Boys Don't Cry [part II - fin]

Continued from part I

But boys don't cry, or at least hardly ever, because they're raised that way; to be tough, and strong; to be there for us to cry on, when we need to. Call me old fashioned, but I like 'em that way. Crying doesn't work with me. Students who whine or cry get no consideration from me. The ones who take their failing grade like a man — boys or girls — do.

I almost never cry, either.

What kills Jack is that Paco's dead and no one cares, and it's such a waste.

"It's as though he never existed," Jack said to me.

"Tell me about him," I said.

"He loved cars, but when he first saw Beauty he laughed. Who could ever love such a beat-up, broken-down old BMW, he asked me. It was a total spic thing — his words — women are for fucking and for hitting, not for deep and thrumming admiration and trust. But he came to understand, eventually, the special bond she and I have."

"Paco worked at the car wash where you take Beauty, right?" I asked.

"Yes, but I met him when I voluteered as a teacher of English as a second language at the community centre."

"You taught him more than just English, though, didn't you?"

"I tried to," said Jack. "Paco's father left him and his mother at some point during the waxing days of the Reagan administration. His mom was killed in 1993 and after that he lived in an orphanage. He has a brother someplace, whose father was not his. And he was a Nuerto."

"A gang."

"Yes. Once, only one time, he allowed me to ask him about his set. He said that when he was with his guys, he was somebody. Everybody knew it, even those who didn't know that he was a Nuerto. He felt like he was somebody. He said that knowing his guys had his back was like being able to go to sleep."

"He never stood a chance, you know," I said.

"I honestly believed he'd make it," said Jack. "He was sharp — so sharp as is unbelievable. He was a star. He did things sharp. He totally blew away my model of class inheritance (Java class inheritance). I remember thinking, look how sharp this kid is to figure that angle."

He taught the kid Java.

"He had a way with the women. He always had some PYT hanging off his arm. They looked at him like he was a god. Like the Caesar of the western world."

Jack disbelieves me when I tell him he makes my knees weak. Me, I disbelieve that I'm the only woman he has that effect on.

"When I taught him Roman history, he got irritated. When I insisted, he got angry. He had no time for them. There was no room in his world view for nobility and grace. He asked me, 'Why you love them so much, mang? They was so interested in they own feet they pissed it all away, Chico.'"

He taught the kid Roman history.

"He kind of had a way with words," said Jack.

"When was the last time you saw him?" I asked.

"I visited him in prison in March," replied Jack, "And I asked him, why? Why did you do it? He stole a car, can you believe that? He could have done anything; been anyone, and instead he steals a fucking car!"

"And what did Paco say?"

"He said he wanted a car."

Fuck.

I'm not so sure Jack is an FDR guy. He's not blaming the system for what happened to Paco, even though no one would blame him for blaming the system. Me, I don't blame the system, but rather the circumstance. The kid never stood a chance. Jack was probably the best thing that ever happened to Paco, but he was just a stupid kid. Too young to realize that he needed help, and too immature and inexperienced to recognize it when presented itself.

Instead, Jack blames himself for failing Paco.


Part of me envies Paco the fact that someone had his back, because nobody has mine.

* * *
It was Jack's birthday last week. What can you give a man who lives three thousand miles away, and owns a Rolex and a Porsche? Paco's story, including the portrait of John F. Kennedy by Aaron Schickler, was Jack's birthday present. In the next story, Postmodern Sass has dinner with Howard West.

Dear God

Dear God, sorry to disturb You but... if you do, in fact, exist, then You know who this is.

You also know that I've never believed in you. But, see, I figure, if I'm wrong about that, You'll forgive me. I've been wrong before. And if I'm right, well, it doesn't matter a packet of pins. Like Philip Carey said in Of Human Bondage.

You know I'm an existentialist. I know, because I took a quiz:


And, well, of course You already know I'm a postmodernist.

I won't believe in heaven or hell
No saints, no sinners, no devil as well
No pearly gates, no thorny crown

It's been a hell of a week, God.

Today was my mother's birthday; yesterday, the anniversary of her death. She lived exactly 62 years upon this earth. She had a sense of irony I can only hold a candle to.

On Thursday I attended a funeral for a small man in a small town. A good man, but in no way remarkable. A friend's father. He leaves a legacy of children and grandchildren, nothing more. He suffered for years; worse so in the last few.

In the small town: reunions with former highschool classmates; a sighting of my grade 11 chemistry teacher; a woman who I remember from the convenience store near my home; and children, now in their 30s, who were in my mother's grade 1 class.

Overheard:

"Did you see that tall woman standing in front of you in the church? Do you know who she is?"

"No."

"Mrs B's daughter!"

"No!"

"Did you know Mrs B died a few years ago?"

"No!"

Almost everyone between the ages of 28 and 48 still living in Beamsville had my mother as their grade 1 teacher. And they all remember her.

But You know that.

On Friday night my car was towed. I had to cab it across town and pay a $107 ransom — cash only; no bonds.

