Carelessly

It's not the very thought of you, nor Billie Holiday, that makes me forget to do those little ordinary things that everyone ought to do. We're all careless.

Not literally, that is, without any cares, but too frequently without care for anyone other than ourselves. Inattentive. Inconsiderate. Unmindful. Oblivious. Disregardful.

Selfish.

You know someone who you consider selfish, don't you? What you really mean is that he or she is more selfish than you. You disapprove of that person's level of selfishness, because it is greater than yours, which you consider appropriate and reasonable.

Maybe you think I'm selfish.

Maybe I am.

There's a No Frills store a couple of miles from my place, where I shop about once a month for no-name, non food necessities such as toothpaste, kleenex, and cleaning products. The savings on these sorts of items makes it worth the monthly excursion, but I don't do my food shopping there because it's just too depressing.

You see, to push a grocery buggy around the No Frills is an exercise in frustration.

When I shop at the No Frills I select only what will fit in a carry basket, and save for last the plastic jug of laundry detergent or cat litter to be carried in my free hand. It all fits in a cardboard box which I can lug without too much difficulty to my car, and up the stairs when I get home. I live in a building with more stairs than the CN Tower, so I've learned to be a highly efficient shopper.

The store is located in an old, middle class neighbourhood of Toronto, inhabited by elderly, middle class people who have lived in these beautiful, half-million dollar homes for fifty years. My bank is also in this part of town, and I've learned never to do my banking errands on the day the pension cheques arrive. These very sweet, very old, very slow ladies and gentlemen do all their shopping at my No Frills store.

If you've ever been in a No Frills store you know what it's like, and if you haven't, you can form an accurate image based on its name. There ain't no frills like, say, wide aisles or pleasing produce displays, and there sure ain't no bakery or deli section. It's Wonder Bread or nothing, and I'll take nothing, thanks.

Go ahead, call me a snob, but remember I started this story by telling you that I do shop there. And I recognize that there is a market for this store, and that it is a very different market segment from the typical Queen's Quay Loblaw's flagship store shopper. I shop at both those stores. I like to think I'm a trans-market anomaly. While I might duck quickly into the Loblaw's just to pick up a few things for dinner, I only go to the No Frills when I'm not in a hurry. If you hurry through that store you're likely to knock someone over. I even try to remember to stick my glasses in my purse before I go, in case a nice, grandfatherly gentleman asks me to tell him what the difference between the three types of canned salmon is.

Today wasn't my day to shop, but I did need to run a banking errand before the year ends, and so I drove out to Bloor West Village. We're having one of those unbelievably unseasonably warm days today — I actually saw someone wearing shorts — and it's melting the heaps of snow that fell for four days straight at Christmas. The roads are messy, the sidewalks muddy, and if you venture outdoors today wearing those suede boots you got for Christmas you're a lunatic.

My banking done, I'm driving down Windemere Avenue, toward the lake, going no more than 40 km/hr. The road is coated with an inch of water, with larger puddles filling in the depressions. I'm not in a hurry, so I'm able to register in my peripheral vision, as I pass him, an uncharacteristically violent gesture from the stooped, grey-haired man walking on the sidewalk carrying a bright yellow No Frills bag. I'm a hundred yards past him, now, when I realize I splashed him. In my rearview mirror I see him gesticulating in the direction of the apartment building across the street from where he's standing. "Did you see that? Did you see what that car did?" I can hear him swearing in my mind.

I stop. I wait for two cars to veer around me, noting that they both give the old man a wide berth as they pass him.

I back up.

I have no thought as to what I might say or do, but I can't just leave him there, thinking there goes another disrespectful young person, splashing old men willy nilly on the road, with never a thought for anyone but herself.

I'm struggling to shift into reverse, drive backwards, and lower the passenger window simultaneously. As I get closer, the old man leaves the sidewalk and walks toward the middle of the road. He's going to come up on my side of the car. I'm still fumbling with the damned window controls; I always forget that the last time my car was stolen, when my mechanic rebuilt and rewired the dash, he inadvertently switched the window controls so that the one you think rolls down the driver's window actually rolls down the passenger's.

Careless of him.

The old man and I meet, and we both stop. My window is down. He's glaring grumpily at me, the No Frills bag in his left hand is raised.

