Greatest Hits Volume III

If I were to hear from an old friend today, someone I hadn't spoken to for six months, say, and they were to ask me, so what have you been up to, I would probably reply, oh, not much; same as usual.

In October, my car broke down on the way to the university, and I was almost late for my Hard Rock Café class. Then I gave one of my students an F, something I truly hate to do.

In November, my favourite bartender, Andrew, abandoned me, so on the advice of my personal life coach, Angela, I went sailing with my handsome neighbour, Boz, and we almost died. Boz is now notorious at the yacht club and I am "that tall redhead who was on the boat with him."

In December I hung out at Wayne Gretzky's with my cousin Nate. The bar called Wayne Gretzky's that is; not, like Wayne Gretzky's house. Then I went to Chicago, to spend New Year's Eve with a man I met through my blog and had only spent one day with before that, and vowed never to go to a Hard Rock Café again. Or, at least, never to eat at one.

In January I finally heard from Andrew, the bastard. The Banknote just isn't the same without him, even though we still have Sid. Andrew's crazy: he dared Shayla to hit him as hard as she could, and she clocked him good. Then she turned to me and said, "That was great! Have you ever punched a guy?" So I told her about how I beat up Mario Silva when I was in grade eight.

In February, I learned a lesson about plumbing, and the importance of always wearing mascara. I met a new friend, Maria, who's as dorky as I am, which is why I love her. And I read the new Stephen King book.

In March, it was my daddy's birthday and I gave him a textbook for a present, but it seems that all you, Gentle Readers, were interested in was the menu at Denny's when I ran off to Niagara Falls with the Hot Chef from the Junction.

And what's up with Jack, you ask, Gentle Reader? Well, he was supposed to come to Toronto in October for his friend's wedding, and I was supposed to go with him, so we could dance again. I bought a new dress and everything, and then instead of dancing Jack spent the week of his friend's wedding in the hospital in San Francisco. He promised to take me and my new dress dancing soon, though, and when he was here in November for a quick trip to his homeland, he invited me to be his date for the Big Ass American Software Company Christmas party. And then he uninvited me. And then he went radio silent, which is why I went ahead and went to Chicago, and then after New Year's he, well, he threw me over. Again. And I told him, well, if that's what you need to do, I know I can't stop you, but it really doesn't change anything because of, you know, that thing. So I let him go but in March I called him because a Very Bad Thing happened and, much to my surprise he called me back and sang me a song.

And how have things been with you?

To Sir, With Love

Yesterday was my daddy's birthday, and so I dropped by his house—which is around the corner, in country terms, from the university where I teach—to bring him a present.

Usually what I bring is a sixpack of Warsteiner, a jar of pickled herring, a small loaf of vollkornbrot, and a couple of Ritter Sport chocolate bars. The chocolate bars are for him, for later; the rest is for us to have a picnic either in his backyard, if the weather is mild, or in the dining room if it's not. Either way the subject of conversation is always his garden, and his plans for it. By the end of March my father is so anxious for winter to be over so he can start working in the garden, you can actually feel it in his conversation.

This year, instead of beer and chocolate, what I gave him was a marketing textbook with his name on the cover.

As I stepped out of my car my father stepped out of his garage, motioning me to come. He was talking on the cordless phone to one of his sisters in Germany. "Der Vater ist mit siebzig gestorben. Vielleicht lebe ich ein par Jahre länger," he was saying.

I kissed him on the cheek and said, "Don't be silly. You're going to live to be a hundred, if for no other reason than so you won't have to give me your money." And then I chatted in German with one of my three Aunt Erikas; this one, my father's youngest sister in Schwabenland.

I can't stay long, I said, in German and then again in English. I have a class at 5:00. But I'll be back in a couple of weeks to get some tomato plants, just like last year.

"They're already starting to come up," said my father, "But don't take any until we're sure the snow won't come anymore."

In this part of Canada there is almost always one last snowstorm in early April. Just when you think it's safe to put away your boots and take off your winter tires, is exactly when it will happen. So I'll wait. I can be very patient when I need to be.

Then my father asked about Jack. Was he practicing his dancing. Would he be coming to visit again, and could we go dancing at the German club in Niagara Falls again, like we did last summer.

I said, we'll see, because I don't want my dad to think I'm any bigger of a loser than he already does, and than I already am. I didn't show him the picture that Amy took of me and Jack in front of the gorgeous purple wisteria bush on my aunt's patio.

And I didn't tell him about my new friend, the Hot Chef from the Junction, because when it's your father's 69th birthday a heart attack is not what you want to give him as a birthday gift.

* * *
In the next story, it's clear Postmodern Sass is procrastinating once again.

A friend with weed is better

Enough! All this talk about Denny's is making me hungry! And the closest one to me is the one in Niagara Falls, and I'm not driving back there again, no siree, not me. Not for all the corned beef hash in the world!

All these comments about Denny's, and no one...

...points out the irony of going to Denny's with a chef.

...asks about the fireplace door.

...reminds me that I once wrote I was underwhelmed by twenty-something men.

...squeals, Omigod he has a baby!!!!!

Well, all right, then. Onto something else.

In the interests of understanding the headspace of my students, who are twenty-somethings; some of whom are even nineteen-somethings, I have been exploring MySpace. So far, I am finding it even less interesting than "The O.C.," a television program I watch for the same reason.

Nevertheless, in the name of market research, science, etc. etc., here I am, on MySpace. I only have one friend, which, according to my students, is, like, totally pathetic, dude.

But sometimes one friend is all you need.

* * *
A friend in need's a friend indeed...but a girl's best friend is her daddy.

Sex And Candy

Things I learned spending the weekend with a chef:

Those little white ceramic dishes are called ramekins.

