I Never Promised You A Rose Garden

"Fuzzball!"

"Sleazebag! How are you?"

Please do not ask me to explain, Gentle Reader, why Sara and I refer to each other by these nicknames. We have done so for fifteen years. We went to university together. We DJ'd at the university radio station together. We slept with the same men. That is to say, man. That is to say, she slept with my boyfriend while he was still my boyfriend, but I didn't find out about it for years and then I didn't care anymore.

We didn't share each other's clothes, for reasons that I hope are selbsverständlich. She has to shop at specialty lingerie stores for bras, whereas I need only pop into the junior miss department at Target for mine.

I may have worn a sweatshirt of hers, once, during the time that we lived together. We were roommates, briefly, after our last year at McGill. She wasn't sure whether she wanted to move back to Toronto, and I had just lost my roommate of three years, Stella.

Not that she died, or anything, she just graduated and moved back to Staten Island.

Sara usually spent her summers on a kibbutz in Israel, kibbutzing with others of her tribe. Getting manicures and whatnot. But this summer she was contemplating the big questions of life: What to do now that she had a bachelor's degree in industrial relations. Whether to try to get her sofa back from the guy in her apartment building she'd lent it to the summer before. How frequently to get her hair straightened.

In the meantime she'd found herself a McJob at Cotton Ginny in the Alexis Nihon plaza in Westmount, and I offered to let her stay in Stella's old room while she decided. She agreed, pending parental approval — her parents were coming for a visit a week or so later, and she wanted them to meet me and see my apartment.

"Do you want to put one of those thing-mies on my door jamb?" I asked her.

"It's called a mezuzah, and no, it's OK, they know you're not Jewish."

"Yeah, but do they know I'm German?"

"Don't worry, I already told them I don't fit in your oven."

* * *
"So how are you?" she insisted upon knowing, now. "How is California?"

"I'm starting to like it here," I told her, "But it doesn't like me so much." And then I elaborated about my quest for a social security number, and how no bank will issue me a credit card because I have no credit history here, and how I feel like I'm twelve years old again. (I actually received a letter of refusal from Visa, giving as their reason that I was underaged.)

"I can't even get a real phone," I whined, finishing the tragic tale. "I only have a pay-as-you-go cell phone. But it's a funny thing — when I called you just now, the system voice announced 'The time available for this call is: UNLIMITED.'"

"What network are you on?" asked Sara.

"Verizon," I replied.

"That's why. I'm on Verizon too. You can call anywhere on their network for free."

"But you're almost 3,000 miles away! It's long distance. You're literally on the other side of the country. How can that be?"

"That's how it works with cell phones," she said, simply.

God, I love this country.

Next, Postmodern Sass makes her New Year's resolutions. Alert the media, and Gavin Newsom's office.

Count Your Blessings

In the event, Gentle Reader, that reports reach you of a crazy redhead singing Rosemary Clooney songs at the top of her lungs from a fourth floor balcony of the Marriott hotel at Bonaventura Beach on Christmas Eve, I want you to know — and, understand that this is in no way admitting to any firsthand knowledge of said events — that the tall, handsome gentleman who accompanied her on one or two numbers (though in a much lower and more dignified register) did persuade her to come inside before security needed to be called.

In the next story, Postmodern Sass calls her friend Sara, in New York.

In a land called Hanah Lee

Once upon a time in a land far away, where it snows in the winter and people say eh, there was a girl who lived with a boy whom she loved very, very much. One night, as the girl and the boy lay in bed, in the dark, not quite sleeping, the girl asked the boy a question.

"Would you slay a dragon for me?"

The boy scoffed, and said, "There's no such thing as dragons."

The girl was quiet. She didn't love the boy any less, but it saddened her that the boy could not understand her question, and therefore could not give the right answer.

Six years later, the girl met another boy, whom she'd actually met for the first time six years earlier. They worked together, and became friends, and one day, at a coffee shop on their lunch break, the girl looked across the table, over her giant mug of café latte, at the boy she called Jack, and asked him, "Would you slay a dragon for me?"

"Of course I would," he replied, without hesitation, and she tried very hard not to love him.