"Did I splash you?" I ask, stupidly, and don't wait for an answer, "I'm so sorry! Are you all right?"

He says nothing. He lowers the bag, and continues walking past, then in front of, my car. Back to the sidewalk.

I wonder whether he heard me, or whether, perhaps, he doesn't understand English. I am relieved to note that the front of his clothing doesn't appear to be wet, so if I splashed him, it wasn't of tsunamic proportions.

I shift back into first, and move tentatively forward, paying close attention to the depth of the water, and alert for deeper puddles. The passenger window is still down. I slow to a crawl as I pass the old man, and call to him, "I'm very sorry!" Then I roll up the windows and continue — very slowly &mdash on my way.

In the rearview mirror I see the old man raise the bag again in a gesture that no witness to this encounter would mistake for a wave, but that could, perhaps, be interpreted as a grumbling acceptance of my apology.

As a rule, I don't make New Year's resolutions, but this year I will:

In 2005, I will go about less carelessly.
* * *
In the next story, Postmodern Sass remembers her cat, Beaker, who parachuted off the thirteenth floor balcony. Without a parachute. In April, Sass is called upon to remember her resolution.

With The Lights Out, It's Less Dangerous

Jack called early this morning to wake me up and tell me that Christmas was over. He lives in California, so there's a three hour time difference. He stayed up all night waiting for it to be morning, my time, so he could call. There are maybe two people on this planet that I'm happy to be woken up by, and Jack's one of them.

What separates us is less about the geographic distance, more about the fact that yesterday he sat on a beach contemplating the deep blue of the Pacific, and today I'm looking out my window at big, white, fluffy, blowing snowflakes.

Now that I'm up and writing I can multitask: I have a Chapters gift card from my cousins and some cash from my Daddy, and I'm planning to use them to acquire two of the items on my Christmas list: the new Nirvana box set (With The Lights Out), and Alias season three. Alias is my favourite TV show, largely because of the music. Sydney even sings karaoke.

Jack has his own reasons for wishing Christmas into the cornfield. Mine ensue:

Christmas is a time of rest and reflection. It's a time to be with your family and reminisce about the year that is coming to an end. There are years when I've loved Christmas. This is not one of them. Christmas 2004 lasted 19 hours for me, and that was just about as much as I could endure.

Don't get me wrong, I love my family, I really do. It would be easier to be a Scrooge if I didn't. We spend Christmas Eve at my aunt and uncle's house: my grandmother, me, and any cousins who are in town. This year it was only Markus and Amy, and Nate and Lisa. What makes it difficult for me is that they're all so happy. My aunt and uncle have been married for almost 45 years. Nate and Lisa were high school sweethearts (I know, can you stand it?) and have been married for almost 15. Amy is new to the family, imported from America, but we all adore her. She gave me a set of four wooden coasters, purchased at the One Of A Kind Show, each with a different, clever, aphorism printed on it. She chose the four especially for me, and all are brilliantly appropriate, the best of which is "Hand over the coffee and no one gets hurt!" This was no lucky guess on her part — she's spent the night at my house and seen me at my bitchy morning best.

Christmas makes me feel stupid and contagious.

The weeks leading up to it drive me around the bend. Why is it politically incorrect to say the word "Christmas?" Why must we say holiday instead? I mean, I'm all for being all-inclusive by wishing a group of people, your co-workers, for example, some of whom may not celebrate Christmas, happy holidays, but when you send a Christmas card to someone you know celebrates Christmas, why can't you say, Merry Fucking Christmas? Why must the TV and radio ads euphemize "holiday shopping?" I have many Jewish friends, and they tell me there's no such thing as a Chanukah present.

The other day at Loblaws I saw a box of "Holiday Rice Krispies." The box was decorated with the image of Snap, Crackle, and Pop, in Santa's sleigh, wearing Santa hats, and being pulled by reindeer, tossing a trail of ribbon-wrapped RK squares behind them. The product itself, the "holiday" krispies, have red and green crisped rice. Oh, and there's a decorated Christmas tree with a star on top. What holiday is this symbolizing, if not Christmas? Why can't they just call the damned cereal Christmas Krispies?

