Shout

My day began at 4:00 today — yes, I mean San Jose time. My alarm wasn't set to go off until 4:30, but since I was awake anyway, and since the cab was coming to pick us up at 5:30, I decided to stay up and attend to last minute details. And, (sniff!) to spend time with Pinky.

Natasha and Louisa were able to arrange their own transport to the airport, but neither Ryan nor I have a car, and since we both live in the west end of the city, near the campus, we decided to share a cab. Ryan stopped by my office yesterday and asked if I would please call him in the morning to make sure he was up.

I called him at 5:00. There was no answer.

I called him every five minutes until 5:25, then I went downstairs and called the taxi driver. She was outside Ryan's frat house, and reported there was no Ryan in sight. I suggested she come fetch me, which she did, then we headed back to the frat house.

The driver honked her horn, while I stood outside and screamed at the top of my lungs, in the general direction of the windows, "RYAN, WAKE UP!" I kicked and banged the front door.

We kept this up for 20 minutes, and there was not a stirring from within the house. I kept screaming my way around the building, until I discovered an open door around back. Then I went inside and started screaming and banging on doors.

I'm sure I annoyed the boys who live there, and, if they're reading, well, sorry, but I don't give a rat's ass. Getting that young man onto that plane — or not — is the difference between national fame for USJ, and national embarassment.

I got him on the plane.

That was 15 hours ago. He's now asleep in his room, as are Natasha and Louisa. I'm enjoying the wireless Internet access at the Marriott's bar, and the Detroit Tigers have just lost the World Series.

Not that I give a rat's ass about baseball.

I Am What I Am

Neil Gaiman sent me an email yesterday. It seems I made an error or two when I told you this story.

First, the charming elderly gentleman who drops dead on the karaoke stage in the first chapter of Anansi Boys in fact lived through his performance of "What's New Pussycat." It was his next number, "I Am What I Am," that killed him.

Further, the name of the non-fictional Caribbean island is Saint Andrews, not St. Andrew.

Finally, it's not 300 people, it's 500. And it wasn't a character, but the narrator, who explained the theory — on page 284 of the Harper Collins mass market paperback edition, HarperTorch imprint, to be precise:

"It is a small world. You do not have to live in it particularly long to learn that for yourself. There is a theory that, in the whole world, there are only five hundred real people (the cast, as it were; all the rest of the people in the world, the theory suggests, are extras) and what is more, they all know each other. And it's true, or true as far as it goes. In reality the world is made of thousands upon thousands of groups of about five hundred people, all of whom will spend their lives bumping into each other, trying to avoid each other, and discovering each other in the same unlikely teashop in Vancouver. There is an unavoidability to this process. It's not even coincidence. It's just the way the world works, with no regard for individuals or for propriety."

So the other day, in addition to the valuable lesson about the lavalier, I learned that, when writing about a novelist and his work, it's best to wait until Hollywood Tom returns your book, rather than trying to quote from memory.

Postmodern Sass is looking forward to meeting Neil Gaiman in person in November, but first, she wonders if she'll get her social security card before she reaches the age at which she'll have to start collecting it.

This opportunity comes once in a lifetime

"Detroit!" exclaimed Natasha, my fourth year advertising student, after the furor of the press conference had died down and the reporters from the local ABC and Fox affiliates, who'd been interviewing my three students for the last hour had left. She wasn't exclaiming with excitement. There was noticeable dismay in her voice.

"Yeah. 8-mile. Eminem. I am so not down with that," agreed Louisa, the youngest member of the team of students who'd just been told they are finalists in a national advertising competition, and will be flown to Detroit this weekend to present their campaign idea to the marketing executives at one of the Big Three auto makers.

There ensued a brief period of tomfoolery during which the girls continued to mock Eminem. If you've never seen a curly-haired Hispanic girl and a model-thin exotic Russian acting like homeboys, let me tell you, Gentle Reader, you don't know what you're missing.

"What should we bring?" asked Ryan, the rock star of the team. "I mean, what do we wear in Detroit? It'll be cold there, won't it?"

Ryan is 25, tall and blond, and every female between 15 and 50 watching the reality show ABC will air about this competition will be rooting for him. He has a star quality about him, but without the slightest hint of asshole.

"Oh god," sighed Natasha again, "I don't even own a winter coat. We're going to freeze to death!"

"Look, don't worry," I explained, trying to calm them down. You'd think they'd just been told they'd be climbing Mount Everest. "First of all, we're not going to be outside much. Second, Detroit in October will be like San Jose in January. You'll need a coat, but it won't be snowing."

"Oh, good," joked Louisa, "So I won't have to go out and buy that fur coat after all!"

"Wait until you win the contest. Maybe they'll give you one as a prize," I said. I was kidding, but I think she thought I was being serious. "Leave the flip-flops at home. Bring a variety of shoes and clothes — we don't know exactly what they have planned for us. But like I said, it won't be snowing. You won't need boots."

Natasha was wearing a camisole top, a pink skirt, and Uggs. Why beautiful young California girls do this to themselves, I will never comprehend.

"If you have the time and resources between now and Friday morning, go shopping." I continued. "Buy yourself an outfit that you would wear to the most important job interview of your life — because that's what this is. And even though we'll be in Detroit all weekend, we likely won't have any time to shop there."

Natasha howled with laughter at this. "Oh yeah, shopping in Detroit! What am I gonna buy there, a leather outfit?"

I was taken aback by the sheer force of the derision in her voice. But it was understandable. After all, how could Detroit possibly compare to San Jose when it comes to shopping opportunities?

