California Dreamin' [part I]

Wednesday, April 26, 2006
7:00 a.m., Buffalo airport

Everything is different here. It's like a whole other country.

Buffalo is only a 45 minute drive from the small town where I grew up; from the university where I teach. Not very far, in the grand scheme of things. And we speak the same language.

Sort of.

"Where were you born?" barked the U.S. customs agent on the wrong side of the Peace Bridge.

I hestitated because I didn't know whether to say Canada or Beamsville. And because it was 6:00 in the morning and I hadn't had a cup of coffee yet. Not to mention the fact that I'd only had four hours of sleep because I'd been out drinking with my cousin Markus the night before. I spent the night at his house so I'd be closer to the airport in the morning.

Hesitation, to a customs agent, means you're thinking up a lie, which, in turn, means woe is you.

"Uh, Beamsville," I said, eventually.

"Where are you going?" he barked again.

"San José," I replied, this time without a nanosecond of hesitation.

"California?"

Is there another San José somewhere? is what I was thinking, but what I said was, "Yes, sir."

I parked in the Preferred Long Term Parking after having literally stopped my car on the airport road to consider my parking options: Short Term Parking, Short Term Parking International, Long Term Parking Lot A, Long Term Parking Lot B, Long Term Parking Lot C, and Preferred Long Term Parking.

There were two shuttle buses lounging at the end of the lot closest to the terminal, and lots of empty parking spots near them. The sun had been up for a few seconds; the darkness was beginning to fade, and so as I stepped out of my car I could see the grass edging the lot.

It was frosted. Frost! At the end of April! Fuck.

Yesterday, before I left Toronto, I had agonized over whether to bring my tomato plants inside, as my daddy had instructed me to do at night until May. There are three tiny plants, in three very large clay pots, on my rooftop patio. If I bring them inside, they are protected from the cold but they get no light. And since I was planning to be away for several days, they'd get no light and no rain, either. So I opted to leave them outside with burlap wrapped around their cages, and hope for the best.

Poor little things. They're surely dead now.

The shuttle bus driver was cheerily inquiring as to which airline I would be using this morning.

"Uh..." I hesitated again. "Sorry; haven't had any coffee yet. United."

"Well, it's quiet this morning," he said, and it was, "You'll have lots of time before your flight to find some coffee and maybe have a nice hard roll, and then you'll be good as new."

Hard roll?

I recall that Americans say "roll" instead of "bun," so perhaps a hard roll is what we would call a crusty bun. But describing it as "hard" does nothing to make it sound appetizing. Stale bread is hard.

Half an our later I learn that what Buffalonians designate a hard roll is, in fact, neither, but first I have to walk the gauntlet of airport security.

To be continued in part II.

You gave away the things you loved, and one of them was me

When Jack called me just after New Year's to tell me he was cleaning house, both literally and metaphorically, I asked him where Beauty was.

"She's safe," he replied.

"What does that mean?" I asked. There was something in his voice I didn't like. Something that was saying, what's been going on is about more than just getting rid of my smelly old futon and sending all my clothes to Goodwill. It's a clean sweep, and you're looking at the business end of the broom.

"She's happier," Jack said, continuing to be irritatingly vague.

"Is she... is she there? I mean, is she with you?"

"No," he said.

If there's one thing I know with absolute certainty in this world, it's that Jack loves Beauty. It was inconceivable to me that he would get rid of her.

"Where is she, Jack?"

"She's out in the country. She's resting. She's earned it."

I was reminded of the story parents tell their very young children when a pet dies: "Rover went to live on a farm, where he'll have acres of meadow to play in."

It's been three months since that conversation.

Last week I was surprised to find a voice message from Jack on my home phone. The concern in his voice was clear. It seems he'd read this. Which was doubly surprising, since I was under the impression that he doesn't read my blog.

But in the fifteen years I've known him Jack has always been full of surprises, some of them quite wonderful, some not so much. Since I never know what to expect from him, I've learned not to expect anything. And so what tends to happen is that when I least expect it, he calls me.

We talked on the phone the other night and it was as though nothing, and yet everything, had happened. He told me about the new place he's moving into, and how Beauty'll have an indoor parking spot.

"You're driving Beauty again?" I asked, thankful that he was on the other end of a phone line, and couldn't see the expression on my face. I thought I might cry, not out of sadness but out of relief and, well, joy. Beauty was back, and she was okay.

"Well, yes, what else would I be driving?" he replied, not without a hint of irritation in his voice.

