Where The Boys Are [part II - fin]

Continued from Part I

"That's right, Rowan, you don't know her," explained Ace gently, as he came down the steps to give me a hug, "But I know her, and so does Uncle Jack."

"And she's from Canada, too, just like Daddy," added Maggie.

Rowan took this information under advisement for a moment, then decided to let me pass. We stepped inside, and Maggie was just explaining how I should put my bag somewhere out of reach of Baby Oak, who was at that stage where he had to grab, explore, put in his mouth, or throw, everything he could wrap his tiny hands around, when Rowan reached up and pulled my hand and said, "Do you want to see my room?"

"Of course I want to see your room!" I said. "It's why I came."

The tour began with his bed, which was covered with a patchwork quilt. "Look," Rowan pointed to the bottom left corner, "It has my name on it." Then he explained why the temporary railing was there ("So I won't fall off.") and how he liked to sleep against the wall on the far side, which was painted sky blue with clouds.

Next, we sat on the floor and he showed me his favourite truck. It was over a foot long; a model of one of those trucks that carries cars, but so much better than the real ones because it was lime green and trimmed with black flames.

"Do you have any cars we can put in the truck?"

"No," he said, wistfully, "It's only for pretend cars."

"Ah, I see."

Then it was time for the tour of the music corner. Rowan owns a child-size but working guitar, and a similar child's toy but works pretty darned good keyboard.

"Can you play this?" I asked, indicating the keyboard.

"Oh yes," he said, and reached over and pushed a button. The machine began to play "Fly Me to the Moon," instrumentals only. It sounded just like those old MIDI files people used to send around before the invention of MP3s. I hummed along, singing the bits of the chorus that I knew, and tried not to think about the last time I'd heard that song, when another child had been singing it to me.

"You know that song?" Rowan was thrilled that I knew one of his machine's songs. Kids have such a cool limited perspective on the world.

"I know the tune, but not all the words. You know who I bet knows the words? Your friend Jack, that's who." That was as sure a bet as the sun rising in the morning.

I thought Rowan would demand, and receive, proof of this statement but he was no longer interested in what songs I knew or didn't know. "I know a different song," he told me, and then he started to sing,

Are you sleeping
Are you sleeping
Brother Oak?
Brother Oak?

I could have swallowed him up right there.

Before long we were gathered around the table, drinking not beer but Diet Coke, and eating not turkey but stuffed squash and spinach cakes, and I was thinking this was just about the best Thanksgiving dinner I'd ever had.

Jack and Ace were asking each other about mutual friends from the homeland. Ace is aquainted with Peter, which I knew. I didn't know how well, though, so I asked, "Better or not as well as me?"

"Not as well as," he replied, and then he asked, "Hey, do you ever hear from Ian?"

Ian had been the boyfriend of my friend Hannah, whom I'd met in a writer's group back around the time I'd first met Jack. He was a saxophone player, and, I later discovered, hung in the same circles as Ace. I remember they'd been surprised when they realized I knew both of them.

During those years, when I lived in that town where Jack's family raised him, and where our paths crossed by coincidence not once, but twice six years apart, Hannah had been my best friend, and Ian had been X's.

"Not any more," I said, answering Ace's question. "I didn't get custody of him."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean X made everyone choose, and Ian chose him."

"What?"

"Yeah, I know."

"You're kidding!"

"No."

"And he's how old, again?"

"I know."

"But everyone knows you don't choose the person who makes you choose!"

"I know."

"Man, what a..." but Ace held his tongue, on account of the echolaic four year old in the room. The same reason I didn't repeat my mantra, I'm done with the fuckin' Irish.

Instead, I said, "You've heard that old chestnut about the mid-life crisis men have?"

"Uh huh."

"Like a timer had gone off. Right on schedule, and straight out out of the textbook."

Jack had a look on his face that expressed something between puzzlement and fascination. You never told me that, the look said. My return look told him, You know I don't talk about him to you.

* * *
"I hear you made a pie," said Maggie, as we carried the dishes into the kitchen.

"Actually I made two pies, one after the other. The first was a sacrifice; I had to taste it, and I didn't want to bring it with a piece missing. But then when Jack reminded me that if there was milk in it, you couldn't eat it, I decided to leave it at home. Right at this moment there are one and 9/10ths pies in my refrigerator. Jack gets to take the whole one home."

"Oh," said Maggie, "So you made it for him."

"Yes; it has no sugar in it. But it had been my intention to bring it along for everyone."

"Well, I made a pie, too! It's got maple syrup in it, and a little bit of molasses."

"It looks just like mine. What did you use instead of milk, to hold it together?"

"Soy milk! What did you use instead of sugar?"

"Sugar-free vanilla pudding mix!"