"Listen to me, all of you," I said, and I waited until they quieted down. "One thing I can absolutely guarantee you will come of this experience: You will get job offers. Natasha, Ryan, you're both graduating in the spring. You want to work in advertising. You're going to one of the largest cities in the country, the headquarters of the auto industry. An incredible opportunity has presented itself to you. Be aware of that, and keep that in mind with every person you meet on this trip."

"Motor city!" This time it was Louisa who burst out laughing. She's a freshman. She hasn't yet begun to think about a career. "Yeah, that's just where I want to go. Right! Like it's the center of the advertising world."

I gave up, for the time being. I remember being 25, don't you, Gentle Reader? We knew everything then. It's such a tragedy, getting old and stupid.


But I learned something yesterday, myself, from the experience of organizing a press conference in my classroom, and being followed by a reality show camera crew all day.

When you go into the ladies' room, turn off the lavalier.

Next, Sass and the taxi driver bust into a frat house.

The Nancy Boys

How can you not love a novel that begins with a charismatic elderly gentleman keeling over from a heart attack whilst singing Tom Jones on a karaoke stage?


Well, maybe you can not love it, Gentle Reader, but you know how I feel about karaoke and the men who sing it.


This is only one of many reasons why I love Neil Gaiman's Anansi Boys.

Tim Bray wrote about the novel here, saying it doesn't — and I quote — Plumb The Depths Of Postmodern Subtextuality. But I misread his blog entry and thought he had called the novel postmodern.

A week later, when a dozen copies of the novel arrived at my USJ office in a box from Harper Collins, along with a dozen copies of American Woman, Bel Canto, The Known World, and The News From Paraguay, I grabbed Gaiman first.

Tim's partially right: deep it is not. Postmodern, however, it is.

The best part of the book, in the estimation of your humble narrator, comes near the end, when all the main characters, for one slightly implausible reason or another, arrive at the apparently non-fictional Caribbean island of St. Andrew. Gaiman, in an effort to persuade us of the plausibility of the implausibility of all this, has one of his characters explain to another the theory that each human being operates, from birth to death, in interaction with only 300 other people. The same 300 people over and over again.

All of which leads me to wonder, does Neil Gaiman sing?

Sadly, when Neil Gaiman emails Postmodern Sass it's not to answer that question, but to point out a couple of things...

Detroit 442

Maybe, baby, I could drive with you?

I love Deborah Harry. She's been my idol since Parallel Lines — a piece of recorded music, I'm proud to say, I own in all the following formats: vinyl, cassette, 8-track, guitar chord book, CD, and pirated BBC special (also on CD).

I still have my Blondie is a Group! button from 1979.

My karaoke buddies know, it's no coincidence that at Kickass Karaoke at the Rivoli I kick ass best with "One Way or Another" and "Dreamin'."

I thought of Debbie Harry today because I just found out Postmodern Sass will be flying to Detroit for the weekend. Yes, this weekend coming up.

It seems three of my students have been selected as finalists in a national advertising competition, and ABC is filming a reality show about it. Good thing I just had my hair done.

There's no Redwings game this weekend, sadly, but I hope I'll have the opportunity to nip across the river to Windsor for some Canadian pints. My PhD buddies are over there. And I'd just about kill for a jar of Kraft Peanutbutter right about now.

Next, Postmodern Sass prepares her students for the trip to Detroit. Or at least tries to.

Head Like A Hole [part II]

Continued from Part I

There's a woman on the committee who I'll call Pia. It's an acronym; short for something of mine in which she is a pain.

The long list of books we're considering for next year's campus-wide reading program comprises just over 80 titles. The purpose of this meeting is to strike from the list any titles we all feel are inappropriate, for one reason or another. I had requested review copies from the publishers, and now the table around which we sit is loaded with stacks and stacks of books. The lovely people at Harper Collins, for example, sent copies of their titles for all the committee members.

Each person at the meeting has in front of him or her a printed copy of my spreadsheet, listing all the titles and authors, and including a column with a short review cribbed from Amazon.com; the number of pages, the category, and the reason why it made the long list.

We come to #18, My Life As A Furry Red Monster.

"That wasn't suggested by one of the reading groups," points out Pia, primly. She's referring to the reason why this title made the list. "It was suggested by me." She picks up the lone review copy by one of its corners and dangles it like a soiled diaper. "I suppose we should strike it," she declares, disgustedly. "It was a lovely experiment, though, wasn't it? Just look at that curb appeal!"

The book is the size and shape of a children's book. The cover is bright yellow, with a photograph of Sesame Street's Elmo sitting astride the author's head. I say nothing in response to Pia's admission that it was she who was responsible for this travesty. Unless a book is defended at this stage, it is struck, and not only did I want to strike the book, I wanted to strike Pia with the book.

#22: The Places In Between

"I'd like to point out emphatically," points out Pia emphatically, "that this book is not a travelogue."

The spreadsheet which I'd painstakingly compiled over the past three weeks does indeed list the book as NF/travelogue. I smile as politely as I can, and refrain from jumping onto the table — thereby scattering the books in all directions, a fate they do not deserve — so I can grab hold of her chicken neck and throttle her. Instead I say, sweetly, "I copied the descriptions from Amazon.com; they're just for our reference."

"Oh, well, but really, calling that book a travelogue is like calling The Joy of Cooking just a cookbook, when it's so much more..."

And she goes on to tell us just exactly how much more it is.