Last night, Gambit, my neighbour's cat died in my arms. I was looking after him while she was away for the weekend. I had to break the news to her over the phone.

I can't believe in You.

Earlier on Friday, before my car was towed, before Gambit died, I was at The Banknote, waiting for Mo (we were going to The Groundhog for karaoke), when I asked where was Andrew? I made some wisecrack about him taking the night off.

He was taking the night off, all right.

He was at Sick Kids.

His baby has leukemia.

It's just somebody's unholy hoax.

I'm tired, God. I haven't slept much this week. But, God? On the off chance that I'm wrong; that you do exist; that you are listening, I want you to know that you can have it all. My car, my cats, even my hometown. You can have it all, just don't take Andrew's baby.

Please, god.* * *
Update: Day 18 for Junior

Boys Don't Cry [part I]

This story is dedicated to Francisco "Paco" Carriedo de Guzman. Though I never met him, he existed.

Jack returned from Australia earlier this week to find that while he was away a boy he'd tried to help had been murdered in prison.

While he was in Australia — Jack, that is — the annual V.E. Day celebrations took place. V.E. Day and Remembrance Day, November 11, have extraordinary significance for Jack. He has the deepest respect for the men who served our country during The War, and remembrance of them affects him in a way that I cannot articulate. Partly because I am unable to find the words to do it justice, and partly because, were I somehow able, to do so would be akin to showing you a naked picture of him.

Over the last few weeks, in between marking exams, hunting mockingbirds, and karaokeing, I've had many extended email conversations with Jack. This one, on V.E. Day:

"The United States of America is the greatest country on earth," Jack wrote to me, "A few smart white guys (Jefferson and Adams among their numbers) thought it up and did it. Not because it was easy, but because it was hard."

"On this VE day, it occurs to me that there's only three guys to be: A Truman guy, an Eisenhower guy, or an FDR guy.

"Me, I'm an FDR guy. A New Dealer.

"You, you're a Truman guy."

To which I replied, "Ahem. I am not a guy. Clearly, it's been too long since you've had the opportunity to observe my backside walking away from you."

But May and November are not the months to joke with Jack.

"Like I said. A Truman guy."

He continued: "And before you ask, Kennedy and Johnson were FDR guys. An FDR guy sees the world the way he wishes it were, and tries to take it there. Nixon and Ford were Eisenhower guys. Carter was an FDR guy. Reagan was most definitely an Eisenhower guy — he saw the world the way he thought it should just, well, be in the first place, and tried to take it there, kicking and screaming. Bush I was an Eisenhower guy who thought like a Truman guy. Clinton was a Truman guy who wishes he were an FDR guy, but whose circumstances didn't allow it. Bush II isn't even really a guy, but his handlers are very, very dangerous guys. They're Hamilton guys, but without the social conscience. Hamilton guys are like live ordinance: you never know when they'll go off."

"What kind of president is Jed Bartlett?" I asked.

"Ah, my favourite president. Josiah Bartlett is an FDR guy who thinks he's a Truman guy, but whose destiny is to be a Jefferson guy, except there's only one Jefferson."

Now, Jack knows better than anyone that I love a good analogy, but he forgets that I still live in Canada and that I don't know (nor care, truth be told) much about American history.

"Give it to me in terms I can understand," I asked him.

"OK. Tell me, how do you feel when one of your students fails?" he asked.

"I hate it. I want them all to get As, but I know that's not possible. I hate giving them Ds and Fs, and I give them every benefit of the doubt... I let them rewrite assignments, I try as hard as I can to find the points, but there are times when I just can't do it. I just have to fail them."

"You're a Truman guy."

"What would an FDR guy do?"

"He'd do everything in his power to give that C student an A, and when he realizes it's not going to happen, he'll fail the student, feel like shit about it, and wonder where the system went wrong."

"What about the Eisenhower guy?"

"An Eisenhower guy would simply tell the student, if you want an A, you know what you need to do to get it. He'd fail the student without a second thought, and then, for good measure, beat the crap out of him."

Hmn. Maybe it's not so bad, then, to be a Truman guy.

"Are you kidding?" continued Jack, "A Truman guy is the best guy to be. I wish I could be a Truman guy.

"The Truman guy is the guy nobody appreciates at the time. Everybody dumps on the Truman guy. Everybody blames the Truman guy. But twenty years from now your students will be talking to their friends in a bar, or to their kids, and they'll tell them about a certain marketing professor they had, who forced them to learn how to use an apostrophe, and they'll tell it with a smile on their faces. They'll remember you."

Only once have I had a student to whom I had given a grade of D come to my office and cry.

It was a boy.
* * *To be concluded on Monday.

Hypnotize Me [part II]

Continued from part I

10:10 a.m.
See, in the province of Ontario, high school used to go up to grade 13. I went to grade 13 myself, back in the 1980s. It was a strange system, unique to this province. The rest of the country, and, I think, the U.S., finishes high school after grade 12, then sends kids off to university at the age of 18. In Ontario you graduated grade 12 with a "regular" high school diploma, and could go to community college, but if you wanted to go to university, you had to complete your senior year. Then you were granted the Ontario Secondary School Honour Graduation Diploma. Mine, from Beamsville District Secondary School, is on the wall behind me.