The crazy wax museums and other tourist attractions on Clifton Hill road in Niagara Falls don't open until 9:00.

Denny's has stopped serving corned beef hash.

Glass fireplace doors will crack under certain circumstances, and the sound produced is not unlike a gunshot.

Watching a man prepare apple tatin in your aunt's kitchen is incredibly sexy.

Chocolate syrup turns into toffee when spread on parchment paper and baked in the oven.

Ashton has a baby and wants to work things out with its mother.

* * *
Enough melodrama. Enough talk about Denny's. Time to move into a different Space.

You Give Love A Bad Name [part VII - fin]

Continued from part VI. To read this story from the beginning, go here.

"I can't; I have to work tomorrow," says Ashton, and before my mind can decode whether I have to work tomorrow is code for I was just kidding, or whether I have to work tomorrow actually means I have to work tomorrow, he adds, "There's a party of 80 coming to Allegro, and I have to go in early to get everything ready. Is there karaoke at The Rivoli on Sunday? If there is, I'll be there."

There was. And he was.

In fact, he was outside, leaning on The Rivoli's patio railing, having a cigarette, alone, when I got out of my car. I'd parked just out front and he'd been facing my way. I was at his side a moment later.

"Hey, stranger, got a light?"

He pulled out his Zippo, flipped it, and asked, "Is that a Corrado?"

"Yes, it is."

"VR6 or G-60?"

"VR6. It's a '93. I've had it since then."

"Standard?"

"Of course."

"I like your scarf," he tells me. I don't tell him he had me at chocolate cheesecake.

We go inside—together, seemingly—and he heads to the bar, where his friend, Scully, is sitting. I see my karaoke buddies in their usual spot, gathered around a table three back from the stage. I'm not sure what to do. I don't want to be rude; they're my friends, but neither am I going to ignore Ashton tonight.

I go over to my buddies, put my coat on the ledge behind their heads, where all the coats are, greet them, then take my purse and go back to the bar. To get a beer. Where Ashton is.

Everyone is here tonight: Sparky, Lana, Nina, Darla, The Viking. All the usual suspects, plus a few surprises. Jim, who I haven't seen since the karaoke contest at the bar in Etobicoke last fall, is here tonight, with a date, and is sitting with my clan—he knows The Viking from the contest. And speaking of Vikings, The Viking's mother is here, too. Ironically, they are originally from Tennessee. Long ago I realized that she must have had him when she was nine. Even more ironically, she and I have become friends, because she was also working on her PhD. She defended her thesis last November, and now we call her Dr. Debbie.

"The Viking's mother is here," I say to Ashton, "I have to go say hello."

"Who's The Viking?" he asks.

I point to the table at which my karaoke buddies are sitting. "The blond one. Those are my friends. I'll be back."

Bon Jovi is on stage singing "You Give Love A Bad Name." No, not the real Bon Jovi, but one of the karaoke regulars who sings—and looks—just like him. When he leaves the stage, Carson always says, "You know him, you love him, you slept with him last week."

Bon's friend, Jet, is standing near the bar when I return. He comes over to say hello to me, then admires the tatoos on Ashton's forearm. Ashton explains what the design means, and that he designed it himself. Then he says to me, "I have another one on my back. It's not finished yet, though. Wanna see?" And before I can answer he turns his back to me and pulls his shirt up over his head.

I admire this one, too, and run my finger down his spine. I wonder how many more tatoos he has, and where.

We talk for a while, then he starts talking with Scully about something or other; MySpace, and aliens, and so I go back to my karaoke buddies. A few minutes later Ashton and Scully go downstairs for a cigarette, and when they come back up they head to the back of the room, where there's a sofa and a couple of armchairs, just in front of the pool tables.

At the table with my karaoke buddies we talk about the usual: movies, music, and the regulars who aren't here tonight. Then Carson calls Ashton to the stage. He sings "White Wedding."

While Ashton is singing, J.J. comes to sit beside me. He seems to be inebriated, but I don't know him very well so it's hard to tell for certain. "I read your story, the one you wrote yesterday," he says. "Is that the guy you were talking about? The one you call Ashton Kutcher?"

You mean the tall, skinny guy who looks exactly like Ashton Kutcher?

"They're just stories," I tell him, "They're mostly made up."

"But you wrote about me!" he hiccups, and then he says something unintelligible. "Who's that Viking guy you're always talking about?" he asks.

"He's not here tonight," I say, and so J.J. gets up from our table and goes to the bar.

"Who was that?" asks The Viking, who'd been sitting across from me.

"Oh, the inebriated stranger? He's discovered my blog, and he's trying to figure out who everybody is. He seems especially keen to know who The Viking is."

"Not too bright, is he?" says The Viking.

"Hey, I don't make fun of your bimbos; don't make fun of my groupies!"

"Uh, actually, you do make fun of his bimbos," Darla points out, and then she screams, "Owwwwwwwwwww! My retinas!"

There's a bimbo on stage, not one of The Viking's, and she's singing—god help us—"Faith." Screaming it, more like it. And while wearing a schoolgirl outfit of a green plaid mini skirt and white blouse, except her blouse has only one button done up, the one right over her bra band. Her bra is a ghastly orangy-pink colour, not that anyone would notice because they'd be blinded by the cleavage.

"I don't know what offends me more," continues Darla, "Her choice of song, or her fashion sense."

"Or her hair," I add. It's ghastly, too.

"You know, I think she's a friend of your sous chef's," says Darla, and she seems to be correct—when Creepella finishes her song, she skips to the back of the room, where Scully and Ashton are sitting with a group of people.

I decide to go check it out. I've been to The Rivoli a hundred times, and had never noticed this rear section before. The chairs are wide, leather, and have wide arms. Ashton is sitting in one, so I sit on the arm and listen in on the alien discussion. We go downstairs for another cigarette break, and when we come back in I say to Ashton, "If you like, you could come sit with my friends." And he does.

