying implements lovingly displayed.

"I'm a mortician," she said, proudly.

I'm fascinated with machinery and machinations; I love learning about how things work, especially the kinds of things you never think about until someone tells you they're a mortician. We spent the next hour on the patio smoking, talking, and drinking wine. And Morticia told me this story:

"I was working on the funeral for a young woman who had died of breast cancer. She was only thirty, and had just gotten married, and now, before their first anniversary, she's dead. It was very sad.

"There must have been a hundred people at the funeral. The husband was, of course, beside himself with grief. He had arranged for a dove release at the grave site. I don't know if you know anything about doves, but there are people who can do that sort of thing for weddings and such. There's a Dove Lady I call. She comes to funerals with her doves, and, you know, releases them.

"Do they come back?" I had to ask.

"They're homing doves. They don't return to the cemetery, they go home."

Who knew?

Morticia continued, "The thing about doves is, if you just open the box they're transported in, they'll just sit there. There has to be a lead dove for them to follow. So when you do a dove release, you release the lead dove, he takes off, and the others follow. Lovely when it works. All that symbolism, and all."

When it works?

"The husband had asked if he could be the one to release the doves, and so the Dove Lady gave him the lead dove to hold. So he's holding it while the minister is doing his thing. Did I mention the husband was extremely distraught? He was holding the poor thing so tight its eyeballs were just about popping out. Or so the people standing across from me and the husband told me later.

"So the minister finishes, cues the husband, who says something like, 'Patricia, this is for you, my love. We release your soul to heaven,' and he tosses the dove in the air. But instead of flying away, the dove goes up a few feet, then plummets straight down and hits the ground with a thud.

"It was dead silent, you'll pardon the pun. Everyone's jaw dropped, and they didn't say a word."

"So what did you do?"

"At first I just looked straight down, because I was trying so hard not to laugh. It took me thirty seconds to gather my composure. Thirty seconds standing graveside, with a hundred grieving, shocked relatives around you, is a very long time. When I looked up, they were all staring at me, since I'm the one who's supposed to know what to do in these situations.

"So I said, 'Well, it looks like Patricia's soul doesn't want to leave yet. She must have loved you all very much!'

* * *
In the next story, Postmodern Sass meets the GTA Bloggers. It will be more than a year before Carl and Francine make another appearance in these stories, and just before they do, Sass meets a real chef.

We Live To Survive Our Paradoxes

Three concerts in three nights! I haven't done that since... hmn; actually, I've never done that. Three nights in a row, with three different guys. OK, so one was my cousin, but still.

Wednesday night was the CASBYs, the annual alternative Canadian music awards hosted by the only radio station in Toronto worth listening to, Edge 102. My karaoke buddies, to my surprise, weren't much interested, and my cousin D couldn't make it, but his brother, my cousin M, was thrilled. He understood that this wasn't an awards show, exactly. I mean, it's not the Emmies or the Oscars or anything like that. It's a concert, and a great one. Eight bands performed one or two songs each in the space of three hours. Boom boom boom — all using the same drum kit.

Too bad the weather sucked. It was a miserable, rainy, windy, cold night. The lineup at the Kool Haus was around the block, mostly kids waiting to pass the wristband test. I make it a rule never to stand in line, so we walked up to the door, I looked the bouncer right in the eye and said, "I'm a friend of one of the DJs."

We went right in.

Finger 11 opened the show, and were a great, tight band. Thornley sucked; the singer was clearly drunk, and sang like a bad karaoke act: every note flat, or otherwise off. Montreal's The Stills, the band I most wanted to see, were terrific, and Billy Talent closed the show with a bang.

I met Martin Streek in person, finally — thank goodness he survived his crazy stage dive — and I discussed single malt Scotch with Alan Cross, who knows more about music than anyone currently alive on the planet. In 1992, when the Blue Jays won the World Series for the first time, I was watching the game in a bar in Winnipeg (long story) with Alan. We were drinking Laphroaig, if I recall correctly. My cousin M was starstruck when I introduced him.

Alan told me about a Japanese Scotch he recently discovered while in France. Nikka, he says it's called. He spelled it for me, so as not to confuse it with the stock exchange.

Can they call it Scotch if it's made in Japan?

Dean Blundell and the rest of the morning crew were there, too. I'd met Dean, Todd, and Jason a couple of times at the station, but when they were on air, so they were sitting down. I didn't realize how tall Dean is. And he's a lot cuter than you might think. Too bad (for me, that is) he's married.

Have you ever noticed that the audience at a concert tends to resemble the bands onstage? Among the members of the eight bands performing at the CASBYs there was not one woman. Melissa Auf Der Maur had been nominated for Favourite New Album, but didn't win, and didn't perform.

(I voted for you, Melissa.)

The audience was about 90% male, average age 25, with a preponderance of baseball caps. The few women in attendance were either being dragged hither and yon by their boyfriends, bored looks on their faces, or else looked like they were hoping to find a boyfriend to drag them hither. Or yon.

Thursday night it was the Pixies at Arrow Hall. Where is Arrow Hall, you ask? It's up on Airport Road, in an airplane hangar. You might think that'd be a terrible place for a concert, but you'd be wrong. The sound was fantastic. When Kim Deal plucked that bass you felt it reverberate in your chest like your heart pounding after running up five flights of stairs, and you could forgive her for playing with a pick.