Hello, hello, hello, how low?

I went to my dad's, too. My dad lives in a house with a pink bathtub and sink. This is not the house that I grew up in — our bathtub and sink were pale green — on Spring Creek Road, which my dad sold after my mother left. Now he's happily married to a woman ten years his senior, who has four children, all older than me.They are very nice people. Very nice, excruciatingly boring, people. The daughter is married, has two young children of her own, and lives in the same town as my dad and his wife. I arrived early, and left when she showed up. Now that her babies are out of cribs and playpens I have no desire to stick around long enough to find out whether they're calling my Daddy grandpa.

Get me to my aunt's, where the beer will be excellent — at Christmas we splurge on the best: Wahrsteiner, Dab, Bitburger — and plentiful.

Later, the feasting begins and continues for several hours. Turkey, in my family, has always been viewed as the thing you eat at Thanksgiving, and Thanksgiving has always been viewed as an American holiday. We're German; we feel we invented most Christmas traditions, and what Germans eat at Christmas is goose.

But in my family, we eat chicken wings. Go ahead, laugh, but it's been a tradition for as long as I've been out of pigtails. My grandmother used to make us huge piles of crispy baked, lightly spiced, wings, long before Buffalo conceived of them as pub food. Oma doesn't do the Christmas cooking anymore, my aunt Lo does, and her wings are just as good, maybe better.

Chicken wings are the must-have on the Christmas table, but there are plenty of other dishes. Shrimp — barbequed, if the weather permits, which it didn't this year; kartoffel und gemüse; ham, pickled herring, and one or two surprises from my aunt, who is a terrific cook. On Friday night it was deviled eggs with beluga caviar. Then there's the chocolate: German, of course, never Swiss. I normally consume my chocolate quota for the year on Christmas Eve.

Christmas morning I sleep late, have a cup of coffee or three, kiss my aunt and uncle goodbye, and drive home to Toronto. I'm looking after five of my neighbours' cats over the holidays, a service for which I charge $5 per day. Two of these neighbours are travelling to the far corners of the world, and will be gone for a month; the others, at least a week. The cats are all so happy to see me. My own two, especially.

Later, I soak in a bubble bath until I'm all pruney.

Christmas is almost over.

I didn't get what I wished for. But then, I never do.

Whatever. Nevermind.

In the next story, Postmodern Sass makes a New Year's resolution.

Your Groovy Self

I'm procrastinating today. You see, I have a lot of work to do and so I'm making every effort to conjure up more important work that needs doing, so that I may have a reasonable excuse for not doing the work I'm supposed to be doing. Remember when you were in school, and you had an exam to study for, and you'd turn the TV on anyway, just to catch the weather, say, and there'd be bowling on, and at that moment it seemed imperative that you watch that bowling match?

I'm that way when I've got a textbook editing project and a deadline.

My reason — and it's an entirely reasonable one, to my mind — for not starting Chapter 8, New Product Development, today is that I'm tired and a wee bit fuzzy in the head from having been out very late last night. That, combined with the Christmas Blues, and thinking about my Opa and Elvis, led me to remember that when I was at Graceland in October I bought a couple of Elvis movies, and I haven't gotten around to watching them yet. Today's a good day to do so.

So I watched Speedway. You know the story: Elvis plays a race car driver who comes to town and is very popular with the ladies. There's a car race or two, a party or two; Elvis sings a song, and the girls dance around him in their go-go boots. There's one particular Girl who's a little bit sassy and who Elvis likes best, but she resists letting him kiss her. There's the Older Man who is in some way protective of the Girl and who foils Elvis's attempts to get her. At the end of the movie there's the Big Race and something happens to Elvis's car, but in the end it all works out and Elvis and the Girl ride off into the sunset together, singing.

Yeah, I know, that's the plot outline of every Elvis movie. And I love them all. It must be the boys-and-cars, boys-and-music thing.

In Speedway it's Nancy Sinatra who plays the Girl. And this Girl is an IRS agent who comes to town to investigate Elvis. Uh-oh, tax problems! It seems Elvis is the top money-maker in the stock car races, but he's been letting his best friend/manager (Bill Bixby) handle his finances. Never a good idea. So Nancy watches as Elvis is handed, in the winner's circle, a cheque for $7,500, then calls her boss (Gale Gordon) to report. "That's a lot of money!" he cries.