Many years without dragons passed.

The boy named Jack moved to California, and the girl remained with the boy who didn't believe in dragons. She was happy, though, because there were no dragons to slay. Until he grew scales, and leathery wings, and began to breathe fire, and abandoned her.

More years passed with many dragons, and then the girl moved to California, too. And though she was not happy, she was happier because the boy named Jack was there, and because most of the time he was there for her, and because sometimes, sometimes he was quite wonderful.

The Christmas season approached. Christmases in the time of the dragons made the girl feel blue, and the boy named Jack, though he would never admit it, felt the same way. He said he liked to be alone on Christmas, but the girl didn't believe him.

One night they talked about Christmas, and dragons, in the dark, on the phone; he, in his apartment high atop a hill in the magical City by the Bay, and she, in her apartment in the grey, rainy city in the South Bay.

"I hate Christmas," he said.

"I hate Christmas," she said.

"I'll be fine in January, when the holidays are all over," he said.

"What if...?" she began.

"Yes?" he said. He listened. He waited.

"What if we went away, to someplace where there is no Christmas? Someplace that is the anti-Christmas." He continued to wait, so she continued, "Like Antarctica. I've always wanted to go to Antarctica."

"Antarctica?"

"I like the penguins."

The boy was quiet.

"Or, how about Las Vegas?"

The boy said nothing for a long while, and then he said, "We'll go to Santa Barbara."

And so it was decided that on Christmas Eve day, the girl and the boy she called Jack would climb into his magical carriage, and ride off together, south on 101, in search of new Christmas memories.

* * *
Next on Postmodern Sass: Sass counts her blessings that hotel security is on light duty Christmas Eve.

For life is quite absurd

Continued from yesterday's Always Look on the Bright Side of Life.

It's 11:15 now, and I finally have that beer in front of me. I'm still waiting for Neil Gaiman, and expecting Vladimir to come along any moment and say, "Alors, on y va?" but it hasn't been dull. There was a jocular interlude earlier during which the entire kitchen and wait staff was in the alley, having just pants and pied one of their own, for reasons I can only imagine but don't care to. During the melee one of the waitresses stood close enough to me that I was finally able to nab her for a pint.

Neil — I hope he doesn't mind me referring to him by his first name — is probably still signing autographs. The man to whom I gave my Gaiman-destined note an hour and a half ago said he expected it to go until midnight. He had the aura of a professor, and it was evident he was the organizer of tonight's event. He had introduced Neil, and now it seemed, from the sounds of the conversation I'd been eavesdropping on between him and the security guard, he was also personally acquainted with Neil.

"Excuse me," I'd said, not needing to trip him to get his attention. He was a good two inches taller than me, and I was wearing boots with three inch heels. Aside from this man and the security guard, I was the only person at the back of the room. The other 500 people were in line, waiting to get an autograph. "Do you really think it will go until midnight," I asked him, "Or will you cut it off at some point?"

Professor Estragon looked at me with that special kind of disdain usually reserved for managers of rock stars when dealing with groupies. Don't ask me how I know that.

"I can't say for sure," he replied, "But I know Neil likes to give his fans what they ask for. He's probably writing names. It could easily take until midnight, or even longer."

The marked emphasis with which he pronounced Neil Gaiman's name, first name only, was clearly meant to tell me in no uncertain terms that he spoke for the author, and that he wished, on behalf of both of them, that I'd toddle along. He had an air of impatience about him, which was quite understandable in the circumstances. I wasn't the least bit offended, since I had no way of knowing that two weeks later I'd encounter him again in a professional setting.

I suspected he was dreading I might ask him a favour, so I asked him a favour: "If I leave, thereby reducing the size of the crowd by one, would you do something for me?"

His eyes widened in terror, so I persisted. "Would you give this to Neil for me?" I handed him the note.

"Are you kidding?" the professor exclaimed. He nearly blew me down with his sigh of relief. "That's all you want me to do? Of course! I'll do it right now."