I wish I could sing like Kim Deal. I can sing, but I sing like singers who don't sing that well.

At this show, all the guys in the audience looked like Frank Black. Bald, and dressed in simple, dark clothing. Glasses were optional. Baseball caps were non-existant. There were more girls in the crowd this time, many in girl-girl couples, and more who looked like they belong in a girl-girl couple. Again, I was clearly the anti-demographic.

I wonder if Kim plays for the other team.

Sometimes the past screams from the rooftop. It was during Velouria that I saw the X, about ten metres to my left, deeper in the crowd.

The blues are still required.

Immediately, and equally, I wanted to know whether he was there with a woman, and I didn't want to know. I backed up a few feet to make sure I was well out of his peripheral vision, until I could size up the situation.

He was there with another guy. No one I recognized.

I was there with AC, one of my oldest and dearest friends; the man who introduced me to Joy Division and sex in the same year. We still go to concerts from time to time, and sleep together when we're bored.

For all his faults and for all the vicious and cruel tricks the X played on me, I had to give him credit for having made an equitable split of our CD collection. The fact that he did it on my birthday, while I was out, notwithstanding. But now I realized that I didn't get custody of the Pixies or Frank Black.

Fuck him.

We passed in upholstered silence.

Friday night was the Tragically Hip at the Air Canada Centre, and this time I had a different problem: everyone I know wanted to go, and I didn't know whether I'd have tickets until the last minute. My contact at the ACC is equally as likely to disappoint me as he is to pull a rabbit out of his hat. Last night he did the latter, though I didn't actually get tickets. What I got was escorted to the Air Canada Club, to a reserved, white linen tablecloth decked table right at the glass.

It's nice to have friends in high places.

My date for this concert was my friend Zee's brother, Bobby, who I met a few weeks ago at her place. He seemed like an interesting and intelligent guy, and, as an added bonus, was about 6'2". I called Zee and asked if she knew whether her brother liked the Hip, and whether, you know, he had said anything about me.

What am I, in high school?

She said he did, and had, and a couple of hours later the phone rang and it was Bobby, saying, "I heard a rumour you've got Hip tickets?"

We met at Gate 2 on Bay Street at 7:30, as per the instructions of my Friend In High Place. Why, why can't I run into the X when I'm at the VIP entrance to the Air Canada Centre on the arm of a tall blonde who looks like a hockey player? Why, god, why?

Since I don't have a ticket to add to my shoebox collection, I saved the Air Canada Club Tragically Hip Concert Dinner Menu. Bobby and I both ordered the shrimp cocktail, which was served on a triangular plate and looked spectacularly unlike any shrimp cocktail you've ever seen. Four pairs of intricately intertwined shrimp were arranged with fruit and remoulade, and topped with a plantain chip. I followed with the wild salmon, while B opted for the filet mignon.

Accompanying that meal with a Canadian was très trailer park, but I always feel obliged to drink Molson when I'm at the ACC.

Because my FIHP is their boss, and despite the fact that our meal was comp'd, the waiter and the maitre'd fawned politely over us. I didn't have the heart to tell them I wasn't a VIP.

During the show I was cursing myself for not having brought my notebook, though in retrospect, I guess it was a good thing. You don't want to alert a guy on a first date that you have obsessions. But this morning I discovered that the Hip have their own blog, and had posted their set list right after the show.

Have I mentioned that The Tragically Hip are one of my favourite bands? I've seen them about ten times since 1988, and I have all their albums. The last time I saw them I griped that they didn't do Little Bones. This time they did Little Bones, but I always have a gripe: How could they not perform Fifty Mission Cap, in the home of the Leafs, with dozens of fans wearing Barilko jerseys?

Ah, well. They did my favourite song, Boots or Hearts, as their penultimate number. And during Bobcaygeon the swaying lighters thing happened in the audience. I held up the small, crystal candleholder from our table. Just another perk that comes with not watching from the cheap seats.

Gord Downie introduced every song by speaking a sentence with its title: Do you want to hear the next song fully and completely? This is Toronto; it can't be Nashville every night. I wondered if he's been reading my blog.

They played for over an hour, then did three encores. All in all, an amazing show, an amazing evening, and well worth the price of admission!

Oh, and what about B, you ask? Well, I just might invite him to the Baby Leafs game next Wednesday. I already have the tickets.

In the next story Postmodern Sass meets Morticia the mortician.

Lose Yourself [refrain]

Now I know more about piercings than I ever imagined I would. Or wished to. I mean, I have... let me see, I think it's five — holes pierced in my body. All in my earlobes. All in my lower earlobes. You know, the part that's just a thin bit of skin; not too many nerve cells. And even there, the piercing hurt.

Until my transient drinking buddy T, in Memphis, showed me his picture, I had no idea that men pierced their penises. I would have thought that was the one place on their body they wouldn't let anyone near with a sharp object. Much less a pointy object. Much less a pointy object whose purpose is to punch a hole.

I'm still working on visualizing the logistics. Is there some sort of vice grip, perhaps velvet-covered, that holds Mr Johnson in place?