Yeah, I thought so too when I got my tuition bill in September.

Nancy sings a song called Your Groovy Self in the movie. It was written by Lee Hazelwood, her duet partner on Jackson, Summer Wine, and Some Velvet Morning. But in tone and structure it reminds me of The Last Of The Secret Agents, one of my favourite Nancy Sinatra songs. It was also a movie, which I've never seen, but would love to. I hear the song was written to be the movie theme, and so the lyrics give you the gist of the story:

He's never caught one spy I'm told
He's never even caught a cold
Got his degree from Disneyland
But he's the last of the secret agents, and he's my man

It's really a shame that Nancy Sinatra is just about the worst actress I've ever seen in an Elvis movie, or in any movie. And yeah, I know that comment is like observing that soap opera actors are, for the most part, bad. Elvis was never nominated for an Academy Award either, but at least he plays himself in his movies. But Nancy as an IRS investigator? Disbelief not suspended.

There was a little girl in the movie (played by eight year old Victoria Meyerink, who went on to guest roles in Green Acres and Family Affair) who was a much better actress. Elvis may have kissed Nancy, but he sang a song to Victoria, and he picked her up and swung her around.

In Speedway, the gang hangs out at The Hangout, a surreal, psychadelic diner, reminiscent of Pulp Fiction, where the booths are cars, and you open the car door to get into your seat. Elvis and his date go to the Drive-in A-Go-Go for a burger. There are go-go boots galore in this movie. But nobody, nobody wears boots like Nancy Sinatra.

If my mother were still alive, she'd be two weeks older than Nancy. Both are Gemenis, born in 1940.

My mother never wore white nail polish or go-go boots like Nancy, but she did have an admirable collection of go-go dresses, some of which I wear today. She wore her long hair in pigtails, and carried a fringed suede purse right into the 1980s. My mother was awfully groovy.

Nancy, though, is the goddess of groovy. She's the maven of mod. She's my idol. I just love her groovy self.

* * *
Postmodern Sass will write more about her mother one day. If you like, Gentle Reader, you can click here to read about Sass's father. Or, go to the next story in sequence, in which we find that Postmodern Sass survived Christmas, but just barely.

Addendum: nearly a year later, Sass procrastinates again, and remembers her mother in this story. And then she tells you about her mother's groovy Christmas tree.

Es ist Schwer

Christmas is 13 days away, and I wish it were 1,300 days away, but I got a Christmas present today and it's the best present I've ever received from anyone in my family. It's my Opa's lighter.

This is my grandfather, my Opa, Nathanael Werner.


A few weeks ago my cousin Cinderella, who lives in California, sent me an email:

"I went through some old stuff on the weekend and discovered for some odd reason that I have Opa's old leather wallet, lighter and social insurance card. It was wedged somewhere between my Shaun Cassidy posters and my stack of diaries and journals that have documented my entire childhood! Any chance you want Opa's stuff? I'm going to toss it if you don't."

You have Opa's Zippo? How on earth did it come to be in your possession?

Yes, oh yes, I want it.

I tried to find it after Opa died. I was just a kid; a teenager; it's not that I wanted to use it. To me, that lighter was a symbol of my grandfather. It was small; I wanted to carry it around in the back pocket of my Levi's, and pull it out from time to time when I needed to show someone how cool I was. I asked Oma what happened to Opa's lighter, but she didn't know. No one seemed to know.

To this day, I am instantly attracted to a man who lights my cigarette with a Zippo. I love the sound of it, the rasping, then the snapping shut. The smell of the butane. I judge a man's character by the skill with which he handles his Zippo. You know how, in a crowded room, when someone speaks your name you hear it across the din? I hear Zippos that way.

When Jack and I used to talk on the phone until 5:00 am, I could hear him periodically snapping the heavy chrome lid of his Zippo shut. It's not what made me fall in love with him, it's what makes me miss him, just like I miss my Opa.

Opa's birthday was August 16. The day he turned 63 was the day Elvis died. Perhaps that explains the emotional chord Graceland struck in me.

