Carnival

A virtual stage, it seemed to me...A carnival, of sights to see.

I'd like to invite those of you who read and enjoy these tales of the mundane adventures of Postmodern Sass, those of you who blog your own mundane stories, to submit something to the next Carnival of the Mundane.

This is the Wikipedia's definition of a blog carnival:

A blog article that contains links to other articles covering a specific topic. Most blog carnivals are hosted by a rotating list of frequent contributors to the carnival, and serve to both generate new posts by contributors and highlight new bloggers posting matter in that subject area.

There are carnivals for capitalists, and carnivals for fashionistas. But the Carnival of the Mundane celebrates those of us who write about our dog pooping on the floor, or removing a sliver from our daughter's finger, or wallpapering the bathroom.

The next Carnival of the Mundane will be hosted by Lorie at Colla Voce this Friday, February 3. To submit your story in celebration of mundanity, email Lorie at gogogertie at sbcglobal dot net.

Gonna Fly Now

Maybe it's the drug-induced stupor I've been in for most of this week that's caused me to dream about Beamsville, the small town where I grew up, more frequently than is usual. Last night, for example, I dreamed I returned to our old house on Spring Creek Road to find my mother redoing the livingroom walls in a weird combination of Ikea blue paint and bubble wrap. My mother's dead and my dad sold that house in 1990 when he married The Old Lady, but the bubble wrap part wouldn't strike you as bizarre if you'd known my mother.

And twice this week I've dreamed about Roger Larmon.

My crush on Roger began in grade five and lasted until I lost track of him when he moved away during highschool. I'm a Leo, and Leos are loyal to a fault. I'd probably still be in love with him if he hadn't left town. In the real world, I have no idea where he is or what he's doing now; he could be a Peace Corps doctor in Africa, or a line worker at the GM plant, living in the north end of St. Catharines in a split level with a wife and two kids. But in Dream World, when I encounter him, we're old friends who've stayed in touch, and we joke about Mario Silva.

"If I had to guess, I'd bet Mario is in prison," I say.

"You'd be right," says Roger, and he tells me what he knows about how Mario turned out.

Mario transferred to Senator Gibson School for grade five, the same year as Roger, and the two of them were always together, though looking back through the eyes of wisdom I believe their friendship, such as it was, hinged on the fact that they both lived on Hixon Street, and of necessity walked to and from school together. They couldn't have been less alike: Roger was tall, blonde, and WASPy, with big teeth and a crooked smile that earned him the nickname Bugs, as in Bugs Bunny. He was an A student most of the time, and a nice guy when Mario wasn't around. Mario was small, dark, and Portuguese. He smelled like smoke and his fingers and teeth were yellow, and he'd brag about shoplifting at Steadman's uptown. He'd failed a couple of grades and must have been two years older than the rest of us.

Mario hung around Roger like that dog in the Bugs Bunny cartoon, the one that says, "We're pals, ain't we, Alfie?" But instead of Roger being a good influence on Mario, Mario, it seemed, was a bad influence on Roger. In grade six I saw Roger and Mario out by the back fence during recess, smoking a cigarette. It almost killed my crush.

Mario, when he found out I was German, started calling me the Nazi. And Roger, who had been talking to me before Mario walked by and called me that for the first time, laughed.

I knew he was Portuguese but I didn't know any racial slurs to hurl back at him. I was ten; I didn't even know what a Nazi was, or I might have shot back, "Hey, Mario, why don't you come over to my house after school so I can see if your scrawny ass fits into my oven?"

Mario quit school as soon as he turned 16, which was half way through grade eight, so I had to endure almost four years of him. It was worth it in the end, because it was in that year, when we were all seniors at Jacob Beam Public School, that I had my revenge on Mario.

We were in Mrs Gillian's art class. It was late fall, and I was wearing a new outfit, a dark pink faux suede jacket and skirt. Gosh, how I loved that suit. There was a matching pair of pants, too, and all three pieces were lined with a blue and pink paisley pattern which peeked out from the edge of the cuffs and the waistband of the skirt and pants. Pink has always been my favourite colour. That day was the first day I'd worn it to school, and I'd noticed Roger looking my way at least four times since home room that morning.

I was sitting at my desk, trying to draw something — I was never any good at art — when Mario walked past my desk with a wet paintbrush in his hand, and accidentally on purpose painted a swatch of dark blue across the arm of my jacket.

"Oh, sorry!" he said, sincere as Snidely Whiplash and loud enough for half the room to hear. "Did I ruin your new outfit? Gee, it was an accident."

I said nothing, I was so shocked by this blatant act of aggression coming from Mario, who was usually sneaky in his nastiness, like a cockroach shitting in your cereal box in the dark. Then I took a moment to fight back the tears. The fury was rising in me, and when I am furious, I tend to cry, even today. But I knew crying would make me look like a baby, and make matters worse.

I stood up, and turned to face the back of the room. Mario was at the end of my row of desks, strolling casually toward the far corner, where he'd been sitting. Roger sat at the end of the row beside Mario's table.

I followed Mario, walking slowly, my hands clenched in fists at my side. Mario turned and saw me, and walked a little faster. When he reached Roger he sniggered and pointed at me. He was about to sit in his seat when he looked my way again. Something in my face must have scared him, because he kept walking instead, so by the time I reached his empty desk in the far back corner, he was at the front of the room, hastily explaining to Mrs Gillian, who until now had been oblivous, about the "accident."