I expected nothing, but had considered all the possibilities: Beauty had been sold. Beauty had been destroyed. Beauty had been donated to a high school auto class for dissection. A newer, prettier BMW had taken Beauty's place.

"If you remember, last time we spoke you were driving a rental, and Beauty was grazing on a farm somewhere."

"Oh, yes. She was in storage."

"You told me she was on a farm, but okay, storage. So you didn't give her away, then."

"No. I guess I thought that if I put her where I couldn't see her, that I would be able to forget about her."

"Uh huh. And how'd that work out for you?"

And then something very unusual happened. Jack became tongue-tied. If you'd ever experienced the eloquence, the occasional outright pompousness, of his diction — think Frasier Crane — you'd understand exactly how rarely this man stumbles over his words.

So I asked again: "You realized you missed her?"

"No, no! No. Well, not exactly. I... I guess I went to check on her, you know, in case her car cover had blown off or something."

"Mmn hmn."

"And, well..."

"And now you're driving her again."

"I guess I realized I missed her."

He's the most intelligent, most interesting, and most irritating man I know. What I don't know is whether I should tell him I might be moving to California.

I Don't Care Anymore

I'm going to the Leafs game tonight. It's their last home game of the season, against Pittsburgh, and it doesn't matter to anyone whether they win or lose. Last Saturday the Leafs' last hope of making it into the playoffs was stomped out. There'll be no Stanley Cup playoffs in Toronto this year. There is no joy in Mudville.

You have to wonder why they bother to hold the game at all. In baseball, if the winning team is last at-bat, they don't bother to play. It seems cruel, somehow.

Wearing my Ed Belfour jersey also seems unneccessarily cruel, but it's the only Leafs jersey I own.

The thing is, I understand how the Leafs feel about this game; how they'll feel playing it. It's how I feel right now, proctoring my second year marketing class's final exam.

The last time I saw their 42 faces, two weeks ago at our last class of the regular season, I cared about them. I went through a review for the final, and gave them my "Ten Tips for Doing Well on Exams." I wanted them to do well. I wanted to encourage them. I wanted to give them all As, so they'd like me. (Not that I would, mind you, I'm just saying I wanted to, then.)

But that was two weeks ago, when the post season hadn't yet been decided. When there was still hope. Now, I don't care anymore.

They do not know this, and please, Gentle Reader, don't tell them. I don't want to hurt their feelings, if they care whether I care; if they thought I cared; If they knew that I did. Let them think I still do.

I don't care anymore, because I won't be here in September.

Oh, sure, I'll finish off the season. Play that last game. Mark their exams, and submit their final grades. They bought their tickets; they'll have a game. But it won't matter to anyone.

Maybe I'll stay at this university for another year, maybe not. It turns out there's hope after all. (That always seems to happen right after I give up on something completely.) Maybe I'll move to California instead.

Na na na na, na na na na, hey hey hey, goodbye

But what a way to go, eh?



I'm still going to the game on Tuesday, even though it doesn't matter to the Leafs. What matters is that I'm taking my friend Gary, who I haven't seen for a year, and who used to be Jack's boss back in the old Internet days, because he's about to get divorced for the second time and so we're gonna get drunk.

Besides, in two days I won't care anymore.

Let My People Go

I am not Jewish, and I am not Catholic, so to me this weekend is nothing other than three days in which I will be working on my thesis, and looking after my neighbour's cats. I checked my email this morning, though, and there ensued a Gmail chat with Blundering American, who is Jewish. Now, I know something about Passover, just like I know what Lent is, but I've never been to a sedar (nor have I gone 40 days without beer), and so today I learned something new:

BA: my mother did this really cute thing with the 10 plagues

PS: Now there's a sentence I never imagined I'd read.

BA: where she made little bags of plagues and as we said each plague we opened them...

PS: wait -- we're talking locusts, drought, etc?

BA: yep...blood, frogs, darkness, locusts, cattle disease, etc.

PS: ok, just checking

BA: you know the story of exodus right? you saw the ten commandments... charlton heston

PS: Yeah, yeah. I just don't understand what you mean by "doing" plagues.

BA: well, the haggadah, which is the book that you use for passover sedar is SO antequated. it just doesn't make the dinner fun...it's more of a chore than anything else

PS: Wait -- lemme stop you there, just for a second. You're going to have to back up a bit.