That was 1977. My parents and I had just returned from a two month sojourn to Germany, where I had bought this record by Peggy March called Es ist Schwer; the chorus of the title song goes, "Es ist schwer, dich zu vergessen. I can still sing the chorus. It's been running through my head since I started writing this story. I think I may still have the record. It means "It is hard to forget you."

Anyone who ever met my Opa would tell you, he's hard to forget.

Today we had a pre-Christmas family gathering at my aunt and uncle's house in the homeland. Cinderella and her husband, Prince Charming, were there, and because that's a rare occasion, our cousin Kristine made the trek from Kingston to add to the regular registry of relatives. Markus's wife Amy, who's new to the family, wasn't there, which was too bad; I like her a lot. A couple of weeks ago she had been on the phone with her sister in North Dakota, excitedly discussing her nephew's upcoming first birthday this weekend. Markus overheard Amy instructing her sister to "Videotape everything so that Markus and I can watch it!" Markus went directly to his computer, logged on, and bought her a plane ticket.

My Opa had three daughters: my mother was the eldest, Cinder's and Markus's the youngest, and Kris's the middle. They were all two years apart. I am the eldest of the eight grandchildren, and we're all within an eight year range, so whenever we were together we played together. Today there were five of us at my aunt's house, and that's a rare configuration indeed. I can't remember the last time all eight of us were together, but it was probably when this picture was taken.


No; now that I think about it, it was at Opa's funeral.

Opa died in the dead of winter in 1979, two weeks after Christmas. It wasn't a surprise. He had spent the last six weeks of his life in the hospital, in constant pain, and died there. When I heard the phone ring at 1:00 in the morning, I knew what had happened. My mother knocked softly on my door, then came in and told me the news. I said, "Oh. OK." Rolled over and went back to sleep.

I was in high school, I was tough, and I was angry.

My grandfather smoked unfiltered Players cigarettes he rolled himself. Sometimes he'd buy ready-made packages. He used to send me to the store for them now and again, when I was a little girl. He'd let me keep the change, and buy whatever I wanted with it. Back then the Five and Dime uptown in Beamsville had a counter, between the magazine rack and the cash register, with a dozen or so big, open jars filled with loose candy. Jelly raspberries, and those cone-shaped orangey-pink marshmallow strawberries. The raspberries were 1/2¢ each, the strawberries were 1¢ each. There were licorice strings, and plastic-wrapped caramels. Those were 2¢. A little girl with a dime could have a ball. You filled a tiny paper bag with your selection, then took it to the cashier and told her how much you had in the bag. She never checked, and I never lied.

About the time I outgrew penny candy I told Opa I wouldn't buy his cigarettes for him anymore. I was an indignant child. Smoking is bad for you, everybody knew that. Everybody still knows that. I wasn't going to help him kill himself, is what I said.

He said nothing. And I'll never forget the look in his eyes: resignation. Acceptance. And infinite sadness.

The morning of Opa's funeral I got up and got ready for school as usual. My mother asked me what I was doing, and was shocked when I told her. How can you even think about going to school today? she cried. I hadn't thought about not going, I replied. What was the big deal? It's not like we didn't know he was going to die. It's not like he didn't do this to himself. I have no intention of inconveniencing myself over it.

Sometimes it terrifies me to remember how horrible children can be.

I didn't go to school. My mother wouldn't let me. She blocked the doorway when the schoolbus stopped at the end of our driveway. I wasn't inclined to walk five miles down the Escarpment, through the snow, to make my point.

I went to the funeral, and sat between my parents. I didn't talk to my cousins. Opa had been dead for three days. I hadn't cried.

The organist played. The minister from the Grace Lutheran Church in St. Catharines gave the eulogy. Opa never went to church, but Oma did. A funeral isn't for the deceased, it's for those they leave behind.

I don't remember when, exactly, it began, or what, if anything, precipitated it, but suddenly, and violently, I began to wail. Cry isn't the right word. It wasn't a sniffle that turned into a sob; it didn't come on gradually, and I didn't fight to hold it back. It came on like a vomit reflex, and when I opened my mouth out came a banshee.