"Oh, good idea!"

"Mine also has seven secret spices, which are really not so secret; they're the same ones I use when I make pfefferkuchen."

"Let me guess: cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger... and maybe cloves?"

"Yes. Also cardamon, coriander, and allspice."

"Next year, let's work together and make one amazing pie that everyone can eat."

"It's a date."

"Mommy," Rowan asked Maggie, "Can't Uncle Jack eat the pie?"

"No, honey."

"Why not?"

"Well, Rowan, you know how we don't eat anything that's made from animals? Well, Uncle Jack doesn't eat anything that has sugar in it."

"I see," said Rowan. He's four years old, but I believe he did see, and didn't require any further explanations or justifcations. He caught on quicker than many adults I've encountered in similar situations.

We were getting ready to leave, and I bent down to hug Rowan. He gave me a big sqeeze, and said, "Thank you for coming to my room."

"You're welcome," I replied. "I'll come back again soon, OK?"

"OK." Then he stepped behind me and pulled up the pink hood of my knitted Gap sweater. "You should put your hood on," he said, solemnly. "It's dark outside."

I'm hopelessly in love with both of Ace's boys, and I can't wait to visit them again. Maybe by the next time, Rowan will have learned how to sing "Fly Me To The Moon," and maybe Oak will have grown into his head.



Next, Postmodern Sass shares her hobby with her readers. And then Ace stubles upon Postmodern Sass's blog.

Where The Boys Are

Jack and I drove up to Napa yesterday, to visit our friend Ace, who plays bass. When I say Jack and I drove, what I mean is Jack drove, in a fabulous fire-engine red Nissan 350 Z. Beauty is in the shop, you see.

And when I say our friend Ace, what I mean to say is, Jack's friend Ace, with whom I am also acquainted, though only because he was Jack's friend from a long, long time ago.

Napa is stunningly beautiful. The leaves turn colour up there — even on the grape vines, something I've never seen before, and I come from grape & wine country.



That sea of red, with its border of yellow, is a vineyard. It seems different kinds of grape leaves turn distinctly different colours. Where I come from they turn black, freeze, and crash to the ground, all within seconds following the harvest.

Driving through the quaint towns of Yountville, Calistoga, and Sonoma, was almost like being in New England in early fall, if you squinted your eye to block out the occasional palm tree.

Yountville is home to this restaurant, called The French Laundry.





To say that The French Laundry is an exclusive restaurant is to say that the Mona Lisa is a painting. It's the restaurant, at least in this part of the world. There are websites dedicated to giving tips on how to get a reservation there.

It was closed, yesterday, because of the Thanksgiving Day holiday, which is just as well, because Jack and I were planning to have dinner with the vegans.

That's right, Ace and his wife, and their two little boys, are vegans. That means no turkey for us.

Incidentally, I'd like to take a moment to point out, for those of you unclear on the concept, that Jews are not vegetarians because they don't eat pork, and neither is your best friend Buffy Sue, who doesn't eat red meat. ("Ewwwww!") A vegetarian is someone who doesn't eat the flesh of animals. Any animals. And yes, an Orange Ruffie is an animal. So is a chicken, and so is a salmon.

It's not just Americans that irritate me, Gentle Reader; I have many pet peeves, one of which is having this conversation with people:

"I don't eat steak. I'm a vegetarian."

"You mean you don't eat any meat?"

"Well, I eat fish and chicken, and some seafood. Like Chicken of the Sea."

"Then you're not a vegetarian."

"Oh yeah? What am I, then?"

"You're a person who likes to eat some foods, and prefers not to eat others, you stupid fuckhead, which makes you exactly the same as every other human being on the fucking planet, so stop acting like you're in some fucking special, superior category just because you don't like steak."

And you wondered why I had to travel three hours north to get a dinner invitation.

Vegans don't eat anything that comes from animals. Which is why, in the end, Jack got the whole pie that I made yesterday.

You see, the primary motivation for yesterday's baking experiment was not so I could bring something to the party, it was to bake a pumpkin pie that Jack could eat. He's diabetic. Bringing something to the party was secondary, and, in the end, I brought nothing, because when Jack arrived to pick me up, and I told him about the pie, he asked,

"Does it have milk in it?"

D'oh!

So we drove pieless to Napa.

I was excited about seeing Ace again. It had been ten years, almost exactly, since the summer in New York, when I was working for that Internet startup, and he was playing bass with a band that had a gig in the Village, and we'd walked around the city together, both of us over six feet tall and dressed in biker jackets. His hair had been long, then; I mean all the way down his back long. I remember him commenting, "Nobody's going to fuck with us, are they?"