When she's finished her monologue on the travelogue; this book only she cares about, one of the other committe members makes a suggestion: "Perhaps we should strike it from the list because it's set in Afghanistan. We don't want to do a book that's too similar to this year's book."

This year's campus reading program title is The Kite Runner. It's a largely autobiographical novel about a man who grows up in Afghanistan in the 1970s, then flees to America with his father after the Russians take over. As an adult, circumstances require him to return to his homeland in the summer of 2001. The Places In Between is about some guy who walks across Afghanistan and gripes, the entire way, about how not enough people supported his effort. So I second the motion to strike it.

Pia reminds us that a book stays on the list if any member is willing to defend it, and she is willing to defend it to the death. I begin to hope it might come to that.

#40: Rocks That Float

"I've never heard of it, let's strike it," opines Pia piously.

"It's on the list because it won the 2006 Independent Publishers Book Award for Fiction. I've read it, and it's a beautifully written novel about quirky characters living in rural South Carolina. And for both of those reasons, it should stay on the long list."

It was not a question, and as I spoke it I thrust forward my breasts ever so slightly as homage to Julia Roberts as Erin Brockovich.

#64: Saving Fish From Drowning

"It looks too big," bemoans Pia belligerently. "Let's strike it."

"I think we should seriously consider this one," I say. "I believe it lends itself to a number of different applications in the classroom and in discussion groups; it's contemporary, it's a mystery, it has a novel narrative premise; it's partially set in Myanmar, and the main character is an old Chinese woman, so it meets our criteria of "broadening their horizons" which I feel is very important."

I don't stop to let her get a contrary word in, but instead hold the book out to her. "Here," I say, "We only have the one review copy, and I've read it. Why don't you take a look at it?"

"Oh no!" Pia exclaims, and backs away as though I had drawn a sword. "I wouldn't have time to read it, it's too big!"

"When I say look at it, I don't mean that you have to read the whole thing. When I say I read it, what I meant was, I read the liner notes; read the first 30 pages, then I skimmed through the middle, stopping at a few points to read a few paragraphs; then I read the last chapter to see how it ends."

"Oh, I couldn't do that!" pouts Pia petulantly. "If I pick up a book I absolutely have to read the whole thing.

Two hours later, we have finally whittled the long list down to 48 titles. The dozen or so members of the committee are gathering their review copies to leave. The chair of the committee is asking about free dates next month. And that's exactly when Pia says, "Oh, before we leave, there's one more book we should consider. It just won the Booker Prize. I don't remember what it's called but it's written by a woman who lives in London and she's the youngest..."

It was for Pia's own safety that I turned my back on her, bid good-day to the committee chair, and walked out the door.

This marks the end of the meeting, and, if there is a God, the end of Pia. It is not, however, the end of Postmodern Sass's reflections on Neil Gaiman.

Pink is the new Sass

They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, so I'm going to take this, and this, and this, as compliments. Thank you, Trent.

Haircut 100

Yesterday, I worked up the courage to find a new hair stylist in San Jose, since my darling Daniel doesn't love me enough to fly out from Toronto just to do my hair.

My new stylist's name is Sam, and he did such a fantastic job I decided to take my new hair, and him, out for a night on the town in San Francisco.



The night involved sushi, karaoke, and a Chinese madam named Candy Oh. And I'll tell you all about it as soon as I finish unpacking all these boxes from the move to postmodernsass.com.

I will, eventually, I promise, but first I have to take my new hair to Detroit.

Head Like A Hole [part I]

If you're in any way connected to the world of academia, Gentle Reader, you may know that there's a phenomenon called the campus-wide reading program (sometimes called the freshman reading program) organized by institutions of higher learning. Duke has one, I'm told, as do many other top tier schools. My school, the University of San Jose, has one, too.

This may not be news to you. For all I know, the university where I used to teach has one as well, but back then I got involved with school goings-on as little as possible. When you're not on the tenure track, there's no percentage in it.

At USJ I'm a real professor; no longer that second rate citizen referred to as "instructor" or "lecturer," and as such, I'm expected to perform "service." Service, in academia, means serving on committees. If this sounds dull, it is. You're expected to serve, not to have fun.

Me, I like to have fun. So when Hollywood Tom popped into my office yesterday and saw those stacks of books, picked up Neil Gaiman's Anansi Boys and asked whether he might have one of the 12 copies in the stack, I told him, "No way. Those are for the committee."

"The committee? What committee?" He rifled through some of the other books like a kid in a candy store. (I love booklovers, don't you?)

"I'm on the committee that's choosing the campus reading program title for 2007," I replied, grinning.

"Aw, no way!" he exclaimed. "How'd you get on that?"

"Um, I volunteered."

"How'd you find such a cool committee to be on? I'm on a college-level committee and I'm not even sure what it's for. We have meetings once a semester, and they talk about stuff, and everyone nods, and then we go away until the next semester."

"Yeah, I've heard that about committees. I'm not trading you, so forget that idea."

"Where'd you get all these books?" asked Hollywood Tom.

"I called the publishers and asked for them." There were seven just-emptied cartons cluttering my office floor, and no less than 200 books stacked on every level surface. My inner English Lit nerd was in heaven.

"I didn't even know we had a campus reading program!"

"Well, I might not have, either, except that my first day here I found a copy of The Kite Runner in my mailbox, with a letter from the Dean stuck inside, explaining about the program. The university bought a copy for all freshman, and all new faculty. Since I didn't have any furniture yet; no TV, no computer, literally nothing to do, that weekend I sat on a pillow on my dining room floor, underneath the light fixture, and read the damn thing."