My mother tried to shush me but it was no use. She had to lead me outside, where I continued to wail at the passersby of downtown Beamsville. Had it not been for the fact that we were standing outside Tallman's Funeral Home I'm sure they would have thought my mother was beating me.

I don't remember the rest of the service, nor do I remember driving to the cemetary, or having kaffee und küchen at the wake, though I'm told I did all of those things. I didn't return to that cemetary until twenty three years later, when my mother died. And I never cried for my grandfather again.

Until Cinderella gave me his lighter today.

Opa's lighter is not a Zippo afterall. It's marked CHAMP Austria US PAT No 2809511. A little online research puts the date around 1957. It's an antique, though I'm sure at the Roadshow they'd assign it a value of exactly $0. It's battered, scratched, and rusted. The spark wheel doesn't turn, and though there's no lighter fluid in it, I'm sure it wouldn't light if there were.

None of that matters to me.

My cousins considered my reaction ignominious, and couldn't understand why I would place an emotional value on what they called "the thing that killed Opa." They were all too young to remember what happened at the funeral.

They've never understood me, anyway.

When my relatives ask me what I want for Christmas, what they really mean is, what can we get you that we can (a) afford, and (b) understand. Few of the items on my wish list meet those criteria. Last year I asked for the bilingual (English/German) 50th anniversary edition of Wittgenstein's Philosophical Investigations, and got the new Margaret Atwood book instead. That's OK; I like Atwood, too. But since my gaggle of cousins and aunts is bound to ask, and in case you're curious about what a postmodern girl like me would wish for under her tree, here are a few things I've noticed this year that got me excited:

Notebooks made from cheesy old book covers. It doesn't get much more PoMo than that.

Equally as original but dearer to my heart is a t-shirt made from Tim Bray's plate from the Oxford English Dictionary, featuring the word lustrous.

I'm just crazy about the U2 iPod Special Edition, because it's such ingenious co-marketing. And because I like U2.

Alias (season three) on DVD. Last year for Christmas I bought myself the first two seasons of this, my favourite TV series, and I am, if nothing else, a completist. Speaking of which, I also want the new Nirvana box set but just so you know: I'm not a bandwagon-jumper. I bought Nevermind the year it came out, and I own "Bleach."

A pair of pink Chanel sunglasses.

A Canon EOS digital camera.

What I want most of all, though, can't be tied with a ribbon or placed under a Christmas tree.

* * *
Go to the next story in sequence, in which we are introduced to Sass's mother. Or, skip ahead to find out how Sass survived Christmas, and what her New Year's resolution is. It takes almost two years, but Sass does get her Chanel sunglasses; a present from Jack.

My Best Friend's Girl

Jack's not really my best friend, not the way Kay is — he's a guy, after all — but we've known each other since the first George Bush sent bombers to the Gulf. I know most of his secrets, and he knows most of mine, which has gotta count for something. I think it counts for a lot, actually.

Jack is the person who named me Sass, and the only one who calls me that offline. His name isn't Jack, either, but that's what I've always called him. It suits him.

I like Jack because he not only loves cars, he loves the kind of cars I love: fast, sexy, and German. And he loves music. Plus, he has what all 5'11" of me considers a terrific bonus: he's 6'3".

Besides, I kinda like the way, I like the way he dips.

I'm not his girlfriend, but then, he doesn't have one. His best girl is his 1992 BMW 525i. He calls her Beauty, and he dotes on her the way Nero Wolfe dotes on his orchids. She was quite the hot babe when he first started going out with her in 1995. A technie geek girl, too: she had a car phone installed in between the two front seats.

(You have to remember, this was at a time when cell phones were the size of toasters, and even the most up-to-date technorati were carrying Cantel flip phones — in their briefcases.)

Beauty is, well, beautiful. Elegant. And she looks great in black leather. She's perfect for Jack.

She's very yar.

The last time I saw Beauty I couldn't help but notice she had a few beauty spots. Her windshield was cracked, and her door had been dinged, and someone, some abominable asshole who ought to be strung from the gaff by his balls, had keyed her. Her suspension was shot, and her bum wiggled. Jack's financial circumstances at the time didn't allow for him to take proper care of her, and that just about killed him.

Jack's always taken good care of Beauty. Not like her previous owner, who loved her while she was shiny and new, but as soon as things started to go wrong abandoned her with never a backward glance to the BMW dealer.