Roger said nothing as I passed, but his eyes asked, what happened? I pointed at my sleeve, and kept walking, slowly, following Mario's path. Mario was now scurrying to keep on the opposite side of the room from me.

"All right, everyone, please take your seats," said Mrs Gillian. She was a tiny woman, about five feet tall in her pumps, and 90 pounds soaking wet. No one paid any attention to her. By now, the rest of the students had put down their pens and paintbrushes and were watching Mario and me circle the room.

I didn't run; I didn't hurry. I knew if we both started to run I'd never catch him, weasel that he was, and I didn't want our little drama turning into slapstick. I figured that eventually he'd have to stop and confront me, or else he risked looking like a coward. So I continued to follow him around the room.

As Mario approached his corner for the second time, Roger stood up and leaned casually against the counter behind his desk. And Doug Harvey, who was one of the most popular boys in our school (and who, a few years later, would be our class valedictorian), pushed his chair back from his table and had turned to face the oncoming Mario, who now slowed his pace as he approached his friend; his ally, Roger. He turned back toward me again and smirked, as if to say, now what are you going to do?

I didn't know, but I knew I had to finish it.

"Mario! Sass! Please go back to your seats!" Mrs Gillian tried again. Then I heard the sound of her heels clickety clicking toward the door, and the sound of the door opening, then closing behind her.

Mario had stopped walking. He was standing in the back corner, between Roger and Doug, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed in front of him, acting cool as a cucumber, confident that I wouldn't dare to do anything while Roger was there to protect him.

That's when I slapped him across the face as hard as I could.

In the split second that it took Mario to recover from the surprise, and uncross his arms so he could hit me back, Roger grabbed his right arm and pinned it behind him. And then, magically, there was Doug Harvey, the most popular boy in grade eight; heck, in the whole school, grabbing Mario's left hand before it could swing at me, and holding him back.

They just stood there like that, Roger and Doug, holding Mario between them, while he struggled and begged for them to let him go. That's when the rest of the class started laughing, and this time they were laughing at Mario, not at me.

I considered what to do next; whether it was finished. I looked at Roger, and he shrugged, as if to say, up to you, he's got it coming. And so I took one more swing, this time with my fist, and punched Mario right in the face.

He started to cry. That's when I knew it was finished.

Roger and Doug let Mario go, and he ran out of the room. I went back to my desk and sat down, just as Mrs Gillian returned to the classroom with the principal in tow.

I don't think either of them ever found out why the 29 students remaining in that grade eight art class that afternoon had been cheering when they walked in.
* * *
In the next story, Postmodern Sass sees Darryl Sittler at The Banknote and remembers some of the celebrities she's met. But first it's a visit to the Carnival of the Mundane, and a happy rant about Gmail.

Could'a bin the whisky, might 'a bin the gin

My head is like a football, I think I'm gonna die. But this time it's got nothing to do with beer. Or sketch. And I don't think it even has anything to do with the beer-tasting brunch at Carl and Francine's, or Lana's birthday party.

I have a cold. A nasty, runny nosey, watery eyey, hacking coughy cold. So I'm going back to bed.

Maybe it was the penguins.

Trying hard to look like Gary Cooper

Super duper!

The text headline at the bottom of the TV screen, the one above the ticker, the one that stays static for a minute or so, before it changes to another headline, read

PENGUINS FOR SALE

I've always wanted a penguin!

Working for The Weekend [refrain]

Every few weeks on a Friday afternoon Postmodern Sass quits work early to thank her readers for reading, and shares some of their email messages and other tidbits with you.

* * *
I must have installed the Statcounter code incorrectly, way back when, because for every visitor it said "No referring URL." Which, it occurred to me last week, was possible, though not likely. (No one ever finds Postmodern Sass's blog by clicking on a link from somewhere? Hmn...)

So I re-installed it, and a whole new pile of fun has opened up to me. These are just some of the things that people have been searching for, that led them to my blog:

memorial doves
pee so bad
hangover food
Meisterstuck
Carrie and Big
Truffula trees
Elizabeth Montgomery naked photo
unpack your adjectives
boys are stupid
fuck stephanie bray

That last one really puzzles me. I've mentioned Tim Bray in my stories, and I've been known to say fuck from time to time, but I've never written about anyone named Stephanie, real or imagined.

So I don't know where that search ended up, but here's my guess at the stories the other searches led to:

memorial doves
pee so bad
hangover food
Meisterstuck
Carrie and Big
Truffula trees
Elizabeth Montgomery naked photo
unpack your adjectives
boys are stupid

And yes, I appreciate the postmodern reflexivism inherent in the fact that having repeated these search phrases twice on this page makes it more likely that these searches will find Postmodern Sass.

Bwah, ha ha ha ha!

* * *
What's black and white and re(a)d all over? Postmodernes Sprachspielen, apparently. Someone whose I/P address indicates they're from the University of Chicago Press — I'm not sure whether that's a publisher, or a school newspaper; I/P addresses don't tell you much — has been reading my blog lately. I mean, a lot. Pages and pages of it. Which is terribly flattering, but I wish you'd say hello!

* * *
Thanks to Brian G., of no fixed blog address, for the postmodern email zen.