It's getting late; Jim, his date, Lana and Nadia, and The Viking's mother have all left. There's only Sparky, Darla, The Viking, Bon and Jet left at the table. The Viking's deck of cards, the ones he uses to play karaoke roulette, are on the table in front of me. I shuffle them absentmindedly.

"Can I see those?" Ashton asks.

"Sure," I say, and hand them too him. "Careful, though, the last time I played with them I ended up singing 'Jessie's Girl,' and it was not pretty."

He fans the cards out toward me and says, "Pick a card." I do as I'm told, look at it, then place it back in the deck as he instructs me to do. I pretend not to notice that it's obvious he's thumbing it.

Then he cuts the deck a couple of times; makes three piles, and says, "Of the face cards, what are your two favourites?"

"King and queen," I say.

"And of the four suits, what are your two favourites?"

"Um... hearts and diamonds."

"And of the other two?"

"Spades."

"And that leaves?"

"Clubs?"

He turns over the card on the top of the middle pile, and it's the queen of diamonds.

"Hmn, well, I was feeling clubs," he says, and he flashes a goofy Kelso smile.

"I love how he does bad card tricks," I say to Darla, who's been sitting beside me, watching.

"He's incredibly adorable," says Darla. "Take him home."

Carson calls me to the stage for one last song and I tell Darla, "Try to keep the sarcasm to a dull roar, when you hear this one, OK?" Then I sing Romeo Void's "Never Say Never."

It's after 2:00. Carson has called absolute last call for last call. Scully, Creepella, and Ashton's other friends left long ago. Most of my karaoke buddies are still there, because we always stay until the very end; that's just what we do. And then I usually give Sparky and The Viking, and sometimes some of the others, a ride home, but tonight I don't want to.

Even though we've been doing this together for almost two years now, Sparky and The Viking never take me for granted, which is why I love them. Plus, I know they'll be fine: The Viking lives along the Queen Street streetcar line, which runs 24 hours, and Sparky can afford the $10 cab ride home. I've given Bon a ride home once or twice, but I know that Jet has a car, and they'll be fine, too.

So I don't feel the least bit guilty about deserting them when Ashton stands up and says, "Let's go." I just put on my coat, wave goodbye to my karaoke buddies, and walk out of The Rivoli on the arm of a 6'6" tatooed hottie who looks just like Ashton Kutcher, feeling a little less demure, a little more Demi Moore.

the end

Next, Postmodern Sass spends a lost weekend with the hot chef from the Junction, and learns what ramekins are. Ashton was right: he can, in fact, teach her a few things.

You Give Love A Bad Name [part VI]

Continued from part V.

Darla has begun to refer to Ashton, when he is out of hearing, as "your sous chef." She concurs that he is adorable but is abiding by the code: I saw him first. And I trust that she'll honour the code, because she wrote one of the codicils. Earlier in the evening she'd been telling me about an incident at The Rivoli in November, which it seems may have been the cause of Punky Nerdster's subsequent disappearance.

"The little one needed to be put in her place," Darla had said.

Steve, the KJ, calls last call and last song, and Sparky gets on stage and does "Ballroom Blitz." There are twenty or so people left in the bar, and everyone is on their feet, moving to the music while putting on their coats. Among my group, karaoke etiquette dictates no coats until the song is over. When your friend is singing, you pay attention.

The song finished, Sparky comes back to the table, where Nadia and Lana are putting on their coats and Darla is giving me a meaningful glance. She and Lana both have cars; no one needs me to drive them home tonight. Sparky pulls my coat from the pile, lays it on the table in front of me, and says, "We'll wait for you outside."

Ashton is leaning against the bar, talking with Scully. He has a half full beer in his hand, and seems in no hurry to leave. So I have a moment to argue with myself.

You can't do this.

I know.

Wait; why not, again?

He's too young.

He's older than my students.

Not by much.

It's not like I'm old enough to be his mother, or anything.

Are you sure about that?

Well, maybe in Tennessee, but we're not in Tennessee.

Still, you shouldn't.

Why not?

Your friends will think you're a slut.

More likely they'll be envious.

The girls, you mean?

Darla, for sure, at least.

Sparky, too.

But come on, who do you think you are, Demi Moore?

No. I would never have divorced Bruce Willis.

You know what I mean, smart ass.

Yeah, I do, and you know what? Demi kicks ass.

Still, you shouldn't. You've never done anything like this before.

Yes, I have.

Oh, right.

But that was a long time ago. You're too old for this, now.

Fuck you.

Fuck you.


"So, do you want to, um, make me a cheesecake?"

* * *
To be concluded tomorrow.

You Give Love A Bad Name [part V]

Continued from part IV.

Now I understand why Ashton wants me to take him home.

It's been fun flirting with him, but now I see that neither one of us has been serious about what we've been saying.

Ashton takes the mic and sings "Wake Me Up When September Ends" by Green Day. He's a so-so singer; there's room for improvement. He has trouble hitting the high notes, but he's not awful, and he has just the right degree of self-deprecating humour when he's finished.

"That was really bad, wasn't it?"

"No, not really," I tell him, "It was okay; I've heard better but it wasn't bad."

I can't outright lie and tell him he was great, when he wasn't, and he knows he wasn't.

"I guess I shouldn't quit being a chef," he says.

"We're all good at some things, and not so good at others," I say, philosophically. "Myself, as a chef I make a pretty good karaoke singer."

Ashton laughs at this. "Yeah, and as a singer I make a great chef!"

