New Orleans Is Sinking [part II - fin]

Continued from part I, with the following caveat: It may seem disrespectful of me to publish picayune prose in light of what's happening right now in the places I've described, but this story, named after the Tragically Hip song, was not meant to foreshadow Hurricane Katrina, which yesterday destroyed Biloxi and today is flooding New Orleans. I wrote this story in my hotel room in Biloxi last Tuesday night. And I flew home from New Orleans last Wednesday, four days before the order to evacuate the city was given, five days before Hurricane Katrina hit. Exactly one week ago I slept for two nights in one of the casino hotels on the Biloxi shore, hotels which may not be there next time I visit Mississippi. The Sun Herald has posted a casino watch on its home page. They report that the Beau Rivage is still standing, but the Grand Casino has washed away.



Though it has a grandiose name, the Imperial Palace suffers from delusions of grandeur.

The hotel made a splendid spectacle as I approached it late Monday night, looming above the darkness of highway 15 like a fat blue lightsabre, dwarfing the Beau Rivage, which sits modestly on the beach another block south. Ah, the Beau Rivage. One of my top five favourite hotels. I would have been there, instead of here at the faux palace had it not been three times the rate.

The Imperial Palace can't hold a canteloupe to the Beau Rivage. I tried its breakfast buffet on Tuesday morning, and learned that there is such a thing as bad corned beef hash. I drank bad coffee whitened with 10% real cream from tiny plastic containers — I had asked for milk, and am greatly peeved when waitresses fail to make the distinction between it and any other white liquid. I don't want to know what makes up the other 90% of the liquid in the container. I listened to too-loud bad 70s music being piped into the dingy room. I found that the assortment of bread at the buffet consisted of two packages of Wonder Bread, still in the plastic bags.

Bread comes in two varieties in the South: waaaat, and weeeet.

The Beau Rivage, on the other hand, is a gorgeous hotel. It's owned by the same company that owns The Bellagio in Las Vegas, where Jack has promised to take me one day. His game is baccarat. I already have the dress, an amazing eBay find from last summer. Vintage pink chiffon, with draping scarves. A shill dress if ever you saw one.

* * *
I don't know if the Jackson Nancy Sinatra and Lee Hazelwood sing about is the one that's the capital of Mississippi — every state seems to have one in its collection of dead president towns, along with a Springfield and a Salem — but every time I see a sign pointing to Jackson, I hear Nancy.

You see a lot of those signs in Mississippi, because Jackson is the state capital, and it's located smack dab in the geographic centre. So all roads lead there, and you see a lot of signs. And I hear a lot of Nancy.

Which is why I always bring my Nancy Sinatra CD with me to Mississippi, as driving music. I know all her songs, and can sing along at the top of my lungs. Makes the trip go by faster, plus it's good karaoke practice. I've driven all over this state, from Tupelo in the northeast corner, to Memphis in the northwest; I've driven back and forth on the I-10 from Mobile to New Orleans, the full length of the Mississippi handle. I've been to Jackson and to Meridian; to Greenfield and Biloxi, and to every dot that connects them all.

They seem to like me down there, and I imagine I'll be back again one day.

I spend more time driving than doing what it is I go there to do, which is to give an hour and a half presentation on the ins and outs of marketing your small business online. I've been doing these sorts of presentations for ten years now, and we're getting down to the last few states that are still relative newcomers to the Internet. Last year I was invited to New Mexico, but that's another story.

At the conference on Tuesday my presentation was well received, and afterwards a small group gathered to quiz me further on how they might proceed with their online businesses. I met a man who looked just like Jimmy Carter, who was in charge of selling repossessed merchandise for a bank. (In the United States there are 8,000 banks, so many of them operate like small businesses.) There was an ebullient woman with dark, curly hair who proudly handed me her bright yellow business card as she told me about her ostrich farm. There was a family who makes goat's milk soap and other goat-related potions, and sells them online. But my favourite was the woman who makes bows. Just bows. Bows for hair, bows for decorating packages, bows for strewing the pews at a wedding. She and her two children make each one by hand.

* * *
My presentation done, I'm driving back down to Biloxi. I'll arrive sometime between 7:00 and 8:00, just in time to relax for a couple of hours, watch CSI on cable (It's always on, have you noticed?), and have a Beck's or two. I fly out late tomorrow morning, and there's nothing to do until then.

I stop at a Walmart half way. I love Walmarts on rural highways. Their recognizable beacon of a sign means there'll be lots of easy parking, a ladies' room just inside the door, some sort of grab-and-eat food and six packs of beer, all of which I can pay for with a credit card.

So that's what I do.

As I drive away from the Walmart I remember I don't have a bottle opener with me. Though I keep one in every suitcase, this trip I only brought an overnight bag. But I'll have to get gas before Biloxi; there's not enough to get me to New Orleans tomorrow. I make a mental note to choose a gas station with a convenience store. Then I listen to some more Nancy Sinatra.

Another fifty miles down highway 49 I'm coasting on fumes, so it's time to fill up. I pull into a gas station, fill the tank, then go into the convenience store. I make a quick trip up and down its three aisles, looking for hardware, find none, and ask the cashier,

"I'm looking for a bottle opener."

"A bottle opener?" the young woman behind the counter, whose name I like to think was Tammy, asks as she makes her way around to my side, apparently hoping to be helpful. "What do you need one of those for?"

"Uh, to open a bottle?"

"You got a rootbeer?" she asks, as she fingers some items dangling at the end of one of the aisles.

"No, beer bottles. You know..." I am at a loss to explain what a beer bottle is, and why I need a bottle opener. I mean, if she doesn't know what I mean, where can I even begin to begin?

"Well, here's a Coors opener," she offers.

It is indeed a Coors bottle opener, with a rubber handle and a Coors logo emblazened on it. It costs $3.50.

"I was hoping to find one of those plain metal ones," I say. "You know the kind; they have a can opener on one end and a bottle opener on the other? They cost about 50¢"

"Oh!" she laughs, suddenly understanding. "You don't need a bottle opener!" She returns to her side of the counter. "You just go like this." She demonstrates how to bang the cap off a bottle by holding it at a 45° angle on the edge of the counter.

Growing up in Beamsville I had a friend who lived in the trailer park, but I never did get the hang of opening bottles that way. I always manage to break the glass. And if I were to try this trick on the granite countertop of my bathroom in the Imperial Palace, that's almost a sure thing.

* * *
I had been watching David Letterman. It was Dave's mom's birthday, and he was speaking to her via live remote from her home in Indiana. She was standing in her kitchen, and looking damned fine for 84 years. She looks just just just like Letterman — only with blonde hair and bigger glasses. And I love the way she talks to him. Motherly. Patiently. Long-sufferingly. Sometimes she's funnier than he is.

"Happy birthday, mom," Letterman began. "Sorry I couldn't be there today, but you know I have this little show I have to do."

"Yes, David, I know," his mother replied, smiling.

"So who all is there? Did the whole family come down?"

"Well, your sister Gretchen is here with her husband and her son."