"Is it any good?"

"It's a good choice for a campus-wide reading program, but not something I would have picked up on my own. Young man grows up in Afghanistan, moves to the Bay Area. Socially relevant and all that."

"Maybe I'll read it."

"Maybe I'll give you my copy of Anansi Boys when I'm finished with it.

In Part II, the committee meets to discuss the long list, and Postmodern Sass must restrain herself before blood is spilled.

Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes

I'm two years old now. It's time I had a place of my own. Postmodern Sass will be moving soon, to a domain name that will be easier to pronounce and spell (I promise).

In preparation for the move I'm packing the silverware and stemware, Norm, and will make every attempt to make the move as uninconvenient as possible for you, Gentle Reader.

If we haven't chatted for a while, please drop me an email (postmodernsass at gmail dot com) so that I can be sure you're on my Friends Of Sass list. Especially those of you named after cartoon characters and letters of the alphabet, who comment under your pseudonyms; and those of my many readers who are not bloggers. You'll be getting a personal housewarming email from me.

(Kay, please ignore this; I know who you are. Ditto Markus. And please stop telling the family about my blog, would you?)

Details about URLs, RSSs, ABCs and PDQs will follow, once the movers are done. Please forgive the empty boxes and general mess for the next few days, while my barely competent technical brain, aided by my extremely competent ISP, works out the details.

Runaway

It's dawned on me only this week, nearly two months into the semester, that the friendly drop-ins to my office by my fellow faculty are motivated by a shared apprehension that at any moment I might flee.

Don't think I haven't thought about it, Gentle Reader.

But I've thought about it in the manner of dreams of Sara's friend Tiffany, and as I used to think about what I'd do when I won the 6/49. I dream that the University of Toronto hears about my leading-edge research into the history of Internet advertising, demands I return home forthwith and posthaste for an interview, and then, upon meeting me and being charmed by my amusing anecdotes and karaoke prowess, offers me a position as head of the Advertising Department at the Rotman School of Business. With full tenure.

Then I wake up, and remember that the odds of being introduced to Tiffany and winning the 6/49 lottery on the same day are greater.

Meanwhile, I thought my colleagues knew, but apparently they have no idea, how astonished I am to have been offered this position at this university. How thrilled I am to find myself in the capital of Silicon Valley. How every night before I go to sleep I offer the Alan Shepard prayer: Please lord, don't let me fuck up.

"I hear you've been having some trouble getting paid," said Scotty, leaning in my office doorway for a moment on his way home at the reasonable hour of 5:30. I'd be at my desk for another two hours, at least. Scotty teaches business journalism at USJ. He and his wife moved here last year, from Wisconsin. They've had me over for dinner twice.

"I'm guessing you're referring to my lack of a social security number? I see word travels fast around here," I replied.

"I may have heard something from Arthur and Doris," admitted Scotty, non-committally.

Arthur and Doris are the token septagenarian faculty. I'd been dead certain, after my trip to San Jose for my interview in April, that Doris hated me and I'd never be offered the position. But ever since I arrived on campus, Doris has been downright grandmotherly to me, and last Friday night she and Arthur took pity on me, seeing as how I was the only professor pathetic enough to be at the school at 8:00 on a Friday night, and took me out for dinner. During our meal we chatted about the tribulations of beaurocracy, and Doris told me that the university insists on filing her records under her married name, though she has never used it. She uttered her married name and only then did I realize that she and Arthur were married to each other.

I can be clueless sometimes, I may have mentioned.

The incident that clinched my theory that the rest of the faculty in the School of Business Communications at USJ are afraid I'll disappear one day came from Hollywood Tom, who popped in yesterday and told me, "The rest of the faculty are afraid you'll disappear one day, you know."

Tom is from L.A. He grew up in Hollywood, and tells me stories about how he used to deliver liquor to Andy Griffith's house, and how his son — Tom's, that is, not Andy Griffith's — auditioned for Forrest Gump and almost got the part of young Forrest.

I laughed, and told him, with a straight face, "To tell you the truth, Tom, I consider calling Air Canada every time I look at my grade spreadsheets and remember I have 206 students, and that I negotiated release time and this was supposed to be a light semester."

Tom's usually pasty white complexion paled another few degrees, and he leaned even more of his weight against my door jamb.

"Your predecessor did," he said, and I realized he was serious.

"Are you serious?" I asked, just to be sure.

"I'm serious," he insisted. "She was from Korea, and her English was terrible."

"She was teaching advertising?" I asked, incredulous.

"You can imagine. The students hated her; they couldn't understand anything she said. And she was all of 25, so she didn't know anything. There were a lot of hard feelings in the department when she was hired."

So that's why they hired me. They were desperate. It explains a lot.

"She stuck it out until about two weeks before finals," continued Tom. "And then she just disappeared. Went back to Korea. We never heard from her again."

I told all this to Kay when I got home from school that evening.

"That kind of thing happens all the time at the bank," she told me, as she poured me a stiff drink.

"Clearly I've led a sheltered life."

"I know, but I like you anyway."

"I'm baffled. Tell me."

And so she did:

"Well, there was the infamous Grant Martin from New Jersey who showed up for a week in advance of his start date to look for a place to live, and to get the lay of the land. My assistant Tamara and one other bank officer who was also from New Jersey, met up with him on the Friday evening and they all went out on the town. By all reports he was having a lovely time. Then Monday came around, the day he was to start work, and we learned he had left the island on Sunday's BA flight never to return. Reason unknown."