Jack told me that Ace had cut his hair to normal guy-length short. That his wife's name was Maggie, and that she was a dancer he'd met in New York — a real dancer, Gentle Reader, get your mind out of the gutter — and that their little boy's name was Rowan.

They'd also recently had another baby boy, and named him Oak.

Rowan and Oak. And their father is a musician. Shall we start guessing the name of the band they're going to form in ten years or so?

The red Nissan pulled up in front of a tiny house on the outskirts of one of the Napavilles; I forget which one; and shadows of figures gathered behind the glass door to watch us get out. We made our way up the sidewalk, to the porch, and there was Rowan, four years old and long, streaming blond hair, looking every inch the rock star I have no doubt he will one day be. Barring our path with his arms crossed. He looked at Jack and smiled, then looked at his father, then back to me. He set his little mouth firmly, pointed straight at my head, and declared, "I don't know her!"

To be concluded in Part II.

Pie in the Sky

Everything in this country has sugar in it, and I mean a lot of sugar. The little café around the corner from me, where I frequently pick up coffee on my way to the university, offers nothing without it. I'd just about kill for a bran or oatmeal muffin some days, but the only muffins they sell have chocolate chips in them. There's a beautiful display of icing-drizzled buns and sugary danishes, but a dearth of anything bread-like.

Even in the grocery stores, the bread products are limited to variations on Wonder Bread and lots of sourdough. Souurdough is nice, but I'd just about kill for a slice of pumpernickle pumpernickel.

I knew that finding a sugar-free pumpkin pie in a store would be out of the question, so today I'm going to bake one. With a little help from Edna Staebler.

Make that a lot of help. I've never baked a pie before.

Happy Thanksgiving, Gentle American Reader!

Find out what Postmodern Sass does — or, rather doesn't — with her pie, in the next story.

My hat is off, won't you stand up and take a bow? [redux]

I discovered rather late in my blog life that I'm not like most bloggers; that is, I didn't begin blogging for the reasons that most people do. This will come as no surprise to anyone who knows me in real life. The fact that I don't do things the way most people do them, I mean.

It was my real-life friend Maria from whom I learned that many people write blogs as a way of keeping in touch with their friends and family. Maria moved to Canada five years ago, and started her blog to keep in touch with her family in Mexico. That's why her blog address is "mi vida en Toronto." (I understand a little Spanish, mostly learned from watching Bugs Bunny cartoons, and from taking vacations in Cuba.) Since then, her blog evolved into "The Naked KnitGirl." She also does chicken wing reviews. Her blog is much more than just the what-I-had-for-breakfast blog it was born as, but this poses a problem.

She can't tell her readers the best stuff.

So many times, when we were drinking at The Banknote, she'd tell me a story that would have me in stitches. She would say things like, "I just broke up with (insert boyfriend's name here), but he doesn't know it yet, and I might get back together with him by tomorrow."

I would laugh, and say, "You have to write that! It's hilarious!"

And she'd say, "I can't! He reads my blog!"

She's told me many other highly entertaining and salacious, stories too, and then said, "I can't write about that — my mother reads my blog!"

She can't write about work, because she's wisely wary of being dooced.

It's a shame. She has such great stories, but she can't tell them. And it's all because she started blogging under her real name.

It never occurred to me to write under my real name. In my real life, I tell my friends and family the real things, the true stories, the boring stuff that only families care about. I never imagined the Internet would be interested in any of that.

I never imagined the Internet would be interested in my stories at all.

I started writing my blog for me, and me only. No one I knew in real life knew anything about it. It never occurred to me to mention it to them. I wrote for many reasons, some of which I explained here, others that are too personal to explain to anyone, even to you, Gentle Reader.

So I wrote stories about the interesting and often weird people I'd meet in places like grocery stores and bars and airports (or bars in airports); people whom I'd never see again. People who would never, in a million years, read my blog. And even then, I would fabricate and obfuscate details, just in case, by some fluke, they did.

The only people who appear in my stories under their real names are the ones who have blogs themselves, and who have identified themselves by their real names. People like Wendy and Joey and Maria and Dave and Tim Bray. And because they have outed themselves, so to speak, I am very careful what I write about them.

My non-blogging friends, like Sparky, and Magda, and Zee, and Boz, and Angela, and Lulu, and The Viking, are the ones who get the best stories, because you, Gentle Reader in Australia, and France, and Germany, and Vancouver, and Iowa, don't know who they "really" are, and there's almost no chance of you ever running into them. Even if you did, you probably wouldn't care.

I think of the stories that I write as fiction. All fiction writers, especially in their early works, base their characters on people they know in real life, and include incidents that actually happened to them. And they are free, because what they write is declared to be fiction, to exaggerate some details, and omit others. Because what they're writing is not a diary.