"How old is my nephew now?"

"He's eleven, David."

"Eleven! Holy gee willikers! Did you hear that, Paul? My nephew's eleven! And how old is my sister, mom?"

"She's fifty, David."

"Fifty! My little sister is fifty! You're kidding me! Are you kidding me, mom?"

"No, David."

"I was out in Montana a couple of weeks ago, mom," Letterman continued, "They call it Big Sky Country out there, did you know that? Have you ever been to Montana, Mom?"

"Now, David, you know I have."

He teases her, but he sure loves his mom.

When Jack called I had just turned out the lights.

"Hey, you," he said, and I've told you the rest.

Then I asked how he was doing, and he told me a story about Beauty.

"How are you, though, after what happened on Friday?" I asked Jack when he was done.

"I keep thinking about it," he replied. "How downtown San Francisco turned into the land of crazy people that morning. How I could have just as easily been standing another block farther along Kearny Street."

"But you weren't," I said.

"I wasn't."

"And you called me. That's something."

"I'm not used to having anyone care about me," said Jack.

"You thought it was September 11 all over again, didn't you?"

"It all came rushing back to me. The world was coming to an end, I was certain of it. And I had an image of them presenting you with the folded flag."

Then I was quiet for a long time.

It's a romantic image, isn't it? A sombre military funeral. A woman in black in the front row, being presented with a flag by an officer in dress uniform.

Only the woman in black would be Jack's mother.

New Orleans is sinking, man, but I know how to swim.

* * *
The song's full refrain is, "My memory is muddy, what's this river that I'm in? New Orleans is sinking, man, and I don't wanna swim."

New Orleans Is Sinking [part I]

When the phone rang in my room at the Imperial Palace in Biloxi just after midnight on Tuesday night, I knew it was Jack. I had just turned off David Letterman and the bedside lamp, and had given up on him — for the night, I mean. Jack seems to have a sixth sense about this; for knowing the exact moment at which I give up. Because that's when he calls.

He knew my schedule and I knew he wouldn't call on Monday night, because I was to land in New Orleans after 11:00 and it's at least an hour's drive to Biloxi. It was 1:30 by the time I checked in and made my way down to the casino.

Time means nothing in a casino, which is why I like to hang out in them. Sometimes. Not too frequently, and not for too long. But it's been a year and a half since I was last here. On that trip I had flown into Mobile, stayed in Biloxi, driven up to Meridian, then over to D'Iberville, then to New Orleans for Mardi Gras. The thing about Mississippi is, you can't fly there on Air Canada, and you have to drive anyway, once you're there, so you might as well fly into someplace interesting like New Orleans or Memphis.

It took me longer than I'd expected to drive here from the New Orleans airport. It had been thundering at the car rental office, and not long after I got out on the I-10 it opened up and poured rain of such biblical proportions I feared I'd be swept into the Tchoutacabouffa River. I had to slow down to 70 mph, the speed limit in Louisiana, which no one drives when the weather is clear. See, the roads are smooth as glass in the deep south, because there's no snow or ice to crack them up. The lanes on the highways are lined with tiny reflectors. It's mesmerizing. Easy to drive 85 and not feel like you're going too fast.

But back to Monday night: I'm sitting at a bar called Kanpai, in the casino at the Imperial Palace. Of the seven or eight bars in the casino I chose this one, bypassing the Geisha bar, the Mai Tai Lounge, and the Saki bar, because I was curious about the name. I asked Darnell, the bartender, what it means.

"It's Japanese," he says, then adds, "Or Chinese."

"I figured it was Japanese," I reply with a smile, keeping every drop of sarcasm out of my voice, because he meant well. "But what does it mean, do you know?"

"It's like a theme, the Imperial Palace. You know, it's all Japanese or Chinese or something. Asian."

Or something. I despaired of dwelling on this descant with Darnell.

I hadn't, in fact, yet made the connection between the name of the hotel and the names of the bars. The hotel itself is in no way reminiscent of Japan. Not outside, where the building is trimmed with pale blue neon piping, nor inside, where it is nondescript in every way. This is Biloxi, not Las Vegas. They don't seem to try very hard on their theme hotels. Not even the waitresses' outfits are Japanese in style.

It's a small bar. There are no draught taps, only oxymoronic Miller Genuine Draft in a bottle. I inquire of Darnell whether he has any German beer.

"Just Heineken," he says.

Though for many years I followed Tim's advice, to always drink the beer that's brewed closest to where you're sitting, there are places in the world, and Mississippi is one of them, where that's not going to be the best beer to drink and it just might be the worst. Besides, I had decided a few years ago that life is too short to drink American beer.

"Then that's what I'll have," I tell Darnell.

It had been a long flight — two, actually, through O'Hare — and a very bumpy landing. The pilot announced we were descending, gave the usual speech to the flight attendants about preparing the cabin for landing, which they began, lethargically, to do. Then, less than a minute later, the captain's voice clicked on again and barked, "Flight attendants, take your seats!"

Boy, did they. We headed in on what I like to think was a 45° angle.

After the landing the purcer — that's what she called herself — thanked us "on behalf of the San Francisco-based crew." I supressed the urge to ask her whether she'd ever encountered the chocolate guy.

A long flight, a bumpy landing, a rainy drive, and, finally, a lonely hotel. You can see why I needed a beer after that.

I'm the only person at the bar not playing the built-in video poker games. You know, Gentle Reader, what I'm doing instead, but what you don't know is that I'm doing it with Darnell's pen. Poor man, I'm sure he senses no tip from me, but he'll be wrong about that.

I have nothing against gambling, it's just that I'm not any good at it. Neither with slot machines, nor with stock options. I might risk $50 at roulette when I'm in Las Vegas, but not here, not this trip. Despite its name, there is no glamour in the Imperial Palace casino. There are no tourists, and I'm certain I'm the only business traveller.

At the check-in counter I had encountered a woman of about 45, dragging a very small girl by the hand. "Do you have any rooms for tonight?" she inquired, not politely, of the desk clerk, never letting go of the girl's hand.

As the woman leaned over the counter to fill out the registration form, the little girl leaned over and vomitted on the sparkling marble floor.

"You'll have to call someone to clean that up," the woman said to the desk clerk, as he handed her her room key.

There are few things sadder than a Mississippi casino at 2:00 in the morning.

* * *
I had just dozed off when the phone rang.

"Hey, you," Jack said.

"Hi," I replied, sleepily.

"Oh, I've woken you up! Go back to sleep, I'll call you tomorrow night."

"No, I'm glad you called."

"I thought you might be lonely," said Jack.

"I'm always lonely."

"More so than usual, then, without your kitties."

"Yes."

Then I told Jack about the drive up to Meridian, my presentation at MSU, and the girl at the gas station convenience store in De Soto, who taught me how to open a beer.

And I'll tell you, Gentle Reader, about them too, very soon.

