I'm going back to find some peace of mind in San Jose [part IV]

Continued from part III.

We went to Nordstrom's, Jack and I, because we'd finished apartment hunting much earlier than I'd anticipated. Nordstrom's is in a fancy shopping mall in the west end of San Jose, across the street from Santana Row, and as we were wandering through the mall Jack spied a sign advertising Nordstrom's twice-a-year menswear sale. His eyes lit up as he told me a story about a particular grey suit he'd had his eye on.

I've known Jack for more than 15 years, yet this was the first time we'd been shopping together. It felt like a girlfriendy-boyfriendy thing to do, and caused me a moment of cognitive dissonance because, well, because we're not girlfriend-boyfriend.

(I know what you're wondering, Gentle Reader, and the best I can offer is to quote Woody on Crossing Jordan last night, "It's complicated.")

The suit Jack wanted was not available in his size, and he was quite disappointed. I love that he enjoys shopping. This is not a man who needs a woman to give him wardrobe direction.

And no, he's not gay.

Trust me.

So instead he spent his money on me, another thing that I love. As we passed the sunglasses aisle I mentioned how the California sun was blinding me, and how my good Ray-Bans had broken a few weeks earlier, and how I was wearing cheapo sunglasses.

I may have also mentioned how I'd always wanted a pair of Chanel sunglasses.

I tried on a few pairs and Jack, just as he had behaved when we were apartment shopping, refused to give an opinion.

"Whatever I say, I'll have to hear about it later," he said.

"You must be confusing me with a bagel," I reminded him.

I tried a pair of tortoise shells, a pair of pale pink ones, and several pairs of big, black ones, all with the double-C Chanel logo on the arms. And when I tried on the pair with the rhinestone-embossed logo, is when Jack said, "Those are you," and then to Skye, the extremely helpful salesgirl, "We'll take them."

You may not understand nor approve of our relationship, Gentle Reader, but there are times when it is quite splendid. You see, Jack likes to be in charge, and I like to let him.

To be concluded in part V. But before she can get around to telling you the rest of this story, Postmodern Sass and Jack spend an afternoon in their old home town.

In Cars

"Numan is coming over for a drink," said AC as he hung up the phone. We had been watching a rerun of CSI on Spike TV, the channel for men, but it was one I'd seen three or four times before. I'm fascinated with Gil Grissom.

"Numan!" I reply, in my best Seinfeldian voice.

Numan is one of AC's oldest friends. They grew up together in Montreal, where Numan still lives.

"He's in town for the Infringement Festival," explained AC.

If I didn't know Numan as well as I did — which is to say, not very well, but well enough — I might have asked, as a performer or an observer? But I know Numan is an artsie at heart, like me; in fact, we were in English Lit at McGill together, though we didn't know each other back then. To say he is left wing is to say the Pope is a little bit Catholic.

I'd heard of the Fringe Festival, so I guessed that Numan's festival must be the fringe of the fringe. The fringe that makes the Fringe look mainstream.

According to the Infringement Festival's Web site, which hasn't been updated since 2004, the purpose of the Infringement Festival is to "emphasize both critical practice in the arts, and artistic practice in activism."

Numan's troupe call themselves theatre activists, not actors. He arrived at AC's with a handful of flyers, which AC quickly replaced with a handful of Bruichladdich.

CAR STORIES 7:00 - 10:00 p.m.
Shows begin every half hour in the alley behind Bar None.
Find the man with the coloured sunglasses.

My understanding of fringe theatre is sketchy, to say the least, so I asked Numan, "If the actors are in cars, where is the audience?"

"In the cars, with the actors. It's participatory theatre; we call them participants, not audience. Sometimes they are taken from one car to another location, then moved into another car. We did it in Montreal, once, with six cars. But here, we only have one car. Er, my car."

"And, what is the story?"

"There's a different story every night. A meta-story, actually. We outline the basic story, and encourage the participants to, well, to participate."

"So what was tonight's story?"

"It was about the Church of Shopping. The participants are consumers, being inculcated into the Church."

"Sounds like fun! What do you do, take them to Holt Renfrew in the car?" I joked, which is the wrong thing to do with Numan. He takes his left-wing politics very seriously.

He described the story in some more detail. It didn't sound like as much fun as I'd imagined.

"And what is your role in the production?" I asked.

"I write some of the stories," he replied. This is why I like Numan. He's a writer. "And in this production, I play God."

"Excellent! Let me guess: the novice shoppers have to justify their lives to you at the end?"

"Exactly."

In the next story, Postmodern Sass returns to the town where she met Jack.

I'm going back to find some peace of mind in San Jose [part III]

Continued from part II.

I'm so glad the apartment building I chose was the last one I saw, not the first one.

You know how, when you're shoe shopping — stay with me a minute, gentlemen; or adapt to your own analogy — and you need a particular pair of shoes, say, pink with rhinestones, to go with a dress you already bought, and you need them, say, next Saturday night and so you are on a mission to find that perfect pair of shoes; and the first store you go into has a pair of shoes that you love, and so you buy them but then you can't help yourself, you go into three other shoe stores anyway, and in the third one you find either a pair of shoes you like better, or, worse, the same pair for half the price?