(I have a diary. It's my Moleskine. In it, I write the stories that are too painful, too personal, or too embarassing to others who may be mentioned in them, to be published here.)

And then one day, after I'd been blogging for a few months, I had a technical problem with my blog, and I called on my real-life friend, Tim Bray, for help. He had to look at my template. He had to look at my blog. Once the technical issue had been resolved, he said he'd like to link to my blog from his blog, and did I mind? I knew Tim had a blog and that most of his readers were propeller-heads who are intrested in discussing the latest develoments in Atom and RSS and assorted widgetry. I didn't know what my blog anecdotes had to do with any of that, so I said, "Sure."

So Tim linked to me, and a funny thing happened. Some of those propeller-heads liked my blog. Perhaps it's because they recognized my inner dorkiness, or perhaps it's because they, too, like karaoke. Whatever the reason, suddenly I had readers. Lots of them.

And they started sending me email.

I didn't allow comments on my blog for a long, long time. Not because I didn't want to hear from such readers as might happen along — my email address has always been in my sidebar, along with a note encouraging email — but because, when I'd write a story like this, I didn't see the point in having fifty people write that they're sorry my cat died.

I apologize if that sounds unkind. But when my cat died, I sought sympathy from my real world friends and relatives; I didn't need it from my readers. And comments of that sort are, well, not interesting. To other readers, I mean.

And when I'd write a story like this, I really didn't want to hear comments about what a fool I am to put up with Jack.

See, it doesn't take much thought or effort to post a comment on a blog. It takes a little more thought and effort, plus the willingness to identify one's self, to send someone an email. And so I enjoyed very much the many lovely emails I received from my early readers, long before I ever turned the comments on. Readers like Udge, and Blundering American, and Norm, and Tim Bray. Tim has never written a comment on my blog, but he I know that he reads it. On the day that I posted this story, I had an email from him within minutes, saying, simply, "Tell me." And I did.

My first comments were not, technically, comments, but email messages. Like this one, from Neil Kramer: "I just was sneaking around your site, looking around. What great stories you have. I even saw your photo and karaoke page! But what really got my notice was your mention of Thomas Kuhn's The Structure of Scientific Revolutions. That has a special spot on my bookcase, next to the Bible and Curious George."

Sadly, the earliest email messages I received from wonderful readers like Carrington Vanston and Norm Walsh, were sent to my Yahoo! address. I haven't used it for almost two years, and when I tried to log in today, to retrieve those messages, I found that my account had been deactivated, and though I was able to reactivate it, my folders had been deleted.

I remember an email from Evan that said, "I never read personal blogs but I like yours." That was the first time I'd ever heard my blog referred to as a "personal blog." I still don't think of it as that. And I remember an email from Prudence in Paris who wrote to tell me that I have a growing fan base in France. Perhaps it is because they get PoMo there.

So, on this day of the giving of thanks to the First Commenter, I must begin by thanking Tim, Neil, Carrington, Norm, Evan, and Prudence, for sending me those early email messages that contained comments about my blog. Tim was definitely the first. The others came not long afterwards; I don't remember in what order.

Somewhere along the way I turned on the comments. First, as an experiment. Then, occasionally. Now, I only turn them off very infrequently. I don't remember exactly when it was (and I've spent the better part of an hour trying to find it), but I do remember that it was Udge, who had by then become a regular reader, who wrote about the joys of comments, and who first encouraged me to try them. I would turn them on occasionally, when I really wanted my readers' advice. Like here.

Therefore, on this day of the giving of thanks to the First Commenter, I must offer a very special thanks to Udge.

Who is my real First Commenter? If you don't count my Aunt Josephine (and I don't, because she's my aunt), it was Murky Thoughts, who left a wonderfully ironic comment on my blog on February 22, 2005, on the post titled "Please Mr. Postman," in which I explained why I don't allow comments.

Postmodernism is all about irony, Gentle Reader.

Finally, on the subject of comments, I'm sorry to have to tell you, my regular wonderful commenters, that I recently felt forced to turned on the comment moderation feature. This was largely, though not entirely, due to the comments being left with increasing frequency by a woman named Cynthia, in Massachussetts. For reasons that utterly baffle my understanding, she feels it necessary to write hateful, rude, ignorant comments on my blog. I don't know who she is, and I can't for the life of me imagine why she thinks I care what she has to say. And she always comments anonymously, with no email address, as the cowardly do, so I can't reply to her and politely ask her to fuck off. The fact that I receive email notifications every time she leaves a comment, and so can and do delete them immediately, is obviously a concept not within reach of her tiny brain. And though there is a certain amusement factor in reading comments from morons, lately I've decided it's just too bothersome.