* * *
After reading this Udge post I considered turning on comments today, then decided against it again, for the same reasons I explained here. I always enjoy hearing from my readers, but I prefer to receive and respond to your comments via email. I don't buy the argument that clicking on an email link is more difficult than filling out a comments form — in fact, it's simpler, but email is a private conversation where the commenter is identified to the commentee, which perhaps is why some readers shy away from it. It's also exactly the reason I prefer it.

Another Brick In The Wall [part I]

This is Part VI of the story of Postmodern Sass Goes To The U.K.
It is continued from Part V
To read the story from the beginning, click here.
To see pictures, click here.

---

Sunday, July 3, 4:00 p.m.
Flat #10 Wright Way
Stoke Park, Frenchay, Bristol

I was able to share a taxi from the airport, so the ride to the flat in Stoke Park, Frenchay, on the outskirts of Bristol, where my PhD buddy Denise was waiting for me, was only £18. Stoke Park is what we would call a subdivision, but I don't know what they call them here. The driver knew exactly what I meant, though, when I told him I was going to Stoke Park.

"Right, that won't be a problem," he'd said.

You enter the subdivision (for lack of knowing their term) through a gate off the main road, then, once inside the bounds of Stoke Park become immediately disoriented as the many streets — Casson Drive, Wright Way, Alder Lane — lace their way between the flats and houses in a complex yet alogical manner that makes the streets of Boston, with their roundabouts and complete absence of traffic lights, seem by comparison as easy to navigate as a straight line. My driver found Stoke Park without incident, but spent ten minutes weaving through its maze before he located the flat.

THEY SAY: flat
WE SAY: apartment

I was of no help, having only four pages of Denise's email messages, sent during the past few days since she arrived, to refer to. With no geographic point of reference, studying her emailed directions, which explained how to walk to the flat from the nearby train station, and from the university campus, was pointless. I struggled to understand what she meant when she wrote, "The address is flat #10, Wright Way, but there's no number on the building. It's the first tall one as you come in through the gates, on the corner of Casson Drive. The building is attached to number 18 Wright Way."

The driver was confused, too, but for a different reason. Wright Way is not continuous through Stoke Park. We must have entered the subdivisison through a different gate from the one Denise had in mind, because the numbers we saw were in the 100's. Then Wright Way crossed Casson Drive, but there was no number 10, nor number 18. Apparently Wright Way and Casson Drive intersect several times within the twilight zone of Stoke Park. I filed this bit of data away for future use, when, say, a non-Torontonian laughs at the fact that Dundas Street, which runs south of Bloor and parallel to it, also crosses it, and then runs north of it, parallel to it. And you don't want to know about Weber and King Streets in Kitchener/Waterloo, trust me.

But back to the taxi for a moment.

My propinquity to the historic and shocking events of that week began in the taxi. The driver was listening to the BBC, the broadcast of the Live8 concert. It was hour three of the eight hour extravaganza, coming to us from Hyde Park in London. I recognized REM, and another band that sounded vaguely 80's familiar, but I couldn't place. I marvelled at how tightly staged the event seemed to be. They couldn't have been tearing down drum kits in between acts.

"Earlier the concert organizer was being interviewed," my taxi driver explained, "and he said that each band was given, instead of a start time, the time at which they would have to be off the stage. They can start whenever they like, and play as many songs as they like, but they have to be off at their particular time. No exceptions, not even for Bono or Sir Paul."

It seemed to be working.

Later that night, at Jane's, as we watched some of the concert on television, I would think to myself, as the aerial camera panned back, displaying the sea of bodies in Hyde Park, that there is no amount of money that would get me to be one of them.

THEY SAY: lorry
WE SAY: truck

Jane, who is one of our professors, picked Denise and me up at the flat an hour after I arrived. We had been invited to her house for dinner, Denise reminded me moments after I walked through the flat door. I love Denise because as she delivered this news she placed a cold bottle of Carlsberg in my hand. I'd been awake for 28 hours, what was another four?

Jane's husband, Jonathan, is a fabulous cook. On the ride into Bristol Jane regaled us with tales of his concoctions, and explained how delighted he would be to have two appreciative guests to cook for. Not that she and their son, Oliver, weren't appreciative, but he cooked for them every night. Guests were something special. She asked whether we had any food alergies or strict preferences.

Indeed I do have a strict rule: I will always eat, without complaint, anything that anyone else cares to prepare for me, because I hate cooking, myself.

Jonathan served us an appetizer of chorizo and green beans, which both Denise and I gave an A+ for presentation. It was also delicious. Then we stepped out into the garden for a drink and a cigarette break (No one smokes inside their homes any longer, do they?), then inside to watch the concert for a while, then back to the table, finally, for the main course. Roast lamb, scalloped potatoes, and broccoli in anchovy sauce. I asked Jonathan for the recipe — yes, I know I just told you I hate to cook, but I like anchovies and I like broccoli, and I have to eat and I can't always have someone to prepare food for me. I like the way he gave the recipe to me; the way my grandmother explains how to make something. No half a teaspoon of this, boil for exactly 12 minutes sort of instructions, but just the ingredients, and, in broad strokes, how to combine them: butter, chopped anchovies, double cream, and parmesan. I think that was it.

I'll try it and let you know.

Back inside, Oliver, who is seven years old, beautiful, and precocious, was discussing his friend Marcus with his mother.

"I know he's my friend and I must be polite to him but sometimes, Mother, I would rather not play with him."

"As long as you're polite to him, Oliver," Jane replied, "You needn't always play with him." Then to us: "Oliver's friend Marcus likes to wear dresses."

"His own?" I asked.

"I'm not sure where he gets them," said Jane, "But I have seen him running around the neighbourhood in them. He's a lovely boy, though, isn't he, Oliver?"

"Well, I didn't say he was horrible, now, did I mother?"

On the continent of North America I doubt you'd find so poised and erudite a seven year old, unless perhaps it was on the stage or screen.
* * *
Though Oliver's friend may not be horrible, the food in England outside Jane's home is. In part II, which will also be part VII, and the final episode in the story of Postmodern Sass Goes To The U.K., Sass eats a toad in the hole

Oh black water, keep on rolling

Tomorrow night I'm heading off to Mississippi again for a few days. The last time I was there was last fall, in the days just before the American presidential election. I went to Graceland with my best friend Kay, and a few days later I watched the election returns from a hotel room in Starkville. I still can't believe George Bush won again. It's like a bad Journey song.

This time I'll be flying into New Orleans, then driving up to Biloxi where I'll stay in one of those casino hotels. On Tuesday I'll drive up to Meridian to give a presentation to a group of small business owners on marketing their businesses on the Internet. I've been to Mississippi something like ten times now, at the invitation of the swell folks Mississippi State University.

I love the south. The people are so friendly. They're awfully religious, too; too much so for my liking, but I gotta think that if there is a devil he (or she) sure ain't Southern. I mean, can you imagine this:

"Haaaa-y! Welcome to Hay-el! I'm the Devil, and in just a few moments I'm going to have to set y'all on faay-er — but first, set yourself down a spell, I baked y'all a paaa-y!"

Tomorrow, before I leave, I'll post the final episode in the story of Postmodern Sass Goes To The U.K.

