Song From Moulin Rouge

It's a sad thing to realize...

So, you think you're a pretty good singer. Not great, but pretty good. You've been in school plays, maybe sung with a band in ye olde university days, but you have no delusions of grandeur. You're better than Nicole Kidman in Moulin Rouge, but you're no Rosemary Clooney.

You go to karaoke bars, especially when it's Carson's Kickass Karaoke, and you and your karaoke buddies think you kick ass.

And then you go to a special Kickass Karaoke at Harbourfront, as part of the World Stage Festival's series called Flying Solo. And it's the last night of the festival, and so all the staff and performers, the theatre crowd, are there; it's their wrap party.

And it's the truly kickass-est Kickass Karaoke you've ever been to.

The buzz in the crowd is, Caroline O'Connor is there. Caroline was in Moulin Rouge. Yes, the movie.


That's her in the red dress with the black stockings, just left of centre.

Caroline is enjoying the party. There are at least a hundred people there. And then Caroline gets up on stage to sing a song.

Lady Marmalade.

You wonder how such a powerful voice can come out of such a tiny dancer's body.

The crowd is delirious. You are awed. You realize what it is to be in the presence of a true professional. You had no idea Carson's system could sound so good.

Later, when the delirium has died down, the KAK regulars do a super set — a set of dance songs. This usually gets 'em dancing on the bar, but the bar at Hangar 7 is not big enough to dance on.

Dr. Wil starts with Kiss, the Prince version. The people are dancing. Then you and Wil do Bust A Move. Then you do I Will Survive.

A few minutes later, you are having a beer, and Caroline O'Connor comes over to you, takes your hand, shakes it, and says, "You were really good!"

You can die happy now.

* * *
In the next story, Postmodern Sass is clearly procrastinating. That's because she's got 104 final exams to mark. Click here to read the next adventure of Postmodern Sass and her karaoke buddies.

Breaking Up Is Hard To Do [part III - fin]

Continued from part II

"Did you see the final episode of Sex And The City?" Zee is asking. We're still at The Banknote, drinking, where we've been since part I. I've lost count of the pints, and it's a damned good thing we walked here.

"Yes, but only recently, in reruns," I reply. "What made you think of that?"

I have to be honest with you, Gentle Reader, I despise that show — but I watch it sometimes. I think all the women are self-centred, superficial, neurotic bitches. Yes, even Miranda. I only watch the episodes that feature Mr. Big, because Chris Noth is the celebrity man of my dreams. And even so, I'd much rather watch him as Detective Logan in a rerun of Law & Order. Tall, dark, and sarcastic; that's how I like 'em.

"I don't know; just thinking about relationships, I guess. I love that show. I'm so glad Carrie and Big got together in the end."

"Everybody loves a Cinderella story," I say.

Me, I just love Mr. Big.

"Girls do, at least," says Zee. "Do you remember the first episode? Where they keep bumping into each other, accidentally, until finally they decide to go out?"

"Love at first sight is a key component of the Cinderella story," I reply, by way of answering her question.

Sorry, I'm an English Lit major, I can't help myself. When I was at McGill I had Hugh MacLennan as a professor, and I remember him telling us there are only 12 stories.

"Also key to the Cinderella story are the Forces That Conspire To Keep Them Apart — evil stepmothers, lost shoes, what have you. That's why Carrie and Big spend the entire six years of the show getting together, then breaking up, then being just friends, then not speaking at all, and then he moves to California..."

Doesn't sound like anybody I know, that's for sure.

"Doesn't sound like anybody I know, that's for sure," says Zee. "Although, I can kind of identify with Carrie. Maybe that's just because, of the four of them, she's the one that I look most like."

"Be glad you don't look like Charlotte."

"Why?"

"I always thought she looks like Milton Berle."

"Are you talking about Sid behind his back again?" asks Andrew, as he places another round in front of us. Andrew is the sort of bartender who starts pouring as soon as he sees you come through the door, and keeps 'em coming all night until you tell him to stop. And you'd better tell him no more before you're halfway through your last, or it'll be too late.

Sid is the other bartender at The Banknote. He works weekends. He hasn't appeared in this story, yet, but he will if we don't go home soon.

"I think Carrie's the most real of all the characters," says Zee. "She's cute and fun, but can be insecure."

"Mr. Big is her Prince Charming: tall and handsome."

"She is sometimes fabulous, sometimes a clueless dork."

We've all been there...

"He is sophisticated, but distant."

"She's a writer."

"He's rich."

"She doesn't love him for his money, though."

"She has way too many shoes."

"He's in the driver's seat in their relationship."

"She loves him like crazy, and all she wants is for him to love her."

"He loves her, but he doesn't realize it."

In the final episode of Sex And The City, Mr. Big goes to Paris to find Carrie; to finally tell her that he loves her. There are a few near misses: he drives by her on the street, in his limo, without seeing her; he enters a building just as she's leaving it. Finally, he bursts into the lobby of the hotel where she's staying just as the elevator doors open and she emerges... she sees him... and all she can say is...

"Hey, you."



You'd have to be crazy to believe in fairytales, right?

* * *
In the next story, Postmodern Sass has an I-can-die-happy-now moment at, of all places, a karaoke bar. Then, much later, she discovers that Mr. Big also karaokes. In August, Sass meets her own Mr. Big at The Banknote.

Breaking Up Is Hard To Do [part II]

Continued from part I

"So does Zee edit lesbian porn too?" asks Andrew, when Zee has gone to the ladies room.

"No, she sells drugs," I tell him.

"Coke? Heroin?"

"Viagra."

Zee knows a little about Jack. She knows about my Cinderella birthday present last summer. She knows he's tall and handsome — she's seen the picture of us taken at Sara's wedding. I felt bad, showing it to her now, when she's having relationship problems. It felt like I was rubbing it in. Not that my relationship, such as it is, is so perfect, but it sure is a swell photo, don't you think?

Zee has returned from the ladies room.

"So?" she asks again,"What do you think I should do?"

"Have another drink."

Zee also knows about what happened in September. She'd seen the fabulous pink dress, and had been admiring it, and all the smashing accessories I'd collected for it, all from eBay: the pink satin silver trimmed clutch, the pink rhinestone barrette, the pink rhinestone cocktail ring that exactly matched the buttons on the coat, and the shoes; oh, the shoes! When I told her that I hadn't yet been able to find earrings, she said, "Wait a minute," ran to her place, and was back in ten minutes with them. The absolutely perfect pair of pink rhinestone earrings.

Andrew sets another gin and tonic down in front of Zee, and another pint of Moosehead in front of me. He is grinning.