The moral of the story is, don't jump at the first option, no matter how much you think you love it.

I loved Sixty South Street before I'd even stepped through the gate, because the woman who came to open it for me, the assistant manager, whose name is Lea, which is short for Azalea, which she pronounces AZ-a-lay-a ("Spelled like the flower, but pronounced better!") was so adorable, and so friendly, that I knew I wanted to live there.

As we walked up the first set of stairs, to the courtyard level, she asked me where I was from, and I told her, Toronto.

"Oh! So you'd be my Ontario!" she exclaimed. "I already have a Quebec and a British Columbia! I love Canadians."

The building was modern, with every convenience (except a pool, but so what?), including, if you can believe it, a coffee bar in the common room for all residents. Complete with espresso machine and supplies. I felt the place calling to me already.

And I told you what Jack's two cents was.

He'd been so great, all day. So patient. I mean, it's not exactly a fun time spending your Saturday driving around, looking at apartment buildings. Plus, for him it was quarter end at Big Ass American Software Company, and he'd been discreetly checking his Blackberry all day. But he only took one phone call; just one.

Lea showed us the actual apartment that would be mine, not a model suite, and I wasn't two steps in the door before I blurted out, "I'll take it!" At which point Jack excused himself and went outside for ten minutes. We told him we'd meet him in the office.

I thought he'd stepped out because he had to take a call, and it wasn't until later, when we were shopping at Nordstrom's, that he told me he stepped out so as not to unduly influence my decision.

To be continued in part IV.

I'm going back to find some peace of mind in San Jose [part II]

Continued from part I.

"Su-NAP!" exclaimed Jack as he stepped into the courtyard of Sixty South Street, the name and address of my soon-to-be new apartment building — though I didn't know it then.

It was the fifth building we'd visited on my short list of five; the day before I'd visited or driven by 12 apartment buildings on my own. Two were eliminated based solely on location: I'm not moving across the continent to end up living in Scarborough or Newmarket. One was eliminated because it didn't allow pets. Two, because they were too snooty for my liking. One, because despite the fact that it was 5:40 when I arrived and the sign in the office window said open until 6:00, was closed. And one, because it had no available one-bedrooms for August.

Jack had driven down from The City to act as my California consultant because I'd asked him to and because he can be really swell when he wants to be. This morning he'd been patiently escorting me from apartment building to apartment building, offering his I.D. to be held as collateral while we toured the property; pointing out questions I should raise; and generally charming the salesgirls — but he'd offered no opinion on any of the places we'd seen.

Until now.

What caused his exclamation, and, further, his momentary lapse into Frankenslang, was the sight of the courtyard of my building.






To be continued in part III.

It's My Party

I haven't been to KAK at the Rivoli since I can't remember when, because of all the moving and packing, and organizing and packing, and painting and packing, and sorting and...

Well, you get the idea.

But now that all that's done, and I've moved into the waiting for the visa phase, I've got some time to waste.

It was just before 10:00 when I arrived, and Carson was out front having a cigarette, which means one of two things.

"Have you not started yet, or is someone doing Paradise By The Dashboard Light?" I asked.

"Exactly," Carson replied.

Fortunately for them, most of my karaoke buddies missed it. They arrived shortly afterwards.

"So, what makes you think anyone's organizing a party for you?" asked Mo.

"Um... Wendy," I replied sheepishly. "'Cause, well, you know, it's really complicated and difficult to try to organize a surprise party..."

"Granted, but why have you been vetoing all my ideas?"

"I have vetoed nothing!"

"No clowns, no balloons, no strippers — that's what I was told."

"Not by me! Though I admit I think clowns are creepy..."

But Mo has turned his attention to Sparky. "Sass says we can have strippers!"

"OK, good, so we're on for the strippers," Sparky begins planning. "But let's not overdo. Either strippers with balloons, or strippers dressed as clowns."

"Why not both?" asks Mo.

"I want balloons!" I chime in.

"Red balloons?"

"Ninety nine?"

"Yes! And and and and and.... I want a pony!"

"A pony?" laughs Sparky, "Can the strippers ride on it?"

"Sure, why not."

"So, good, we've got booze, and karaoke..."

"And beer!"

"And beer. And strippers. And balloons. Check."

"And and and and and... mini golf?"

"OK, so, booze, karaoke, strippers dressed as clowns carrying balloons, and riding on ponies while playing mini golf."

Probably the pony won't be able to climb the stairs at the Riv, but it promises to be a party to remember, even without the pony. I hope you can come, Gentle Reader.

In the next story, Postmodern Sass learns about car theatre. Or, go here to see what happened at the very end of the party.

I'm going back to find some peace of mind in San Jose [part I]

It was the unspeakably hot afternoon of June 22 when I found myself riding in an airport parking shuttle again, at a different airport, and this time a different driver was speaking a different kind of different language.