So now, two years and a bit into my blogging life, I choose to allow comments on most of my stories, because you have taught me, those of you who read me and who leave comments, that Udge was right. For the most part. And the comments moderation feature allows me to screen assholes like Cynthia without, I hope, causing too much of an inconvenience to you, Gentle Reader.

Today's post began as a salute to my First Commenter. But it is also a salute to all of you; those who lurk, and those who comment; those who blog, and those who do not. And like it says over there in the sidebar, it continues to astonish and delight me that anyone is reading my stories.

In the next story, Postmodern Sass bakes a pie.

My hat is off, won't you stand up and take a bow?

Tomorrow is Thank Your First Commenter Day in the blogosphere. Says Neil Kramer, that's who.

Though Neil presents the rules as rather strict (thank the first person who ever commented on your blog, regardless of who it is), I'd like to suggest that your best friend and/or husband and/or girlfriend and/or co-worker doesn't count. Neither do spam comments.

That's just my two cents.

I'd like to thank the first person that I don't personally know, who left a genuine comment on my blog.

Identifying that person won't be easy, though, on account of this.

I will do my best to identify you, First Postmodern Sass Commenter, by tomorrow, so that you may be properly acknowledged and honoured.

In the next story, Postmodern Sass does indeed identify her first commenter, but she thanks many other readers and commenters, too.

I wa-wa-wa-wa-wonder

Why?

Why-eye-eye-eye-eye

a person who had been wrongfully accused of murder; a person who maintained their innocence throughout their trial and for more than ten years after it; a person who was found to be not guilty of murder by at least one jury; a person who is innocent...

would ever agree to write a book titled If I Did It.

Don't you, Gentle Reader?

And that's all I have to say about the incident which first shattered, then restored, my faith in America and, with it, my desire to go on living here. I now turn my writing attention to preparing the final (for now, at least) story in the Neil Gaiman saga, last mentioned here. But first, Postmodern Sass participates in Thank Your First Commenter Day.

You gotta have faith!

In followup to yesterday's story...

My faith in America has been largely restored. AP just reported that Fox has cancelled its planned airing of a TV special based on O.J. Simpson's book, If I Did It.

It's not entirely clear from this article whether the book, too, has been cancelled. The book's publisher, ReganBooks, is an imprint of Harper Collins, and Harper Collins is owned by Rupert Murdoch's media giant, News Corp. As is Fox.

Also in the article it is reported that Borders, a major American bookstore chain, will donate any profits on the book's sale to charity. Have some balls, Borders, and declare your refusal to place this piece of trash in your stores altogether. I'd be willing to bet other bookstores would follow, and you'd be able to bask in the P.R. glow of being the first to take such a brave and noble step.

So why did News Corp. decide to pull the show? Because many of its Fox affiliates said they would not air it. Bill Lamb, general manager of Fox affiliate WDRB in Louisville, Kentucky, is one of the station managers who took a stand. He said he "was concerned that whether or not Simpson was guilty, he'd still be profiting from murders."

Bravo, Bill Lamb. You have nearly single handedly restored my faith in America.

Update:
Check this out on Amazon.com. The book has indeed been cancelled.

God bless America!

Still, I wonder about something...

Given the choice between the two of you, I'd take the seasick crocodile

I am a booklover. You know this about me, Gentle Reader.

You also know that I now live in America, and that there are things about this country and the people who inhabit it that irritate me. That Americans, as a society, and as compared to Canadians, are loud, rude, and fat, for one. Or, rather, for three.

There are also things about this country that frighten me, and I'm not a person who's easily frightened. Second on the list of things that frighten me only to the fact that one can buy a gun at WalMart is the American desire to turn their murderers into celebrities.

But the fact that O.J. Simpson has written a book called If I Did It, and that a publisher was willing to publish it, and that bookstores may be willing to put it on their shelves, is something about America that deeply disturbs me.

It's more than disturbing. It is disgusting.

It is terribly, terribly frightening.

It makes me want to get on the next Air Canada flight to YYZ.

I implore you, Gentle American Reader, in the name of everything that is good and decent about your country: do not buy this book. Do not read the reviews of this book. Do not discuss this book in bars or around the water cooler.

Ignore it, and let it die the undignified, silent, unmourned, unrecognized, death it deserves.

Please.

Much to her surprise, Sass's plea is heard.

One year ago today, Postmodern Sass went sailing with her handsome neighbour, Boz.

She's my little deuce coupe

"Hey, you."

"Hey. What's up?"

"I just wanted to let you know that you might get a call from an insurance adjuster, about that thing the other night."

"OK. No problem. I still feel bad about that. How's Beauty?"

"She'll be fine, but it's worse than I thought. The bumper pushed into the rear wheel well."

"Poor Beauty. You know I love her, right?"