"Viagra, eh?"

"Forget it," I say to him. "She's heard all the jokes." Then, to Zee, "I don't understand men."

"You're looking to the wrong person for clarification on that," she says.

"I mean about the Viagra. Correct me if I'm wrong — you're the expert — but isn't Viagra a medication for men who have a problem? So why do they all want it? You'd think they'd be embarassed."

"Oh, they're not embarassed. They flash it around like a badge of honour; like teenagers carrying a condom for the first time. The worst are my customers, the doctors and the pharmacists. I doubt the samples I give them ever make it to the patients."

When I went to San Francisco for my birthday last August, Zee made me promise to take lots of pictures. She wanted to see the guy that I hadn't been able to shut up about. So I promised I would, but I broke that promise. It was the most fantastic, romantic, fairy tale weekend of my life, and I didn't want to share it with anyone other than Jack. So I didn't take any pictures.

"Darryl was always bugging me to try it," says Zee.

"The Viagra?"

"Yeah. But I wouldn't let him. His problem isn't physical, it's emotional. He needs a therapist, not a pharmacist."

When Jack didn't come for Carly and Simon's wedding, I avoided Zee for a week, but eventually I had to give the earrings back; I had to tell her what had happened. But after New York, I went to her place straight from the airport to tell her that this time, he had come.

The Star is still lying beside me, on the bar. I ask Andrew for the scissors and snip some headlines. I lay them out on the bar for him to choose from.

In the auto section there's a big red headline, part of a car dealer's ad. I can't resist: IT KEEPS GETTING HARDER. Andrew tapes it to the front of his shirt.

"Any lawyers here?" I ask Andrew. From a headline reading something about rumours dim advocates' hopes, I snip DIM ADVOCATE.

I cut a word from another car dealer ad: HUMMER. Jason, the architect, who has been sitting on my other side, watching, says, "How'd you know that one?"

"I teach twenty year olds," I answer.

"I'm the best thing that's ever happened to him, and he knows it," Zee told me on Sunday night, after she had confronted Darryl about his weekend. "His brother, his sister-in-law, his father, they've all told me, Darryl's a different person. What have you done to him? You two are perfect for each other. I would do anything for him. I would take a bullet for him. Well, maybe not today, I wouldn't. Today I want to put one in him.

Zee was saying, "I should have my head examined for putting up with him, shouldn't I? I mean, if he doesn't realize how great we are together, how much I love him... why don't I just give up? You must think I'm crazy."

"You know I don't."

Zee doesn't know that "Crazy" is my other theme song.

Zee lets out an exasperated sigh. "Men. Argh. Why are they like that?"

"Have you ever seen that poster?"

"Which one?"

"This one:"



"Don't give up on him," I tell her, finally.

To be concluded tomorrow.

Breaking Up Is Hard To Do [part I]

I've just come from my friend and neighbour Zee's place. She looks just awful, and that's tough for her to do. She's a mess because she just broke up with her boyfriend again. She also broke up with him on Sunday, and had tried to on Friday night. So I'm going to walk her up to The Banknote and get her drunk.

This is what women do. What men do in these situations, I do not know.

The last time I got dumped Magda did the same for me, and a few weeks later it looked like I was about to be called upon to return the favour, but it turned out not to be necessary.

It's definitely necessary for Zee, though, even though she was the dumper, not the dumpee. Breaking up is hard to do no matter how it's done, and so alcohol is required to dull the pain and open the vents.

Zee and I are just going to change out of our work clothes, and then we're going.

Sometimes you want to go
Where everybody knows your name
And they're always glad you came
You wanna be where you can see
Our troubles are all the same
You wanna be where everybody knows your name.

* * *
Andrew, my dragon-slaying bartender whom I told you about here, is engaged at the other end of the bar with a pair of scissors. I know what this means, but Zee isn't a regular here, so she doesn't suspect a thing when Andrew comes around to our side of the bar, greets me, introduces himself to Zee, and touches us lightly on our backs.

Zee left a message in my voice mailbox on Friday afternoon: "Hey, it's me. I was hoping you'd be able to take Gracie out at suppertime. I'm in Mississauga, on my way to Darryl's to end it once and for all."

Gracie is Zee's dog. A Weimaraner.

Darryl is Zee's boyfriend. A whiner.

"Is he the one you were telling me about?" asks Zee, indicating Andrew.

"Yeah. He's married, though, and just had a baby boy last fall."

"Damn."

"Yeah, I know."

I turn away from her for a moment, so she can see my back.

"Hey, you've got something stuck to your back!" Zee exclaims. "It looks like a newspaper headline."

"What does it say?"

"SASS IS IN."

"Must have come from the fashion section. Turn around, let's see what yours says."

She turns. Hers says MUST DO BETTER.

"Welcome to The Banknote."

"Every time I get too close, he pushes me away," Zee told me, later on Friday night. Darryl wasn't home when she got there. She let herself into his place, called his cell and left a message, but she couldn't find him so she came home. "This has been our problem all along. He doesn't want to take a risk. In anything. His whole life has been very structured; he was raised to believe that for every effect there's a cause. We've been together over a year and, you know, it's time to move forward, but he's afraid because he doesn't know if I'm the one. He says he needs to know, for sure, that I am. He needs a guarantee.

Andrew's gone out for a smoke break. I take the scissors to the front page of the Toronto Star



and prepare to tape TERRIFIED PATRONS FLEE to his back when he returns.

"Darryl's mother died when he was 11, and it was never talked about. To this day, he doesn't know what she died of. Cancer, that's all he knows."

"He never asked? Not even when he got older?"

"No. No one in their family ever talks about it. His father remarried the wicked witch. His brother and sister are more fucked up than he is. Everyone he knows who's married has had an affair. Either the husband or the wife. Even his older brother, married for twenty years to his highschool sweetheart."

"Sounds like he's never been happy, so now, with you, he doesn't know how to be."

Dimestore psychology, to be sure, but that's what you go to a bar for, isn't it?

"Everyone he's ever loved has abandoned him, starting with his mother, so he's afraid that everyone he loves will eventually abandon him. And so it's easier for him to push me away; to make me angry; to give me a damn good reason to break up with him, so he can say to himself, well, there you go, I behaved like an asshole so she dumped me, and I deserve it. That's easier for him to deal with."

What he did, by way of giving her a damn good reason to break up with him, was spend the weekend with another girl. That's why Zee couldn't find him on Friday night.

Mridul, the Air Canada pilot, has come in and taken his usual seat in front of the taps. He's not wearing his uniform tonight. Andrew pours him a Guinness and tapes a headline to the glass: FLIGHT OF FANCY.