And I'm sure there will be new stories to tell of the Deep South when I return.
* * *
Well, that turned out to be another gigantic understatement of the year 2005. Postmodern Sass left New Orleans just ahead of Hurricane Katrina. Click here to read New Orleans Is Sinking.

Telephone Line

When I heard the phone ringing yesterday at 2:00, just as I was coming in the door after walking the dogs, I thought it would be one of my doggie people asking if I could take theirs out that evening. Or some such thing. I don't get many phone calls in the middle of a week day. It's too early for telemarketers, and my friends rarely phone me because they know the line will be busy because I'm online all day and so they email me instead.

It was Jack.

"Hey, you," he said, in his usual manner.

"Hi!" I replied, surprised but happy to hear his voice, and not suspecting that anything was wrong, even though he never calls me during the day unless something is. "How'd it go yesterday?"

Jack had had an important appointment the day before, and I knew he would call me the next day to tell me about it. It was only 11:00 his time, he sounded like he was on his cell phone, but he can be unpredictable, which is one of the things I like about him. Last summer, during the Olympics, he called and woke me up at 6:00 a.m. to tell me he was on his way to the airport because his employer, Big Ass American Software Company needed him to get his ass over to Greece and help the team there. Big Ass provided one of the backend systems for the official Olympics Web site.

He told me briefly about the appointment, then asked, "I guess you didn't get my message?"

"No, I just walked in the door when you called, so I hadn't checked for messages yet. Why, what happened?"

It takes me a while sometimes, but then, Gentle Reader, you already know how clueless I can be.

"A bomb went off in downtown San Francisco about an hour ago. I'm fine; everything's fine. I didn't want you to worry, if you heard about it."

"Oh my god, are you OK?" I said, instinctively, even though he just told me he was. I must have sounded like my grandmother who, every time she sees on the news something about a woman being attacked or killed in a car accident in Toronto, calls me to make sure it wasn't me.

"I'm fine. They're saying now that they think it was a gas explosion, but it happened right on the street where I was standing. I heard the thud. It sounded like a loud thud. Then glass blew out into the street, people started screaming and running away from the building. Then there was black smoke. I had been standing out on Kearny Street, talking on my cell, just about to go into a building for a meeting, when it happened. I had to call you right away, before the cellnet went down."

The cellnet didn't go down. As it turns out, it wasn't a terrorist attack. It wasn't a bomb at all. It didn't even make CNN's home page. It's just that it happened in the morning, on a beautiful, sunny summer day, in the downtown financial centre of one of the biggest cities in the United States...

After we hung up and Jack went back to work, I listened to the message he had left.

"Sass, it's Jack. I'm in downtown San Francisco and a bomb has just gone off in the financial district. I'm fine, though, and I'll call you when I get back to the office."

His voice was calm, but there was an audible undertone of shock. It was the way he stated the facts, just the facts, ma'am. The way he identified himself, and me. It was... unsettling.

I'm so glad I hadn't heard it before he reached me.

Jack was in Manhattan on September 11, 2001.

* * *
Next week, Postmodern Sass goes to Mississippi again. But no one knows, Hurricane Katrina is brewing.

My Best Friend's Girl [redux - fin]

Continued from yesterday.

Lulu shows me the text message on her cell phone: ALL YOUR FRIENDS GET IN FREE. JUST SAY HERE FOR LULU'S PARTY. YOU DON'T PAY FOR DRINKS ALL NIGHT.

It's from the owner of the boozecan, the after-hours club on Dundas. Lulu dated him for a few months and recently dumped him when he started seeing his old girlfriend again.

"You should see this woman, she's such a piece; couldn't be less like me if she were standing on her head. It's baffling." Lulu was describing the old-now-new-again girlfriend. "She's such a skank. Stringy bleached blonde hair. Always doing this when she talks."

Lulu sneers, clicks her tongue, and huffs.

"Huffy?"

"Huffy, sniffy, sneery, always looking down her nose as if she's hot stuff and it's so, so funny because she's such a skank ho slut. Leaves a trail of slime when she walks. At the boozecan she sits in the back at the poker table picking at the scabs on her arm all night."

Lulu is petite, dark haired, wears Tina Fey glasses and has the biggest dimple in her right cheek that sparkles when she talks. She's a trader on Bay Street and typically dresses in black chic. While she was dating Mr. Boozecan she bartended there on Saturday nights, or rather Sunday mornings, from 3:00 until 9:00. I've never been, but I can imagine how out of place she must look in that place.

I'm howling at her description of the skank. "And Boozecan went back to her? What is he, blind? Stupid? Both? What?"

"Ah, I sent him back," Lulu explains. "She was skanking around, and I could see that there was some unfinished business there, so I told him look, you go on ahead and work out your shit that you need to work out. I don't have time for those kinds of problems, I'm 38 years old, I'm too old for that kind of crap. At least I know what my problems are, and I can deal with them."

Actually, Lulu's going to be 38 on Saturday. She seems fixated with the milestone. I totally get that. She's a Leo, just like me. And she's a lulu.

"If you've broken up with Boozecan, why do you want to have your party there?" I ask.

"The party's at 606 — starting around 9:00, by the way — and I'm planning to close the place down, but we'll go to the boozecan afterwards. There's a band playing, Whatziz, and they're great. They weren't supposed to play that night but when they found out from Boozecan that it was my birthday they said they'd come."

"Let me see if I've got this," I pause to review, "You dump the guy, and he not only allows you to hang out at his club but he makes arrangements for the party? I am not worthy!"

"Oh, yeah, well, when I told him to go ahead and play with the skank and it's ok, but I know what I want and blah blah all that, he said after, how can you be so nice when I'm such a prick? You're the best girlfriend!"

"I bow before your greatness."

Benjamin the architect is sitting across from us at the other side of the bar. I frisbee a coaster his way. It brushes the top of his brushcut and succeeds in its mission: he picks up his beer and comes over to our side. Benjamin is another one of the regulars. I know him as well as I know any of them, which is to say, enough to write stories about them. He and I had a long conversation one evening a few months ago, during which he drew me a sketch and explained the architectural design principles behind the T.D. Centre. I still have that sketch; it's on a napkin, and the story is in draft.

When I was here with Denise, my PhD buddy, in June, Benjamin was sitting on our side of the bar, and when he left, Denise said to me, "He was totally checking you out, you know."

He's really quite cute, though he's not very tall. One day, a few weeks back, he was telling me he was in the market for a new car. "I'm thinking about a Porsche," he said. Funny, I think about Porsches all the time. After that I always noticed when Benjamin was in the Banknote.

Benjamin makes a comment about my outfit. I'm wearing a black top and a black and gold skirt, and the gold sandals. It's not my usual Monday night attire. I'm at the Banknote every Monday for the pasta special after my tap class, wearing sweat pants and with my hair in a ponytail, but tap is on break for August, and I've just been out with a man with whom I can wear heels, so I am.

"So where is he?" asks Lulu.

"He's on a rooftop in the Annex with his best friend," I tell her.

"Pauper's?"