Bear with me, Gentle Reader, for just a moment, so I can explain what the "double cohort" is.

10:15 a.m.
Sometime in the late 1980s the decision was made to phase out grade 13 in Ontario. The year this new rule was made, any child already in the Ontario education system would have to complete grade 13 in order to get their OSSHGD. Children entering the system the following September would only go to grade 12. The years passed, those children grew up, and, in September 2003, the last year of grade 13 in Ontario, they were ready for college or university.

There were twice as many of them going into post-secondary institutions as there had been in any previous year. That's the double cohort.

In January 2003 the Ontario Universities’ Application Centre received 47% more applications than the previous year. The double cohort hit Ontario universities in September 2003. Which means that last September they were in their second year.

10:20 a.m.
In my previous years teaching I'd had three classes of about 35 students each. I made a point of learning three names each day I'd see them, and after a few weeks I'd know all their names. I used to pride myself on being able to do that.

But last September, in my first class, on the first day, I looked out into a sea of 60 faces. I asked, stupidly, "Are you all supposed to be here?" My faculty had always capped the classes at 40, and would add sections if necessary. This year the faculty, in its wisdom, decided they'd just largen the classes instead.

They were. All supposed to be there, that is.

Goddamn.

10:25 a.m.
So this year I have three classes of 60 each. There's just no way I can get to know them. And I hate that.

10:30 a.m.
Because, the thing is, I love my students. They are interesting. They are smart. They come from all over the world, and lots of them know things I don't know. They've had experiences I've never had. They have good stories to tell, and I like to hear stories. They have a fresh perspective on marketing and advertising.

You should see some of the assignments they've done for me. They've produced movies. They've brought in their electric guitars, dressed up like Angus Young, and played AC/DC. This year, one wrote and performed an original song, called "Mass Media Advertising Is Swell," sung to the tune of "Knock Knock Knockin' On Heaven's Door."

They are terrific.

10:35 a.m.
I write. I force them to write.

10:40 a.m.
They kick and scream, like little kids going to the dentist.

No, that's not accurate. Kids understand why they need to go to the dentist. My students don't seem to understand why they need to learn to write. Why should they be forced to express their thoughts clearly, in writing, they ask me. What possible benefit will that be to their business careers? Why should they be forced, when analyzing a marketing case, to make a decision? Why should they be forced, in a short-answer question on an exam, to give reasons for their decisions? Why must they articulate a defense of their proposal? Why should they learn how to use an apostrophe correctly?

After all, they're planning to work in accounting, or finance, or human resources.

10:45 a.m.
Oh, I'm a cruel, heartless bitch.

I expect them to spell check their essays before handing them in.

I expect them, the ones for whom English is their first language, at least, to know the difference between their, there, and they're; between your and you're.

10:50 a.m.
The Chinese students don't get As just because they tried really hard, and because it's hard for them to be taking this course in a foreign language. None of my students, regardless of language or ability, gets an A because she printed her assignment in colour and put it in a fancy folder.

10:55 a.m.
I expect, on an exam, for them to answer the question that I asked. They expect that if they misread the question, or went off on a tangent in their answer, that I should give them points for whatever they wrote, because, after all, they wrote something.

Yup. I'm a bitch, all right.

11:00 a.m.
Exam question: "Consider the four major forms of advertising, and recommend whether you would use them to promote this product."

You wouldn't believe me if I told you how many students don't even bother to say, yes, I recommend broadcast advertising or no, I do not recommend broadcast advertising, and instead list the pros and cons of broadcast advertising, and think they've answered the question.

It terrifies them to have to make a decision.

11:05 a.m.
Next question: "Choose two of the forms of advertising that you recommended, and give two media vehicles for each."

They don't read the question carefully. Half the class, instead of answering with reference to the forms of advertising they just finished discussing in their previous answer will wrack their brains to come up with two other forms that I hadn't mentioned.

11:10 a.m.
They seem determined to make things more difficult than they need to be. I find this ironic in light of their inability to correctly use an apostrophe.

11:15 a.m.
I write a note on the blackboard, and call the students' attention to it. The note says, remember to discuss two forms of advertising that you recommended in the previous question.

11:20 a.m.
A student asks, "Do I have to rewrite my whole answer?"

11:25 a.m.
A student hands in her exam and asks if I have her assignment with me. I do not. I tell her she can come pick it up after the exam. She grimmaces at the inconvenience of this.

12:00 noon
We're almost done. We started late, my fault, so I'm giving them until 12:15.

Let x represent the grade of the first student to hand in his exam and leave the room. Let y represent the class average. Let z represent the ratio of the elapsed time until the first student left to the alloted time of three hours. Almost certainly, x = zy

12:05 p.m.
They start handing in their papers in groups of two and three; they're anxious to get out. They have the exam questions, two pages, stapled in the top left corner. They have one, sometimes two, exam booklets containing their answers. When they hand everything in, instead of putting the question paper inside the answer booklet, they try to put the answer booklet inside the question paper.