* * *
And finally, to all of you, my Gentle Readers, who for whatever reason enjoy my stories of the mundane, I present this link to the Carnival of the Mundane.

* * *
Click here to sing the next chorus of "Working for the Weekend" with Postmodern Sass.

Thursday watch the walls instead

I don't care if Monday's blue — because I can sleep until 10:00 if I want to.

Thursday is the new Friday for me. It's the end of my official work week. Now, mind you, a teacher always always has something to mark, plus I edit textbooks, I'm writing a PhD thesis...I walk dogs, and I have this blog thing, not to mention two novels that I might, just might, finish before I'm 60 — so I'm always working, in one sense or another.

Even when I'm singing 99 Luftballons (in German) at a karaoke bar.

But on Thursdays I'm done, for the week, with having to be in a particular place at a particular time, that is, standing in front of a classroom doing standup. I mean, teaching marketing. I have classes from 5:00 - 10:00 p.m. You may not think that's a long work day, five hours, and if your day involves mostly sitting at a desk, you'd be right. But if you're a theatre actor, or stand-up comedian, or flight attendant, or, oh; Howard Stern, or Regis Philbin, you'll understand. It's tough to be "on" for five hours.

My friends all think that because my work day ends late at night I should want to go straight home and go to sleep — but is that what you want to do when you're finished your work day at 6:00? You probably get up at 7:00 in the morning. I get up at 10:00, sometimes 11:00. When my work day is over, I want to have something to eat and, yeah, a beer. Nothing tastes as good as a beer after you've been talking for five hours, lemme tell you.

Sid understands, because he's a bartender. He's on his feet and talking for more than five hours. And he's there, at The Banknote, waiting to put a Beck's in front of me tonight.

Sid has always been the Thursday night bartender at The Banknote, even when Andrew was here. I told you once.

I've started to come here on Thursdays after my class, because the kitchen is open late, and because no beer tastes quite so good as the one you have after you've been talking for five hours.

But Sid is still Sid.

"Are you hungry?"

"So I could eat the menu."

"What do you feel like?"

"I feel like I've been talking for five hours, but I'm thinking, quesadilla."

"No, no; no quesadilla."

"What, you're out of quesadillas? There was a run on guacamole today?"

"How about nachos? Have the nachos."

"I'd need six other people to help me eat them."

"Have a steak then. The steak is good. I'll make you a good deal."

"Sid, how long have I been coming here? Have I ever ordered the steak? Besides, I said I was so hungry I could eat the menu, not I could eat a horse."

"Have the nachos then."

"Are you going to help me eat them?"

Sid has a way of not answering the question you asked; at least not right away. You have to learn to leave auditory breadcrumbs.

"Go ask the guys if they'll make you a small nachos."

He drags me to the kitchen counter. Well, it's just behind the bar, where I'm sitting.

"I'd rather ask them why I can't have quesadillas."

He asks them if they'll make me a small nachos. They tell him that's no problem, but then explain that they'll have to charge me the same as a regular nachos. A plate of nachos at The Banknote is meant as a meal for two very, very hungry people, at the very least. It would take six to make it work as an appetizer.

Sid tells them to make it.

Sometimes, it just doesn't pay to argue with Sid.

"You'd better help me eat them when they get here," I threaten, though not very threateningly.

Penny, tonight's Murphy Brown waitress, puts a hamburger and a bowl of soup down in front of Sid.

"No, I'm having a hamburger. You want some soup?"

"Sid, I'm having nachos for twelve in a couple of minutes, remember?"

"Have the soup, it's good."

"Why aren't you eating it, then?"

"Here," he gives the soup to Penny, "Give her the soup."

"What are you, my grandmother?" I ask. Then, to Penny, "I don't want the soup."

"You eat the soup, then," says Sid to Penny.

Penny's boyfriend is also sitting at the bar. She offers the soup to him. He doesn't want it either.

"Charlie!" calls Sid, to Charlie, one of the regulars, who is sitting at the other side of the bar, "You want some soup?"

"What?"

"Go take him the soup," Sid orders Penny.

Before the soup incident, Penny and her boyfriend had been discussing a movie. Now that Penny's on the other side of the bar, delivering soup to Charlie, Penny's boyfriend asks Sid, "Have you seen Wedding Crashers?"

"No."

"It's really funny. You should rent it."

"I'll rent it for my dog," says Sid.

Anyone who's been at The Banknote on a Sid night knows about Sid's dog, the way we all knew about Andrew's baby. Her name is Sage. Sid keeps a picture of her behind the bar. An 8x10 glossy.

"She'll howl."

* * *
Next, Postmodern Sass tells the story of how she beat up Mario Silva in grade eight. And next week at The Banknote, she sees Darryl Sittler.

Get back to where you once belonged

The first thing you need to know, Gentle Reader, is that I love Andrew. In the same way, but even more than The Viking. But I don't think I'll be going back to Aquadisiac.

It's a beautiful club. Lounge. Martini bar. And that's the problem. It's not a pub. It's exactly the sort of place I stay out of. Exactly.

AC and I went to the opening on Monday night. Though it's just down the road from us on Queen's Quay, a ten or fifteen minute walk at the most, we drove — well, AC drove — because it was cold. And also because it's a school night, and AC has a regular job, so he drives to make sure I won't stay until closing.