Beauty can be willful. Impulsive, even. Difficult to handle. Jack told me that when he first got her, she scared the crap out of him. I knew he loved her, though, when I watched him wash and wax her for hours, in the dead of February, in an airplane hanger at the regional airport where his stepfather works.

That was when Jack and Beauty lived here. Jack moved to California in 1998, and he didn't take Beauty with him then, but eventually he sent for her.

Much of her life in California has been one of luxurious leisure, as befits a classy dame like her. Jack would dress her up and take her out from time to time, when the weather was fine, but for the daily drugery of work he had a BMW M5. When the temporary financial setback occurred, Jack sold the M5 without a second thought, but was in agony at the possibility of losing Beauty. Fortunately, it didn't come to that, but as Jack's only girl she did get more of a workout than she had become accustomed to, and she wasn't at all pleased about aging.

Jack has owned other cars. A Porsche Carrera. The M5. When he compares them to Beauty he calls them bagels. (A private joke, Gentle Reader, which I simply won't share with you.) And Beauty's been driven by other men. She's even been driven by me.

Once, Jack went six years without driving Beauty. They always end up together, eventually, though.

She's learned to be patient, though it's not in her nature. She knows she has to be, if she wants Jack to keep her. He tells me he'll be getting a new M6 when they come out next fall, and I can't wait for him to take me for a ride in it. More than that, though, I hope I'll ride in Beauty again some day. I know he'll always keep her.

Last summer Jack had a diabetic episode while he was on the highway with Beauty. It was an unusually bad one; a sugar crash that came on abruptly and inconveniently, while he was speeding down the 101, with no Coke or Werther's or Life Savers handy. He called me the next day to tell me about it. His voice and demeanor were off; I knew something was terribly wrong.

As he talked he paced in his apartment, getting his bearings. He had just woken up. He assessed the situation and reported it to me, three thousand miles away: His hand was bloodied, and there was gravel embedded in his palm. There were smears of blood on his sheets. His knees were banged up. But his clothes were in a pile on the floor, and weren't damaged. He couldn't remember anything about the day before.

I asked if he could see Beauty. He looked out the window and said yes, she's there, in her spot, right where she's supposed to be.

Jack, I said, put down the phone, and go outside and check on her. See if she's OK. Look inside; maybe she has a clue about what happened to you.

He did, but she didn't.

He could only remember that somehow, somehow he made it to an exit, and then to a convenience store, where he sat for two hours drinking Coke, trying to get his sugar balance back. He had a receipt from the store in his pocket. But he didn't remember driving to the store, and had no idea how he got home, or how his injuries had been sustained.

I think Beauty saved him. But Jack hasn't been the same since.

He refused to drive Beauty after that. He didn't trust himself with her. He was afraid he'd hurt her. Don't misunderstand: he's not afraid of driving. He still drives. He just doesn't drive Beauty, he's that afraid of what he might do to her.

Jack once told me that men who are captivated by beautiful women are dangerous. And captivated is a most apropos word to describe his feelings toward Beauty.

He's stubborn: When he gets an idea in his head, there's no swaying him. He might come 'round, eventually, but it'll be on his own terms, and no amount of well-intended cajolling or persuasive words will shake him.

The thing is, if you knew him, if you'd ever seen him with Beauty, you'd understand immediately that he'd rather die than hurt her. He'd very likely kill anyone else who tried.

Jack would slay a dragon for Beauty.

Last week, Jack's financial reversals were reversed, and he's back on top again. He sent Beauty to the BMW spa (to be pampered by men undoubtedly named Karl-Heinz and Jürgen), and now she's back to her stunning old self. To celebrate, Jack took her to Santa Barbara, the most beautiful place in all of California, if not the world. And he sent me this picture of her on the pier:



See, I told you she was gorgeous.

She's no bagel.

Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I can picture them, riding off into the empyrean sunset together, toward Half Moon Bay.

* * *
In the next story, Sass remembers her grandfather. In February, she'll tell you the story of Jack and Diane, which explains how she got the nickname Sassafras. And next summer you'll meet Jack's best human friend.