"That's it."

"I knew it," she says, "It's the only place up there with a rooftop. So, tell, tell, how was the weekend?"

"It was... better than I had hoped. Really good. He might come down here; I dunno. He might close Pauper's with his friend. Hard to see, the future is."

Lulu tells Benjamin about the party Saturday night, then he leaves us to go chat with some of the other regulars. That's when she's telling me about her party plans and showing me the text message from Boozecan, that's when her eyes drift up, and that's when she leans in and whispers,

"Big!"

I turn around and there's Jack, leaning against the pillar, Bogart style, against the pillar behind me.

"Hey, you," he says. Then he extends his hand to Lulu and says, "I'm Jack."

"You're here," I say, trying to conceal my delight and not doing a very good job of it.

"I wanted to see you in your element," he says.

"This is Lulu," I tell him, "And it's only my element part time. She's the mayor here."

"Hey, Jack!" calls Andrew from inside the bar, "How the hell are you, man? What'll it be, the usual?"

"Andrew, good to see you, man," replies Jack, not missing a beat. "I'm drinking Stella these days."

"Long time, man."

"Yeah, so hey, how'd it go with that... thing?"

"Oh, that, well, it's good, man, it's good. And you?"

"Doing swell."

For a minute they had me believing they'd met before.

"How's Junior?" I ask Andrew. "Is he still home?"

"He's home, and he's doing great, just great," Andrew replies. "Bald as a doorknob, mind you, but he's fucking great."

"That's outstanding, man," says Jack. "Sass told me about your son, and that's just outstanding news. I'm so happy for you, man. Congratulations."

I'm in my local with my guy, and he's the best looking man in the place, and he's here because of me, and I want to pause this moment in time and keep it forever. And it seems like it's been only five minutes when Jack says, "I'm going to go. You'll come fetch me tomorrow?"

"Eight o'clock. I'll be there."

I walk him out front and pull out a cigarette which he lights immediately, instinctively, with his Zippo. "I have to find a cab," he says.

"This is King Street. One comes along every thirty seconds. Have a smoke," I tell him.

He does. It's an American cigarette, so it's done too quickly. A cab comes along and we walk toward it. Lulu, Benjamin, and Mridul are on the patio, and I know they're watching.

Jack has his arm around my waist, when he pulls me in for a semi dip. He can pick me up and swing me around, and I want so much to ask him to do that right now, right here on King Street, I don't care who sees, but I don't. He kisses me, then lets me go.

"See you tomorrow," he says.

When I come back into the bar Benjamin is with Lulu.

"Who was the big guy?" he asks.

"That was Mr. Big!" Lulu squeals.

"He's just a guy I've known for a long, long time," I say. "He lives in California." I want so much to add, he's my boyfriend, but I can't.

"Where's he going?" asks Lulu.

"To the Royal York," I tell her.

Her eyes widen and the dimple crinkles. "Why aren't you going with him?" she exclaims.

"He didn't ask," I say.

I order another beer and Benjamin tells us about the house he bought in the Beaches. He'll be moving at the end of September. I express disappointment at the prospect of him leaving us, but in my heart I don't want Benjamin. I didn't really want Boz. Upon reflection I doubt I truly wanted The Viking, back in February. My subconscious is good at pegging the ones who are unattainable, and when they reject me, I'm secretly relieved.

I'm not used to getting what I want, so I try not to want too much.

* * *
In the next story, Sass receives an unsettling phone call from Jack. And the next time she goes to The Banknote, she has a dream about, of all people, Jack's best friend.

My Best Friend's Girl [redux]

Monday, August 8
Pauper's Pub, Bloor Street
8:00 p.m.

I am notoriously late for those events where precise timing is not required. Not planes, not trains, but automobiles, sure.

Tonight, though, I'm on time, even early, because it's Jack's last night in town and I haven't seen him since I left him at the Royal York this morning. I was having my first cup of coffee when I remembered it was Monday, and though it felt like I was on vacation I knew I wasn't, and I had dogs to walk, a chapter in a textbook to edit, and a condo board meeting that afternoon.

"Remember what I said to you on Friday night? The, um, offer I made you?"

Jack put down his Globe and Mail and said, "You mean the anything I want, for as long as I want, for as long as I'm here offer?"

"Yes, that," I replied. "Well, about that... I'm afraid I'm going to have to renege. I've just realized there are a few things I need to do today."

You have to understand the look of abject terror that had fleeted across Jack's eyes when I made the original offer. For him, the idea of spending every minute of every day with anyone is frightening, so I don't take it personally. I reiterated that I hadn't asked him to spend every minute with me, but only that I was offering to be available for as many minutes as he wanted.

I was surprised, in fact, that he had wanted to spend as many minutes with me as he had. Friday night, all day Saturday, and all day Sunday, with only an hour or two here or there for me to pop home to change and look in on the cats. Things had been going better than I had expected all weekend. He was still here.

"That's fine," said Jack, "You go ahead. I guess I'll go to the Island by myself."

He actually sounded disappointed. I wanted to pinch myself, but of course he'd see me do that. I have a terrible poker face. It was all I could do to pretend this was a normal conversation, without any undertones. There are always undertones, but I don't think he heard this one.

"It works out well, don't you think? I mean, you said you wanted to go alone, anyway. I'll meet you later this afternoon, around beer time."

He had said exactly that on the phone last week. That he wanted to go to the Island alone for a couple of hours.

"I was going to ask you if you'd like to come along," he said then.

Now, I know what you're thinking, Gentle Reader, you're thinking that he was just saying that. That he hadn't intended to ask me to go with him, and was only doing so now because I'd told him I couldn't go. And that would be a perfectly understandable thought for you to have — but you would be wrong. You don't know Jack.

He says what he means, and he means what he says, and he doesn't play games. I know him, and I know what he's afraid of. He's afraid I'm Lucy with the football, and he's Charlie Brown.

"Do you know when Peter's coming?" I asked.

Peter is Jack's best friend. He lives in a town about an hour from Toronto, where I used to live ten years ago, and where Jack's family still lives. I knew Peter then, too, but I haven't seen him since those days. Jack told me once that Peter used to refer to me as "your beautiful married mistress I never had."

Jack's family is unaware that he is this close.

* * *
So I'm early, because I don't intend to stay long once Peter arrives, and I'd like to have as much time as possible with Jack before he does. We're meeting here at Pauper's, in The Annex, right near U. of T., because it's their place, their guy place. They were both co-op students and spent a few work terms living in this neighbourhood, and from the sounds of it they largely financed this establishment. Besides, it has a rooftop patio where you can smoke.

Peter arrives, and the two old friends address each other by their last names, with Mr. attached, in mock formality. They're cool. They're guys. Better, they're both men's men. None of that overly sensitive mushy stuff. I like men who are men's men.

They regale me with a tale of two boys, a great deal of beer, and a video camera, back in the days when a video camera recorded onto VHS tapes, and had to be carried on one's shoulder. I tell them about my car, my mother's old 1967 Beetle convertible. (It's a story I'll tell you, Gentle Reader, before the end of the summer.) There is some lapsing into Simpsons voices and Star Trek dialogue. This is their modus operandi, and it's all so familiar. It's only now that I realize I've missed it.