I have no explanation for this.

12:10 p.m.
On the exam booklet there's a field for "initials" and "surname." The idea is that if your name is Tina Louise Turner you would write Turner in the surname field, and TL as your initials. Most of my students will write Turner in the surname field, and TT in the initials field. This one, I get. They simply haven't filled out enough forms in their young lives.

12:15 p.m.
We're finished. The stragglers come to wish me a good summer before they leave. For them, the work is done. For me, it's just beginning. Marking these exams will take fifty hours.

Sometimes, they write me little notes inside the exam booklet. Notes like, "I really enjoyed the class, have a great summer!" or "Thanks for everything, I really learned a lot."

They like the word really.

And I really like them.

* * *In the next story we learn that Jack also had a student, and that Sass is a Truman guy. Later, when the fall semester starts, Sass ponders some more on why students do the things they do.

Hypnotize Me [part I]

April 25, 2005, 9:15 a.m.
My students have just begun writing their final exam. In three hours, it'll all be over, and everybody'll Wang Chung tonight.

9:20 a.m.
The course is introduction to marketing. It's a required second year course for both faculty of business students and business communications students — two different programs of study. I teach marketing to both groups. Today's exam is for the biz comm majors. In theory, their communications skills should be superior to the regular business students, who feel that "business writing" is somehow different from "real" writing, and who can't imagine a situation in their future careers in which they might be expected to communicate effectively.

9:25 a.m.
We're in a large theatre-style lecture hall with a steep set of stairs leading from the door down to the front of the room where I sit, watching them, ready to respond to a raised hand. The overhead lights are fluorescent. The white light is so bright I'm hypnotized.

If you hypnotize yourself — apparently this is possible — how do you snap yourself out of it?

9:30 a.m.
It's hypnotic, sitting here for three hours. In past exams I've tried bringing along something to read, but it's no use, because I have to keep looking up for raised hands. There are 104 students writing this exam. Odds are, a hand will go up once every three minutes.

Let x be the number of students writing the exam. If x > 30 I will not be able to sit down for the duration.

9:35 a.m.
I decide that the lecture hall, no matter how cavernous, is preferable for exam sitting to the gymnasium, that great, eldritch echo chamber. In the gym there's a sort of white noise that somehow amplifies the constant rustling of papers. There are smells: sweat, and dust. Here, it's very quiet. Just me and them. So I write.

9:40 a.m.
I'm doing, right now, what I told them during our last class together to do when writing their exam: Spend twice as much time thinking as you do writing. Put your pen down intermittently. Look at the ceiling. Organize your thoughts. Then pick up your pen and write them down. I hope they listened. I wish they were mature enough to take my advice. I'm sure they wouldn't believe this, but nothing would make me happier than to give them all As.

Percentage of blonde girls born in 1985 named Jennifer or Kimberley, based on empirical evidence: 20

9:45 a.m.
A student asks, "What do you mean by forms of marketing communication?"

9:50 a.m.
But they don't listen. They don't take my advice. They think to themselves, yeah, yeah, what do you know? I'm twenty years old, I know all I need to know about life, the universe, and everything. I've written lots of exams; I know how to do it. I don't need any advice from you, lady, just tell me which chapters the exam covers and let me get outta here.

Percentage of boys born in 1985 named Kyle or Jeremy, based on empirical evidence: 12

9:55 a.m.
A student asks, "Can I include examples from different types of products?"

What do you mean, like furniture? Cars? The question asked about breakfast cereal.

10:00 a.m.
I want to give them As, but I won't give them As just for showing up. Or for being cute, or funny. This is university, not a blind date.

10:05 a.m.
As I look up at their eager, enthusiastic faces it pains me that I can only name a dozen of them. Oh, I recognize their names, first and family, from the hours of poring over the class lists; performing administrative minutae that only other teachers understand. And I recognize their faces, that is, if I run into one of them in the mall this summer, I'll smile and say hello. I'll recognize that the face one sat in my classroom, but I won't be able to recall which classroom.

I hate this.

It's all because of the double cohort.

To be concluded tomorrow

Don't You Want Me Baby

Last night it was Kickass Karaoke at a new place, Ciao Edie on College Street, and if what happened then had happened two months ago, I would have turned tail and fled, but time heals even the greatest of dorking downs, I've learned.

I come down the steps into the bar and the first person I see is The Viking. Now, that's OK, because as I told you last week I am over the crush I had on him. We are buddies. We email each other about karaoke outings, lend each other CDs, and try to one-up each other on knowing artists and songs. I still tease him about his hair, and I suspect that secretly he likes it.

He is sitting on the blue padded bench that runs along the wall on one side of the bar. I am taking in the ambiance and decor, and finding it very groovy — funky orange and red lamps and ceiling fixtures, all filled with coloured light bulbs — so it's not until I've settled into the Jetsonian white plastic chair across from The Viking and spun around in it once (I love chairs that spin) that I notice who's sitting beside him.