So the first thing we hated about the place was the lack of parking. You can't park on Queen's Quay boulevard. The only option is the underground parking at the Radison Hotel across the street. We put $5 into the machine and got one hour. And because we stayed for an hour and a half ("Come on, one more beer? If you get a parking ticket I'll pay for it, OK?") we got a parking ticket. A $25 parking ticket.

Two of the other regulars from The Banknote, Justin and Chantal, were sitting at the bar. As I began my review, Chantal agreed with every point. Apparently she'd said all the same things to Andrew before we got there.

"Where are the taps? Don't tell me there are no taps!"

"No taps. No draft beer."

Grumble, grumble.

"OK, what have you got in bottles?"

Andrew opens the stainless steel fridge door directly behind him. It's full of Molson Canadian.

"Fuck off."

He opens the next door. Labatt Blue.

"I don't think so."

Behind door number three I can see some acceptable beers: Alexander Keith's, Sleeman Cream Ale, and Creemore.

"I'll have a Creemore. But I can't believe I'm drinking it in a bottle. I didn't even realize it came in bottles."

AC orders a Sleeman's.

I run my hand along the underside of the bar, looking for a hook, and find none.

"No coat hooks? Where are we supposed to put our coats?"

The bar stools are sleek moulded steel, with a square padded seat the colour of a Weimaraner. They are oh so beautiful, and oh so uncomfortable. No arm rests, no back, and no place to put your feet. Plus, each one weighs approximately 50 pounds.

We cover the beautiful grey-brown faux suede seats with our coats, drag the stools closer to the bar, and sit down.

"Damn; no bar rail?"

"Can you believe it?" asks Chantal.

The owner of the bar, a handsome Asian man dressed in black, has been leaning agains the wall in the far corner, listening to our complaints. "There's a bar at the bottom of your stool for your feet," he says.

There is, but it's impossible to reach. The stool is moulded in the shape of an upside down U, with two sides made of solid steel. The other two sides are open, and there is a footrest in the middle, but you'd have to have the seat perfectly aligned; perfectly parallel to the bar, with the solid steel sides to your left and right, and the opening dead ahead, to have even the smallest hope of your feet reaching that footrest.

There's no music playing. Our voices echo in the cavernous club. At the far west end of the room is a dance floor, a DJ setup, and a very funky lounge room, with a wrap around sofa running three lengths of the room, its seat a continuous undulating wave of beige faux suede. There's a half wall separating it from the dance floor; the space between the top of the wall and the ceiling is strung with translucent clear glass beads, giving the effect of raindrops.

It's very elegant. Very sleek. Quite beautiful. And the most uncomfortable room you've ever tried to sit in.

The eastern half of the room consists of table and seating arrangements. The tables are set with white linen napkins, wavy silverware, and enormous wine glasses. AC has examined the menu, and wants to return next week to sample the sea bass.

"I don't think you want to sit at those tables," I say.

"Why not?" he asks.

They look so elegant. Small, L-shaped benches, their seats and backs upholstered in the same Weimaraner coloured faux suede as the bar stools. Across the table from each bench are two chairs, one shaped like an L, the other its mirror image, so that no chair arm or back interrupts the space between the two people that might be seated in the chairs. They are made of the same solid, heavy, stainless steel as the bar stools. Their backs are too short. And I can tell, from my seat at the bar, that those chairs also weigh about 50 pounds each.

AC goes to a table, pulls out a chair, and sits down.

"Oh, man, is this ever uncomfortable!" he exclaims from where he is. We can all hear him just fine, so I'm assuming so can the owner.

AC returns to his bar stool, and stands beside it. The floor is a lovely, wide plank oak hardwood. It's much more comfortable to stand on that than it is to sit on any of the furniture.

"Why would anyone design a place that's so uncomforable?" asks AC, truly puzzled. "No one's going to want to sit there for very long, and they'll probably never come back once they've done it one time."

"Uh huh," I agree.

"Aren't designers supposed to know how to design restaurants?"

"You'd think."

Andrew, please, I'm begging you, come back to The Banknote.

Get Back

"Hello?"

"Hello, is this 1-800-hairy-balls?"

I recognize Andrew's voice when he laughs.

"Sass?"

"Oh, so you remember what you wrote in the back of my notebook?"

Good thing he wrote his number, too.

"Are you coming tonight?"

"Well, I heard from Lulu last week that there's some grand opening party at the new place you're working, and I was calling to see what the fuck happened to my invitation."

"It must have gotten lost in the mail."

"That's what all my bartenders say."

"The name of the place is Aquadisiac. It's right across the street from the Radisson Hotel, on Queen's Quay West."

About half a kilometre from my house. Even closer than The Banknote.

"I guess I'm going to have to come, because the whole fucking Internet wants to know what the fuck happened to you, you bastard."

* * *
After her visit to Aquadisiac, Postmodern Sass begs Andrew to return to The Banknote.

Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is?

I meet the most interesting people in bars.

Take Phil, for example. He's a graphic artist for the Chicago Sun-Times, and has an Academy Award — for best educational film of 1989. He tells me about his latest project, constructing a 3D model of the new Wrigley Field.

I wait for him to say "da Bears" in a sentence, and when he does, it sounds just like John Goodman in the Saturday Night Live sketch.

(That's sketch, not Scotch.)