Now it's my turn. I sing "I Fall To Pieces" for no particular reason other than that I suspect it'll go over well with this crowd. When I come back to the table Ashton is sitting in my chair. There's only the one table in the karaoke zone at The Hole In The Wall, with four chairs, one of which is holding our coats. Lana and Sparky are in the other two, Darla and Nadia have pulled up bar stools to the table, and Scully and Tara are standing against the bar, talking to some people I don't know.

I move behind Ashton and touch the back of his neck, between his hair and his black shirt, and he almost jumps out of his chair again. But not quite.

"Sure, I turn my back for one minute and you take my chair," I say. Neither the most original nor the cleverest line in the world, yeah, yeah, but it was amusing because he and I both know that it was his chair before I got there.

"That's right," he says, "So you're going to have to sit on my lap, I guess."

Bob, the resident octogenerian, is on stage again, this time singing "Fly Me To The Moon." Ashton has turned his chair to make room for me, and is now facing the front of the bar, which means he can't see the stage or the screen with the lyrics.

And it was right then and there, at a hole in the wall bar in The Junction, sitting on the lap of an adorable sous chef fifteen years younger than me, with my arm around his shoulders and his around my waist, as he sang every word of Frank Sinatra's "Fly Me To The Moon" to me, without having to look at the words...

Fly me to the moon
Let me play among the stars
Let me see what spring is like
On Jupiter and Mars
In other words, hold my hand
In other words, baby, kiss me

Fill my heart with song
And let me sing for evermore
You are all I long for
All I worship and adore
In other words, please be true
In other words, in other words
I love you

...that I began to wonder, what if?

To be continued tomorrow, and concluded on Friday.

You Give Love A Bad Name [part IV]

Continued from part III.

Let's ignore, for the moment, the fact that we are all standing in The Junction as the crazy crone is condemning it. She's far from done, and this is fascinating.

"Fucking bitch whore slut!" she's bellowing now, and flailing her arms. Tara is intermittently ducking, and trying to hold the woman up. She's so drunk—the crone, that is, not Tara— that it's astonishing she hasn't fallen over yet.

Of course, there's still time.

"Fucking bitch whore slut is half my age, for fuck's sake," the crone is crying through her frazzled mop of hair at Tara, at me, at Ashton, at the door. Then she wrenches free of Tara and stumbles to the end of the alleyway.

On the sidewalk, on Dundas Street, she yells at the passing cars: "Saw me in my pyjamas, for fuck's sake. I used to sit on his lap!"

"Who is she?" I ask Tara. "Do you know what's going on?"

"She's one of the bartenders, but tonight's her night off," Tara replies. "She was sitting at the bar a minute ago. I have no idea what happened."

"She's a bartender at this bar?" I ask, seeking only clarification.

"Yes."

The crone is back, and now she's yelling at Ashton: "I hate men. I want to be a motherfucking lesbian."

I can't control the burst of laughter, but I'm able to quickly turn it into a pretend cough. Somehow I have a feeling that if she thought I were laughing at her, she'd take a swing at me.

She's back out on the sidewalk now, her shrieking slurred and unintelligible. All I can make out is, "While my mother sits home and cries..." and then she lurches back toward Tara and collapses in her arms. She seemed to have been heading for Ashton, but he stepped back just in time. Now he's leaning against the railing, observing, but not helping. It's not clear whether he knows this woman or not.

"What happened?" Tara is asking the crone.

"He pushed you!"

"I thought he pushed you."

"He pushed me, then he pushed you," she says to Tara. Tara looks at me and shrugs. Apparently she has no better idea what the crone is talking about than do Ashton or I.

"Honey, you should go home," says Tara.

"Men are dogs," spits the crone in final judgement. "I hate them all." And with that she pitches once more toward the sidewalk. This time she continues around the corner and out of sight.

Tara, Ashton, and I look at each other in silence, only raising the occasional eyebrow questioningly; wondering whether to laugh but not being able to. It was just too sad.

"Who was that woman?" I ask again.

"She's my roommate," says Ashton.

To be continued tomorrow.

You Give Love A Bad Name [part III]

Continued from part II.

Ashton has that same innocent, boyish, slightly goofy look about him as his notorious namesake, which is why, when he said that, I didn't take him at all seriously. That, and, I'm not Demi Moore.

"I don't know," I replied, "You'll have to tell me about yourself. You know, sell me on the idea."

"I know I look young, but I'm actually very experienced."

"Oh?"

"I know about older women. I could probably teach you a few things."

On the other hand, Demi and I have a lot in common. She used to be on General Hospital. I used to watch General Hospital.

"What do you do, besides hang out in karaoke bars?"

Not that I'm saying that's a bad thing, you understand.

"I'm a sous chef."

I'm in love.

"Really? How marvelous. Women can't resist a man who can cook. Especially women like me, who can burn anything, even water."

Then I tell him about how I made Chinese dumplings once, and didn't put enough water in the wok, and ended up having to throw out my steamer basket because the dumplings welded to it, and how it was the smell of singeing bamboo that brought me running down from the laundry room even before the smoke detector went off. I don't care if he thinks I'm a klutz; I'm not trying to impress him, I just like to make people laugh.

He laughs. Then he says, "I set my Froot Loops on fire once, but it was intentional. I poured a little Grand Marnier over them, then flambéd it." He's miming the actions as he speaks, moving just like those chefs on TV, and the expression on his face tells me he loves what he does.

A man with passion. Who knows how to cook.

"How did it taste?"

"It gave them an intense orange sweetness."

Down, girl. He still eats Froot Loops.

"I'm not big on sweets," I say, executing a derobement. "I'm more of a cheesecake kind of girl."

"Oh, you should definitely try my cheesecake, then," he says. "It's light, and creamy, yet rich. I bet you've never had cheesecake like mine before."