My readers have been educating me. First, Kristine wrote from Kingston:

I wanted to let you know that my last boyfriend, P, had a Prince George — the proper name for the pierced penis thing. I wrote about it on a contest form and won a $100 gift certificate to a local restaurant. Although I can't imagine how a woman could receive a wound that required stitches, I did get numerous bladder infections and refused to accommodate the thing any longer, after which P tended to leave it lying around my house in some weird passive aggressive act of defiance. When my concern that one of my children would find it (and even worse, possibly recognize it), reached a pitch, I took it and threw it into Lake Ontario where, I'm assuming, it rests comfortably.

I feel like I've led such a sheltered life.

Then Tony from Glasgow clarified the royalty issue. And some of my logistics questions:

It is of course, not a Prince George, but a Prince Albert, named after Queen Victoria's husband, who famously had one, although at the time it was not a fetishistic adornment but merely a convenience to aid one in wearing the latest figure-hugging breeches without frightening the animals. However, knowing the Victorians and sex (especially the aristocracy), it is not beyond the imagination that such a fashion had its beneficial side effects.

To think we think of Queen Victoria as a prude.

I inquired of Tony whether he might clarify the... mechanics issue. Does one, er, tie it down? He continued:

Regarding the mechanics, the Victorians used a ring in the piercing, which they then put a piece of cloth through and tied the penis down tightly next to the inner thigh so that it would not be visible through the cloth of their breeches.

A ring, did you say?

I once knew a girl in London, who started dating a mutual friend, and I remember her telling me with great excitement about his "King Edward." Only after much confusion about varieties of potato did I realise that she meant "Price Albert."

So I'm being educated about the monarchy as well. And though, as a rule, I do enjoy loading the database with the minutiae of popular culture, I'm done with piercings, both as a personal practise and as a post-graduate course.

What I really want to know about is tatoos. Because, though K and I did spend some time here

when we were in Memphis, we didn't get our tatoos.

Yet.

Go to next story

Pictures of Lily

Who?

No, The Who.

In several recent stories I mentioned pictures will be coming soon. As promised, they're here:

Postmodern Sass and her friend K visit Elvis

Postmodern Sass tours rural Mississippi

There are also a couple of photos of Sass posted here. It seems I always have my back turned when the flash goes off!

Meanwhile, I am still negotiating a date for the CASBYs and considering several applications. The show is only six days away now. It's a highly complex judging system, on par, I'd guess, with what the accountants who invigilate the Academy Awards must go through. Please send your application to Sass, care of this station.

I'm also working on a story about my grandfather's Zippo, and how it's being returned to me, 25 years after his death.

Go to next story

Would If I Could

So last night I charmed Martin Streek, with a little help from my boots, and now I find myself in possession of two tickets to the CASBYs, which is great, but I have a problem.

The boy I like lives in San Francisco. My best friend lives in Bermuda. Most of my friends in Toronto are married now or engaged or something, so I'm told. Or they're not speaking to me. Or both. The friends who don't already fall into one or more of these categories have musical tastes that run to places I run away from.

I could invite Nate, I suppose. I'm sure he knows who Melissa Auf Der Maur is, and though he's married, his wife isn't remotely interested in new music and doesn't mind if he goes out without her from time to time.

That, and he's my cousin.

But he lives in St. Catharines, and the CASBYs are on a school night.

If I'd won four tickets I'd invite my karaoke buddies, but how can I choose only one? Even if I eliminate the one who has a girlfriend, on the grounds that she might not approve of him coming out to play with me sans karaoke, that still leaves me with two boys, one ticket.

Do you want to go to the CASBYs with me? I have twelve days to choose.

The next story is not a story, but is pictures.

You Spin Me Right 'Round

Note: The zebra has moved here.

When I was in grade seven my homeroom teacher, Mr. Whitty, gave us a puzzle to work on before first period. It was titled, "Who Owns The Zebra." It kept us all occupied for those fifteen minutes, but not one of the thirty twelve-year-olds in that classroom solved it by the time the bell rang.

I held onto it for weeks. I puzzled and puzzled until my puzzler was sore. And eventually, I solved it.

I think the Norwegian owned the zebra. I forget who drank the water.

You can find anything on the Internet, this I know, so today I Googled "who owns the zebra" and discovered that it's a rather famous logic puzzle. And here I thought Mr. Whitty had created it just for us!

The version I remember from all those years ago involved the nationality, house colour, pet, preferred beverage, and — wait for it — preferred cigarette brand of seven men living in adjacent houses. Cigarette brand! How politically incorrect. But it was the 1970s.

The versions of the puzzle you'll find online now have been edited. Gone are the cigarettes. Now, it's flowers or some such nonsense.

I found this one from Britain, but the cigarettes are British. The one I remember, the cigarettes are American brands. I distinctly remember Lucky Strike. Not that I knew what they were at the time.

In previous posts I've mentioned that you don't exactly have to twist my arm to get me to sing. Or do anything in front of an audience, for that matter. I'm a regular at KAK at both the Rivoli and the Bovine. At Accordion Guy's party I spent too much time in the front room, where the karaoke machine was. Accordion Guy has this extravagent system that plays cheesy stock footage video and still images behind the lyrics. And when the song is over it gives you a score. I got 100 twice!

My karaoke equivalent of a bar trick is singing "9 Luftballons" in German.