And then, later in his paragraph, as he's describing his attendance at a recent football game, Phil says, "I never bin an the field before."

Oh, how I love Chicago.

A good bar doesn't have a clock on the wall; only neon beer signs. And Warsteiner on tap, not Budweiser. A good bar has an entertaining bartender. And chairs that spin around. And french fries. And of course the very very best bars are the ones that have karaoke.

Resi's Bierstube has the first three of these, and the bartender's a doozie. His name is Seiser. Dared by the patrons, Seiser tends bar for several minutes with his pants around his ankles. (Thank god for boxer shorts.) This is no mean feat, make no mistake; the bar at Resi's is about 30 feet long, and he is the only one behind it. That's a lot of waddling back and forth.

I get the impression he's done it before.

A good bar has bar clutter. Bierdeckeln and cheesy plates on the wall. Entertainment for your eyes. I like clutter, and I miss it when it's gone.

Speaking of clutter, Dave wasn't exaggerating about the clutter in his apartment. Two people, two sets of furniture, two complete collections of books, CDs, DVDs, and video tapes, neatly labelled, of every episode of Star Trek TNG and the X-Files. On her way out the door on Friday morning Dave's roommate Bess picked up her keys, didn't notice that her magnetic clip-on sunglasses were stuck to them, and accidentally flung them across the room. She was still searching for them when I left on Sunday.

I tell Phil that Dave and I went to the Art Institute earlier that day. I don't tell him that I think the practise of hanging a Christmas wreath around the lions' necks is, well, disrespectful. To the lions.

Phil tells me that his mother went to art school with Andy Warhol, and that she has his box of pastels — used, and with his name written inside the lid. Phil says he's asked his mother to leave it to him in her will.

(I say, eBay!)

I like Andy Warhol's cats.

The Andy Warhol Museum is in Pittsburgh. That's also where Keppel is from. Keppel is sitting kitty-corner across from me at the bar, talking to Carrie. Dave tells him I'm Canadian.

"You're Canadian?" he asks, and I detect more than a little note of snarkiness in the question.

So I answer, "Yes. Eh."

"Pronounce 'against'," he says.

"Against."

"Say, 'Sorry'," he says.

"You mean as in, 'excuse me' don't you?" I clarify. "Like, What did you say? Sorry?"

He grins what can only be described as a Grinchy grin.

"Hey, do you hear that?" asks Phil.

He means the music being played on the bar's stereo system, as chosen by Seiser. I'd noticed Interpol earlier, and was impressed, but then became distracted by Mountie games with Keppel.

"It's The Buzzcocks," said Phil, answering his own question. "Noise Annoys. From Singles Going Steady."

"One of my favourite albums," I say, making sure to pronounce the word favourite with the U. "If it'd been Ever Fallen In Love, I would have noticed it right away."

Carrie was lamenting her lack of cleavage: "I was getting ready to come here tonight when I discovered my dog had chewed my bra! I had to resort to the sports bra. I didn't even bother to shower. I mean, what's the point of being clean when you don't even have a decent bra to wear, you know?"

"Don't you have any other bras?"

"No! I threw all the old ones away when I got the new one. It was my new one the little bugger chewed. So I had to decide whether to wear the sports bra or just boggle around. And now I have no tits!"

"What are you, Hunter S. Fuckin' Metcalfe?"

"Ever hear of a band called Naked Ragon?" asks Phil.

"No. How do you know so much about music?" I ask him.

"My mother was a singer. A famous singer. Well, small F famous. She was in a group called the Sweet Adelines — they once toured with Kenny Loggins. And she sang at the governor's mansion. Governor Clinton's mansion."

Someone mentions The Arcade Fire and I can't help myself; I go on my rant about how such overproduced, self-important, pretentious crap could only have come out of a bunch of guys from Montreal, the musical Bedrock of Canada, where young musicians grow up listening to Men Without Fucking Hats and are still listening to Yes and Genesis and Rush on CHOM-FM.

(I'm entitled to this opinion. I lived in Montreal for eight years during which time I never heard CHOM-FM play a song that was recorded later than 1979. I also managed a band, partied with Ivan from Men Without Hats, and learned to recognize the havoc they wreaked.)

"What do you mean, The Arcade Fire is Canadian?" says Keppel. He's offended that I should suggest such a thing.

I was beginning to recognize Keppel, too. As the resident wannabe recondite music critic.

"You didn't know?" I ask. "I'm not surprised; we walk among you unrecognized all the time."

(So long as we can keep from saying 'eh' after each sentence.)

Keppel practically spits his retort: "They're not Canadian. I happen to know for a fact that one of the guys in the band is from Texas."

"Keep telling yourself that," I say.

A girl at the far end of the bar who's been trying unsuccessfully to get Seiser's attention for some time now, finally does. She orders a glass of water. He brings her a giant glass mug full; it must have held one litre.

"You know those signs they have at pools?" Seiser is asking the patrons at the other end of the bar, now. "The ones that say, we don't swim in your toilet so don't pee in our pool? What if I wanted to swim in your toilet? What then?"

"You can get dyes that'll let you know if someone pees in your pool," offers Keppel.

"I don't like the pee pee discussion," says Carrie.

Dave is scanning the other side of the room, where a row of padded benches runs against the wall.