"You're just saying that because you want me to take you home."

"Well, yes, but it's also true," he ripostes, never missing a beat.

He's clever. He's Ashton Kutcher, but not Kelso. He may even realize we're doing the tennis court scene from Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead.

"Come to my restaurant some time," he continues. "It's just around the corner. Allegro. My cheesecake is to die for."

Was that a feint, or a parry? A feint made without conviction will not produce the desired effect.

"I have to admit, you're making progress on the convincing me to take you home thing. Chocolate cheesecake could possibly close the deal."

"My cheesecake is topped with thin chocolate curls. I carve them myself. They'll melt in your mouth."

He's leaning over me now, virtual sword in hand. Not towering; with my boots he's only three inches taller. But it's so rare that I'm this close to any man that's taller than me, I'm going to enjoy the hell out of it, if you don't mind, Gentle Reader.

And then he says, "My cheesecake is positively orgasmic."

Before I can advance-lunge into that one, Tara comes outside and joins us.

"Hi, Sass, do you know my friend Ashton?" she asks.

"I do now," I reply, putting my sword down for the moment. "He's been trying to convince me to eat his cheesecake."

"Ooooh, you'd be a lucky girl," says Tara, to me. "Ashton's cheesecake is —"

"Come on you bitch, let's go! Let's go, bitch. Right here!" A disheveled blonde woman has burst out of the bar and slammed into Tara, nearly hard enough to knock her down. "Whatzza matter, no balls? Come on, show me your balls!" She seems to be addressing the door, or, rather, someone behind it, rather than Tara. But Tara knows her.

"What's wrong?" she says to the woman. "Come here; take it easy. What happened?"

Tara is a tiny, angelic young woman, also blonde, but not in the least disheveled. Tonight she is wearing a black vinyl bustier over a black mini skirt, with blue and black striped tights and black Doc Martens. Her arms are encased in knitted black and white sleeves which she's pulled on like leg warmers. Her fragile appearance is belied by her bravery in attempting to soothe the crazy lady.

"This is why I left the fucking Junction!" the blonde woman screams.

To be continued tomorrow.

You Give Love A Bad Name [part II]

Continued from part I.

The Junction is a Toronto neighbourhood that one might—OK, one does—describe as "rough." Dundas Street, which runs the entire east-west length of Toronto and continues west into Hamilton and up the mountain, is the main thoroughfare by road, but The Junction was named for the crisscrossing train tracks, most no longer in use, that characterize the off-road. Dundas Street in The Junction is peppered with second hand appliance stores, hole-in-the-wall vaccuum cleaner repair places, and fabric and drapery shops, and there's a women's shelter and a bar on every block.

I never wear my white go-go boots to The Junction when I know that's where I'm going, but tonight it was spur of the moment. This ain't Queen Street: boots and mini dresses have an entirely different connotation at Dundas and Keele. But I had Lana, Nina, and Darla to protect me. And Sparky. Besides, with these boots I'm 6'3". Nobody'll mess with me. They'll probably think I'm a trannie.

The Hole In The Wall bar is aptly, if not quite literally, named. The front door is set back so far from the sidewalk that the entranceway becomes its own alley. The building was once a long, narrow nineteenth century brick house that, sometime in the twentieth century became two long, narrow brick houses. To negotiate to the far end of the bar where the karaoke is happening one has to pass along the entire length of the bar in the six inch space between the wall and the backs of the patrons sitting on the bar stools.

We see Tara and Scully, a gothy-punk couple who sometimes come to Kickass Karaoke at The Rivoli on Sunday nights, sitting at the only table in the karaoke zone. This is no coincidence; we know that this is their local, and that there's karaoke here on Friday nights. That's why we came.

There's another guy sitting with them. He has black gelled hair and is wearing a black shirt with the sleeves cut off. There are intricate tatoos on his forearms, which end in leather studded bands. His jeans are decked in chains. He sees us approach and greet Tara and Scully, and then he does the cutest thing. He jumps out of his chair, actually knocking it over, then picks it up, extends his hand to me, smiles the most adorable smile I've ever seen, and says, "Hi, I'm Ashton."

Hi, I'm Demi.

He is 6'6", skinny, and barely older than my students.

He offers me his chair so I can sit next to Tara then goes to the bar to talk to the people there. He's clearly a regular in this joint. We pile our coats on a chair in the corner, and proceed to examine the karaoke books. Business first, chat later, that's our modus operandi. What I like about Junction karaoke is, I can do songs I would never do at The Rivoli, surrounded by Queen Street hipsters, many of whom sing in bands or work in theatre. Up here amid the blue collars, I can do Connie Francis, Petula Clark, Fleetwood Mac, and Patsy Cline.

I hand the KJ "You're So Vain."

Karaoke bars like this one in The Junction have character. Some places have a guy like Bob, who was singing "Summer Wind" while Ashton was knocking down chairs. There's a guy like that at The Groundhog, I think his name's Don, who does "Mac The Knife" like he was on a Las Vegas stage. And once, when I was in Ogonquit, I met an octogenerian named Howard who sang Frank Sinatra 'til I cried.

Later, I go outside to the hole-in-the-wall entranceway for a smoke. Ashton is there, too, talking to two other guys. I touch his back to get his attention and say, "Hi, sweetie, do you have a light?"

He jumps, ever so slightly, then fumbles in his pocket for his lighter, pulls it out, drops it, picks it up, and says, "Sorry; you got me all flustered when you touched me."

He lights my cigarette with his Zippo.

He's seven inches taller than me and he carries a Zippo.

And then he says, "Will you take me home tonight?"

To be continued tomorrow.