It's Donny.

I'll wait a moment, Gentle Reader, while you click on that link and read the story about how just when I thought it wasn't possible to feel any more embarassed than I already did because of what happened with The Viking, Donny proved me wrong.

OK, are you back?

So, I see Donny sitting there and, after supressing my initial knee-jerk reaction

(to flee)

I say hello to him and think to myself, this could be entertaining, and, if I'm really lucky, maybe the joke won't be on me this time.

So you know, Gentle Reader, The Viking knows that he's The Viking, and he knows that Donny knows that he's The Viking. And when The Viking got up to sing, I told Donny that The Viking knows that he's Donny. So now Donny knows The Viking knows that he knows he's The Viking. And both The Viking and Donny know that I'm a clueless dork but they seem to like me anyway.

Then Accordion Guy comes in. Accordion Guy is too diplomatic to let on, but I know that he knows that The Viking is The Viking, and that Donny is Donny.

And now you, Gentle Reader, know everything.

We're having a drink and listening to some of the other bar patrons sing, and as Carson is calling them to the stage he makes a comment about how they're all identifying themselves with initials, rather than first names.

Donny says, "We could all use our pseudonyms."

"Fuck off," I say.

"That'd be a good one," adds The Viking.

"You mean for a pseudonym?" asks Donny.

"No, I just meant for you to fuck off," I say.

Accordion Guy chuckles, and pretends to be figuring out chords on his accordion.

"So are you still reading my blog?" I ask Donny, who hasn't fucked off. When I first met Donny he had pointed his finger at me and said, with the enthusiasm of an investigative journalist cracking a case, "You're Postmodern Sass!"

"Sometimes," he replies, "But not as much as I used to."

Now I know how The Spice Girls must have felt when their fans grew up and moved on to Britney Spears.

"I thought, if you'd been reading lately, you might be trying to figure out where Jack works. What Big Ass American Software Company is."

In March, Donny had been determined to identify Jack.

"I've dropped the case," Donny says.

I am both relieved and a little disappointed.

"See, I have so many blogs to read and keep track of," continues Donny. "When I discover a new one it's like that shiny new toy under the Christmas tree that you play with for hours or days on end, and then you forget about it."

Gee, thanks.

"Your friend has a skill," I say to Accordion Guy.

"Reverse diplomacy," Accordion Guy agrees.

"It's remarkable, really," I continue, "And you can't hold it against him. It'd be like punishing a puppy for chewing your shoes."

It's after midnight when my karaoke buddies arrive. Sparky has just come from a wedding reception and is heads-down for half an hour, organizing his request slips, before he comes up for air to say hello.

Lana and Punky Nerdster aren't there, so I'm the only girl, and I'm sitting at a table with six members of the species.

Now you know why I like karaoke.

Something that my k-buds and I do, which probably annoys everyone around us, is, depending on the song, sing along from our seats as loud as we can. I'm sitting with the three of them when we hear the unmistakeable intro — I can name that tune in three notes! &mdash to Don't You Want Me Baby by the Human League. We all roll our eyes and groan. Comments are exchanged about cliché karaoke numbers... blah blah... we would never sing this one... blah blah... and then...

"You were working as a waitress in a cocktail lounge, when I met you," Sparky, Mo, and Goldilocks sing in perfect unison, at the top of their lungs.

I join in for the chorus, then it's my turn: "I was working as a waitress in a cocktail lounge, that much is true..."

Hanging around with these guys is like being in highschool, but without the teenage angst.

Hanging around with these guys is like being in highschool, but without the teenage angst.

Sparky and I go outside for a cigarette, end up staying out for two, and I realize that he is very, very drunk. Our normally innocent flirtatious banter — the groundrules for which we established in writing many months ago — takes a turn for the serious when he grabs my ass and asks, "What would happen if I kissed you right now?"

No, Gentle Reader I didn't. There's a code. You look after your buddies when they're drunk. Like Mo did for me in March.

It's almost the end of the evening. I sit Sparky down with a glass of water, and tell him I'll drive him home in a few minutes. Then I go to the ladies room. When I come out, he's gone.

Accordion Guy and Donny, and just about everyone else, left long ago. The Viking, however, is still there.

"Sparky's I'm-about-to-pass-out drunk and I seem to have lost him," I tell The Viking. "Can you go check the men's room?"

He does. No Sparky.

"OK, well, he's a big boy, he's got money, and he only lives a few blocks down the street... he'll be OK, right?"

"Just a second," says The Viking. He goes to Carson, to see whether we'll get to sing again. We won't.

"Come on," he says then. "Let's go find him."

* * *
In the next story, Postmodern Sass is hypnotized by her students. It's many weeks before Sass and Donny encounter each other again, and when they do, it's ironic.