And so it is in memory of Mr. Whitty of Jacob Beam Senior Public School in Beamsville, Ontario that I offer the following puzzle featuring my karaoke buddies.

See if you can figure out which one is Mo, which one is Sparky, and which one is Goldilocks.

1. One sings Dead Or Alive.
2. Two blog; the third thinks blogging is pretentious.
3. Two sing David Bowie.
4. One is a ham.
5. One would be chided by Simon Cowell for closing his eyes while he sings.
6. One leaves the room when anyone else sings David Bowie.
7. All three are shorter than me.
8. One has a British accent.
9. One sings Wicked Game, which causes me think un-buddy-like thoughts.
10. I leave the room when one sings Elton John.
11. Two are not blonde.
12. The one who doesn't blog is the most pretentious of the three.
13. One kills with Mac The Knife.
14. The one who sings Chris Isaak has a girlfriend.
15. The blonde one sings You Spin Me 'Round.

Today Mr. Whitty would be in his late fifties, early sixties maybe. He might still be teaching. Maybe even at Jacob Beam Public School.

* * *
In the next story, Postmodern Sass has tickets to the CASBYs, but no date. In the coming months there will be more stories about Postmodern Sass and her karaoke buddies. Like this one, in which there is a karaoke spat. Or this one, on Valentine's Day. Or this one, in which Postmodern Sass learns that Vikings and karaoke don't mix. And almost two years later, you can see all three of Postmodern Sass's karaoke buddies — and her! — in this photo.

Is She Really Going Out With Him?

When I returned home from my ten day tour of the Deep South there was a message from my friend and neighbour, Magda. Nothing urgent; just the usual hi, how are you, haven't seen you for a while, give me a call sort of message. I've been home for four days now but haven't returned her call yet.

See, I'm afraid I'll catch her at a bad time. All summer long, it seemed, I was catching her at a bad time.

Her boyfriend, Romeo, moved into Magda's place at the beginning of the summer, and I'm surprised he's lasted this long. Every time I talk to, or see, Magda, I expect her to tell me that she's thrown him out. Or possibly, though less likely, that he's left her.

She's a pretty woman, and he's a gorilla — in temperment, if not in physical appearance. And if my eyes don't deceive me (which they don't) there's something going wrong around here.

It was June when Magda told me, quite giddily, that Romeo was living there now, and that since he was home most of the time during the day, she wouldn't need me to walk Max, her gorgeous, lovable husky every day any more.

I adore Max, and I believe the feeling is mutual.

Not long after Magda's announcement I let myself into her place one afternoon, when I understood Romeo would be out for the day, to take Max out. Usually, he comes right to the door when I, or anyone else for that matter, opens it. Like all city dogs, he lives for his outdoor playtime. But on this day there was no Max. I ventured farther into the house to determine whether or not he was there. He was: in the bedroom, lying on the floor. Uninterested in me. Uninterested in going out.

I decided he must be feeling under the weather, and wondered what to do. I tried to coax him to come with me but he wouldn't budge. Not even for cookies. Then the lump on the bed which I had mistaken for unmade-ness but which turned out to be Magda, stirred, and her head popped out. Well, popped isn't really accurate; it implies perkiness or brisk movement. Her movements could be more precisely described as lethargic.

"Are you OK?" I asked, not immediately grasping the obvious, that anyone who is in bed in the middle of the afternoon in the middle of the week is clearly anything but OK.

"I'm not feeling well. Could you take Max out for me, please?"

"Of course! Can I get you anything while I'm out? Do you need anything from the store? Tylenol, or cold medication, or anything?" You'd think I was the one with the child, not her. Her daughter, Daniella, is in university, by the way, and so does not live with Magda.

It was a beautiful summer day, and several of Max's buddies were in the park, so we stayed out for almost an hour. When we returned, Magda was sitting at her kitchen bar, smoking a cigarette and sipping a glass of wine. Her face had that puffiness you get when you have a cold and when you've been crying. And I swear she had put mascara on.

"So how are you?" she inquired before I had reached the fridge. Then: "Romeo and I broke up!"

As I poured myself a glass of wine, I worked on my gee-I'm-so-surprised face. We drank and smoked, and Magda recounted the fight they'd had the night before, and how he'd walked out, and that she wasn't expecting him to come back.

The next day he was back.

I dropped in after lunch to check on Magda, and there they were, the two of them, happily puttering around the house, preparing for something or other. The door was open so Max could come and go. They both acted as though nothing had happened, so what could I do but join in? The breakup was never mentioned again.

Until the next time, that is.

The townhouse complex where Magda and I live is on Lake Ontario, not far from The Exhibition grounds. The Canadian National Exhibition is an annual carnival, home show, farm exhibition, and concerts lasting for three weeks leading up to Labour Day. The final weekend features continual air shows starring The Snowbirds, and where we live is one of the key viewing spots. We need only take a refreshing beverage and move to the wide, concrete steps at the west end of the building.

It was the Saturday afternoon show, which had begun at 1:00. By 4:00, Magda and Romeo, Daniella and her boyfriend, Romeo's son and his girlfriend, another couple of couples, and of course Sass, were half baked and happily in the bag. One of Romeo's friends knew all about the planes and as each one appeared he announced their engine size and top flying speed. Me, I just like to watch them loop around, you know? When the show was over we returned to Magda's place to get out of the sun.