Lulu is sitting directly across from us, along the other side of the bar. I peel my headline off my back and tape it to my glass, then hold it up for her to see. She laughs. Hers says MIRED IN SCANDAL. Lulu is a securities trader by day, and a bartender at the after-hours joint up on Dundas by night.

"I like this place," says Zee. She moves her headline to her glass. She's drinking gin and tonic, in an Old Fashioned glass. Her headline, snipped from the front page of the business section, is in 80-point type, making it difficult for her to handle the glass.

She bends her head down to the glass and takes a sip through the straw.

"What would you do if you were me?" she asks.

To be continued tomorrow.

Kill Your Television

So Jack called me last night to tell me he was home from Nevis, and to apologize for having called me on his way to Nevis to explain to me again why he wouldn't — couldn't — take me to Nevis.

This time, I accepted his apology.

The thing is, I didn't really want to go, I just wanted to be asked. I don't know whether I would have gone, had he asked. Maybe, maybe not. OK, probably. But the reason I didn't want to go is because I'm no bagel. Jack's had a dozen of those, in a variety of flavours and all half baked, and he took one of them on one of those sales reward junkets a couple of years ago.

I do not want to go where bagels before me have gone.

Besides, there are other places I'd rather go, other things I'd rather do, with Jack. Lots of them. Like walk on the beach at Half Moon Bay again. And go dancing at The Starlight Room in San Francisco again. And let him take me to a diner and buy me corned beef hash to cure my hangover.

Attend a performance of La Bohème at The Met.

Put on my pink chiffon shill dress and watch him play baccarat in Monte Carlo.

Yeah, yeah, I know what you're thinking, but let me tell you, Gentle Reader, when you find a man who will let you sleep as late as you need to, to try to cure that hangover, then go get you a grande latte from Starbucks even though he doesn't drink coffee himself, to try to cure that hangover, then take you to his favourite diner because you said you thought something good and greasy would cure that hangover, and risk having you throw up in his car because of that hangover, and never once make fun of you, not even a little bit, even though you mightily deserve it because you brought that hangover on yourself by drinking too many martinis like a big ass, well, that man is...

That's a man you keep the promises you've made to, that's what that man is.

In retrospect, I'm glad I didn't go to Nevis. Jack told me very little about it, so I can imagine what I like, and what I imagine is a bunch of drunken salesmen cutting it a little too loose in a tropical paradise where the rules of civilization don't apply. Worse than the company Christmas party when they get drunk and photocopy their bare asses. That's what you get when you work for a Big Ass American Software Company that refers to its head office as a campus, and operates an eponymous university: spring break for grownups. The Valley where the sky is the colour of television is full of Big Asses.

Yeah, yeah, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "You don't know shit, because you've never been there."

But I have, Gentle Reader, I have.

Been there. Done that. Bought the album.

Jack says that next year Big Ass will reward its biggest asses by taking them to Maui.

I've always wanted to go to Maui.

A whole lot can happen in a year.

* * *
In the next story, Sass takes her friend Zee to The Banknote to get her drunk.

Games People Play

The other night I was watching my favourite show, Lost, the best show on television, and I had a Killing Me Softly moment.

I've always known that songs can do that to you, but this is the first time a TV show did it to me.

* * *
A boar has twice attacked Sawyer, causing Sawyer to believe that the boar is out to get him; that it's personal. Sawyer decides to hunt the boar, but tracking is not one of his skills. Kate offers to help, on the condition that Sawyer grant her "carte blanche," that is, anytime she wants anything from his stash, he has to give it to her, no questions asked. He agrees. Darkness falls, no boar has been found, and so Sawyer and Kate make camp for the night.

Sawyer cracks open a tiny plane-size liquor bottle, and drinks from it.

Kate: "Where'd you get that?"

Sawyer: "Plane."

Kate: "Got any more?"

Sawyer: "I got lots more. Of everything."

Kate: "Are you going to give me one?"

Sawyer laughs. Considers.

Sawyer: "All right, Sassafras, you want a drink, you gotta play."

Kate: "Play what?"

Sawyer: "I never."

Kate: "What's that?"

Sawyer: "Call it a way to get to know each other better. For example, I know you never been to college."

Kate: "What makes you say that?"

Sawyer: "'Cause if you had, you'd know about I never."

Kate: "All right, how do you play?"

Sawyer: "It's simple. You say I never, then you finish the sentence. If it's something you did, you drink. If it's something you didn't do, you don't drink."

Kate: "Sounds complicated."

Sawyer: "Learn by example: I never kissed a man. Now you drink, because you have kissed a man."

Sawyer is smirking as he says this, because Kate kissed him in last week's episode. Under duress. At his request, as part of a bargain. But still.

Kate drinks.

Kate: "I never implied I'd been to college."

Sawyer drinks.

Sawyer: "I never been to Disneyland."

Kate shrugs.

Sawyer: "Now that's just sad!"

Kate: "I never wore pink."

Sawyer drinks. Kate laughs.

Kate: "I knew it!"

Sawyer: "I never voted Democrat."

Kate: "I never voted."

Sawyer drinks.

Sawyer: "I never been married."

Kate hesitates, then drinks. Sawyer is surprised.

Kate: "It didn't last very long. I never blamed a boar for all my problems."

Sawyer drinks.

Sawyer: "I never pretended I cared about having carte blanche because I wanted to spend time with someone."

Kate drinks. They sit in silence for a while.

Sawyer: "I never killed a man."

Kate hesitates, then drinks. Sawyer hesitates, then drinks.

Sawyer: "Well, looks like we have something in common after all."

* * *
It's more than just him calling her Sassafras.

* * *
In the next story, Postmodern Sass and Ned's Atomic Dustbin reflect on Jack's recent vacation. Later, when season three of Lost begins, Postmodern Sass wonders if she's falling out of love with her favourite show.

My baby, she wrote me a letter

Dear Jack,

Thanks for calling last night, on your way to Nevis, to try again to explain to me why you don't want to take me to Nevis.

Some people might say that you were rubbing it in, but not me.

I know, I know, you didn't say, "Don't want to," you said, "Can't." And then you said, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I can't."

But hey, Jack, save it for when you're really sorry, OK? You know I hate apologies. Save it for some day, when you really owe me an apology. Don't give it to me now. You're not sorry. Sorry implies can't do anything about it; wish it weren't so; wish I could change it. That just doesn't apply here. It's not that you can't take me to Nevis. You can.

After all, that's the whole point of the trip, isn't it? To reward the top sales reps and engineers at Big Ass American Software Company, and, more importantly (you said), to reward their wives and girlfriends for putting up with another year of late nights, long hours, and being out of town on the kid's birthday?