"Whenever I see a couch I want to lie down on it and take a nap," he says. "I can't help myself."

Dave's apartment has two entrances and lots of doors, many that I'm convinced lead nowhere, except perhaps to Narnia. Each of the two roommates' bedrooms has two doors. It struck me as surreal.

I like surreal.

The Art Institute of Chicago is home to the painting American Gothic, made famous by Bugs Bunny and a host of other comedians. There's always a big crowd around it. Those are the people who want to go back to their hometown of Buttfuck, Iowa, and say they saw a famous painting. They have no sense of irony.

I couldn't care less about American Gothic. I get the joke, and it's an ugly painting. Too, I am unmoved by most realist, naturalist, and impressionist paintings, uninterested in exhibits of pottery and ancient coins, embarassed on behalf of the abstract artists who are too stoned to be embarassed themselves for the great fraud they perpetrate on museum patrons, and I am drawn to the surrealists.

The Art Institute has a few Dalís, including A Chemist Lifting with Extreme Precaution the Cuticle of a Grand Piano (1936). I love his titles, and I prefer his earlier work.

Except for this one, which is from 1967.


I see it every morning when I step outside my bedroom door. I fell in love with Dalí when I saw the original in the Salvador Dalí Museum in St. Petersburg. It's four meters high by three metres wide. I stared at it for half an hour.

Several other Dalís and a couple of Magritte prints are framed and hanging in my home. Dave's favourite Magritte is Time Transfixed. This is mine.

This trip, I discovered a new artist: Gerhard Richter. At the Art Institue there were four of his canvases. His style is somewhat Jackson Pollacky; layers of paint, globs of paint, then some of it scraped away. It's supposed to be abstract, but close up I swear I saw snowy mountains with tiny brightly coloured skiers on one, and brightly coloured tropical fish on another.

I should have asked Bess about him — she was an art history major. Dave's roommate, Bess, is a delightful, curly-haired Star Trek nerd who knits but doesn't blog. And boy, does she knit. On New Year's Eve she declined to attend Jaime and Jamie's party, opting to stay home with an order of sushi, a bottle of champagne, and her knitting needles. When Dave and I returned from the party I counted six new scarves, two hats, and a cardigan on the dining room table.

Someone down the other end of the bar says, "I once saw the band Chicago play live."

"Does anybody know what time it is?" asks Phil.

"Ladies and gentlemen, it's time to go home," announces Seiser.

"What the heck does 25 or 6-2-4 mean, anyway?"

"The bar is closed, get out!"

In the next story, Postmodern Sass has an update on Andrew the bartender.

Go Your Own Way

Loving you
Isn't the right thing to do
How can I ever change things that I feel?

If I could
Maybe I'd give you my world
How can I, when you won't take it from me?

You can go your own way
Go your own way
You can call it
Another lonely day.

Diane might be able to handle this latest breakup, if it wasn't for the fact that even the most mundane things remind her of Jack. But how will Jack handle the news that she might be moving to California?

Been a long time since I rock and rolled

When Dave picked me up at the airport last Thursday it was the first time I'd seen him with his pants on.

See, he usually wears shorts. Yes, even in winter. Even to hockey games.

I was at the baggage claim in O'Hare, where we had arranged to meet, but I didn't see him approach because I was watching for my suitcase. Then I heard a familiar voice ask, "Should I start singing Foreigner now?"

I laughed, and handed him a silver bag.

Just before I left home to catch my plane that morning, I had emailed Dave and asked, do you remember what I look like, or should we work out a code — like, I'll be the tall redhead carrying the bottle of Macallan?

He thought I was kidding, but I never kid about sketch.

I've been to Chicago five or six times before, but always either on business, or on vacation. Once, back in the glory days when Mecklermedia did their Internet World shows three times a year, including Chicago in July, I went shopping at Filene's Basement with Tim and Lauren. And once, the X and I and another couple took the train for a St. Paddy's Day long weekend. But before I met Dave I had never known anyone who lived there, so I was thrilled to be back in one of my favourite American cities, this time moving beyond the tourist attractions, like Navy Pier and the Sears Tower, and getting the tour from a local.

So naturally the first place I wanted to go was the Hard Rock Café.

Dave was beginning to learn that there are many things I do not kid about.

I'd been to the HRC in Chicago once before, about ten years ago, and I already have, on my jean jacket, the Chicago guitar pin with the Route 66 logo on it. I thought it was about time to add a second Chicago guitar.

"Look, I know it's overpriced beer and mediocre food," I explained, "So you have to think of it like a museum, and that's the price you have to pay for admission."

What I love about the Hard Rock is the clutter. The handwritten notes from Elvis to a fan. John Lennon's scribblings on a napkin with the title, Imagine. The Sonny and Cher salt and pepper shakers in the Hard Rock in Hollywood. The slightly battered Sex Pistols posters that you can believe were actually once on the wall of a club. The Kurt Cobain guitar in New Orleans.

I wasn't prepared for what I saw when we arrived.

The outside of the building was exactly as I remember it ten years ago, but inside, everything had changed. Gone was the clutter, replaced, instead, with minimal, stylish, enlarged photographs and only the occasional guitar.

You could actually see the walls!

Still reeling with the shock of this initial impression, I bravely proceeded into the restaurant proper where the sight of the bar, something out of a sci-fi nightmare, was nearly enough to send me screaming for the door.