"I know."

Jack was a little freaked out the other night, because I was in The City, and he took me to his place. He finally showed me where he lives. And he backed into a concrete pillar in the parking garage, underneath his apartment building.

In the next story, Postmodern Sass is utterly disgusted by America.

I Am What I Am [redux]

I'll be seeing Neil Gaiman later this evening, Gentle Reader. You may remember, I told you a couple of weeks ago how he and I met. Virtually speaking, of course.

Many of you, my new gentle readers, have come from that conversation, from the time he linked to me.

It is my hope, tonight, to have the opportunity to thank him. That's probably a realistic hope. Less realistic is my hope that he'll take me up on my email offer to buy him a beer at Gordon Biersch, and that, like Robert Scoble, he might agree to pose for this sort of picture.

Hey, a girl can hope, can't she?

Eventually, Postmodern Sass tells the story of how she almost met Neil Gaiman, but first, there's a minor car accident, followed by an incident that first shatters, then restores Sass's faith in America. And then there's Thanksgiving.

Do you remember?

In Canada, it is called Remembrance Day.

This is where I stood yesterday, with Jack, on the 88th anniversary commemorating the signing of the Armistice, at the annual Remembrance Day service at the cenotaph at Victory Square in Vancouver, British Columbia.

We stand on guard for thee

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Jack and I are in Vancouver today, honouring our dead.

Lost in Love

I'm beginning to fall out of love with Lost, and that makes me sad.

Oh, don't get me wrong. I still love Sawyer. I'm still torn between those two strongest of human emotions, when it comes to him. Sometimes I want to kill him; other times I want to... that other thing.

Not that I know anyone outside of television who makes me feel that way. No, not at all.

That's what love is, isn't it? Having strong feelings about something, or someone? Who among us hasn't wanted to strangle each of our loved ones at one time or another?

It's when you no longer care, that it's time to worry. Or so I'm told. I don't know, myself, because I've only loved three men in my life and I still love all three of them.

Watching the season premiere of Lost a few weeks ago, after we'd been apart for all those months with only my season one DVDs to keep me company, I realized I didn't love that show the way I had once loved it. I almost didn't care whether I watched it again or not.

It's like with my cat, Pinky. Whenever I've been away for an extended period of time, such as my week in England last year, when I return he is standoffish. It takes him a while to forgive me for having been gone; for his feelings of resentment to be overcome by his desire for my love.

Maybe it's because I've been seeing other shows in the last few weeks. Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip, and CSI: Miami. Maybe it's because I've got a crush on Ugly Betty.

I almost fell out of love with Lost.

Until this week's episode, titled "I Do," in which Sawyer and Kate finally do. It, that is. Click on the photo to watch, if you like to watch.



Now I'm in love with Lost again.

If you skate, it would be great

Every time I see my skates I remember that song, Figure 8, from Schoolhouse Rock. Don't you? (If not, you can click on that link and listen to it.)

I didn't think I'd be seeing much of my skates in California, but that just goes to show you, you never can tell. I'm so very glad they weren't among the many, many objects I got rid of before I moved here. Not that I had any intention of getting rid of them, you understand. I mean, they're the same skates I've had since I was a member of the Beamsville Figure Skating Club when I was 15. The club tag is still there on my laces.

Last night I went skating at Logitech Ice, an arena complex here in San Jose. It's where the San Jose Sharks practice. Public skating cots $7, but with that you get a voucher for a free beer upstairs at Stanley's.

I am still in search of a good bar to watch hockey games in. A few weeks ago I tried the Brittania Arms, and I won't be going back there anytime soon. And after last night's experience, I begin to despair of ever finding a hockey bar.

Hokey bars, there are plenty of. Stanley's, for example, is a Californian's vision of what a lodge might be, but it's too-brightly lit and too shiny. The bar top and sides, the floor, even the walls and the ceiling, are panelled with pine, but the six layers of laquer that have been liberally applied to each pine board divest it of any possibility of ever appearing rustic.

There's also an enormous hanging light fixture made of perfectly pre-fabricated fake deer antlers. I know, I should have taken a picture, but I was afraid with all that glossy pine it would end up being a washout of glare.

The ice was nice, though. Can you see the Canadian flag hanging there on the wall?



I wish the jeans I had when I was 15 still fit me.

In the next story, Postmodern Sass falls out of love with Lost. Two years ago on this date, Postmodern Sass explained her obsession with grammar, and the original name of her website, Postmodernes Sprachspielen.

When I'm 64 [redux]

It came about 25 years earlier than I expected. I got my social security number today.

And I did get paid in October, though it was three weeks into the month and it wasn't a paycheque, but a sort of emergency fund cheque issued on orders from the University Vice President himself, after my Dean demanded it.