Not that I'm saying I'm your girlfriend, or anything.

I know you have to go, even though (you say) you don't want to, because it's expected of you. And I know about the company-wide award you won this year, and I know how well liked and well respected you are at Big Ass. I'm sure there'll be a party in your honour; a panegyric offered to you, as Biggest Ass in Big Ass American Software Company, 2005.

Perhaps it's ungracious, or unsporting of me to remind you of this, but you did say you'd take me. Remember, last year? Just after you came back from Aruba, from last year's Big Ass sales gala? You were telling me all about it — this was just after you and I started talking again, after the last six year separation — and you knew, then, that the next one would be in Nevis, and you told me I was gonna love it there, and I believed you, and then you changed your mind and said you didn't want me to go.

You know what's funny? I bet if I posted this email message on my blog, as a story, I'd get two dozen emails from readers — the ones who know how clueless I can be — telling me to get a clue, that you're obviously taking someone else. A bagel.

But I know that's not it.

I know that it's because of the Very Bad Things. That much I understand. But here's where we disagree: you believe that there's nothing I can do to help with the VBTs, and I think you're just as wrong as you can be about that. Because one of the VBTs is, you don't trust anyone, not even me. Especially me. Because you can't stop believing that anyone you trust will eventually betray you.

So you won't give me a chance to do that to you. You won't take the chance.

Which is ironic, because it's not like you're the most conservative, risk-averse guy in other areas of your life. It's not like you're a fucking accountant, or anything. You may be many things, but boring is not one of them.

Neither is dishonest.

So be honest with me, but more importantly, be honest with yourself. You don't want me there because it would be more difficult to have me there than to not have me there. It would mean allowing the VBTs to loom, and loom large they would, and they would have to be slain, or at the very least have a limb hacked off.

One more thing, Jack. Don't call me because you want me to make you feel better, because you feel bad that you made me feel bad. That's just twisted, man. That's just rubbing it in.

Just go to Nevis, do what you have to do, and call me sometime when you can. When you want to. When you want to be that guy. The chocolate guy. You don't need me to tell you how to do that, any more than you need me to tell you how to dress appropriately for a formal spring wedding in New York.

xxoo
sassafras

P.S.: Congratulations on being the Biggest Ass of 2005.

* * *
The next story has nothing to do with Jack. Sort of. It's about Kate and Sawyer. And, Gentle Reader, who among us has never in their life been a big ass? Certainly not Postmodern Sass.

Pictures of Lily [refrain]

Update: A couple of people have emailed me to point out that the image of Yeoman Rand is being pulled into this site, and is therefore bypassing the advertising. This is true, and was, perhaps, not the best example to make my point. But Yahoo! didn't temporarily cut off access to my Geocities site because I pulled that image, they cut off access because bandwidth was exceeded. The same thing would have happened if you all would have clicked on this link to go to my Geocities site — where the advertising is. Let's conduct an experiment. Click on that link right now. It shouldn't take long for you to get the "Sorry, this site is temporarily unavailable" message.

The point remains this: If too many people visit a Geocities site, Yahoo! temporarily denies them access.

Too many potential customers seeing those ads. Isn't that a problem advertisers want to have?

* * *

Last November I was in Mississippi and Memphis for ten days and wrote several stories about my experiences, starting with Tommy, the young man I met in the Memphis airport while waiting for my friend K to arrive (Lose Yourself). K and I went to Graceland (Goin' to Graceland, Graceland) and spent Halloween on Beale Street in Memphis (I Know What Boys Like). I met many people who, to my surprise, seemed either uninterested in the upcoming election, or who didn't care that George Bush was ruining their country (My United States Of Whatever). I watched the election returns from a hotel room in Starkville, Mississippi (Imagine) and was then, and still am now, utterly flabbergasted at the results (Any Way You Want It).

I also took some pictures, and told you about them here.

I do not have a digital camera. I take pictures the old fashioned way, with a real camera, a Canon EOS. I like film. I like paper. I like photo albums. I do not like looking at pictures on a monitor. I like to make my pictures count. I do not like the disposibleness of digital pictures. I realize I am in an ever-shrinking minority. You may think I'm a luddite. You are entitled to your opinion, I'm simply telling you mine.

The first time I wanted to include a picture with one of my stories here on Blogger, I found there was no easy way to do it. Google hadn't yet provided us with the tools. And so I created a Geocities site for Postmodern Sass, which I call Postmodernes Sprachspielen: The Annex, and I posted my pictures there, in their own virtual Web page photo albums. When I make reference to a photo in one of my stories, I sometimes pull the photo into the story, sometimes link you to the "album" page, sometimes both. I do not use Geocities simply as a bucket to hold the photos — Yahoo! does not allow this, for obvious reasons, and I respect that. So I encourage you, Gentle Reader, to visit The Annex and flip through the albums from there.

There is a point to this, other than just me showing you all my pictures, so bear with me...

Last week Tim Bray, XML guru, founder of Antarctica Systems, and author of the very popular blog called ongoing, was amused by a little story I wrote about rappin' with my PhD buddies, and so he linked to it. I am, of course, flattered, and appreciative, and keenly aware that many of you who are reading my words right now are doing so because he brought you to my attention. I am also flattered and appreciative that you came back.

The sudden overwhelming traffic to Postmodernes Sprachspielen, however, resulted in a problem for me: the nifty pinup of Yeoman Rand disappeared from the story. That's because it was residing in The Annex, and I had linked it into the story, and Yahoo! has some kind of control that cuts off access to a Geocities site, temporarily, when too many people are viewing it.

Let's think about that for a moment, shall we?

When too many people are visiting a Geocities site, Yahoo! cuts them off.

Yahoo! sells advertising on its Geocities pages. Advertisers want people to see their ads. When my site suddenly became popular, too many people — according to Yahoo! — were visiting it.

Too many people were seeing Yahoo!'s advertisers' advertisements.

Once more for emphasis: When too many potential customers are seeing their advertisers' advertisements, Yahoo! cuts those potential customers off. So they can't see the ads. So they can't respond to the ads.

Can someone please explain the business model behind this?

Tim, you were talking to Yahoo! last week. Perhaps you can shed some light?
* * *
In the next story, Sass writes Jack a letter.

More Songs About Buildings And Food

I've just returned from a trip to one of my favourite buildings, the Loblaws Queen's Quay Market, with enough material for a dozen stories. This is what I saw:

In the produce section: A woman wearing what was either a slip dress circa 1996, or a nightgown. Neither of which would attract undue notice, were this a sweltering day in July, rather than a brisk Toronto April.