I had no doubt that he would, he had been that relieved that I hadn't asked for any sort of special treatment. Though as I told you yesterday, Gentle Reader, Neil and I have a relationship, it is not of the sort that would justify me butting into that queue in front of 500 rabid fans. I was quite content to leave, then, knowing that the tall, irritated man would give Neil my note, and reasonably certain that Neil would read it at some point, and that he would know that Postmodern Sass had been in the audience to hear him read a chapter from his future children's story, The Graveyard Book. We had bonded, even though I was the only one of the two of us aware of it.

My best case scenario was that he'd look at my note at the end of the signing, and think to himself, yes, a beer would be just the thing right now, but remembering that when the tall man had introduced Neil, he had mentioned something about Neil having to fly out early the next morning, I didn't have my hopes up.

Which is why I told you yesterday I was giving it a five percent chance.

Back at Gordon Biersch, two hours and two Märzens later, I was engrossed in conversation with a fascinating young man named Benyamin — "That's Hebrew for strength of my heart" — but that's another story.

The next day I read on Neil's blog how he'd flown to London to meet with Terry Gilliam, and I forgave him for not calling me, because even I would blow me off for Terry Gilliam, I mean, who wouldn't? And the morning after that, I found this message in my email inbox, from Neil Gaiman himself:

the biggest problem with handing authors things to read during signings, is the things only get read days later and thousands of miles away. But then, the signing went on until midnight, and I had a 6.00am pickup...

Ah well. (Always send people things before signings. Trust me on this. In the madness of that line, if it didn't say HELP I AM BEING HELD PRISONER on it it wasn't going to get read...)

love and apologies

n

Next, Postmodern Sass climbs into a magical chariot and travels to the land of Hanah Lee for Christmas.

Always Look on the Bright Side of Life

It's 10:40 p.m. Thursday night, one week before American Thanksgiving, and I'm sitting at Gordon Biersch with a pint of Märzen, giving it a five percent chance that Neil Gaiman will call me.

I'm also giving it a five percent chance — another five percent, that is, making it ten percent altogether — that he might simply show up here. Not necessarily because I invited him, though I did, but because after his long reading, and what I imagine is a still ongoing book signing, he'll be wanting a pint. Bad. He's a writer, after all.

And if I were English — which he is — and if I were staying at The Fairmont, which is just around the corner from Gordon Biersch — which he just might be — this is where I would come in search of that pint.

Besides, I told him this is where I would be, on the note I passed him. The one that had my cell phone number on it.

Shut up. Like you've never done that, Gentle Reader.

Besides, it's not what you think. No, really, it's not. I mean, I know he's married. I read his blog. He has an adorable daughter, and I'm no homewrecker. It's just that we have a relationship.

Now don't go all squirrelly on me over that word. What are you, Jack? I mean only that we've met, virtually speaking. I wrote about him on my blog, and I told him so, through a form on his blog, and we had a brief email conversation. That's right, Neil Gaiman fans (and I know many of you are), I know the man's email address. And maybe that's not quite as scandalous as Paris Hilton having Gavin Newsom's phone number, but hey, I do what I can to amuse you.

(And please don't ask me whether I'd rather have Neil Gaiman's email address or Gavin Newsom's phone number. Let's not go there right now. There's plenty of time for that. I'm working on my New Year's resolution, and you'll hear about it soon enough.)

So Neil and I — I hope you don't mind if I address him by his first name — had had a couple of email conversations in the weeks leading up to tonight, and I found him to be just as witty and engaging in email as he is in his books, and he found me to be, well, I have no idea what he found me to be but he found me, because he emailed me first. So that's something.

Apparently, Neil wrote a biography of Duran Duran. It says so on the Wikipedia, so it must be true. Just another of the ever increasing number of reasons why I believe that, were we, Neil Gaiman and I, to have the opportunity to share a pint, we would become friends, even if he doesn't karaoke. Do not scoff at me, Gentle Reader; Neil became friends with Tori Amos in much the same fashion. Of course, she's famous, but let us not pick nits.

* * *
Where was I?

Oh yes. I'm sitting in "the alley" at Gordon Biersch, because the tent is up over the patio for the winter, so I can't smoke out there anymore. In the alley, I can keep an eye on the main entrance and I can smoke.

I cannot, however, get a beer.