Ain't nothin' but mammals

When Operaman and I went to see the film Keeping Time we had a conversation in which I voiced my suspicion that he might be gay — not that there's anything the matter with that — which turned out not to be the case. I told him I was a little disappointed, because it'd been a long time since I'd had a gay male friend, and I learn so much from them.

About men, that is.

Gay or straight, they're all men, and they aren't so very different in their behaviour. The difference is, while the gay man will tell you things, the straight man will tell you nothing. You are therefore forced to learn by observing them in their various habitats.

The other day I learned three things about men from three straight men.

When your friend AC, whom you've known for twenty years, moves into the condo next door to you, which you have mixed feelings about, but that's neither here nor there right now, it gives you a rare opportunity to observe the single man engaged in domestic behaviour in his natural habitat. As far as I can remember, Marlin Perkins never featured this species on


The single man, realizing the first things he will need to unpack are the kitchen and bathroom necessities, will be unable to locate them because he hasn't labelled his boxes.

The single man will then proceed to open several boxes, and, upon spying his shower curtain will hang it up, and next — since they were in the same box — will lay down the bathmat and hang the towels.

What the single man does not do, which makes him a very different animal from the single woman, is take a sponge and a bottle of Mr. Clean to the bathroom and engage them in their intended purposes.

Neither will the single man engage said sponge and companion inside his fridge before placing the beer in it.

You observe these activities and decide, the single man has his priorities straight.

Later, you go out to a bar at the Eaton's Centre with your three karaoke buddies, all members of the single man species, however, two are of the genus unattached man, the other of the genus girlfriend man.

You and the three single men share a cab home, and you squeeze into the back seat and say, jokingly, "It's OK, I can sit on Sparky's lap."

When confronting the single man thus in the wild, expect to be challenged to keep your word.

Later still, you are at home, in bed, alone, and the phone rings. It's another member of the species, a particular single man, one that you know very, very well, but whose genus you can't quite classify. And yet, before the day ends you learn one more thing:

When a single man calls you all the way from Australia, where he's been for two weeks because some Big Ass American Software Company has sent him on a prognostication mission, well, that's something.
* * *
Soon, Postmodern Sass will review the Gang of Four concert in Toronto last night. In the next story, Sass learns more about the species.

Working For The Weekend [refrain]

Realizing that today is Friday the 13th, I decided to look up the spelling of triskaidekaphobia before I posted today's thank-yous. I had to laugh when I read this sentence in the Wikepedia entry:

"Triskaidekaphobia may have also affected the Vikings."

If you've just joined me recently, and don't know why I'd find that funny — and, hey, I'm laughing at myself, 'cause, like I always say, if you can't laugh at yourself how can you expect other people to laugh at you? &mdash you can read The Viking Trilogy.

Back to the refrain: It's time again to open the mailbox and share some of the comments I've received from my readers over the last few weeks, and to thank you, Gentle Reader, for reading.

As a result of the tequila meme, and also as a result of my old buddy and sometime mentor Tim Bray mentioning me twice recently (here and here), I've acquired some new readers, many of whom have sent me email. I do not allow comments in the usual blog sense here, as I've explained before. But I welcome comments via email. I always reply, as you know if you've emailed me, and periodically I sing another chorus of Working For The Weekend. This time, I would like to say thank you...

...to Jim Bisso (a.k.a. Uncle Jazzbeau). Finally, a geek with a linguistics degree who answered my question about memes. He, too, knew the hamburger story. But the word I thought I had remembered is morpheme, not meme. So, "burger" is a morpheme. So is kempt — as in, unkempt without the "un." Jim directed me to this site, which I just love. A site about language games, postmodern and otherwise. Jim is probably only the third reader, after Tim T and Ingo, to read all the way through this story.

...to Mridul in Bangalore. You can call me plain old Sass. When, eventually, I do become a doctor of philosophy, I'll grandfather you in.

...to Evan, who detests personal blogs but reads mine. Not to pick nits, but may I gently direct your attention to the disclaimers in the margin. What you're reading here is fiction.

... to Bill Mill, who wrote to say, "I subscribed to you, even though all my other subscriptions are about technology or sports. Keep it up, I dig your style." Later, he wrote again, to tell me he had read Jack and Diane, and wanted me to know the music he heard in his head as he was reading it.

...to my mysterious fan in Sebastopol, California who, according to my blog log, has been here more than 80 times. In my wild fantasies, you're an editor at O'Reilly. I hope you'll email me and tell me about the Annual Apple Blossom Festival.

... to the unknown person whose I/P address showed in my blog log as NASA. I am not worthy.

...to this mysterious girl in New York, who added me to her blogroll.

...to Tequila Mockingbird's friends and readers who joined the tequila meme, and especially to Deep Blog, Tequila's friend, who emailed me to tell me she was not dead.

...to Tequila Mockingbird herself, for addressing head on in this entry what I didn't want to say in the meme, for fear of jinxing her: what happens to a blog when a blogger dies?

...to The Viking, who emailed me after reading this story, to say, "I have more nail polish than hair products, actually..." thus erradicating any remnants of the crush I had on him. Now, I want him to be my girlfriend.