I think he, the Dean, was afraid I was going to sue them. It's funny, how Americans think.

I told you the other day how that German efficiency thing had bitten me in the ass. How the best thing to do when you emigrate to the United States, apparently, is to be slack in filing your paperwork.

When that clerk told me it would be another four weeks, I gave up on the idea of being paid in October. See, the Human Resources people at USJ had told me in no uncertain terms that without that godforsaken number, they simply could not pay me. Uh uh, absolutely not, no way, no can do. Without that number you are dirt. You are less than dirt. You are the slime beneath the dirt.

But yes, of course we still expect you to keep right on working. Yes, we know that you moved your life across the continent to come work for us, and that you had to pay nearly $10,000 of your own money to do so, and that we said we'd reimburse you for some of that, and we will, one day soon, possibly even before the end of the year, but you're not complaining, are you? You should be thrilled to be allowed to work in this great country of ours, shouldn't you? Isn't that why you came? To be free? You're not really free up there in Canada, are you? We heard you don't even have a first ammendment, how can you be free?

Remember I told you, Gentle Reader, how Hollywood Tom and some of the other professors had been dropping by my office with increasing frequency, and how I finally figured out it was because they were afraid I'd run away?

Well, the emergency cheque from the Vice President's office was cut the day after Arthur and Doris had popped in and asked "How are you?"

I had replied, "I'm fine, but I would be better if I were paid."

They were appalled to hear that I hadn't been, and demanded to know the story. So I told them.

"I think you may have a lawsuit on your hands," said Doris, calmly. She's a lawyer in addition to being a professor. She teaches business law here in the School of Business Communications at USJ, and she has a thriving practice in the neighbouring town of Sunnyvale. She would have taken my case right then, I'm sure.

I settled for allowing her to march me to the Dean's office. It was after 5:00 on a Friday, but he was still there. Feet were stamped. Calls were made. And the next morning at 9:00 I had a call from HR, "Come pick up your check."

So I went for a smoke break walk to the other side of the campus, where the administration building lies.

"You have an envelope for me?" I asked the receptionist, as I'd been told to do.

"Name?"

I told her.

"Here it is." She took a small business-size envelope out of a larger inter-office envelope, and gave me a sheet to sign. "Sign here to show you received it."

I signed. Gave it back to her. Held out my hand for the envelope.

"Can I see your I.D., please?"

"I don't have any I.D. And if you don't know who I am, then you're the only one in this department who doesn't."

"Is there someone here who knows you?"

I gave her three names. She went to check. Apparently, they were all out.

She refused to give me the cheque that she had just made me sign a receipt for.

"Look, here's the thing. I don't have any I.D. I don't have a social security number. I haven't been paid, and I'm not leaving here without that cheque. Do what you have to do, but give it to me."

She called my department secretary, Anna Lisa.

"Um hum. Yes. Brown hair."

Brown hair?

She gave me the cheque.

Later that afternoon I was in the department office, and Anna Lisa said, "Some woman called here earlier and asked me to describe you. That was weird."

I told her what had happened.

There ensued some jokes about checking Air Canada flights.

"Yeah, but if you disappeared you'd have to pay back those moving expenses," said Anna Lisa. Her job as department assistant includes completing the necessary forms for the reimbursement of these expenses. She swears she's done so, and that I should have the cheque any day now.

This is what I was thinking, but didn't say to Anna Lisa: "Right. I'm in this country legally, after a not inconsiderable amount of paper was pushed on my behalf. In the now eleven weeks since I've been here, everyone has been pushing all the right papers, and yet I just now get my social security number, haven't been paid, can't get on the benefits plan, can't get a phone or a credit card. And you think that if I just disappeared, there'd be anything you could do about it?"

At the very least, I'll wait until that cheque arrives.

Can you hear me, Major Tom?

From: Xie Fang < gettingbyoncuteness@hotmail.com >
To: Professor Sass < professorsass@business.usj.edu >

Dear Professor,

How are you? How was your weekend? My name is Xie Fang. I am your student. I am so sorry that I could not contact with you as early because I was have too much works to do at my job place. Every day when I get home is too late already that why I was lazy to use an internet. About the product analyze assignment, I was chose for "Pantene shampoo" but I was so busy that why I totally forgot to send you an email to let you know about this. However, since I am have to much work to do at work, can I just drop this assignment? Please. I am really sorry about this.



From: Professor Sass < professorsass@business.usj.edu >
To: Xie Fang < gettingbyoncuteness@hotmail.com >

Xie, I don't understand your question. What do you mean, drop the assignment? The assignment is due tomorrow at the beginning of the class.