In the canned fish aisle: A man who, with one hand was turning the cans so he could bettter examine the labels, with the other was holding his cell phone, into which he was asking, "What's the difference between flaked tuna and chunked tuna?"

In the peanut butter aisle: A couple of hot guys who turned out to be a hot guy couple. One, who was crouching to reach the Kraft peanut butter (they keep it on the very bottom shelf because they know you'll work that hard to get it), was asking the other, "Which kind of peanut butter is it that we like, again?"

In the snack food aisle: A real hot guy. You know what I mean. Both age- and height-appropriate. For me, I mean. Note to self: dress better next time you go grocery shopping.

At the checkout: A woman with her hair in rollers. Note to woman with her hair in rollers: dress next time you go grocery shopping.

At the checkout: A cashier who looks exactly like Debi Mazar.

At the checkout: An older woman, my cashier, showing solicitude above and beyond the call of duty to the especially demanding customer ahead of me, who wasn't being outright rude, but who was babbling incessantly and in turns and in Chinese to her mother, then to her son, and who turned her attention to the cashier only to ask, breviloquently, to please not put that item in the same bag with this item, and give me a separate bag for the bean sprouts. She wasn't being rude, quite. Just terse. Just more demanding than perhaps most of us would consider necessary on a busy Saturday afternoon at a very large grocery store in a very large city.

As the Chinese woman left the cashier called to the next cashier, the one behind me, to please come and relieve her; she needed a break. She apologized to me for the short wait, and I made a point of smiling, and being extra nice to her. I'm trying to keep my New Year's resolution. And I thought about Jack.

Jack travels a lot for work, and he always travels with chocolate. He's diabetic, as I told you before. It's not for himself. When he's checking in, or boarding, he's frequently forced to observe the travellers ahead of him taking out their frustrations on the airline staff. Sometimes, by the time they get to him, they can barely contain their exasperation, and though they're attempting to be polite to him, he knows what they're really thinking is, "And what the fuck do you want?"

And so, instead of wanting anything, he asks, "Would you like some chocolate?"

Just to watch their faces light up.

Once, he was settling into his first class seat while the flight attendant was attempting to calm a particularly beligerent passenger in front of him. She did the best she could, then she turned to Jack, hoping for relief, and he had it.

"Would you like some chocolate?" he offered.

"Oh! You're that guy!" she exclaimed. "You're the chocolate guy! I'd heard about you, but I thought it was just an airline legend."

He sure can be that guy.
* * *
Her fridge full, Sass turns her attention to figuring out whether, and how, to use Picasa and/or Flickr, and, while doing so, a thought occurs to her...Later, Jack calls Sass. And then, she writes him a letter..

Rapper's Delight

Yo, yo; er — yo!

Oh.

So...

Many of you, Gentle Readers, already know about the go-go dresses and the PhD thing from my email signature, but for those of you who don't know about the PhD thing, here it is: I am working on my PhD. One day, before the next millennium, I hope, people are gonna have to start addressing me as Dr. Sass. Even my dad.

You, Gentle Reader, if you stay with me, may continue to call me Sass.

The university that may one day grant me the title is Bristol Business School, in the U.K. A few years ago I fell in with a crowd from Windsor who shared my situation and goals — we teach part time at a university business school, we'd love to make it our full time career, but to do so we need to have a PhD, and we're too old and settled to go back to being full time students living on Kraft Dinner. Bristol was the answer.

My PhD buddies are Really Smart People. Denise is researching strategic management issues in human resources. Judy's subject is MIS/e-commerce. Dave, Dan, and Hutch are all marketing geeks, like me. And Jim and Dale are both practicing accountants, with CAs and MBAs behind their names, and are pursuing a PhD in accounting.

As you may imagine, when we get together we throw around words like ontology and epistemology; we discuss Thomas Kuhn's The Structure of Scientific Revolutions; we share our copies of Denzin & Lincoln; we assist each other in preparing statistical analyses of our quantitative data; we defend our position in the Burrell & Morgan research paradigms of functionalism and objectivism versus the more subjective approaches of critical theory, existentialism, and postmodernism.

We do this in pubs, whenever possible.

We are in regular contact via email, and a few times a year we get together in Windsor, or Toronto, and in the summer, in Bristol, to discuss these and other serious matters in person. In the pub. This week the serious matter under discussion was whether our tuition is tax deductible. Dale and Jim have been investigating the situation and earlier today Dale sent us an email giving us an update on their pursuit of straight answers from Revenue Canada, Ernst & Young, and Bristol Business School. Which led to the following Wittgensteinian sprachspiel:

"Thanks for the yeoman service, Dale."

"I thought the Yeomen were from York University?"

"Sexist dogs! It's yeowomen!"

"Yeoman... isn't he that Chinese basketball player?"

"No, it's what Sylvester Stallone says — Yo, man!"

"Sexist dogs! It's yo, woman!"

"Oh! I thought he was calling that violin player."

"Yo-Yo Ma?"

"Cello."

"Yo! Cello to you, too, mang!"

"No — yo! Yo-Yo Ma plays the cello, not the violin."

"Yo! It's yeoman, as in, Yeoman Rand. Remember, from Star Trek? She's the one who's in love with Captain Kirk."

Gosh, I just love the boots. And the hair.

Poor Yeoman Rand. All those years, in love with a man she'll never be able to have. I can't begin to imagine.

* * *
In the next story, Sass goes grocery shopping. Her fridge full, Sass turns her attention to figuring out whether, and how, to use Picasa and/or Flickr, and, while doing so, a thought occurs to her...

Friends of Tim Bray: the story you've been waiting for is here.

I Want You To Want Me

I don't know when I'll see Jack again. Maybe in another six years. Maybe next week. Maybe never. He's going to Mexico City tomorrow, then to St. Kitts & Nevis, then to Rio, then to Australia. His employer, Big Ass American Software Company, wants him to move there.

But first he's going to some place called Nevis, and he doesn't want me to come with him.

I'm trying very hard to understand the reasons, but all I know for sure is it doesn't have anything to do with Mercedeses or BMWs. So that's something.

Or is it? Maybe it's not anything.

Is this anything, Dave?

Cut to the Ed Sullivan Theatre, Broadway and 53rd Street, New York City.