Magda's daughter's boyfriend, JJ, was engaged with the computer in the back room, trying to find out how much tickets to that night's hockey game were going for. We were in the middle of the Canada Cup and that night Canada and Russia were playing at the ACC. How great would it be to see that, eh?

When JJ came back to the bar he was crestfallen: "The tickets are $250. Each!"

We decided to go up to our local and watch the game on the big screen there, instead. The party broke up, temporarily, so we could all shower and change. We'd meet back at Magda's at 6:30 and walk up town.

At 6:30 sharp, beer in hand and best summer sundress on — I wanted to take advantage of what would undoubtedly be the last truly summery day this year — I went back to Magda's to find only Daniella and JJ at the bar.

"Where is everybody?" I asked.

JJ looked away. Daniella reluctantly met my eyes and said, "They had a fight. Romeo's gone, and Mom's in the bedroom."

Since I was all dressed up and had somewhere to go, I walked up to The Banknote alone. I thought I'd run into Romeo on the way, but I ended up watching the game with the owner of the bar and my favourite bartender, Andrew. Canada won. All in all, it was a good day, at least for me.

Andrew threw me out at closing time but gave me a lift home, and as I got out of his car a cab pulled up behind us and out climbed Romeo.

"Hey, there," he cried, cheerily, "My, don't you look sexy?"

He was too far away to slap.

You guessed it, the next day they acted like nothing had happened. The elapsed time between these episodes, though, is increasing. It wasn't two days later, I think, when I happened to be walking past Magda's place and saw her sitting on her patio, a glass of wine on the table in front of her. It was a warm evening, and I assumed she was just relaxing and enjoying it. Max was at her feet, so I came down the steps to say hello.

She was crying.

"What's wrong?" I asked, though even you, Gentle Reader, know the answer.

"Romeo locked me out," she replied.

"Locked you out? You mean he went out and didn't realize you were here, and locked you out accidentally?"

"No. He knew I was here."

"OK, that's it, come on, let's go down to Pier Four and get drunk," I said, reaching for her arm.

"No," she sniffed, "He'll be back."

And before I could insist he did come back. Walking in long strides, at such a high speed he would have bowled over anyone in his path. He came down the steps at the other end of the patio, key in his outstretched hand; went straight through the door, and slammed it behind him.

"You'd better go," said Magda quietly.

That was two weeks ago.

My phone is ringing...

* * *
For the next Banknote story, in which Andrew slays a dragon, click here. Or, go to the next story in sequence, in which Postmodern Sass introduces you to her karaoke buddies.

Grammar Rock

Did you know that the Schoolhouse Rock song, Unpack Your Adjectives, was sung by Blossom Dearie? She's a marvelous dame — I had the pleasure of meeting her once, several years ago. When I admired her unabashedly gaudy gold jacket she exclaimed, in her little-girl voice, "Really? I bought it right off the rack!"

Peel Me A Grape is her song, not Diana Krall's.

But I digress.

In an earlier post you were cautioned not to get me started on apostrophes. That is because I tend to rant about grammar, often to the dismay of my friends who would rather rant about the tragi-comic U.S. election, or the war in Iraq, or the ludicrocity of Gilles Duceppe giving a speech to Bay Street bankers. So I must warn you again:

DANGER, WILL ROBINSON! SHE'S GOING TO RANT ABOUT GRAMMAR!

Feel free to step away from the blog. I won't be at all offended.

OK, everybody gone but the game grammarians? To continue:

It's all well and good to rant when no one's listening, but ever since Tim Bray mentioned me, much to my overwhelming surprise, it seems I've acquired some readers. And some of them are as grammar-obsessed as I. Suddenly, I'm minding my Ps and Qs even more than I normally do.

Tim Trautmann wrote:

While I like your blog of course I was wondering if the spelling error in your blog's title was on purpose or by accident? If I remember my German correctly, it is: Postmoderne Sprachspiele (without the 'n' at the end) but "sprachspielen" could be a verb as in - to play with language.

I was so excited that someone was (a) reading my blog and (2) liking it (Did he say he liked it of course?) that I was unable to fully appreciate that he was nitpicking my grammar. In German, no less. You gotta love that in a man. At least I do.

Later that same day, Ingo Lütkebohle wrote from Germany to say:

It might be intentional, but I thought I'd mention it anyway: the German plural in your blog title is slightly off. The 'n' at the end makes it a verb instead of a noun. "Sprachspielen" means "playing with language" whereas (I guess!) you meant to say "postmodern language games" which would be without the 'n': "postmoderne sprachspiele".

When two people point out the same error, especially in the same day, the chances are good that they're right. So I wrote back to both Tim and Ingo asking if they had any suggestions. I didn't want to change my blog title or URL.

Ingo replied:

You could change the title to "postmodernes sprachspielen" (note 's' at the end) and while the abbreviation as used in the URL is the same, the expanded form is grammatically correct german. How does that sound? I have to admit that it would be slightly more unusual for germans to use that in a title, but it is done and the slight oddness goes well with the meaning, I think. Ich hoffe das hilft Dir weiter und liebe Grüsse aus Deutschland :-)

Not only is it a deliciously elegant solution to my problem, but it allows me to keep the URL and make only a minor change to the title.