BA: Ok...during the sedar when you recite the story of exodus, you recite the ten plagues

and you dip your finger in your wine and spill a drop for each plague, because people died from the plagues

but they persuaded the Pharaoh to let the Israelites leave Egypt

now, typically you just say the name of the plague, spill a drop of wine and move on, however, my mother is a preschool teacher

and an artist

so, she made ten little bags...one for each plague

so as we recited a plague, a person would open their little bag

and there was something in each bag to remind people of the plague

little plastic frogs... sunglasses for darkness...

Neil didn't mention plagues in the holiday fun round of his Easter vs. Passover battle, but that sounds like way more fun than digging up dirty, cold, hardboiled eggs!

Don't Give Up On Us, Baby

You already know this about me, Gentle Reader, but I'm a sucker for lost causes. Well; more accurately, not-quite-hopelessly-lost causes. If there's any shred of hope remaining, I will cling to it.

I've never forgotten the last words of the Stephen King story, Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption (which are also the last words of the movie, The Shawshank Redemption): I hope.

I also remember when the movie Titanic first came out, and the critics said, what's the point, we all know how it ends? The point of the story, the wise critics said, is to illustrate the different ways people react in a crisis. There are those who lay down and die quietly, and those who claw desperately at the uprighted sides of the ship to survive, against all hope. And sometimes they do.

Your humble narrator is one of the latter.

The Toronto Maple Leafs have 84 points, with four games left to play. Tampa Bay, those bastards from Florida, where they call it ice hockey for fuck's sake, are in 8th place in the division, the last playoff spot, with 89 points. Which means if the Leafs win just three of their next four games, and Tampa loses all of their last three games, and Atlanta, which is currently in 9th place with 85 points, loses all of their last three games...

Hey, it could happen.

So I'm going to the last home game next Tuesday, against the Pittsburgh Penguins. Because it'll either be the most exciting and important game of the entire hockey season, or it'll be lamer than a cheesy pop song recorded by the star of a 1970s TV series.

That's what I call extreme sports.

And now, back to my thesis...

The funny thing about hope is that, sometimes, just when you give it up is exactly when it comes back to you. Or maybe I'm confusing Hope with Jack. It doesn't always work, though: the Leafs lost.

All Apologies

Dear Readers,

I wanted to let you know that I'm going to be putting down my virtual blog pen for a couple of weeks. I need to attend to... well, life, the universe, and everything.

This is difficult for me. I'm a Leo; we're not good with discipline. If I'd won the 6/49 last Wednesday I'd be spending all my time hanging out in karaoke bars and writing stories... but I didn't.

I promise not to be gone for long. Two weeks, maybe three. But then the itch to finish all the stories I have in draft will be too great to resist. And maybe I'll be able to tell you about what it is I'm plotting, but I can't tell anyone right now because I don't want to jinx it.

In the meantime, if you're new to Postmodernes Sprachspielen, and wondering who is this Jack guy, is The Banknote a real place, what happened to The Viking, and what does Postmodern Sass do when she's not singing karaoke or writing stories, you can sing along with my blogiversary posts: Greatest Hits Volume I, Volume II, and Volume III.

And, if you like my stories you might also enjoy some of my carnie friends under the big tent at the Carnival of the Mundane.

I shall return. I promise.

Yours truly and fictionally,
Postmodern Sass

OK, so I wrote a few posts in those three weeks, prompting Tracy to quip, "How's that blog sabbatical working out for you?" They were very short, though; I wouldn't even call them stories. I went to a hockey game. I marked exams. Passover passed. And then Jack called, and I told him what it was that I'd been plotting. Gentle Reader, click here and I will tell you all about it...

Call Alanis Morissette. This is Ironic.

It occurs to me that I mentioned Shayla the other day but I haven't yet told you a story about her. It's not because I don't have one to tell; I do, and it's called "Shayla Worked in a Factory," from the Blondie song, and I'll tell it to you soon; and maybe I'll also tell you the story about how my phone rang at 3:00 a.m. one night last week and I answered it because the only person who ever calls me in the middle of the night is Jack, and, well, the whole Internet knows how I feel about him, but it wasn't Jack, it was Ashton, who is turning out to be more trouble than he's worth. And maybe I'll tell you about my friend Carl's birthday party last Sunday, when a bunch of us spent the day driving around Toronto in a limousine, brew pub hopping.

It's because of all these things and, too, the fact that my progression exam for my PhD thesis is looming in a few weeks, that I don't have time to write a proper story for you, Gentle Reader. And I'm so behind in my marking I may have a nervous breakdown before the end of the semester, and it's all because of my 125 fucking students, and that's an adjective, not a verb.

The next story is not a story at all, but another apology.