I poured another Macallan. Kay continued:

"Then there was the young Bermudian man who returned from university in Atlanta, stayed for a month and a half, after which time he said he needed to go back to Atlanta to pick up the rest of his stuff to bring home. Two days later he called from Atlanta to say he wasn't coming back, and didn't."

"Both of those tales of weirdness happened while you were there? I mean, you didn't just hear about them, the way you hear about urban legends?" I asked.

Kay favoured me with her renowned Look of Scorn and said, "I've been there almost nine years. Those are only the two most recent ones I can think of. They both happened in the last few months."

She poured herself another glass of Merlot, and thought some more.

"A few years ago now, I don't remember the girl's name, but she came out as a trust officer, and her boyfriend was coming out as well to work for another company. At the last minute he backed out, they broke up, and she ended up coming out alone. She spent a week crying at her desk before leaving."

Kay took a sip of wine and made a face. "That was special."

The modern stoneage family

You may have been thinking, Gentle Reader, in the back of your mind, or perhaps even at the front of your mind, that the name of my hometown, Beamsville, is one of the many details fabricated by your humble storyteller, Postmodern Sass.

Not so.

Not only does Beamsville exist, but the next time you see a dinosaur, that's probably where it came from.

Puttin' On The Ritz

Kay and I returned from our day trip to the west end of San Jose, the Winchester house, and Westfield Valley Fair, the lovely upscale shopping centre; ordered a pizza and opened a bottle of Merlot, and watched a movie called "Meet John Doe." It had been recommended to me by The Viking, who moonlights as movie reviewer Anton Sirius, after I'd emailed him asking for help planning a module on film for my Media and Society class.

There's a classic scene in the movie in which Gary Cooper's character plays an imaginary game of baseball in a hotel room with his sidekick and his bodyguards; which scene caused Kay to opine,

"Men are such simple creatures."

Winchester Cathedral

"Please be careful of the window in the floor," announced our tour guide, Wayne, as Kay and I ascended yet another staircase to yet another level of the maze-like mansion built by Sarah Winchester, widow of the rifle magnate. She began construction on her Victorian estate in 1884, and never completed it, because the spirits told her continuous construction was the only way to atone for the deaths of all those killed by Winchesters.

The guns, that is, not the people.

They call it the Winchester Mystery House, a device contrived to milk the tourist trade in San Jose, particularly during the Halloween season, but there's no mystery about it, despite our tour guide Wayne's attempts to make the late Mrs. Winchester sound like a raving lunatic.

"There are doors that open into walls, stairways that lead to ceilings, doors that open out from the second floor into nowhere, a front door that was never used, and a staircase that you had to go up to go up to go down, then down to go up to go down," says Wayne, and then he laughs like Andy Griffith's character, Lonesome Rhodes, in "A Face In The Crowd."

"The design of this staircase makes perfect sense to me," opines Kay, as we ascend the Escher-like steps with two inch risers. "Imagine the maids running up and down all day, carrying whatever it was they were carrying in addition to fifty pounds of dress."

The long and gradual incline of the stairway, built almost like a ramp, was a brilliant invention, in our view. Any woman who's ever worn a wedding gown would be foolish not to agree.

"The $12,000 Tiffany stained glass window to your left provides a lovely view of the elevator shaft," Wayne is saying.

We take a closer look and find that, indeed it does.

"Maintenance?" I offer.

"You got me," says Kay.

I'm acting the tourist in my new town, because my best friend is visiting for two weeks, and it's not acting at all, really, since I've only been here just over a month myself. They say 80% of New Yorkers have never been up the Empire State Building, and I can believe that. I spent more than half of my life living within view of the CN Tower, and was only up it twice, both times when relatives were visiting from Germany.

Wayne is telling us how many thousands of square feet of closet space the house comprises. The women in the tour group, Kay and I included, let out a collective sigh.

So what if Mrs. Winchester communed with the spirits, and had a seance room? You wanna tell me Tim Berners-Lee's inspiration for the World Wide Web was any less bizarre?

The tour is at an end, Kay and I are in the garden. We wander in and out of the outbuildings. We don't speak, but I know she's noticing the same things that I'm noticing. The fruit trees. The barns. The fruit processing and winemaking equipment. We grew up around buildings like this.

And in our highschool, we had a rifle range. It was in the basement of the old wing, built in the last turn of the century, when preparing young men for the military was a part of the function of public education. In the late 1970s, when we attended Beamsville District Secondary School, the rifle club was one of the cooler clubs to belong to. For the non-athletic types, like Kay and me.

I won the trophy for Girls Best Shot in grade twelve.

"Let's go see the guns," suggests Kay.

"Of course."

When they get home, Postmodern Sass and Kay watch a movie.

Better Not Look Down

Two best friends.

Two pairs of designer sunglasses (with rhinestones).

One convertible, and a hundred miles of California coastline.

Someone said, get a life... so they did.

First stop for Thema & Louise, a.k.a. Postmodern Sass and her best friend Kay, the Winchester Mystery House in San Jose.

Smoking in the Boys Room

Last night, on the advice of my new blog acquaintance, Taxi Vignettes, I watched the San Jose Sharks beat the New York Islanders at a bar called The Britannia Arms. Please, gentle reader, before I tell you about the exprience take a moment to click on that link, and briefly take in the bar's Web site designer's idea of what it is to "look" British. Pay especial attention to the Roman centurion holding Poseidon's trident.