And finally, for Norm, who drops me a line from time to time to keep me up to date on his stemware, and always signs off his email messages with a cheery, "Be seeing you!" I offer this picture of Rover:


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

Listen To The Mockingbird

The tequila meme worked!

I received an email today from someone who knows Tequila Mockingbird personally.

The person who contacted me asked that I not reveal any identifying details. I won't even reveal the source's gender, but will refer to my source only as Deep Blog.

I was skeptical of Deep Blog at first. I mean, anyone who read and participated in the tequila meme could email me and say yeah, sure, I know Julia... but the information Deep Blog gave me was detailed and credible, and so I feel confident passing this news on to you, Gentle Reader, as the truth.

Deep Blog reports that Julia is touched by our concern and our efforts, and that she is fine. Nothing terrible has happened to her. I'm so glad I was wrong about that!

Deep Blog also says that Julia will be posting something later this week.

I'd like to thank Elizabeth in Washington D.C., who joined the tequila meme here and linked to one of Julia's old posts where she describes herself. When I clicked on Elizabeth's link, I found myself spending another half an hour reading Tequila Mockingbird. Her writing has a way of drawing you in like that. You laugh with her, you cry with her, you root for her — and you are concerned when she disappears.

Thank you again to all of Julia's readers who visited here, read some, and emailed me. And thank you to my readers who joined the tequila meme. I hope that those of you who weren't familiar with Tequila Mockingbird before this have found that it's a blog worthy of your attention.
* * *
In the next story Postmodern Sass tells us what she learned about men from Wild Kingdom.

Hungry Like The Wolf

Maybe it's the arrival, finally, of warmer weather. Maybe it's the smoking ban. Maybe the clientele have simply disappeared, like Tequila Mockingbird. But Kickass Karaoke at the Bovine Sex Club has been cancelled, and at the Rivoli it's been cut back to every other Sunday, instead of every Sunday, and last night was a slow night.

I hadn't seen my karaoke buddies since there was snow on the ground, and gosh darn it all, I sure missed them. I thought the cutbacks would drive all the regulars to be there early, to get a good table, but I was the first one there, and I sang to the crickets for the first hour. No Lana. No Punky Nerdster. No Operaman, since he's gone back to Calgary.

Then Joey arrived. With his accordion, of course.

Tim, my favourite Canadian Idol non-finalist (one of the judges, it seems, forcibly dragged him off the stage during his audition), practiced for his lead role in the Joe Cocker story, to be produced in 2028.

The Viking showed up, and he'd done something new with his hair. Highlights, or possibly lowlights. I'm sure he's got more hair product in his bathroom than your average three females.

Sparky had just flown home from San Francisco. You know you're obsessed when you start scheduling your business trips around karaoke.

Mo was sitting across the table from me. He was looking very spiffy, and was in grand spirits, having recently started a new job at a major Internet company, where he's in charge of their portal Web site. He leaned toward me, looked into my eyes, and said, "I've been thinking about French Fries."

"You have?" I replied, "Do you often think about French Fries?"

"As a matter of fact, I think about French Fries every day, but I haven't had any in a long, long time."

"I know what you mean," I said, "It's been a long time since I had any French Fries myself."

Actually, I had some French Fries when I was in New York in March.

"I was thinking of having some French Fries," Mo continued.

"Right now? Here?"

Can you do that at the Rivoli?

"Yes."

"I can hardly remember what French Fries taste like," I sighed.

"The thing is, I don't like to eat French Fries alone."

"It's always more fun with a partner," I agreed.

"Would you like to have some French Fries with me right now?" Mo asked.

"I'd love to."

They were pretty good fries, too.
* * *
Next: another chorus of Working For The Weekend, wherein Postmodern Sass thanks her Gentle Readers. Or, you can click here to find out what Postmodern Sass learned about men from watching Wild Kingdom, or click here to read the next adventure of Postmodern Sass and her karaoke buddies.

Tequila!

Updated Saturday, May 7 and Monday, May 9. See below.

Bloggers of the world unite: Let's find out what happened to Tequila Mockingbird

Tequila Mockingbird is the pseudonym for a blogger named Julia who lives in Washington, D.C. She has a sister. She used to be married. Her mother sometimes reads her blog. Her co-workers sometimes read her blog. She works in, I think, a legal office, or some kind of consulting firm, though I don't think she's a lawyer.

She is a terrific writer.

And she's missing.

She was nominated for Best Writing of a Blog in the 2005 Bloggies. I voted for her. She didn't win, but she wrote a heartfelt, yet cliché-ridden post about it. She appreciates her readers. She would not abandon us.

Something terrible must have happened to her.

Last time she went not quite two weeks without writing, she wrote this. This time, it's been over a month.

We, her readers, are worried.

If you believe in the theory of six degrees of separation then I must know someone — perhaps one of you, my Gentle Readers — who knows someone who knows someone who knows someone who knows someone who knows Julia.