"Mon, it hot!" he complained cheerily to the booth bunny as she raised the gate for him to exit the lot. "Tomorrow I want the AC on!"

I was the only passenger on the bus. "You sound like you're from someplace where it gets hotter than this," I opened.

"Am from de Carribean."

I had guessed that. "Which island?"

"Jamaica."

I've been to a few of the islands, but not that one. "So, how hot does it get there?"

"One hunred an fortay," he said. "Dat's Fahrenheit."

"No way!"

"Yes. But there's not the humility like you have here."

"How can humans survive in that?"

"Dey wear clothes, for one. Not like here; the people wear nothing. Down there they know how to dress for the heat."

"And all that rum helps, too, I bet."

"Oh ho!" he laughed, "Dey rum we drink in the island, it's not the rum they send here. We have 200 proof, and one hundred eightay proof. We send the fortay proof to Canada."

"Isn't that always the way?"

"The government, they selling everything. No more factories; selling our water to California."

He must be talking about Canada now, not Jamaica.

"You know what ganga is?" the driver is asking me.

"Of course."

"De Americans, dey don't know dat word. You tell dem you have ganga, and they nod. You show dem, and dey tink it a spice."

I find this hard to believe, but I'm enjoying the story.

"It's go by two names here, marijuana and pot. So if you bring any across you say it's ganga, the Americans won't know."

I know: they have a different word for everything.

I like being the only passenger on the bus.

Continued in part II.

Kay sera, sera

And so it begins.

Want to be more popular with your friends and family? Move to California!

My best friend Kay has just booked her trip. She'll be arriving in late September. Even as we speak, via email, she is perusing maps and planning our itinerary. Alcatraz, here I come. Again.

This will, I have no doubt, be the most fun we've had since we went to Graceland on Halloween two years ago.

Maybe this time, we'll get those tatoos.

In the next story, Postmodern Sass knows the way back to San Jose. When Kay arrives, the BFFs take a "Thelma and Louise" photo, and visit the Winchester Mystery House.

Basket Case

It was when my cousin Cinderella was in T'ranna the week of Mother's Day, and spent a night at my place, helping me paint my bathroom, that we had the conversation about baskets:

"Your mother doesn't know it yet, but she's getting all my baskets," I told Cinderella, indicating the large blue floor basket in the corner of my livingroom. It was filled with, you guessed it, baskets. Smaller ones; about a dozen. "I figure, if she doesn't want them, your dad can always use them to start a fire in the fire pit."

My Uncle D. always needs fire starter material, especially in the summer, when they barbeque almost every night.

"That's true," said Cinderellla, "and you're probably right, she won't want them."

"I don't know why I have so many baskets," I continued, "I mean, I know for a fact I've never actually bought a basket. Have you?"

"No! I know what you mean, though," Cinderella added. "Where do they come from?"

"And it's not bad enough that they just arrive from nowhere, but that they keep increasing in number. I'm convinced they multiply on their own."

"You put them in the back of your closet, and try to ignore them, and the next time you look, there are new ones."

"You too?"

"Everyone. But you know..." Cinderella was really thinking about it now. "Last week I had some people over for dinner, and I remember thinking, I wish I had a basket to put these rolls in."

"You probably did."

"I probably did! But I didn't think I did at the time. You know what I mean?"

"That's the thing about baskets. You get them from people, usually with stuff in them. And when the stuff is gone, you're left with the basket..."

"And you think to yourself, well, this is a nice basket, it'll come in handy some day."

"Like, for example, when you have dinner company and a nice basket of rolls is in order," I pointed out.

"Right. So you keep it. I mean, you can't throw it in the garbage — it's a perfectly good basket!"

"But here's the problem..."

"I know..."

"When you do have an occasion that calls for a basket, you completely forget that you have them."

"Exactly."

"Which is why your mother is getting them."

"You know, though, that as soon as you give them away you'll need one, right?"

"I know."

In the next story, Postmodern Sass learns that her best friend Kay will be, will be, coming to visit her in California.

Get Back

I went to the Molson Indy — no; wait, it's called the Grand Prix of Toronto now — with Donny over the weekend, and today I spent an hour with my mother-in-law, sitting in Christie Pits park, explaining to her about the hockey cards, after I'd spent almost an hour on the phone with my insurance company explaining to them that while I still own South Beach condo #428, and most of my furniture is there, I am living in #462, and some of my belongings are there, but most of my belongings are in a storage place up on Richmond Street, and yes, I'm still moving to California but I don't have a date yet, and in the meantime could they please continue to insure my property against the unlikely event of a burst pipe, or, god forbid, a fire?

But it was when I found myself watching The Discovery Channel today, a show called "How It's Made," which showed, in slow motion, how bristles are pushed into brushes (fascinating, by the way), that I realized it was about time I got back to telling you, Gentle Reader, about my trip to San Jose, in which I secured an apartment for me and Pinky to live in, come August.

But first, let me tell you about the baskets...