You Give Love A Bad Name [part I]

I was wearing matching underwear—Victoria's Secret, hot pink, if you must know—underneath my go-go dress last night when my karaoke buddies and I went to a Kickass Karaoke party at a boozecan on Queen Street. This is probably why I didn't end up going home with Ashton Kutcher—or, more likely taking him home, since he almost certainly has a roommate or, worse, lives with his parents. Because when a girl wears matching underwear for no particular reason, she's just jinxing herself.

Mo is on vacation and The Viking was unreachable, though we tried his cell phone—I hope he wasn't in High Park biting the ears off coyotes—and so it was Sparky and the girls: Lana and her friend Nina, me, and Darla, a recent addition to the cast of regulars. Punky Nerdster has not been seen nor heard from since before Christmas.

The boozecan was in a second floor studio, above a store. The door was suitably hidden in an alcove, though a sign reading KICKASS KARAOKE UPSTAIRS was none too discretely taped to it. Upstairs was a large, empty room with a wooden floor; a makeshift stage holding Carson's karaoke equipment at one end, and a folding table that served as the bar at the other. The walls were painted cinderblock. All that was missing was the retracted basketball hoops on either side.

The host, Stewart, a 20-something blond wearing a bright red belt, was onstage with the microphone. "We want to hear some dance songs tonight, so get your requests in!" He was lively and encouraging. "Come on everyone, come closer to the stage so you can dance!"

The room had filled with people quite suddenly, as if the doors had just opened and a lineup had been waiting to get in. This was not the case, however; we'd all been there for half an hour and our clique had, until a few moments ago, formed half the population of the studio.

Now, Lana, Nina, Darla, and I were leaning against the wall, well back from the stage, holding our plastic cups. Sparky was standing in front of us, regaling us with an amusing tale, and waiting to sing.

The windows had been draped with black fabric, yet the lights were far too bright. There was a familiar feeling to this place, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. And then Stewart opened the night by karaokeing Bon Jovi, and that was what sparked Sparky to nail it: "I feel like we're at a highschool dance."

The girls and I looked at each other, a cast of misfits, too tall, too skinny, or too heavy; none of us blond, and not a one named Stephanie or Ashley. Hanging out with a nerdy-cool guy who sings show tunes and dresses in drag.

"Yeah," added Darla, "But this time, we're the science teachers."

A couple moved foward onto the dance floor, that is, that part of the floor upon which no one was dancing, and hugged each other in slow dance style, even though Stewart is singing "Livin' On A Prayer."

"They've been going out two weeks," says Darla to me.

"I love you!" I say she's saying to him. "I've never felt this way about anyone before!"

"I know our love will last until eternity!"

"We'll be together forever!"

"Or at least until the end of the term!"

"Let's get out of here," says Sparky, and he begins to round up his harem.

Whoa, sugar, we're half way there.

I notice J.J. up on the stage. He's handing Carson a request slip. J.J. is a Kickass Karaoke semi-regular, though not one of my karaoke buddies. Sometimes, at The Rivoli, he sits near us, and he always has this slightly star-struck demeanor when he speaks to me. Or maybe he's just drunk.

"I found your blog," he told me once, a few weeks ago. "You're Postmodern Sass, aren't you? I was Googling Kickass Karaoke and I found it. I thought I recognized you."

We've got our coats on and are heading for the door, when J.J. sees us. I grab his arm and say, "Come with us. We're going to a place where there's karaoke for grownups."

"I can't," he says, and he looks pained, "I'm here with my buddies, I can't leave them."

So we head out in three separate cars to The Hole In The Wall on Dundas Street where we've been once before. Karaoke in The Junction is nothing like Kickass Karaoke on Queen Street, but it's fun in a different way, and that's where I meet Ashton.

To be continued tomorrow. In true Dickensian style, though not nearly so tragic, "You Give Love A Bad Name" will eventually be a seven part series; a week long story. There'll be a little bit of something for you, Gentle Reader, every day until Friday.

I've Heard That Song Before

We talked for over an hour, him on his cell phone, listening through an earpiece while driving around San Francisco, stopping at a drugstore, walking along the water, and then, finally, getting into an elevator; and me, lying in my bed in the dark, three thousand miles away, crying.

I hate to cry. I am not a crybaby.

We may never go dancing again. He might never pick me up and swing me around again. But when you've got nothing, a little bit of something is everything, and Jack, for me, is in that box on the wall with the sign that reads, In case of emergency break glass.

"What was it that you wrote once, about how one of us doesn't want to need the other, and the other doesn't want anyone to need them?" he asked. "I suspect I'm the latter of that equation."

"I don't want to need anyone—but I do. And you don't want anyone to need you—but I do."

"That's gotta suck."

"Yeah, it does."

"Say goodnight Jack."

"Goodnight, Jack."

"Goodnight, Sassafras."

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

A couple of months ago Jack told me I was part of his past, and that he was moving into the future without me. It's not the first time he's said that, and this won't be the last time he'll be borne back to me, because he's not Jay Gatsby. And because we always, somehow, eventually, end up together.

You Can Ring My Bell

Well, actually you can't, not just yet, unless you know my cell phone number, which most people don't because I use it only for emergencies and to call people when I'm running late or need directions, but you should be able to ring my bell, that is, call me on my home phone, by the end of the day today, because Fucking Bell has promised to put a rush on reconnecting my phone, which was disconnected at 6:00 on Friday afternoon, after Fucking Bell's business office closed.

And how was your weekend, Gentle Reader?

I have been so flustered and upset all weekend because of the frustration of not knowing exactly what happened, but suspecting that no one else could possibly have done this to me but the X, that I nicked my neighbour's car pulling into my parking spot; a spot I've pulled into eight thousand times without incident.