I propose we start a tequila meme. If you have a blog, write about Tequila Mockingbird, the missing blogger, or link to this post.

If you know Julia, and can tell us what happened to her, please email me.

I will post whatever information I gather here.

---

Update: Saturday, May 7

No news yet, but a few comments:

First, I emailed Julia at the Hotmail address she gives on her blog, to let her know about the tequila meme. The message didn't bounce back, which would seem to indicate that either she, or someone on her behalf, is checking her email. This is a good sign.

Second, it is not my desire to invade Julia's privacy. She certainly has the right to take a break from blogging. One of her readers posted this comment on Julia's last post: "Looks like CW at www.wittandwisdom.com is hanging up the towel also. I know he and Julia are friends..."

I sincerely hope that's all that's happened to Julia; that she's just taking a break. The thing is, I don't think she would do that without letting us know. She'd say goodbye, like her friend CW did.

Blogs are a wonderful medium for one-to-many communication. My purpose in starting the tequila meme is to see if the medium can't also function as a vehicle for many-to-one communication. We, Julia's readers, are the many. We want her to know that we admire her, that we miss her — and that we are concerned about her. I hope that, as the tequila meme spreads, it will reach the attention of Julia's sister, or mother, or co-workers, or even Julia herself, and that one of them will email us to say, "Julia met the man of her dreams in Bali, and no sooner had she arrived home from her trip than he showed up on her doorstep and swept her off her feet. They eloped — to Bali, of course — and are taking an extended honeymoon. Julia expects to return to blogging later this summer."

Something like that.

Thank you to the following people who have picked up the tequila meme. Some are my readers, some are Julia's:

Norman Walsh, who is an XML Standards Architect in the Web Technologies and Standards group at Sun Microsystems, joined the tequila meme here.

Mike in San Diego, who suggests a possible relationship between Tequila Mockingbird and tequila.

Amy, a blogging mommy in Chicago.

Jess in Saskatchewan.

Jellyfish Skibum, a fellow Canuck living in Denver, who posted the tequila meme on Planet Sark.

And to the many non-blogging Tequila Mockingbird readers who emailed me to express their concern about our favourite blogger: Brandon, Lena in Sweden, Amy Lou Who (who is probably more than two), and Ken, who says Julia's last name is, or was, Montgomery.

---

Update: Monday, May 9
Elizabeth, also in Washington D.C., joined the tequila meme here and linked to one of Julia's old posts in which she describes herself, and even posts a picture. Seems her name is, in fact, Julia Montgomery. When I clicked on Elizabeth's link, I spent another half an hour reading Tequila Mockingbird. Her writing has a way of drawing you in that way. You laugh with her, you cry with her. You root for her.

You are concerned when she disappears.

Silly Rabbit has also blogged about the hunt for Tequila Mockingbird.

If you write about the disappearance of Tequila Mockingbird, please contact me at PostmodernSass@gmail.com and let me know. Write about her now, before we lose momentum. Somewhere out there, someone who reads one of our blogs knows Julia, and can tell us whether she's OK.
* * *
Read the conclusion of the tequila meme here. In the next story, Postmodern Sass has... French Fries.

These Boots Are Made For Walkin'

Last week was all about drinking and commiserating. This week, I'm busy marking exams. I'll tell you about that next week. I'll also tell you about my friend Angela, who's filled my bathtub with her shoes and purses and winter clothes and gone off to San Francisco for the summer to be inculcated into a cult.

Jack is in Australia, so there's nothing to say about that. So let's get back to what's really important:

Shoes.

As I told you before, I have 38 pairs of shoes and 17 pairs of boots. According to Star Jones, that makes me fat.

Who among us can't do with losing five or ten pounds? Surely not I... but I don't think I'm fat. Judge for yourself: there's a recent photo on this page. Also a couple of pictures of me in my white go-go boots.

Soon, I'll have 18 pairs of boots. I'm bidding on these Steve Madden babies on eBay:



Boot season is coming to an end here in T'ranna. Mind you, I wear the white ones even in summer... but it's time to turn the attention to shoes.

These are the shoes of my dreams. Manolo Blahnik Mary-Janes. I believe the style is called Campari. I could die happy if I knew that someone would lay me out in these shoes:



But they're probably just an urban shoe legend.

Speaking of Manolo, do you know of The Manolo?

The Manolo, he is not the Manolo Blahnik. The Manolo, he is very funny. The Manolo, he is very wise. He is super fantastic. And he thinks Sass is super fantastic, too.

The Manolo and I, we had an email chat about the Graceland and the Elvis. And I showed him this picture of me and my best friend K after our day of shoe shopping at the outlet malls in Memphis last fall:

I'm so excited; it's spring; I'll be able to wear mine soon! (K lives in Bermuda, so she's been able to wear hers all winter.)

The Manolo, Manolo the Shoeblogger, he was amused by my silly girly shoes in legs picture. I hope you are, too.

Because I have to get back to those exams...

* * *
When the exams were finished, Sass came up with an idea for a meme...