From: Xie Fang < gettingbyoncuteness@hotmail.com >
To: Professor Sass < professorsass@business.usj.edu >

Good morning!

I am sorry that I could not reply your email last night because when I got home is so late already. Also, I am sorry that I did not speak clearly- I meant that can I not to turn in the assignment. I have started on this assignment already, but I do not think that I will have enough time to finish this since I am too busy at work my work schedule has changed. I will try all my best to finished this but somehow I may not finished, that's why I was asked you to drop out this assignment. I am so sorry about this and also thank you for everything.

Your student: Xie Fang

* * *
The cartoon is from The Far Side by Gary Larson. Used here without permission.

One year ago, Postmodern Sass suffered a terrible hangover. Two years ago, she flirted with Doug Gilmour.

Only Heaven Knows [redux]

I haven't seen Angela since last summer, when she came home to Toronto for a visit. She's been living in Italy for a year now, with Leo and Daphne, and I miss them almost as much as I miss her.


It's nice to have a friend in Rome, though. One day, I hope to do that "when in Rome" thing for real.

In the mean time, she sends me email. The lovely, flaky sorts of email one might expect to receive from a friend who is a Life Coach. Here's the latest:

"Dedicated to all the beautiful women in my life and the wonderful men that love, support and cherish them. I invite you to explore which numbers really speak to you.

My promise for the world is:

By 2025, I promise each and every person's contribution is recognized, honored and flourishing in a playful world where dreams are fulfilled.

A Peaceful and Joyous World filled with Miracles."

Now, normally I would dismiss such schmaltz, but today, I'm posting Angela's message here, with the link to the terribly hokey movie, and dedicating it to my best friend Kay, who was just promoted to assistant vice president of her bank. I think she should count every single one of those rungs on the ladder to success she's climbed, and be very, very proud of them.

CoRank Rankin Family

It's deja vu all over again. Have you heard about coRank?

In February, 1996, at Internet World in San Jose, teaser site Pointcast had just launched. And for about five minutes, in Internet time, it was the only thing that mattered.

It was the YouTube of its day. It had everyone in the dot com world running scared — either trying to beat it, or be it.

And then, just before any one of the major search engine companies back then (Excite, Infoseek, Magellan, Webcrawler, and Open Text) could get their acts together and buy it, it fizzled.

The buzzword in Pointcast's day was push technology.

The buzzword in coRank's day is user-generated content.

Those who fail to study history are doomed to repeat it. I wish you luck, coRank. You're going to need it. The glory days of Money for Nothing are gone.

When I'm 64

is when I'm expecting I'll finally get my social security number.

Sometimes I wonder why I went to all the trouble to come to this country legally. All those illegal immigrants — or "aliens," as they call them in America — we always heard so much about. Living and working here illegally. Where did I go wrong?

I crossed the border, legally, into the United States of America, on August 17. The American customs officers at the Toronto airport checked my papers, checked my luggage, examined Pinky's teeth, ran my passport through their electronic thingamagig; then filled out an I-94 form, signed it, sealed it, and stapled it into my passport.

The next morning I was at the social security office in downtown San Jose.

"When did you enter the country?"

"Yesterday."

Clickety click click. Then: "You're not in the system yet."

Have you ever noticed how the people that work in government offices always look at you with suspicion? They don't even make an effort to mask it. Some things are exactly the same here as they are at home.

The clerk sighed, took my passport and my I-94 form, and made copies of everything. She told me to expect the card in four weeks.

On September 22 — I gave it five weeks, because, well, it's a government office; no one expects them to process paperwork in the timeframe they tell you they can process paperwork in &mdash I called the social security office.

I was on hold for nearly an hour til I was able to explain my situation to another clerk. My first payday at USJ was nine days hence. I thought there might still be a chance.

Silly me.

"It seems your paperwork got caught in the backlog, but I've sent it in now."

You've sent it in? Sent it in where? Aren't you the place it's supposed to go? Haven't you had everything you needed for five weeks?

"So it will take four to five weeks."

"You mean from today."

"Yes."

"So, what you're saying is, about ten weeks all in all."

"Yes."

"And this is because I did what i was supposed to do. I filled out the paperwork as soon as I had legally entered the country."

"Yes."

"If I had waited, say, two weeks before coming to show you my paperwork, you would have been able to issue me a number straightaway?"

"Well..."

Usually, that German efficiency thing is a good thing. But nothing's what I expected it to be, here.

One year ago, Postmodern Sass and Angela discussed men. Two years ago, Postmodern Sass watched the American election insanity from a hotel room in Mississippi.

Postmodern Sass's social security card arrives 25 years early, but before it does she's reminded of a failed Internet company called Pointcast, gets an email from her friend Angela, and has a Bizarro World conversation with a student.