"It's time to play Is This Anything? For those of you who are new to The Late Show, this is how we play. Behind the curtain over there, there's a thing. It could be a magician, or an acrobat, or a guy playing harmonica while riding a unicycle, or a guy in a hat just sitting on the ground. We never know what it'll be, and that's the exciting part of the game we call, Is This Anything? In a minute we'll bring up the curtain and have a look at what's behind it, and then Paul and I will have a short discussion about whatever it is that's going on behind there, and then we'll decide whether or not the thing is anything. Now, it's important to point out that the Grinder Girl and the Hula Hoop Girl are ours; they're not part of the thing that we're going to decide if it's anything. We already know that they're something, and that's why we like to have them on the stage. That's how we play, Is This Anything? I hope I haven't confused you all too much. Are we ready, Paul?"

"A-heh, heh. Ready."

"All right. Bring 'er up, and let's play, Is This Anything?"

The curtain is raised...

"Paul? What do you think, Paul, is this anything?"

"I'm not sure, Dave. What do you think it is? Do you think it's anything?"

"It appears that she wants him to want her."

"That's right, Dave, and from where I'm sitting, it looks like he does."

"I dunno, Paul, I'm not convinced. From where I'm sitting, which isn't that very much different from your perspective — it's the reverse angle, if this were a football game — he not only doesn't want her, but he doesn't want her to want him."

"A-heh, heh, heh!"

"Come on, Paul, he keeps her 3,000 miles away, for Jiminy's sake, and he's considering making it a cool 10,000."

"Maybe he needs her to need him."

"What are you saying, Paul? Are you saying she wants him to want her, and he needs her to need him?"

"Well, I... A-heh, heh, heh!"

"That's not just some cheap trick you're playing there, is it Paul?"

"No, no. I think you've got it right. It's something, it's not nothing. I'm not sure what it is, but it's something."

"So you're saying it's something then? It's something. OK, Paul thinks it's something. I'm not sure yet. Let's review what we've got so far: She wants him to want her. That's pretty clear. And you think he does want her, but he doesn't want her to know that he wants her, or he wants her to think that he doesn't want her, is that it?"

"Right. I think."

"Meanwhile, he needs someone to need him, and she needs him but she doesn't want to need him. Have I got it right on the needing thing, Paul?"

"I think so. I think even though he says he doesn't want anyone to need him, he really needs someone to need him."

"OK, I think I'm gettin' it now. She doesn't want to need anyone, but she needs him, is that what you're saying, Paul?"

"A-heh, heh. Right."

"I'm not convinced that that's anything. He works hard at not allowing anyone to need him, and she works even harder at not allowing herself to need anyone."

"Check."

"They're both very good at it, aren't they, Paul? Now that's definitely something! We'll be right back with Drew Barrymore."
* * *
In the next story, Postmodern Sass introduces us to a new cast of characters, her PhD buddies. Then, she writes Jack a letter.

Bohemian Rhapsody

Operaman is going home to Calgary today, and I'll miss him. It seems like he only just got here. This lame little libretto is for him.

In fact he did only just get here, in February. Came to the big city, Canada's cultural centre, home of opera and theatre, to pursue a career as a tenor. He's just 26 years old and looks less like Placido Domingo, more like Topher Grace.

Good singers, it seems, somehow naturally find their way to KAK at the Rivoli. On his second day in Toronto, Operaman found us. Me and my bohèmian karaoke buddies Mimi, Marcello, and Musetta, that is. I liked him right away.

A few weeks ago Operaman and I went to Atom Egoyan's Camera Bar on Queen Street to watch a film called Keeping Time, a biography of sorts about a jazz bassist named Milt Hinton. Milt toured the U.S. and played in Cab Calloway's orchestra during the jazz heydey of the 1940s and 50s. Later, he became a sought-after studio musician. What's more interesting about him, though, is his photographs. Milt started taking pictures as a teenager, the same time he decided on a career as a musician, a career that was long and storied, and punctuated by over 20,000 photographs. The film, largely narrated by Branford Marsalis, was directed with all the aplomb of an episode of Survivor. The photographs, however, are outstanding.

There's something special about bass players. America, you missed your chance.

Here's a picture of Operaman, taking the mic on his last night at the Rivoli, probably to sing U2. Oh yes, Operaman can hit the Bono notes. Watching in awe is Carson T. Foster, the bodacious host of Kickass Karaoke.


Before he left, Operaman auditioned for The Lord of the Rings. I hope he gets a callback. I hope he comes back to Toronto some day.
* * *
For more pictures of Postmodern Sass and her karaoke buddies, go here. For the next story about karaoke, go here. In the next story in sequence, Sass plays "Is This Anything?" with David Letterman.

Girls On Film

The Viking was wrong about Duran Duran. When I asked him to go to the concert with me, he opined that they were a has-been hair band, and he didn't want to watch a bunch of sad old men trying to recapture their youth. Which, as it turns out, was code for "I don't want to go out with you."

I think he's just jealous of their hair.


They've still got it. The hair, and the minor key kickass sax-infused anthems.

What surprised me was how many Torontonians apparently agree with me. The Air Canada Centre was full on Tuesday night: 16,000 fans. Oasis is playing at the Molson Amphitheatre later this spring, and that venue only seats about 5,000. I don't get it. Before the show, while I was out on Bay Street having a cigarette, I met a guy who had purchased VIP tickets from the Duran Duran Web site, a fan with a capital F. He was more excited than I had been at age 12 when my mother took me to Exhibition Stadium to see Shaun Cassidy.

He was also one of only a dozen or so guys at the show. The demographics of the crowd were as follows: White women, aged 29-45, most with bad hair. Soccer moms, in other words. During the cheering for the encore I heard one behind me yell, Hurry up, I've got kids to put to bed!

Except for the lack of soccer kids, Lana and I fit the profile. Right down to the bad hair — though for us that was temporary. In honour of the 1980s, and the band, and our teenage memories of them in their heyday, we went with matching big hair.

Lana and I had a great time. She's way more fun than the Viking, anyway. He probably would have spent the whole two hours trying to drown out Simon LeBon. Which would have been possible, though unneccessary. The backup singer, Anna Ross (the only black woman in the Air Canada Centre that night) was doing a good job of it all by herself.

I was never wild for the new romantic 80s art school hair bands, but as they go, Duran Duran was my favourite. Girls on Film is a great song. Too bad everything since their first album has been anticlimactic. The thing about Duran Duran is they're only two steps above mediocre.

The stage show was well orchestrated, included several costume changes, and was choreographed to the best of Simon LeBon's limited ability to move gracefully or with rhythm. Still, he can eat crackers in my bed any Saturday night. Andy Taylor tripped onstage twice, prompting Lana to quip, "Duran down! We have a Duran down!" The highlight of the show was the Japanese animé video during Careless Memories, featuring the members of the band as the heros. Oddly, the animated Taylors were more animated than the real ones.