Then I cried and fumed and rent my clothes and literally shook with frustration and anger that (1) he could, and (b) he would do such a thing to me; have power over me; be able to make me this angry and frustrated after all this time, and it's been the third worst weekend of my life and no, I'm not going to tell you about the other two, not right now.

The worst part was the feeling of powerlessness. Being alone, and scared, and angry and frustrated and as if that weren't enough, powerless to boot. And so I reverted to instinct and did the only thing I could think of to do, the only thing I wanted to do, and the only thing that stood a rat's chance of making me feel any better at all:

I called Jack.

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.

* * *
Last Sunday Tim said nice things about my stories, which begat a flood of new visitors, comments, email messages, and linky love. I am still catching up. And Tim begat Bryan, and one, or perhaps both of them, begat Sisyphus, and so on, and so on, until my head exploded and I found myself engaged in a protracted metablog discussion with La Tortue Cynique. In French.

Tim: In a gesture akin to the mouse who lives in the straw in the elephant's cage offering a rose petal to that elephant who, in turn, tries, though not with too strenuous an effort, to avoid accidentally stepping on that mouse, I want you to know that you'll be receiving a copy of a certain textbook in the mail later this month, and, when you do, you should turn to the acknowledgements page.

* * *
My French is almost as good as my German, which is to say, not very, so Vielen Dank to my new friend Mark Anders, in Germany, who wrote to tell me that it should be "Mann, wer hätte das gedacht" over there in the right margin. I'd neglected the umlaut, and anyone who knows German knows that umlauts do not appreciate being neglected. According to Mark there are some grammatical situations in which it would be correct to say hatte rather than hätte, however, my situation (to wit: quoting from the song "99 Luftballons") was not one of them. It was when Mark apologized for being a grammar geek, I knew I was in love. (Which is OK, because he's in the northern part of Germany, not Schwabenland, so I'm pretty sure he's not one of my cousins. I have a lot of cousins in Germany.) He said, "Anyway, to me it looks very refreshing in a time when Denglish is all over every German web site, including my own... In case that you should care at all about this..." and then he explained, in great detail, not only why the umlaut needed to be over the A, but gave me a lesson in the evolution of the umlaut.

* * *
Speaking of lessons Brian G., is not, as it turns out, the lanky blond kid at the back of my intro to marketing class, however, he knows a great deal about the psychology of multiple choice tests. I love mysterious men who instruct me in such arcana.

* * *
Thank you to Hyperion and Neil for their too-kind words (which they emailed to me). Good thing they can't see me, because they made me blush.

* * *
Last night was Thursday, which, you may remember, Gentle Reader, is the new Friday. I got to The Banknote at 11:30, and not five minutes later the phone rang. Sid answered it, then handed it to me.

"Hello?"

"Hello, is this Sid?"

"No, Sid just handed me the phone."

"Oh! You must be the blogger!"

"Um... well, I'm a blogger."

"I am, too. I was there earlier and Sid said I should phone back around this time, that you'd be there."

Her name was Teri, and this is her blog. She's an expat Californian. I told her about the GTA Bloggers, and she emailed me this morning to say she'd signed up.

This is just a wee bit frightening. I got a phone call at The Banknote. Pretty soon they're going to be calling me Norm.

* * *
My best friend Kay emailed me from that island where she lives and asked me what I thought of her MBA thesis proposal. Apparently she believes that since I'm working on my PhD, I must know about these things. She's forgetting that I am a marketing geek who knows nothing about finance. Numbers make my head spin and my eyes go all blurry. Kay is something called a wealth management banker, and her thesis research question is, Will the aging of the U.S. population negatively impact the offshore financial services industry through reduced earnings on fewer investable assets? I am so not worthy!

Kay says, "I still stress about when I'm sounding smart that I actually am making crap up and someone smarter will come along and correct my theories, thereby reminding me that I'm from Beamsville and was supposed to marry the farmer boy next door."

Boy, do I know that feeling.

Of course, in her case the farmer boy next door was the handsome redheaded son of the Vidal family, the ones that named the grape. And, by the way, would everyone please stop pronoucing it vee-dahl, like some malapropitious merlot maven. It's pronounced to rhyme with bridle.

* * *
Thank you, Blundering American, who last month sent me a link to the Big News about Wayne Gretzky's wife with the subject line, "Guess he should have married you, eh?" A man who actually pays attention. If only I lived in Florida.

* * *
Fellow fiction blogger Susie Applegate writes The Applegate Trail, an ongoing blog novel about the townsfolk of Germaine, Oregon. I don't know whether that's a real place (or, for that matter, whether Susie Applegate is her real name), but it's a darned fine Sprachspiel. Susie links to me on her links page, and says I have "some interesting stuff." I'll take that as a compliment, rather than as damning with faint praise. And I'll be checking out the other fiction bloggers she links to.

* * *
Thanks to Tracy, who offered to bring me Nyquil all the way from Maine when I had a nasty cold in January. I hear they make blueberry beer up there. Bring some of that instead!

* * *
I have a date with Udge—in six months. Well, it's not a date date, if you know what I mean. An engagement, I should say. Well; that's not accurate either. It is he who has the engagement—something about an opera at the new Toronto opera house. He's coming all the way from Germany to see it, which is ironic, because it's Wagner, and while he's here in Toronto he wants to go to The Banknote.

* * *
Finally, Tracy, Wendy, and Udge all tagged me for the "Four Things" meme, and I don't want to seem like a poor sport or a snob, but memes, like mimes, are just not for me. I simply can't imagine that you, Gentle Reader, could care a packet of pins what my favourite TV shows are (and in any event I've already told you about two of them, here and here). Or what I had for breakfast. Unless, of course, there's a good story in it, like, say, having your intestines explode shortly after eating it. I've also told you about one job I had in the past, and about the one I have now. A third job I've had was waitressing at a café in Montreal, which is one of the places I've lived. Maybe one day I'll write a story about what a terrible waitress I was. If you recognize the picture in this story, then you know what my favourite movie is, and if you've been paying attention you can guess what are the four places I'd rather be:

1. San
2. Fran
3. Cis
4. Co

Chain Of Fools

I love Angela, I really do. She's a Life Coach; my personal life coach. Got her training with that cult in San Francisco, and everything. She gives me advice about Boz, and I make sure the fireplace in her townhouse gets cleaned while she's in Italy.