I wrote back to thank him:

...I really want to understand the grammar/usage here. Why is Postmodernes Sprachspielen grammatically correct German, but Postmoderne Sprachspielen is not? I realize that English readers don't know that I made an error, and probably wouldn't care, but I also know, being of German heritage on both sides of my family, that Germans (1) will notice, and (b) will care.

And explain Ingo did:

Glad you like it ;-) The suggestion was mainly by intuition, to be honest. However, it was fun trying to figure out why exactly I would say it that way, after the fact, and even though the explanation is a bit involved, and I got carried away a bit, I hope you like it. Some of the details are from the standard book on german grammar the "Duden", part 4.

Basically, adjective and noun have to agree on certain properties in German and the noun 'rules' the adjective, so if the noun changes, the adjective has to change accordingly.

I must interject quickly here, to tell you (if you're still with me, and god bless you if you are!) that I do understand about cases in German, it's just that I don't always know how to use them correctly. But I recognized immediately that my error was one of grammar, not of spelling. It's not that I just forgot the "s", it's that I thought it didn't belong there. Back to Ingo's brilliant explanation:

The two relevant attributes here are number and gender. So, looking at "sprachspiele", its a composite of "sprache" and "spiele", and because it is a special kind of game (as opposed to a special kind of language), the gender of "spiel" applies and that is neutral. There are a lot of exceptions to this gender rule (e.g., quite often when words are imported from other languages), but here it applies.

Now, what comes into play with your blog title is the number. The standard neutral-plural ending for adjectives is 'e'. The corresponding neutral-singular ending is 'es'. For nouns, the plural ending differs a lot but "sprachspielen" is singular. You will have noticed that "postmodern" is neither -- it is a form used only with verbs (more on that later).

As "sprachspielen" was fixed in your URL and the adjective wasn't, it occured to me that it would be possible to change the adjective to match the noun and thereby make it grammatically correct again.

Actually, there are two possibilities. You can treat "sprachspielen" as either a verb or a noun (thus my comment to that effect in the first mail). This might seem odd, but is quite a common occurence, in English as well. The type of the word is strictly determined only by its place in the sentence and since your title is just a fragment, ambiguity arises.

Now, if you treat it as a noun, the standard adjective suffix applies, which is 'es' and thus my suggestion.

If you treat is a verb, the matching suffix is "n", so it would become "postmodern sprachspielen".

Actually, now that I think about it in detail, my original translation is more appropriate for the verb case. A really literal translation for the noun case that I suggested in my last mail could be "a game of postmodernistically playing with language". Quite a mouthful, isn't it? ;-)

Now, what to chose? Both possibilities are equally valid and there is not really a clear rule to decide. I used intuition here. Two guesses at an explanation for my choice: One is that I, personally, tend to use nouns more than verbs. At least my German teacher used to complain about that! The other guess is that, in everyday usage on signs and such, when people use just a fragment, it usually contains a noun, not necessarily a verb.

I suppose this is a case where literal translation isn't suitable. In English, I would have used a verb, in German I would have preferred the noun form. I guess even though English and German are pretty close, there are slight differences in usage.

P.S. Ja, ich mag meine Muttersprache sehr :)

Ingo, ich mag dich sehr!

In the next story, Postmodern Sass avoids her friend Magda.

Wolf Party

I just came home from Accordion Guy's cool downtown pad where I and approximately one hundred of his other closest friends helped celebrate his birthday. Accordion Guy has 50,000-odd (some of them very odd) readers but invitations were extended only to those who promised to abide by his rules.

Which I did. I even brought a birthday present from Graceland: An Elvis party tablecloth and matching paper plates. I oohed and ahhed at Wendy The Redhead's ring. Jokingly, at first, because to do so was not only expected by protocol but mandated by blog, and then for real, because I'd never before seen a diamond that big on the third finger of the left hand of anyone I know personally. I asked her how many carats it was (I hope that's not an impolite question?) and accessed my schema for a reference point. Found none. She said it was two carats, and that the smaller ones were, well, smaller. I'm not sure how blingworthy two carats is on a scale of THAT'S NICE to HOLY MOTHERFUCKING ICE, BATMAN but if I recall correctly previous acquaintances and friends expressed their diamond's size in terms of decimal points.

I met Accordion Guy when he showed up at my favourite guilty pleasure, Kickass Karaoke at the Rivoli. With his accordion. I've lived in Accordion City for many years, and I've seen my share of the startlingly surreal, the stunningly stupid, and the sensationally spiffy, but a guy walking into a hip Queen Street bar with an accordion on his back hadn't yet been one of them.

After depositing my B as in BYOB in one of the two ice-filled bathtubs I returned to the front room and examined Accordion Guy's book and movie collection. Everything you need to know about a person can be gleaned by looking at what they read, watch, and listen to. I'm most interested in the latter, but Accordion Guy's music collection is on his computer and therefore not easily snooped, especially during a party.

Knowing what this Guy does for a living I expect to see Snowcrash and am not disappointed. Several Douglas Coupland books are right at home in Accordion Guy's home, but I wasn't reckoning to find David Foster Wallace's A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again. Accordion Guy's rating on my admiration scale goes up two points. Another two when I see High Fidelity in his movie collection.

