Dear Mr Gable

It's Thursday, so I'm at the Banknote for my end of the week beer and chicken wings. It's almost midnight, I've been here for ten minutes, and every song I've heard so far has been one I've done at karaoke. Tom's Diner, You Might Think, and now, Dreamin', my favourite Blondie song and best karaoke number. I like this cable radio channel 83. Finally, something Sid and I can agree upon.

I look up at the silent TV screen and see four men sitting on two sofas. A talk show. A sports talk show. It's Off The Record — I recognize Michael Landsberg. I watch for a while, wishing the television had closed captioning so I could hear what they're saying. I'm not much good at reading lips.

I wonder who that handsome older gentleman is talking with Landsberg. He looks familiar... wait... of course, it's Darryl Sittler!

I love Darryl Sittler. Have since I was twelve years old.

I take a moment to sigh.

The camera is spending most of its time focused on him. I silently thank the unknown cameraman at TSN.

I met Darryl Sittler once, and I got all tongue-tied and goofy, which is not like me at all. I've met a lot of famous people in my life: Billy Bragg, Michael Stipe, Mordecai Richler, Exene Cervenka and John Doe, Lanny McDonald, Pierre Burton, Susan Lucci, Seth Godin, Beau Bridges, Guy Lafleur, Jodie Foster, Nina Hagen, Howard West, and Jerry Yang. I even had Jerry's cell phone number programmed into mine, once upon a time.

But only twice have I been awed by celebrities. When I met Gloria Steinem, and when I met Darryl Sittler.

Dear Mr Sittler: I think you're grand, that's true.

Yes I do. 'Deed I do. You know I do.

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Next, Postmodern Sass becomes Postmodern Plumbing Sass.