The waitress comes to ask if we'd like another round. She is wearing flip-flops, as is every female between the ages of three and thirty this summer. Go ahead and walk around looking like beach slobs, I think to myself. Makes my gold leather sandals look even better. And they must look pretty good because I caught Jack checking out my legs twice already this evening.

"Not for me, thanks," I say, and I stand up. "I'll be leaving you gentlemen now."

"But why?" asks Peter.

"I have to give you the opportunity to talk about me, of course," I reply. "But I'm just going down Bathurst to the Banknote, if you'd like to join me there later. Andrew is bartending tonight, and that means it'll be the all Frank Sinatra all the time radio station."

Both Jack and Peter can sing Frank Sinatra songs. They used to sing with the jazz band, from time to time, at a bar in Kitchener. I've heard them.

Jack also knows about Andrew and his baby.

He walks me down to the street. Jack, that is, not Andrew.

"You have fun with Peter," I say. "Do you think you might come down to the Banknote later?"

"I don't think so," he replies, "I'm pretty tired, and I have to get up early tomorrow."

"What time's your flight?"

"Ten o'clock. Why don't you pick me up at eight?"

Another surprise. I would have laid money that he wouldn't want me to drive him to the airport. Jack's the sort who likes to disappear with the wind. He's not a Bad Leaver like I am, like my dad is.

* * *
Monday, August 8
The Banknote, King Street
11:00 p.m.

I'm on my second beer at the Banknote, and I'm giving it less than a ten percent chance that Jack will show up here, and that's fine, it really is, because we've spent more time together in the last few days than we have in the last year, and that's serious progress, and now he's out with his friend and I've left them alone; I'm not being clingy-girl; and I'll see him tomorrow morning and everything is just as it should be.

I'm at my usual place on the far side of the bar, where Lulu is telling me about the plans for her birthday party next Saturday night. She's heard about Jack in broad strokes; the six years, yadda yadda; keeps popping into my life, blah blah; big and tall and handsome and —

"You know who he sounds like?" she'd said. This was a couple of weeks ago. "Mr. Big from Sex And The City."

So we're sitting there at the end of the bar, Lulu and I, facing each other, and she's yakking away, and then I notice that, though her sentences continue to run smoothly and proliferately, her eyes have drifted upward and she's focusing on a point a couple of feet above my head. She leans in a little closer and whispers,

"Big!"

* * *
To be continued tomorrow

Only fools rush in

Life is all about new experiences, isn't it?

Last night it was line dancing. And then, this morning, the phone rang at 9:00 and it was my dad, which may sound unremarkable to you, Gentle Reader, but it is quite remarkable to me. See, my dad almost never calls me. Like me, he doesn't do good phone. Must be where I get it from.

He was calling to ask me about California.

"We didn't get much of a chance to talk last night," he began, "And Frances is wondering whether you are going to move to California."

Frances is The Wife. She's had me married and moving to California since I first told her about Jack a few weeks ago, and how he would be coming here on my birthday to take me dancing — with them. But now she's confused about California, the poor thing —

Can you feel the sarcasm dripping off the end of that sentence?

— because I had mentioned to my dad on the phone on Sunday afternoon how I had been in L.A. for two days last week, and how I thought he'd like the dress he bought me in Santa Monica, and that I'd be seeing him in a few hours and I'd tell him all about it then.

But then we went dancing, the four of us, at the German club in Niagara Falls, and when you're dancing there isn't that much time to talk.

It's kinda why I planned it that way. See, I wanted Jack to meet my father, and I wanted my father to meet Jack, but sitting in The Wife's living room staring across the coffee table at one another was not going to be the best way to do it. One needs a more conducive setting for these types of meetings. You know the type I mean. Ideally, the rules of engagement must allow for distraction, movement, even escape, if necessary.

It turns out there wasn't even the briefest of coffee table summits. As we pulled into my dad's driveway, his car door opened and he stepped out. Frances stayed put in the passenger seat. I couldn't tell if he had just been coming or going, or what.

"How long have you been sitting there waiting for us?" I asked.

"Vell, I thought we'd drive to the corner and wait there for you, so we could get going right away when you got here," he replied, and then he shook Jack's hand.

"Let's go, it starts at 7:00. It's just down Highway 20 into Niagara Falls. Follow me."

Enough formalities, for now.

In my car, Jack said to me, "You have his eyes," and then he chuckled, and added, "I like your dad's sense of humour."

They'd only shaken hands and said hello. What sense of humour?

"What he said about waiting for you at the corner."

"Um, Jack, he wasn't kidding about that."

My dad likes to be on time when he goes dancing.

Half an hour later we were sitting at a floorside table at German Village. It was early; the dance had just started, and there were only three couples on the floor. We got a drink and watched them for a couple of numbers.

Jack had a look on his face. A look that was hard to decipher, even for me, and I'm pretty darned good at it.

"What is it?" I asked. "Is this not what you were expecting?"

I work very hard to set Jack's expectations appropriately, especially for this weekend. I work even harder at setting my own. Because, see, so long as your expectations are set at the right level, you can never be disappointed.

"You know how you think you know stuff?" he said, "How you know what you're good at and you're good at what you know, and you think that's just great and just fine and is always going to work?"

"OK..." I said.

"And then you walk into a room of septagenarians who, without even being aware that they are doing it, put you soundly into your place."

Jack is a competent dancer, and had, I thought, nothing to worry about in this arena, but it's true that the couples, all of whom were of my dad's generation, were excellent dancers. Still, Jack isn't presented with many opportunities to be humble, nor I with opportunities to be better than him at something, so I was going to enjoy this.

My dad is an excellent dancer. So is Frances, but she's pretty old — meow, I know, but she is ten years older than my dad — and I know my dad loves it when I'm around on the dance floor, because he can push and spin me around with a little more force.

He gave Jack some waltz pointers: "You should take smaller steps, like this," he said, getting up from the table to demonstrate. "That way you can turn faster. You go one-to-three right, one-two-three left, then again, straight backwards, then you turn and you spin her around like this," he said, gesturing with an invisible me.

The evening was half over. The band was on a break, recorded music was playing, and it was time for line dancing. I'd always been under the impression that line dancing was done wearing cowboy boots, and so I'd left mine at home on purpose. Turns out I was wrong about that.

People always tell me I'm a good dancer, and I always respond that all I do is follow. Without a good man to lead me, I'm nothing. But in line dancing you're on your own.

I watched the dance leader, a man of about sixty wearing black suspenders, lead a group of twenty or so people through a sixteen bar sequence of steps. Left, right, spin left, spin right, then four steps forward, turn, walk back, walk front, shuffle in a circle, then repeat.

I can do that, I thought. I take tap dancing; I catch on to combinations quickly.

So I did. And it was a hoot, if you'll pardon the country bumpkinism. I guess I didn't grow up in Beamsville for nothing.