The encore was predictable, since the only hits they didn't do during the show proper were Girls On Film and Rio. What was a surprise was the first encore number: White Lines. What was a disappointment was that they paused half way through Girls On Film, their best number, to introduce the band — the Taylors are all tiny, Nick Rhodes looks like a pixie, and Simon LeBon is a total babe: cute face, great hair, big shoulders; not a skinny boy; I don't like 'em too skinny — and then never finished the song.

After the concert we repaired to my local for a beer, and I found out something I didn't know about Lana — lipstick cherry all over the lens as she's falling — as a hobby, she edits porn films for a friend who produces them. Lesbian porn. Hardcore. And no, Lana neither is, nor acts.

Halfway through our second beer we ran out of Duran Duran choruses to hum, and Lana made the mistake of turning briefly to her other side, where sat a drunken rubbie who was only too eager to engage her in conversation. She tried to politely disengage, but he moved closer and began telling her about how he'd been painting a picture of the CN Tower. The man clearly didn't belong in The Banknote. He may have been looking for the Wheat Sheaf, which is across the street. I'd noticed that Andrew, the bartender, had been keeping an eye on him since he'd sat down. When the rubbie didn't take Lana's hint, Andrew told him, gently, to leave us alone. The Rub started to rant, and Andrew took his beer away and asked him to leave. Which the Rub did, but then he made a bolt for an unattended pint and tried to dash, in the teetering, bowlegged way only a rubbie can dash, for the door. Andrew reached him just before he reached it. Grabbed him by the collar, deftly removed the pint from his hand, and literally booted him out. Then, for good measure, and since it would otherwise have gone to waste, threw the beer on him.

I've always liked Andrew, but just then I would have been quite willing to take him home with me.

Back when a few of you, Gentle Readers, offered to take care of the Viking for me, my friend Mo commented, "I've always found it interesting how the most evolved and seemingly cultured women will respond warmly to the offer of physical violence dished out on their behalf."

I'm not sure why that is, but as has-beens with hairdos go, Lana, Simon, and I are doing OK.

* * *
In the next story, Postmodern Sass bids adieu to her new friend, Operaman. A couple of weeks later she returns to The Banknote with her friend Zee, to get her drunk. It'll be a couple of months before Sass's friend at the ACC gives her concert tickets again, and to her surprise it'll be for James Taylor.

I Could Have Danced All Night

Exactly two weeks ago I was sitting in the Library Lounge at the Roslyn Claremont Hotel on Long Island (it's a very long island), killing time. It was only 12:30; my flight home wasn't for four hours, and all the other wedding guests, including Jack, including the bride and groom, had just left.

The groom's parents had hosted a lovely brunch that morning, and I'd had a bagel with lox and cream cheese (and capers!), but it was one of those days when there's no such thing as too much coffee, so I was waiting for the bellman to bring me some more. He arrived with a salver and my own silver pot.

Salvor: Servant of royalty or nobles whose duty was to sample the food and drink prepared for their masters, who feared assassination. The word derives from Latin salvus, meaning safe, the root word of salvation. Eventually spelled salver, the word came to mean the silver tray on which the tested victuals were placed. Later, the nobles switched from silver cups to crystal, because it was believed that fine crystal would break, and thereby protect its owner, were poison to be put into it. — Jeffrey Kacirk

The Roslyn Claremont is a beautiful hotel, but it's secluded, and not well equipped for anything other than weddings. For that, however, it is spectacular. As Sara's wedding guests checked out and piled into vans that would take them into the city for a day of shopping, a new fleet of cars was arriving in the parking lot, unloading people in fancy dress for the next wedding.

But let me tell you about Sara's.

It was a beautiful, emotional, romantic, but not so serious as to be tedious, ceremony, and a learning experience for me. The ceremony began at 7:00 last night. In Jewish tradition, I was told, if you get married on a Saturday it must be after sundown.

There was a program. Six pages printed in blue metallic ink on card stock, with a cover, tied with a ribbon. No expense was spared for this wedding.

Sara's father walked her down the aisle. He stopped right beside me, lifted her veil, kissed her, and sent her on her way. And that's when I feared for my mascara. I've known Sara's father for twenty years — he lives in Toronto, and calls me sometimes, just to see how I am. I remember when her mother died, when we were in university. Now both of us are motherless. I wonder if my father will live long enough to do that for me.

There was a lovely white chuppah.

In traditional Jewish thought, a marriage involved a ceremony that takes place under a canopy. In modern Jewish weddings, this canopy, called a chuppah, is the large prayer shawl (tallit) owned by the groom.

It was large enough for the bride and groom, the rabbi, and the wedding party to stand under. Though I doubt it was made from Steven's prayer shawl.

The Rabbi explained the ketubah.

In traditional Jewish thought, a marriage is certified by a wedding contract known as a ketubah. This legally binding document is agreed upon by both parties, and serves as a visible reminder to all that this bride belongs to this groom.

In other words, added the Rabbi (who I assumed is a standup comedienne on her off days), the bride was considered chattel. There were chuckles from the audience, and the look on Sara's face, a mixture of amusement, sarcasm, and bare tolerance, was priceless.

Then there was the baruch atah, the blessing. And finally, Steven stepped on, and crushed, the glass. The Rabbi said, this couple is now joined together until the pieces of the glass come back together.

And that's a Jewish wedding. It's only the second one I've ever attended. The first was Adam and Lisa's. I felt the same emotions then as I did today. There's just something about their ceremony that's very different from the typical Lutheran or other Protestant wedding in my world.

Jack put his finger on it: "They really mean it, don't they?"

* * *
The reception, too, was different from the ones I'm used to. Instead of a hastily consumed meal of rubber chicken, followed by interminable speeches, followed, finally, by dancing, this reception began with dancing, then there was food, then more dancing, then a speech, then more food, then more dancing... you get the idea. There was, quite literally, never a dull moment.

I danced with Jack. Boy, did I ever. Have I mentioned he's a really great dancer? We even did the Lindy Hop to Glenn Miller. For once in my life I had the handsomest boy at the party. No fewer than eight of Sara's friends and relatives told me so, privately. And Sara, my gimlet-eyed friend, told me she likes Jack.

Throughout the evening, as Jack was introduced to Sara's friends — we were sitting at a table with the Toronto crowd — he would mention that he lived in San Francisco. They would ask, How are you enjoying your trip? When did you get into the city? How long are you staying? One even asked me, How do you like living in San Francisco?

They seemed confused when either Jack, or I, would inform them that he had come only for the wedding, had arrived yesterday, and was returning tomorrow. He flew across the country. Through O'Hare. Twice.