Hey, kid, rock & roll, blog on

My friend Sparky thinks blogging is pretentious, and I think he's right. I invited him to the GTA Bloggers Christmas Party last night, but he declined, saying, "Trust me, when it comes to sheer pretension I doubt anyone at that party can hold a candle to yours truly. And I don't even blog."

Oh, I trust you, Sparks! But you may be wrong about that...

The Bored Astronaut, for example, has a pretty big candle. The Internet exists, says a recent posting, to bring us his narcissism. You might think that's just a clever line, not so different from "We are living in a postmodern world, and I am a postmodern girl," unless you'd met him in person. He wasn't so bored, though, when I told him I know a real astronaut, Terry Wong.

Gee Kent (that's G. Kent, or Geek-ent, depending on how clever you are) who staked out his territory, leaning against the kitchen counter, and didn't budge all night, is another patron of the candelabra. Every time I went into the kitchen to use the bottle opener (I don't drink twist-offs) I had to reach around him. Despite his name, after conversing with him I'd say he's more of a wonk on the geek-wonk/nerd-cool positioning map. (Me, I like to think I'm exactly where Tina Fey is. But then, I also like to think I'm 29.)

Are we all pretentious? Are we a cadre of nerds? Are we woebegone wonks, just wanking off?

What is it about bloggers that drives us to blog? What is it that compels us into the friendly competition today to see who'll blog whom first?

Samantha wins: she was posting comments, quotes, and pictures on her site, Blog on Blog, at 2:15 this morning. She and I bonded over bitching that we had both come early to the party to catch David Akin, who didn't show up, the bastard. Cute bastard, though, we agreed.

Out front on the smoking patio, happily hammered, Liz Vang proved she could walk up the stairs without falling down by walking up the stairs without falling down. I doubt she'll be posting today.

Christie comes in a close second, posting at 4:00 a.m. I met her only as she was leaving — on the way out she complimented me on my go-go dress from the last Accordion Guy party. Thanks, Christie! I hope you get your Vespa some day. Did you really get your car towed? I learned my lesson after the last party, when I got a $20 ticket parking on Joey's street. Last night, I took the TTC.

Leah, better known as the Gay Penguin, taught me about homosexuality in animals. She used to live in New York, and tells me there are gay penguins in the Central Park Zoo, that same-sex bonding is quite common in birds, and in giraffes (Giraffes neck. Can you stand it?), and that two of her high school classmates were murdered before graduation.

Min Jung, who came from San Francisco for the party, just looked like she was bored with all of us.

I liked Crazy Joan. Her blog is Freak Girl's Pew. Or is it Freak Girl Spew? I like her blog philosophy, too: "I do not blog politic, I do not blog to gain approval or popularity...What I am trying to do is communicate." I was drawn into her conversation when I heard the name Christian Bale, an underrated and overpretentious actor I happen to know more about than I really care to, because an old friend of mine has been his publicist for more than ten years. Sorry to have taken your movie hero down a few notches, Joan. And I didn't even tell you the story about him holding his friend's penis while he peed in his pool.

I learned about the Hell's Angels from a woman who's name I don't remember, but who had a great t-shirt that read, Do I Look Like A Fucking People Person?

Yes, we had nametags. Mine wouldn't stick to my beaded top. I discovered it later, stuck neatly to the floor in front of the beer-loaded bathtub, as though it were identifying the contents as belonging to Postmodern Sass. I wish I'd had a camera.

Rannie the Photojunkie posted his party album on Saturday afternoon. Winona the Elf flitted around the party, climbing on furniture and walls to take pictures. (Her pictures are posted here.) Irina was taking pictures, too.

Back in the kitchen, I was rescued from a palavar on black holes with Gee and Bored by the sound of Joey's accordion. Accordion Guy performed Head Like A Hole, You Shook Me, and that Bloodhound Gang song about doing it like they do on the Discovery Channel.

And yes, Virginia, there was karaoke. We tried to find songs that would allow substitution of the word blog in the lyrics. But the system overheated, so it didn't last very long.

So are we pretentious?

You bet.

Hey, kid, blog is Merriam-Webster's word of the year for 2004.

* * *
In the next story Postmodern Sass introduces you to Jack. You'll be reading a lot more about him next year.