Done? Good. So now you can accurately imagine what it feels like to be inside the place. I heard years ago from a friend who visited Japan that the Japanese had appropriated American images of Christmas, such as the Coca-Cola Santa Claus, and that "Christmas" had become a popular holiday there. Except they hadn't quite understood the symbolism. My friend reported having seen a figure of Santa Claus in a store window, nailed to a crucifix, and a manger scene in which Victorian skaters circled Jesus and Mary.

That's what the Britannia Arms reminded me of.

But though amusing, the decor was irrelevant, at least to me, because I'd come wanting a hockey game, not a pint of Boddingtons.

"What can I get you?" the bartender asked. I hadn't yet taken a seat at the bar, and wasn't sure whether I would.

"I hear this is a hockey bar," I said, nodding toward the television screens behind the bar. They were all tuned to a baseball game. Vignette had told me the bar was owned by Owen Nolan. Who hails from the U.K., not incidentally. Clearly he's an absentee owner.

You may recall, Gentle Reader, that when I'm in a bar I like to sit at the bar, especially when it's my first visit and I'm alone. There were three unattractive, overweight, slightly greasy looking men sitting dead centre of the bar. It wasn't clear whether they were watching the baseball game, and in any event they didn't require three screens to do it.

But the bartender failed to take my meaning. "The hockey game's on the big screen at the back," he said, and indeed it was. High up on the wall, close to the 40' ceiling, a screen was suspended, and the hockey game was indeed visible, though not audible. There was no one in that section of the bar.

"You couldn't put it on one of those screens?" I asked, politely, again indicating the three behind him.

"Nope. They're watching it," he replied, indicating Larry, Curly, and Mo. He wouldn't have given a fig if I'd walked out the door then, and I considered doing exactly that but I wanted to watch the game, and it had already started, and I didn't know where else to go that would be any better. So I walked up and down the airplane hangar-sized room, searching for a listening spot. Seven screens were showing a baseball game: the large one on the front wall, a football game; and on one of the smaller ones — and I wish I were kidding, Gentle Reader — a beach volleyball game from Santa Barbara.

I find a table along the wall in viewing distance of the 36" screen suspended on the wall high above the heads of the greasy men. High enough so that I need not look directly at Curly, whose single long, grey braid has left a mark on the back of his jacket. I never saw their faces, but I like to imagine they had a few missing teeth between them.

From my vantage point I can hear the game, if I lean forward a little and concentrate on blocking out the cheers from the screen that's showing the beach volleyball game. At the table in front of me are three pairs of teenagers on a group date. They appear to have chosen that table because it's the best one from which to watch the game. And they are watching the game, god bless their little hearts.

The menu at the Britannia Arms, to its credit, includes a long list of British Ales, but I'm a lager girl myself, preferring, in order, Wahrsteiner, Dab, and Beck's. I order a Gordon Biersch and some potato skins, just to see.

At The Banknote, I got to know Andrew and Sid and Lulu because I sat at the bar. You don't meet people sitting alone at a table. So I watch the game and, during the commercials, I study the other patrons. I am not the only woman in the bar; the table in front of the teenagers is occupied by a group of three women, two of whom have grey hair. Four or five men now sit at the far end of the bar, as though trying to place as much distance as possible between themselves and Larry, Curly, and Mo, who have begun singing the na-na-na-na hey-hey-hey goodbye song . The baseball game must be over. This is good; maybe those fat slobs will leave and I can sit at the bar.

The girls get up en masse and retire in the direction of the abandoned big screen, presumably in search of the ladies' room. But fifteen minutes go by, the second period ends, and they haven't returned. Then the boys rise from their table, one of them holding a purse, and they head to the back as well. That's when I ask the waitress, "Is there a patio out there?"

"Yes, the patio's open," she replies, most helpfully.

"Is the hockey game on out there?"

"Oh yes," she chirps.

"If I go out there, will you still be able to serve me, or should I settle up with you now?"

"I can serve you out there. You can go whenever you want, and you can take your beer with you."

I was beginning to warm up to the place. I had one last question, but as it was a matter of some delicacy, I crooked my finger so she'd come closer.

"And, um, can I, uh, smoke out there?" I say the word "smoke" in a whisper. This is California, after all. I'm lucky I can smoke on my own patio.

Just before I left Toronto, they passed a new city by-law banning smoking in any outdoor area that was in any way covered, even if it is only by an awning. So imagine my surprise to find the patio out back of the Britannia Arms covered by a roof, installed with heat lamps, and containing another bar complete with bar stools and two television screens, both of which are showing the hockey game.

Still, I am hesitant. I call my waitress over. "Can we smoke... anywhere out here?" I ask. Surely there were some restrictions. Only in the far corner, say, or not at the bar. This is California; they have the strictest anti-smoking rules anywhere in the country, I thought.

The waitress smiles patiently at me; her attitude is that of a parent encouraging a small child at potty training. "Yes," she repeats, "anywhere out here."

I sit at a bar table, not at the bar, as a courtesy to my waitress. Behind the patio bar is a Guinness poster, a hockey stick, a lacrosse stick, and — wait for it — a canoe paddle painted blue and decorated with the Labatt Blue logo. I am homesick. There are even two or three boys wearing baseball caps out here.

The game is over. The Sharks beat the Islanders 2-0. They announce the game's three stars and there's a short post-game show. The patio begins to fill up with a much younger crowd, dressed for clubbing. The gang of 20-somethings at the table behind me are singing and tapping on the glass table. And a young man in a teal on white Nolan #11 jersey and a baseball cap, who'd been standing at the bar through the last half of the third period, now walks over to my table and asks, "Are you Postmodern Sass?"