Later that night, Jack would tell me what my father had said to him while they sat at the table watching me: "Look at my little girl. She's not too bad, is she?" From my father, for whom delivering a straightforward compliment would likely draw the wrath of a malevolent lightning bolt, that is high praise indeed.

It was nearly pumpkin time. Jack and I would have to drive back to Toronto that night, and it had been a long day, especially for him. He'd had the nickel tour of my homeland, one of those trips down nostalgia lane. We'd been stuck in traffic on the QEW, in my black on black car with no air conditioning. We'd spent the afternoon at my aunt and uncle's house with my cousins, the scrutineers. And now he was writing the D-SAT. The Dad aptitude test.

It's really me that was being tested. This was me in the place I came from, with the people I've known my whole life. Jack's never known this me before, and I wasn't sure how he'd like her. What might change, and whether that would be for the better or for the worse. My family... well I love them dearly, I really do, but being with a gaggle of them is like being with me to the power of four. They're a lot to handle for any guy.

Before we left the German club Jack and I danced to "I Can't Help Falling In Love With You." Nice and slow. When the song was over Jack spun me around once, then pulled me backwards into his arm and kissed the back of my neck, and it had never felt more like he meant it than it did right then. It was one of those moments, you know, when you just know.

Much later, on the patio at the Rivoli, Jack and I ended the evening with a quiet beer and a recap of the day's events. For any man, this would have been a long, hard day. For Jack, it was monumental.

"So, how many times were there today when you had to fight back the urge to flee to California?" I asked.

Though I said it in jest I wasn't joking. All that mattered, though, was that he had fought it back. He was still here.

"Quite a few," he replied. "But there were also moments when...everything was just perfect. I have so few of those moments, and when they're gone, they're gone, and I don't know how to get them back."

"Moments like what?"

"Like that day in the diner, before Sara's wedding. Remember, when I told you the story about the guy who asked for sauce at a Texas BBQ?"

I would tell you the story, Gentle Reader, but the humour lies in the way Jack imitates the Texans as he tells it, and the particular sound effects with which he embellishes it. You just had to be there.

Jack continued: "And you laughed. It was the way that you laughed that..." He paused. "I don't know how to describe it."

I smiled at Jack over my beer. Really, I was restraining myself from bursting out laughing. He's the smartest man I know, but there are times when the simplest of things elude him.

He saw that I was laughing at him. "What? What is it?" he demanded. He was truly puzzled, which only made me laugh all the more.

"I do," I said. "There's a word that describes exactly that. A very simple word."

* * *
Tomorrow it's Jack's last night in town, and Sass decides to leave him alone. Little does the Wife know — little does anyone know — that a year from now, Postmodern Sass will, indeed, be moving to California.

White Rabbit

Last year, for my birthday, Jack flew me to San Francisco and took me dancing at the Starlight Room, and I felt just like Cinderella. This year, I'm feeling more like Alice in Wonderland — though I haven't fallen down a hole, I am nonetheless exploring a new world.

So is Jack. And it's a world that's stranger to him than it is to me. He's never lived with anyone before, you see, so spending as much time together as we have spent so far this weekend, and will until Tuesday, is, well, let's just say he's got an eye out for royalty dressed in playing card getups.

Yesterday we went to Canada's Wonderland, and spent seven hours waiting in line and ten minutes riding the roller coasters. Seven hours talking, and ten minutes screaming.

There's the germ of an idea for a self-help book if ever I heard one.

I love roller coasters, but there are moments — the way-too steep first drop of the Minebuster, for example — when I would question my sanity and simultaneously feel a burning hatred for Jack for making me wait with him for the front car.

We were in line for Top Gun for over an hour; the longest wait of the day. When we were within sight of the launch pad, we noticed signs warning people to take off their earrings. One sign even had a sketch of an ear, and an arrow pointing to the earlobe. Clearly, they wanted to be very clear.

I was puzzled. We'd already been on several rides, and no others had a sign like this.

"What's so dangerous about earrings on this particular ride?" I asked.

The little girl in front of me turned around and said, a little too gleefully, "It's because it bangs your head around."

"Ah ha. OK, well, I think I'll be getting out of this line right about now," I said to Jack.

There ensued a discussion about sunk costs. Jack pointed out that I wasn't wearing earrings. I stayed in the queue.

Just knowing that I can leave at any time is really all that I need.

As the train of suspended cars pulled up and the harnesses clicked open to release the riders, I made one last inquiry of my handsome engineer, as to the mechanics of the cars.

"Don't worry," he said, "We're going to be OK. All signs point to OK."

* * *
Defying the laws of physics and gravity comes easy to Jack. Not so dancing, however. How will he handle meeting Sass's father? Click here to find out.

Paper Roses

There's an episode of Sex and the City, in season two, when Big gives Carrie a present: a tiny, jewel-encrusted Judith Leiber bag in the shape of a duck. In the next scene, she bangs it down on the table in front of her three bitchy girlfriends and says, "He has absolutely no idea who I am!"

I had been apprehensive, earlier this evening, about meeting Jack tonight. He's never given me a birthday present before, and though I am actually very easy to please, I was afraid that somehow, he might get it terribly, terribly... wrong.

Not that I had any idea what he might give me. I had no frame of reference within even to imagine. It's well within his power to buy me a Rolex. Not that I want one. And that would have been very, very wrong.

We were at the Royal York. He gave me the card first: a modern art watercolour of a woman with red hair, wearing a green dress, and with her arm slung around a tabby cat that is nearly as large as she.

Then he handed me two small packages, wrapped in handmade paper, embossed with real leaves and flowers.

"Open this one first," he said.

It was a moleskine notebook, the kind Hemingway wrote in.

"And this is the companion," he said, handing me a rectangular box wrapped in the same beautiful paper roses.

It was what I used last night to write this story first in my moleskine: a Mont Blanc pen. Black, with platinum trim, and black ink.

Before tonight, I'd had my doubts about Jack. He'd always reminded me of Mr. Big, and that's not always a good thing. But now, there is no doubt in my mind whatsoever.

He knows exactly who I am.

* * *
Tomorrow, Jack takes Sass to Wonderland.

Route 66

Today is my birthday.

Yesterday afternoon I was sitting in the Route 66 Grillhouse at LAX, having a Foster's because they don't serve beer on Air Canada flights anymore. At least not in economy. There are metal street signs on the wall: Mustang Parking Only; Elvis Presley Blvd; and, of course, Route 66 with its various states. My table is emblazened with Route 66 ARIZONA.

You've got to give Americans credit. Or something. The way they trumpet the most mundane artifacts as symbols of national pride. It's just a highway. But let me back up.

Wednesday, 8:00 a.m.

I'm on a plane again, this time flying to Los Angeles, and feeling guilty for the long silence, Gentle Reader. I haven't yet finished the tale of Postmodern Sass Goes To The U.K., never mind the long-promised story of my friend Angela who joined a cult for the summer and left me with a bathtub full of her boxes. (It's a good thing I don't take baths during the summer.) But remember when I opined that a lot can happen in eight weeks? It turns out, that was the understatement of the summer.