For me.

Because I asked him to.

It won't be difficult for me to keep that promise.

For twenty four hours the Very Bad Things were held at bay. For the most part. And I felt like Cinderella again, for only the second time in my life. But there were eggshells to be considered. I was conscious of them with every step of my rhinestone-buckled shoes.

* * *
The day after the wedding my hair was still in its Phoebe bun, with little stick-outy bits, but no rhinestones or chopsticks. It was a bit flattened, from having slept on it, but since it cost me $100 U.S. I decided I would never wash my hair again. At the very least, I would go to the Rivoli with it. Sara's hairdresser, who was summoned from the city, did it for me.



She also does hair for Law & Order, and has done Chris Noth, the celebrity man of my dreams. I met him once. Well, not met so much as bumped into on the street — literally — in New York a few years ago. He has great hair, and he's really, really tall.

But he doesn't pick me up and swing me around like the real man of my dreams does.

I asked Janice to take a picture of me and Jack, just in case I didn't see him again for six years. I'm very pleased with how it turned out. I'm sorry I can't show you the look on his face, but I'm glad I have photographic evidence of it. That's something.



* * *
That morning, two weeks ago, I walked Jack to his car. Though Sara's wedding day had been glorious and sunny, today it was dismal and rainy. He loaded his bag into the trunk, clicked it shut, and turned to me.

"Do you believe that stuff the Rabbi said?" he asked.

"Most of it, yes. About the chattel, not so much," I replied. "Which part in particular are you referring to?"

"When she said, in order to understand life, we must go through it with another person."

"Do we have time for one cigarette?" I asked.

Jack pulled out his Zippo.

We walked back to the shelter of the hotel awning and watched the rain in silence for the duration of a smoke. Then we returned to his car.

"To answer your question," I told him, "I don't think we must. But I think it helps."
* * *
Sass could have danced all night, if the band hadn't stopped playing. The morning came too soon, and she turned back into a pumpkin. Will she ever dance with Jack again? Who knows, Gentle Reader. Right now Sass doesn't know if she'll ever even see Jack again.

Two Out Of Three Ain't Bad [part I]

AC moved out of my building yesterday, and — shit, I hope he never reads this — I'm glad. You see, he's the man who's loved me for more than half my life, and maybe he's the man I should love, and I did, once, for a little while, but that was a long time ago and I don't any more. I just don't.

You can't help whom you love.

AC was part of the triumvirate at Radio McGill the summer after my first, overwhelming, year of university, when I walked through the door of the station's offices in the basement of the Union Building for the first time. AC, Carl, and Adam ran the place, and had successfully converted the station's format into alternative music of all kinds. New Michael or Janet Jackson albums that arrived from the record companies were consigned immediately to the bottom shelf of the old record library; the spot we referred to as the OFS section. Old fucking shit. We felt a responsibility to keep all records, since we were, after all, a radio station. But that didn't mean we had to play them.

The three of them adopted me, and became my musical mentors. Here I was, this girl from rural southern Ontario with her Rush t-shirt stumbling into a big city enclave of The Buzzcocks, The Gang of Four, and Joy Division. Their attitude toward me that summer was that of the home owner who discovers a wet, scraggly cat living on his back porch, takes pity on it, and, before he knows it, it's his cat.

Before long I had sold all my Saga albums; dyed my hair pink; and started going to all the alternative club shows. I eventually became the station's music director, and built a rather impressive record collection, both for the radio station and for my home. Carl and Adam were like the big brothers I had never had, but always wanted. They looked out for me. They made sure I got home safely if I'd had too much to drink. They screened my boyfriends. Sometimes, even now, they do those things. Adam and his wife, Lisa, were at Sara's wedding — she doesn't have a real big brother either — and they met Jack.

My relationship with AC was different. Though he was older, and also somewhat protective of me, I never thought of him as a big brother figure, the way I did with the other two. So the year I bought my first British import (Depeche Mode) was also the year I first experienced what I now think of as the Viking principle: that you can be pals with someone for years, and then one day, for no reason at all, you find yourself wondering what it would be like to kiss him.

It was also the year I lost my virginity. Technically, that is. I mean, I hardly considered myself virginal any longer, at that point, having had sex in the Bill Clinton sense of the word more than once. But something about the mechanics of the conjugal act, as described in sex education textbooks, had eluded me despite three years and the best attempts of as many boyfriends. Everybody can have all the right equipment and have studied the diagrams, but that doesn't mean execution will come easy.

I used to figure skate, and I know what a double axel is — doesn't mean I can perform one.

I did eventually learn to do that other thing, though, and AC was my coach.

We were together not quite a year, and then I broke his heart. It broke my heart to break his heart, but I was young, and a student, going wild in the big city, and not at all inclined to settle down with one guy. When he left my bedroom for the last time, he took both my hands in his, looked into my eyes, and said, as simply as if he were commenting on the rain outside, "I will always love you."

So, almost twenty years later, when my mother died and the golf ball was unravelling, AC is who I called.
* * *
In part II Sass will tell you more about her second time around with AC.

Working For The Weekend [refrain]

I hate to admit it, and I'm sure it's no secret to you, Gentle Reader, but I was feeling a wee bit sorry for myself this week. I hate feeling pathetic. I suppose we all do.

The way I deal with self pity, stress, embarassment, and, oh, just about any emotion that I'd rather not deal with, is to write. Like I told my friend Mo, when he asked whether I was done whining about the Viking (I am, I swear.): I have to write it down, put it up there on the wall, so to speak, and metaphorically slap it around a bit. Then it goes away, and I can go on.

That's what this blog does for me. And hey, it's cheaper than a therapist!

Hearing the occasional kind or encouraging word also helps. I can't go to my hairdresser every week, so I'm even more thankful for you, Gentle Readers. This week I'd especially like to thank:

Eldon, who wrote me a poem about the Canuck, the American, and the Viking.

Joey, who accompanied me on My Sharona both at karaoke and at jamaoke.

Tim K, who believes me now about the go-go dresses.

Mark, who writes about things like this: ".NET profiler that monitors your GUI application and report any violation of calling GUI code on non-GUI thread. GUI code is defined as..." yet found time to attempt to sing me good luck to the tune of Jack and Diane.

Joan and Christie, just for being girls.

Alistair, for reading and for linking to me.

Mike, for pointing out that everyone in Germany drives Mercedeses and BMWs, even the cab drivers.

Tim B, who years ago forced me to learn html, and who this week said a nice thing to me, and who, in some ways, both good and bad, reminds me of my father.

* * *
Click here to sing the next chorus of Working For The Weekend.