But we'd come this far, so we sat down.

The main atrium bar, once solidly wood and decorated with guitars, was now stainless steel and glass. Towering from the centre was a cylinder composed of eight rows of small silver screens blaring the proprietary HRC video channel, interspersed with glass shelves upon which stood a bottle of Bacardi. I wondered if this were a new form of product placement advertising. The tower was too tall for the bottles to be functional stock.

Dave was looking at the menu. "I'm not a big fan of seafood. Give me a taco and I'm happy as a clam."

The secret to eating at the Hard Rock Café is not to order anything you expect to be good, but to order the most simple item, so that even they have a hard time ruining it for you.

Actually, it's best to avoid eating there at all, but we'd been walking quite a bit and were hungry, so we thought we might as well.

Oh, how I lived to regret that decision.

I ordered a chicken breast sandwich with onion rings. I love onion rings. Whenever I see them on a menu I ask if I can have them instead of fries.

Then I went for a walk around the joint.

Ain't That America was playing on the video screens as I examined the upstairs memorabilia. Where once clutter ruled, now there were only three or four inset glass cases, each featuring a gold record, a photograph, and a tastefully placed guitar. The silvery symmetry of it all made me want to kick the glass in.

I returned to our booth via the back spiral staircase, accompanied by the pants of Cher, John & Yoko, and Gary Glitter, and downed my beer in one gulp.

Our food had arrived.

"How is it?" asked Dave, who had never eaten at a Hard Rock before.

"Well, I was expecting mediocre, but this is unusually mediocre," I replied. "Try an onion ring."

He did so, and said, "It doesn't taste like anything."

"Yeah, I know. What do you suppose they fry them in that has absolutely no taste?" I wondered.

On Michigan Avenue, Chicago's main shopping street, the Victoria's Secret and the Borders, my other two meccas, are located side by side. Have I mentioned, I love this city? It was an hour or so later, in Borders, when I received what in hindsight I recognize to be the first clue as to what, exactly, those onion rings were fried in.

For your information and future reference, Gentle Reader, the bathrooms in Borders are located in the basement. We had been browsing on the fourth floor in the CD/DVD section when the rather urgent need to get to the basement hit me.

But it wasn't until another hour and a half later, back in Dave's part of the city, when we were two blocks from his apartment, on our way to the store to buy beer, that I finally had the answer:

Castor oil.

Ooh, let me get back, let me get back... now.

The Onion Ring Occurrence was not so acute as to require me to get on the next plane back to Toronto and never look Dave in the eye again, but, well, let's just say it's damned fortuitous that my purchases at Victoria's Secret included five new pairs of underwear.

In the next Chicago story, Postmodern Sass becomes Surreal Sass. But first, she sings au revoir to Jack.

Mrs. Robinson

I'd like to know a little bit (more) about him for my files, but what I do know is that, in addition to his killer good looks and his sailboat, Boz has the sense of humour of a postage stamp and no talent for flirting, whatsoever.

Seriously. I mean, were Mae West herself to walk up to him and inquire as to the unconfirmed existence of a pencil in his pocket, he would obliviously confirm its existence by handing it to her.

If it were just the latter character flaw, I'd think maybe it's me. That he's onto my not-so-inner dorkiness. Or that he's holding the ripped sail thing against me. But I've seen the former in action too many times, in the company of others — like today, with Liz, our convivial Postie, and a couple of squirrels — and have formed the opinion that the ability to engage in the latter is a direct result of one's skills in the former.

Is that a pencil in your pocket, or are you just glad to see me? That's funny. That's witty. That's clever.

Still, I refuse, just yet, to consider the possibility that every way I look at it I lose, and so I'm going to take Angela's advice.

We've got a federal election coming up in a few weeks, and this Sunday, I'm going to the candidates' debate.

* * *
Postmodern Postscript: Sadly, there was nothing storyworthy about the debate. Olivia Chow, the NDP candidate, won in our riding. I'm sure Boz is happy about that—I suspect he votes lefty. Myself, I'm a Liberal. But I digress. There's nothing to report because I've hardly seen the man, what with it being winter, when most Canucks hibernate. That may have been him I saw one day, in a knitted cap and a beige suede coat; it may not. Meanwhile Angela's in Italy, where it's nice and warm. And from whence comes this email.

New Year's Day

It's early afternoon, New Year's Day, and I'm in the Cincinnati/Northern Kentucky Airport, which serves the city of Cincinnati, Ohio, but is located in rural Kentucky. You might think the airport's call letters would be CNK, but they are, in fact, CVG. I'm here because, despite the fact that every time I fly to California or anywhere else in the United States on an American carrier I have to transfer in Chicago, the one time my destination is Chicago, I have to transfer in Cincinnati.

I love this country.

I'm sitting in a place called Moe's Bar & Grill. Moe's menu features "famous" Montreal smoked meat — on a pizza and in a club sandwich, in addition to the usual format. I lived in Montreal for eight years, so I'm having a pizza. The regular kind, with pepperoni. It's loaded with cheese; so much so that I can't hold a piece without the cheese sliding off and dripping goey, greasy piles of gooey greasy cheese onto the plate.