I beg to dream and differ

I just voted for Holiday to be the new "celebration song" for the San Jose Sharks. That is, the song they'll play when the Sharks score. I think we've all had enough of Gary Glitter, haven't we?

I made a decision today. I decided to stop whining, for a while, anyway, about all the things that bother me about living here. They were largely PMS-induced, so you're safe, Gentle Reader, for another month.

I reminded myself that one of the great things about this city, and not incidental to my decision to move here, is the fact that it's a hockey town. A real hockey town, not so much unlike Montreal and Toronto, the other two hockey towns I've lived in. There's a game tonight and I'm planning to head out this evening to one of the local public establishments in my neighbourhood in which I've noticed signs reading, "This is Sharks Territory."

Meanwhile, I've been surfing for San Jose Sharks bloggers. If you know of one, or you are one, please Sassback here and let me know. I found a great Buffalo Sabres blog, and a Canucks blog, and while perhaps it's too much to hope for a Sharks-only blog, surely there's someone out there who writes about the Sharks the way that I write about, say, karaoke?

I found this one, Sharkspage, which is a great reference but looks too official for my liking. Likewise The Feeder — though, great name!

Christy Finn writes Girl With A Puck, about the Anaheim Ducks. Go Christy! Go...Sharks!

Do I feel guilty, abandoning my beloved Toronto Maple Leafs? You bet, especially since my friend Sunaya Sapurji blogs about hockey for The Toronto Star. But there's nothing to be done about it. I'm three thousand miles from the Air Canada Centre, with no access to Hockey Night In Canada.

When in Rome, swim with the Sharks.

And, well, if I happen to encounter any tall, single, hockey fans who are older than my students and of the same gender yet younger than my father, so much the better.

Rob Davison, pictured above, is from my home town of St. Catharines, Ontario. He almost qualifies. Tomorrow you'll be able to read Postmodern Sass's first of what may become a series of reviews of sports bars in San Jose.

Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark

Badgers, like university students, are nocturnal creatures. You can't blame them for doing what comes naturally. Digging up your rosebushes, hanging out with their weasel friends in your backyard. Skateboarding outside your window at 2:00 in the morning.

An oddity of USJ is that there is no campus pub. The university is dry, both literally and metaphorically. This is utterly reasonable considering the legal drinking age is 21. It means the students are preparing to graduate at the same time they're preparing to drink beer for the first time.

A side effect of this condition is that when I show beer advertisements in class I have to first explain what the product is. Poor dears. So I'm sure it's not my students who patronize the Badger's Den on South Street, then play with their weasel friends underneath my window late at night. After all, beer is served in that den of iniquity.

The Badger's Den serves Buffalo wings and cheap beer in pitchers, is humble in its decor, and offers a choice of large and small viewing screens for watching Sharks games, however — and I cannot stress this enough, Gentle Reader — it is not the university pub. For one thing, it's not on the campus, it's on South Street, where I live; a full two blocks from the eastern boundary of the campus. For another, I'm sure it's just a coincidence that USJ's football team is nicknamed the Badgers.

I was awakened just before 2:00 my first night here by a shrill noise that sounded like weasels being tortured. Turns out that's not what it was. Turns out I wish it had been. But it was only kids, boys, probably from the school, and they were only doing what boys that age do: acting like assholes.

I fell back asleep, eventually, and dreamt of water balloons.

I remember learning about the nature of nocturnal rodents in zoology class, but what I couldn't figure out is, why here? This is a quiet street, lined with large apartment complexes on both sides. My building allows cats but strictly forbids dogs and weasels, and the building across the street keeps them out through high rents and skunk repellant at the gates. So I knew they didn't live in the area.

I fell in love at first sight with Sixty South Street, and saw it only in the daylight. The entrance to the building is at the south end; the Badger's Den at the north, and when I walk to the university I go south, then west. I'd been living here two weeks before I noticed the pub at all.

Well, at least I had my explanation.

And free high speed Internet. See, when I found the pub, and went inside to investigate, I saw the signs promoting free wireless access for customers. Have I mentioned the Badger's Den is directly underneath my apartment window? Tonight I'll be catching up on the first three epidodes of "CSI: Miami," which are available for online viewing at the CBS Web site.

In the next story, Postmodern Sass stops whining about California and watches a San Jose Sharks game.

Vitajex, what 'cha doin' to me?

Let me try to explain.

About the Mary Tyler Moore thing, that is, not about the song title, though it comes from the absofuckinglutely brilliant movie, "A Face In The Crowd."


Let me explain what it's like here, for me.

When every single part of your life, the people, the money, the newspapers, the music, the food, the traffic signs, the shampoo, the beer (oh, god, the beer!), even the television commercials, suddenly changes, it is not fun. It is not exciting.

When you are on vacation in a foreign country, all those things that are different from home are part of what makes it interesting. And you can afford to take an interest in them because, like a museum patron studying an avant garde painting, you may find it atrocious, but you need not take it home and hang it in your livingroom.

I've taken California home and hung it in my livingroom.

Don't mistake my meaning, I don't find it atrocious. Quite the contrary: it's beautiful, when viewed in the right light. I am, for example, thrilled by the sheer novelty of encountering palm trees every day. I am delighted that the star of my favourite movie is governating the state. The Pacific Ocean is spectacular, and though I don't see it every day, the way I used to see my lake, because it's half an hour away, it's only half an hour away! The god-damned Pacific Ocean is only half an hour from where I live!