It's less than 24 hours since the Air France plane crashed and burned at Pearson airport. I was oblivious to the incident when it happened on Tuesday, because I was in an underground midtown mall having Daniel deal with my unsightly roots.

I have a Big Date this weekend, you see.

Because this trip was booked at the very last minute, I got the second-last seat on the plane, and it's an aisle seat. I hate sitting on the aisle. There are many irritations of plane travel that I can tolerate better than most. Babies crying, for example. I'm adept at tuning out background noises, so long as they are natural and expected. But oh, how it annoys me when people continually bump into me — I cannot begin to describe. It infuriates me, because these are grownups, and should know better. It's not as though a sudden jolt of turbulence sent them hurtling against me; that I would forgive. It's the careless bumping of my arm, though it is well within the bounds of my armrest. The kicking of my feet, though they, too, are well within my space, out of the aisle itself. The people who brace themselves against my headrest.

To me, none of this is forgivable.

Did you know that airlines have a policy of not showing either news stories or movies about plane crashes in flight? I suppose this makes sense, but on a day like today it is surreal. They are showing the CBC news, but nothing about the Air France crash. Only light, fluffy stories about Girl Guide camps. Cognitive dissonance when delivered by Sandi Rinaldo, a serious news anchor. Surely she's aware of what happened yesterday afternoon? That she chooses not to tell us about it, or that Air Canada chooses not to show us her telling us about it, is beyond surreal — it's dishonest.

In fact it's downright Big Brotherish, pretending a big story didn't happen; hoping they can make us forget about it. Of course, it's all anyone was talking about inside the airport, and now, on the plane. When a flight attendant walks by we hush up, like schoolchildren whispering in class when the teacher's not looking.

I can only begin to imagine how surreal it must have been to fly a couple of days after the World Trade Center attack: What? a plane flew into a New York office tower and exploded? You don't say! Two planes? Really? No, I wasn't aware, I was on a plane myself...

They only show cute movies on planes. That's the second reason I never watch them. The first is — well, do I really need to tell you? You've been on planes. Can you imagine a setting less conducive to the activity of movie watching?

Still, since it's impossible to read during the meal, today I watch half an hour of Monster In-Law. What a dreadful piece of contrived shit. Even the most implausible plot lines on Dynasty and Dallas were better than this. What could Jane Fonda have been thinking? After 35 minutes the ending of the movie couldn't have been more clearly projected if each of the characters had held up signs reading, for example "My character is going to have an allergic reaction at the wedding reception, and that crisis will lead to a resolution of the conflict between the major characters."

I turn it off in disgust and try to do some thesis reading. It's difficult to concentrate on the WEAF experiment of 1922, though, because what I'm more concerned about is when on earth I'll find the time to buy a dress before Sunday night, when Jack and I are going dancing with my father and his wife.

Wednesday, 7:00 p.m.

I'm sitting at the bar at the Holiday Inn in Monrovia, just east of Pasadena, at the base of the San Gabriel Mountains. Shame about the view! It looked familiar, driving up from L.A., but it's only now, looking at a map on the back of one of the hotel's myriad tourist brochures, that I remember why: The first time the X and I came to California, in 1991, we drove the state from San Diego to San Francisco, and during our three days in the L.A. area we stumbled onto the Hollywood Bowl. I have a great photograph of my teddy bear, Antoinette, there.

I'm waiting for Mike and Bill, the two guys who run an Internet startup here in the mountains. That's why I'm here, to spend the day with them, so we can check each other out. We've been at it since lunchtime. I'm just waiting here for them, then we're heading out to the Dave & Buster's in Santa Anita for dinner and — wait for it — to play video games. This plan has as much appeal to me as going to a strip club. Less, maybe. But it was not posed as a question — Mike, the CEO, said, simply, this is where we're going. It's clear he has his reasons. Likely it's a test, to see if we can all play nice together.

I've already decided I like both Mike and Bill. They are smart, funny, and passionate about their small company and its very cool stuff — I can't tell you what it is yet. They've already succeeded in getting me enthused about it. I like the idea of working with them. My brain is already buzzing with ideas.

But must I go shoot at a virtual Death Star to make them like me? Couldn't we build a tree fort instead?

Thursday, 1:40 p.m.
Route 66 Grill House, LAX

Just as I had predicted, last night was all about virtually blowing things up. Me, I like the analog carnival games. There was a shooting gallery, the kind that has a mise-en-scene — a gangster figure, a player piano, a saloon sign, a Marilyn Monroe mannequin &mdash with several dozen laser targets. If you hit the target, a light flashes, or the piano plays, or Marilyn's skirt billows up. I ran my playing card through this one three times. My score on the third try was 74%.

Then we came to the horse race booth. You know the one, the carnival game that ten people play at once, each moving his horse forward by rolling a ball into concentric rings — win, place, and show. My horse was named "Mr B's Tango." You bet I won that horse race.

See, my daddy is Mr B, and he taught me how to ballroom dance starting when I was about six. And in just four days, he's going to meet Jack.

This morning I had breakfast with Mike and we discussed terms. We are now in think about it for 24 hours mode, and I am going shopping.

I drive liesurely along Route 66 in Pasadena, winding my way down to Santa Monica, a shopping mecca with which I'm very familiar. Liesurely, because I have an hour and a half until the stores open. And because I love driving around California, especially this part of it. Call me crazy, and Jack would, but I love L.A. Jack hates it.

At the end of Route 66, or the beginning, depending on how you view it, I park in the parking lot at Santa Monica Place and walk towards Macy's. As I approach the door, the security guard is just unlocking it.

Ah, mecca. I have three hours until I need to get to the airport.

There's no chance I won't find a dress in Santa Monica. There's a BCBG Max Azria store. And Macy's. I love Macy's.

Friday, 5:00 p.m.

On impulse at the airport yesterday, I bought a copy of Candace Bushnell's Trading Up, to read on the plane. Partly because my tired brain craved junk reading, and a National Enquirer only lasts half an hour, 45 minutes tops. And partly because I wanted to find out whether she was a good writer. Though I despise the TV show Sex And The City, I watch it nevertheless because of Chris Noth, who has always reminded me of Jack, and lately I've come to appreciate the clever dialogue. I wondered whether it was Bushnell's.

It isn't. I won't outright call her a hack, but, well, let's just say a good writer she is not.

Jack is on a plane right now. I'm meeting him in a few hours, and the circumstances are such that I'm in a position to live out a fantasy I've had since 1998, when he left Toronto for California. I always imagined that if, one day, X and I were to break up, I would call Jack and say, simply, if you're interested, I'll be at the Royal York in the Library Bar on such-and-such a day at 10:00. I'll be the tall redhead in the white dress.

Tonight, at 10:00, I'll be the tall redhead in the white dress in the Library Bar at the Royal York.

Find out what Jack gives Sass for her birthday in the next story. Or, skip ahead nearly a year to read about Sass's next trip to California, which also involves a job interview, and Jack.