It's wonderful. Gooey greasy cheese pizza is one of my favourite hangover foods, which is a shame because, after a short nap on the Chicago-Cincinnati flight, my hangover is all gone. It wasn't even a hangover, really; just a mild headache. Because what Dave doesn't know is, when he wasn't looking I dumped my kamikazes down the sink.

Memo to bartenders everywhere: There is an age after which one no longer "does" shots, and I have passed it.

It was earlier today, at the Chicago airport, when I wanted that hangover food. Eggs and toast and, god willing, corned beef hash. It was 11:00, I had 40 minutes until my flight, and there was a food joint right across from my gate where a sign out front boasted, "Now serving breakfast." I took a seat. The waitress came. I inquired as to the breakfast menu. She replied, "Oh, that's over; we're serving lunch now."

Memo to the people who design airports: If you installed one, just one, food joint that served all day breakfast, it would be packed all day.

There's a football game on the TVs behind the bar. There's been a football game on everywhere I've been this weekend. American football, being a game in which for every 90 seconds of action there is 90 minutes of lolling about, holds even less appeal for me than do reality shows, which hold none. I'm looking forward to a few hours from now when I'll be back in my country where, though American football is available to those who care to watch it, and many do, many of those who care to watch it won't be available to me. If I can manage it.

Every time the game goes to a commercial, the announcer recites a disclaimer about rights, blah blah, which includes something about how the game is "for personal use only; all other uses are prohibited."

What other use could anyone possibly have for a football game?

Memo to The Viking (who has a paying part time job writing about American football): Is there one thing, just one thing, other than the Super Bowl commercials, that is, that you could tell me about football that would make it interesting?

Every muscle in my body aches, just a little. My back, from sleeping in a strange bed, too soft for my liking. My shoulders, from carrying a bag stuffed with five bottles of St. Ives Swiss Vanilla body wash. And my shins, from walking the streets of Chicago in my boots that, song title to the contrary, were not made for that much walking.

Memo to St. Ives: For fuck's sake, market your line of body washes in Canada, will you?

My stomach, too, is complaining slightly. Too much of Alpa's most excellent spicy hummus last night. Or, rather, at 3:00 this morning. That, and it's been less than 24 hours since what will henceforth be referred to as the Onion Ring Occurrence, in which Postmodern Sass regrets her decision to order onion rings at the Hard Rock Café.

And I don't even want to think about what my liver looks like right now.

Come to think of it, I don't really want to think about what anyone's liver looks like. At any time.

Memo to me: From now on it's beer only at the HRC.

The Hogmanay was at Jaimee and Jamie's house, somewhere in Chicago. Everywhere we went this weekend, Dave would tell me it's on such-and-such a street, or it's north or east of his place, as if that would help me locate it. And when he told me Jaimee and Jamie's house was three blocks from his apartment it struck fear and terror into my heart. I had learned from Friday morning's experience, when we went out for breakfast to a place that was, according to Dave, "four blocks from here." Thank goodness for his roommate Bess, her car, and her lazy attitude. She drove us there, and it took ten minutes.

I estimated Jaimee and Jamie's house would be a twelve mile hike.

The party, when we eventually arrived at it, was worth the hike. Jaimee greeted us at the door wearing a black 1940s style evening gown trimmed with ostrich feathers. She owns a vintage clothing store and, I suspect, never needs to wear the same outfit twice.

"I love your dress!" I said.

"Thanks," Jaimee replied, "But it's shedding! Be careful when you're standing near me, or you'll end up going home looking like Nathan Lane in The Birdcage."

Memo to me: Add vintage clothing store owner to list of fall-back careers if the PhD thing doesn't work out.

Out on the patio, all the smokers — which is to say, nearly everyone at the party, including the hosts — squealed in delight at the disgusting photos that compose the warning label on packs of Canadian cigarettes, and, one by one, as the evening wore on, they sampled them.

"Delish," was the verdict from Alpa.

Cam and Erasmo, a gay couple, wore matching shirts. Cam's was dark pink, and Erasmo's was striped pink, orange, and yellow. Cam is a flamboyant, miles from the closet gay man; his partner's demeanor was more, yes, I'm gay, and OK with it, maybe even proud of it — but not inclined to wave a flag. On one of my trips to the smoking patio Cam was holding court on the topic of boots:

"I was in the store the other day and I saw a pair of jump boots by Coach. I had to drag Erasmo over to have a look. I mean, can you believe it? Jump boots! You know it's the demise of the nation when Coach is doing jump boots."

At five minutes before the stroke of midnight, Jamie, who had been DJing all night, turned off the music and announced the countdown. There followed some quibbling as to the exact time.

"OK, five minutes to go in 2005. Best joke of the year?" suggested Jaimee.

"What are the three streets in Chicago that rhyme with vagina?" asked Katie.

"Paulina," said Alpa.

"Melvina," said Ayman.

"And Lundt," said Cam, finishing the joke that every Chicagoan knows.

"OK OK it's almost time!"

There followed more quibbling as to the exact time.

"We could put on the TV and watch the ball drop," I suggested. It's that German efficiency thing.

"Nah; we don't need Dick Clark," said Jaimee. "We can use Jamie's balls."

"They dropped in about 1982," said Ayman.

He wins.
* * *
In the next story, Postmodern Sass decides to take Angela's advice about Boz. And if you wish, Gentle Reader, click here to read about the Onion Ring Occurrence in all its scatalogical splendour.