Then the bright orange spine of The Cluetrain Manifesto jumps off the shelf at me and the scale goes off the scale. I ask Accordion Guy if he reads David Weinberger's blog, and he replies, "Of course!" then adds, "And Wendy works with him!"

The world gets smaller every single day. In another city, in another year, and under another name, I worked for David Weinberger, too. My autographed copy of Cluetrain reads, "To a true cluetrainer." He is one of my heros.

The Redhead lives in Boston, as does Weinberger. I feel like one of those Americans who asks, when I tell them I'm from Toronto, if I know their friend Buddy who lives in Calgary.

I guess sometimes you do.

Out back on the smoking terrace, abiding by rule #2, I meet Terrence and Darryl, who remind me vaguely of Penn and Teller. Terrence (Penn) tells me I look like Nancy Sinatra. I tell him I get that all the time, and am flattered, thank you. He asks if I know any of Nancy's songs, and I assure him I know all of them. As if to test me, he starts singing Jackson, one of the Lee Hazelwood duets. He's only three words into it before I join him. In harmony. When we're done we light a cigarette and argue about whether Lee Hazelwood is dead or alive.

The party is a success, I judge, because it followed my rules:

1. A good party must break the 3:00 barrier
2. A good party must have as little furniture that allows people to sit still as possible
3. Bonus points if the police are called

That last one hadn't happened by the time I left, which was after 3:00. But I did get a parking ticket. Does that count?

Finally, because you're wondering: Wolf Party, by The Blood Brothers, is the only song ever written that includes both the words "accordion" and "party" in the lyrics. Unfortunately, the lyrics are execrable.

In the next story, Postmodern Sass explains the title of her blog, Postmodernes Sprachspielen.

The Good Old Hockey Game

Postmodern Sass was on TV today, Gentle Reader. You probably missed it.

I've been on TV before, on a game show in the 1980s when I was in university. I was even an extra in a movie. I never thought I'd be on TSN, though.

But there I was, in the first row, right behind the bench, at the Legends on Ice hockey game. It was great to see a hockey game again, but it was also painful, in a watching-your-best-friend-marry-the-wrong-guy sort of way, because it wasn't a "real" hockey game. There is no hockey, as you know.

(At this point I must ask those of you who live in expansion³ cities, or anyplace where the game is referred to as ice hockey, to please step away from the blog. I just found out there's an NHL team in Phoenix, Arizona, for Christ's sake.)

It wasn't a real game, because the ad hoc teams ("Original Six" vs. "Expansion") aren't part of a real league. There's no playoffs, no Stanley Cup to chase after.

There's no fighting.

Come to think about it, it was a real, good ol' hockey game. Just like the ones I used to watch with my dad when I was a little girl. When Darryl Sittler had all that crazy curly hair that flew out behind him, uncovered by a crustacean helmet. Watching those Legends on the ice I wasn't put in mind of a football game, the way I am when I observe the ever-increasing tonnage of armour worn by NHL players these days. The Original Six players had bare heads; the Expansion team wore toques.

I used to think Mike Krushelnyski was hot, but he played the whole game in a helmet, the pussy.

The Legends games are nostalgic family entertainment, not unlike the Harlem Globetrotters, or a reunion jam session with the bands from Woodstock. Or Band Aid.

No slapshots or body checks are permitted. Like I said, it's not football. It's not the fucking WWE. It's hockey, the way it should be played. Though I wouldn't have minded a little less goofiness.

The game itself is, of course, the main attraction, but there's non-stop entertainment before, during, and after.

First, Paul Coffey and Ray Bourque were inducted into the Hockey Hall of Fame. Poor Paul: even now, Ron MacLean, taking a break from Movie Night in Canada to ref the game, asked him what it was like to play with Wayne Gretzky.

Next, the lights dimmed for the singing of the national anthem. There I was, standing just behind the glass, quietly oogling Nick Kypreos and Doug Gilmour, when Jim Cuddy stepped onto the ice and I forgot all about hockey momentarily.

I love hockey, and I love hockey players (and Blue Rodeo), but I was starting to feel like a middle-aged businessman justifying his lunch at Hooter's.

There's lots of entertainment in between periods. Six year old hockey players of both genders, in tiny gear, looking, on that massive sheet of ice, like those slow flies you get in your house in the winter. There were figure skaters and a "lazer" show. Kalen Porter sang a mediocre song mediocrely, so I went out into the hallway on the platinum level to see what I could see. What I saw was Doug Gilmour, coming down the stairs from the directors' lounge. In his skates. Joking to the usher that he needed a beer.

"I'll buy you a beer after the game, Doug," I piped up before I could stop myself.

I have poor impulse control.

The Killer flashed that killer smile, the one that endeared him to our city, straight at me.

I smiled back. His alleged boffing of his babysitter in St. Louis only heightened his rapscallion charm, as far as I'm concerned. I pulled my ticket out of my back pocket and handed it to him to sign.

He obliged, then winked at me, and headed out to the ice.

I turned the ticket over, and instead of a signature, there were two words, printed in small, block letters.

The name of a bar uptown.

In the next story, Postmodern Sass attends her first blogger party.