The language is 95% the same, and while that makes adjustment easier, somehow it adds to the surreality of the situation. But I have learned a great deal about America in general and California in particular in the seven weeks that I've lived here.

I learned, for example, to say, "To get there, you take 101 north," rather than "the 101 north," a verbal tic I'm told will make people think I'm from southern California. I've learned that the people of northern California have very definite opinions about the people of southern California, and I'm given to understand that the reverse is also true.

I understand that the nickname, The Golden State, comes from the endless vistas of dried brown grass on the hills, which are lovely in their own way, I suppose.

And I hear it doesn't snow here. From everyone I meet.

But back to the television commercials, one of the more surprising differences I've noticed. I had no doubt they would be more conservative and less subtle than Canadian commercials, but somehow I expected them to be better than they are. Perhaps it's because, as a professor of marketing, I am well aware of the annual brouhaha surrounding the commercials debuted during the Super Bowl, and I thought that the advertising I'd encounter during other times of the year would be, if not great, at least occasionally... good. I have found this not to be the case. Every second television commercial I see goes something like this:

There's a five second scene of average-looking people doing average sorts of things. One of the average-looking people says, "I owe it all to Vitajex!" Then, for the remaining 55 seconds, while in the background the average people continue doing their average things, a voice-over disclaims all the disclaimers:

Talk to your doctor before taking Vitajex. Vitajex may not be suitable for all diets. If you are black, white, Hispanic, Asian, or Native American you should not take Vitajex. Vitajex is not recommended for vegetarians, vegans, diabetics, or people who eat meat. If you are over four feet tall or under 95 years of age, you should not take Vitajex. Vitajex may contain minute traces of uranium, arsenic, E. coli, mercury, shards of glass, or spinach. Consume at your own risk. If you are pregnant, you should not take Vitajex. If you have ever been pregnant, you should not take Vitajex. If you have never been pregnant, you should not take Vitajex. Men over the age of seven who take Vitajex may experience side effects such as bloating, water gain, swollen feet, weight loss, weight gain, hair loss, dry skin, dandruff, earwax buildup, acne, warts, athlete's foot, hives, runny nose, or spina bifida. The preceeding information has been brought to you by the makers of Vitajex in accordance with the Article 4.3.7-a of Proposition 42 of the great state of California.

The photo of my cat, Pinky, is brought to you in honour of Catmas, and because Pinky spends a lot of time in that box, and lately I've been wishing I could join him. In the next story Postmodern Sass discovers weasels with Internet access and, later that night decides to watch the San Jose Sharks hockey game.

A little seltzer down your pants

You know that episode of The Mary Tyler Moore Show where she moves into a new apartment, and her friends are so encouraging, and they tell her how great it is that she's taking this step, and they ask her if she's excited, and they offer to help her decorate, and so she moves in, and her friends come over for a housewarming party, and she asks them to leave her alone for a minute, and she takes her famous brass M and nails it to the wall, and we think that means she's going to like it there, but then she takes a step back, shakes her head sadly and says, "I... don't like it."

It's kinda like that.

Pretty Fly For A White Guy

My students gleefully pointed me to Weird Al's latest, "Canadian Idiot," and I laughed hardest at the line about how we treat curling just like it's a real sport. Reminds me of a joke I heard a long time ago, told to me by an American friend: We'll explain guns to you, if you can explain curling to us.

Being on a rink sans skates? Don't look to me for an explanation, Gentle Reader.

I spent my childhood living a stone's throw from the United States. In high school, we joked about how Smuggling 101 was a course in grade nine. Joked about it being formalized in the curricula, but learned how to do it nonetheless. When we turned 18 we started going over the river to upstate New York to drink, because we could; because the legal age in Ontario was 19. Nowadays, it's the other way around; their students come over to our side.

My point, and I do have one, is that I'm no stranger to this country where I now live. I have visited 27 of the 50 states, and worked in three. I have worked with Americans and for Americans. I have American relatives. I have had sex with Americans. I just never lived here before.

I know they make fun of us for being overly polite. They don't know we make fun of them for being rude, but we do it with love because we know they don't mean to be.

I'd always figured, it's not a bad thing to be polite. Until yesterday, I never thought that politeness could be construed as rude, or that a rude comment tossed over a shoulder might be the polite thing to do.

One day last year I'd been in the classroom at the university where I used to teach, and I noticed the students snickering once or twice during the lesson. This isn't unusual; I try to be funny so as to keep their attention, but I hadn't said anything to provoke that laughter.

At least, that's what I thought. After class I went to the faculty lounge for coffee. There was only one other person in there, a woman, one of the department assistants, and yet she discreetly closed the door before whispering to me,

"Your fly's undone."

I burst out laughing, and told her the story. "Well, at least that explains why they were laughing at me!"

"Do you mean to say not one of them told you?" she asked.

"Well, no," I replied, "I mean, I wouldn't expect them to raise their hand and say, 'Excuse me, miss, but you're flying low.' Really, I'm thankful they didn't. That would have been embarassing."

When you're a teacher, you have to lower your embarassment threshold.

I've been teaching five years now, which likely explains why yesterday, on the busy sidewalk on San Fernando Street, when a man walked past me, then turned and yelled loud enough so they could hear him across the street, "Hey, miss, you're flying low," I just laughed, zipped up, and kept on walking.

Speaking of flies being down, again today someone found this story of mine by searching for "had to pee so bad." Is this, like, the name of a band, or something? In the next story, Postmodern Sass has lost her flyness, but found her inner Mary Tyler Moore.