Remember I told you about the whales? And the chain letter email thing about how Swiffer mops are killing pets?

OK, so, you shouldn't be surprised—and neither was I—that yesterday she sent me this. Via email, all the way from Italy.

The Italian is hers.

The heckling in italics is mine.


---Messaggio Originale---

Da: postmodernsass@gmail.com
A: angela@supereva.it
Data invio: Thu, 28 Feb 2006 16:04:23 -0500
Oggetto: Fw: Fwd: Fwd: Fw: Read Alone - Do Not Delete

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i am not taking any chances

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Read Alone.....

Especially the Poem

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and some more

I believe whatever God has in store for us will be for us.

Um... OK. Sure. Sounds like a plan.

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The poem is very true, unfortunately.

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Make sure you read the poem!

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CASE 1: Kelly Sedey had one wish,for her boyfriend of three years, David Marsden, to propose to her. Then one day when she was out to lunch David proposed!

So, she missed it, is what you're saying?

She accepted, but then had to leave because she had a meeting in 20 min. When she got to her office, she noticed on her computer she had some e-mail's.

You mean e-mails. Or email messages. Not message's.

She checked it, the usual stuff from her friends, but then she saw one that she had never gotten before. It was this poem. She simply deleted it without even reading of it.

If she deleted it without reading it, how did she know what it was?

BIG MISTAKE! Later that evening, she received a phone call from the police. It was about DAVID! He had been in an accident with an 18 wheeler. He didn't survive!

He was cheating on her with an 18 wheeler? OK, but seriously...and the first thing she did was tell the police that she's to blame because she didn't read her spam email?

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CASE 2: Take Katie Robinson.

Remember that joke, "Take my wife. Please."

She received this poem and being the believer that she was she sent it to a few of her friends but didn't have enough e-mail addresses to send out the full 10 that you must.

How sad for her. Pathetic, really.

Three days later, Katie went to a masquerade ball.

A masquerade ball? Who the heck goes to a masquerade ball?

Later that night when she left to get to her car, she was killed in that spot by a hit-and-run drunk driver.

When she left to get to her car? And what spot, that spot? This sounds like it was written originally in English, then translated into Italian, then translated into English. By someone whose first language is French. Or perhaps Korean.

CASE 3: Richard S. Willis sent this poem out within 45 minutes of reading it. Not even 4 hours later walking along the street to his new job interview with a really big company, when he ran into Cynthia Bell, his secret love for 5 years. Cynthia came up to him and told him of her passionate crush on him that she had had for 2 years. Three days later, he proposed to her and they got married. Cynthia and Richard are still married with three children, happy as ever!

OK, I'm sold; I'm sending this poem thing to The Viking.

This is the poem:

Finally!

Around the corner I have a friend,
In this great city that has no end,
Yet the days go by and weeks rush on,
And before I know it, a year is gone.
And I never see my old friends face,
For life is a swift and terrible race,
He knows I like him just as well,
As in the days when I rang his bell.
And he rang mine but we were younger then,
And now we are busy, tired men.
Tired of playing a foolish game,
Tired of trying to make a name.
"Tomorrow" I say! "I will call on Jim
Just to show that I'm thinking of him."
But tomorrow comes and tomorrow goes,
And distance between us grows and grows.
Around the corner, yet miles away,
"Here's a telegram sir," "Jim died today."
Around the corner, a vanished friend.

Awwwwwwwwwwww, how sweet. I think I wrote that in grade three.

Remember to always say what you mean.

What, there's more?

If you love someone, tell them.

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Don't be afraid to express yourself.

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And that's what we get and deserve in the end.

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Reach out and tell someone what they mean to you.

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Because when you decide that it is the right time it might be too late.

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Seize the day. Never have regrets.

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And most importantly, stay close to your friends and family, for they have helped make you the person that you are today.

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You must send this on in 3 hours after reading! the letter to 10 other people.

If you do this, you will receive unbelievably good luck in love.

The person that you are most attracted to will soon return to you.

Yeah, sure he will.

If you do not, bad luck will rear its ugly head at you!

OK, OK!

THIS IS NOT A JOKE!

Aw, for fuck's sake, might as well shoot fish in a barrel with a Glock.

You have read the warnings, seen the cases, and the consequences.

Yeah, yeah.

You MUST send this on or face dreadfully bad luck.

Dreadfully bad, eh?

*NOTE* the more people that you send this to, the better luck you will have.

Cool! So I should spam, say, everyone in my address book?

! SMILE, even through your tears!!!!!

Yeah, verily, I shall!!!!!

No virus found in this incoming message.
Checked by AVG Free Edition.
Version: 7.1.375 / Virus Database: 267.15.2/252 - Release Date: 2/6/2006

Oh, the irony!

* * *
In case you're wondering, Gentle Reader, this was my reply to Angela:

To: angela@supereva.it
From: postmodernsass@gmail.com
Subject: Fwd Fwd Fwd Fwd Fwd...

So, are you saying I should tell Boz I have a crush on him?

Or just forward this email message to him?

* * *
Next, it's another chorus of "Working for the Weekend". Little does Sass know she has, in fact, been cursed because she didn't take the chain letter seriously. In less than 48 hours, her phone will be cut off by her vindictive X.