Any Way You Want It

It's over. CNN reports that Kerry just called Bush to concede the election.

I feel that Journey should be playing in the background. Whiny, tortured music with hackneyed cliché lyrics. It seems that's what this country wants. Well, America, anyway you want it, that's the way you need it. Be careful what you wish for. Sometimes you get what you deserve.

OK, I'm out of clichés.

America, you get four more years of the retarded cowboy — as Bill Maher brilliantly referred to Bush on Real Time last night. Then he said:

"I was watching Ashlee Simpson on Jay's show last night... She was really singing, and I was saying, 'Bring back the lip synch.' ...And it struck me that Ashlee Simpson is a lot like George Bush, because she wouldn't even be in the big leagues if it wasn't for family connections. She's in way over her head, and she doesn't know what to do. And when things go wrong, she blames her band."

Last time it was notorious hanging chads. This time, intimidating provisional ballots.

Please, at least, can we have four more years of Bill?

* * *
In the next story, Postmodern Sass goes to a hockey game, even though the NHL is still on lockout. Postmodern Sass enjoys her visits to the United States of Whatever, but she enjoys returning home to Toronto even more. She'll return to Mississipi in August, 2005. Just ahead of Hurricane Katrina.

Imagine

Imagine: John Kerry might not defeat George W. Bush today.

I'm in a hotel room in Starkville, Mississippi, watching CNN and dreading the possibility that Bush might actually win again. I just don't get this country. I don't get the fascination with guns. I don't get how the South, where they had slavery for Christ's sake, can go Republican. I don't get Tucker Carlson's bow ties.

I've been watching CNN all day, and I'm so glad I did, because if I hadn't, I might never have learned that John Kerry was in a band in the 1960s called The Electras.

Two of the band members, Jon Prouty and Larry Rand, were on CNN today, talking about The Electras, John Kerry, and the band's plans to reunite. Prouty and Rand told the story of four young lads, not from Liverpool, all of whom could play guitar. No one wanted to play bass. It was John Kerry who finally made the sacrifice and switched to the instrument that many musicians, certainly most young men, consider inferior.

I think that for this reason alone the man deserves to be President.

Electras legend also has it that in 1972, John Kerry met John Lennon.

Two guys, both named John.

Both in bands.

Both...

Well, OK, that's it.

In the next story, Postmodern Sass plays a Journey song.

My United States Of Whatever

It's the day before the American presidential election, and I'm having breakfast at the Comfort Suites in Southhaven, Mississippi.

It's a self-serve breakfast bar, but a cheery young black woman, Sharonda, is behind the bar replenishing the biscuits and that kindergarten paste they call gravy. The TV in the common room is blaring. It's a morning news program, running a satirical feature. Footage of a college football game is voiced-over with commentators describing the plays in terms of Bush vs. Kerry. Sharonda is laughing.

"On th'other station," she says, "Dey do dat with a couple horses, too. It's funny! Dey call da horses Bush an'..." She looks at me, "Wha's th'other guy's name?"

An hour later I'm checking out. Rosetta at the front desk is white, about 25, Southern fried friendly and at least 50 pounds overweight. She's wearing an enormous button that says God Bless Our Armed Forces.

Rosetta finishes up with my invoice, and before I leave I ask if she might direct me to the nearest Democrat campaign office. I'd like to pick up a Kerry button for my karaoke buddy Goldilocks back home who was, coincidentally, born down here in the South. He is rabidly political, and American. I like him anyway.

Rosetta looks at me like I have two heads, and says, "I have no idea."

I ask if she could possibly find out somehow. She goes in the back and returns with the manager, a young black man. He looks at me the way annoyed adults on a plane look at the mother with a crying baby in the opposite seat, and says, "This is Bush country."

"Really?" I reply, surpised to find that the land of cotton-picking slave descendants would support a gun-toting moron over a liberal. "Well, that's a shame, but in any case I hope you get out there and vote tomorrow. No offence, but this country needs all the help it can get."

"Oh, I don't vote," says Rosetta. Her tone was exactly that of a person saying, "Oh, I'm lactose intolerant," in reply to someone who inadvertently offered them milk.

(I knew it was a bad sign when the cable service in my room didn't include Comedy Central. I've had to go cold turkey off Jon Stewart, and let me tell you, it hurts.)

It's afternoon, and I'm in Oktibbeha County in the heart of Mississippi, stopping in at the Walmart to pick up a few things before heading to the next Comfort Inn on my agenda. Orlicia at the checkout examines my credit card with curiosity.

"I'm Canadian," I offer.

"Oh," she says, followed by something I can't parse, even though I've gotten pretty good at listening slow.

"I hope you're going out to vote tomorrow," I say. I can't help myself.

She looks at me, blankly. I don't know whether she didn't understand what I said, or that the idea of voting was unimaginable to her. But I fear it's the latter.

Starkville is home to Mississippi State University. Surely a university town has one or two liberals running free?

I wonder what people do for fun here. This is where I'll be watching the returns.

As I drive to the motel I scan the landscape for a campaign sign for Kerry — or any Democrat. I spy a long, low building with a big sign advertising GUN SALE.

In the next story, Postmodern Sass imagines what the United States of Whatever is going to be like for the next four years.