See, the waiters and waitresses use this area — "the alley," they call it — to chat with the kitchen staff who are on break, and as a pass-through to the tent patio proper. They don't make eye contact with me, deliberately, I think, and I don't like to yell to get their attention. It's a Canadian thing.

So I've been sitting here for ten minutes when finally, a waiter passes near enough to me that I can angle my boot out to trip him.

"Excuse me, can I get a drink from you?"

"Well, no, I don't serve in this area."

"Can you send me someone who does, then? You see, I think the problem is, everyone's ignoring me because of that drink sitting there," I indicate the large plastic cup on my table. It's filled to the brim with amber liquid and ice cubes.

"That's not yours?" the waiter asks.

"No. It's been there since I sat down."

"Oh," he says, and he looks interested, then from side to side. "I'll take it," he says.

And he does.

Where I'm sitting is neither the alley proper, nor the tent proper; it's underneath the tent entrance, and so, technically, I shouldn't be smoking here, but right beside the spot where the untouched drink had been sitting moments earlier, there is an ashtray, also full to the brim. And beside that, a small container of salsa.

(You heard me. Do you think I would make something like that up?)

I am disappointed. I'd lit a cigarette in the hopes that a waiter would stop to tell me I shouldn't, and that I'd have an opening to request a beer.

* * *
His name is pronounced to rhyme with layman, not with hymen, by the way. This I learned when he referred to himself in the third person during the reading. I'm so glad to know it, because it will prevent further conversations of this sort, at least five of which I'd had in the weeks leading up to Neil's appearance in San Jose:

"Are you going to see Neil Gaiman?"

"No, where's he playing?"

"Downtown, at the Center for Literary Arts, in November."

"Neil Guyman is playing here in town?" is what I hear.

"You know who he is? Neil Gaiman?" I'd reply, continuing to pronounce his name incorrectly. "The fantasy author? The Sandman? Comic books, and all that?

"Oh! I thought you said Neil Diamond!"

I'd mistakenly thought that his name couldn't possibly be pronounced gay-man. Not when he'd written a book called Anansi Boys, about two boys whose last name was Nancy, thereby making them nancy boys. It was all just too Monty Python to be taken seriously.

* * *
Tomorrow on Postmoderne Sprachspielen: Find out whether Sass meets Neil Gaiman in person in For life is quite absurd.

Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?

Tim Bray tagged me today for the "five things not widely known about me" meme. I thanked him, in his comments — hey, it's always nice when the boys ask you to play — but declined, saying that the whole Internet already knows the most interesting things about me.

They also know lots of mundane things about me, too.

Then I thought about it some more, and decided that what I'd do is this: I'll tell you five things you already knew about me, and add one thing you didn't know. Here goes:

1. You knew: The man in my life is named Jack. You didn't know: I've never been inside his San Francisco apartment.

2. You knew: I'm a pretty good karaoke singer. You didn't know: I run screaming from the room whenever anyone sings Journey.

3. You knew: I love my Daddy. You didn't know: I hate his step-children.

4. You knew: I used to work for an Internet search engine company. You didn't know: I invented paid search results two years before Google was born, and was fired for it.

5. You knew: I am a university professor in California. You didn't know: I'd rather be a high school teacher in Toronto.

Smoke Gets In Your Eyes

Apparently, Mount St. Helens is erupting right at this very moment.

It's magic, you know

I have this friend, a woman, who's about my age and who looks a little like me, but I'm talking about a friend here, OK? No one you know, Gentle Reader.

This friend of mine, who may or may not have red hair, and who may or may not be freakishly tall, moved to California from Toronto about... let's see now, I think it was about four months ago. As a matter of fact, it was exactly four months ago today, August 17, when she landed as an immigrant (or, as they refer to us, an alien) in the Golden State. The land of opportunity, where the grass is the color of gold.

That's neither here nor there. The point of the story (and there is one) is this: This woman sold most of her furniture before leaving home. All she brought with her on the moving truck, besides her books and go-go dresses and boots, was her desk and bookshelves, and the orange velour chair that had belonged to her mother. And so, for four months she's been sleeping first on the Aerobed that her tall, handsome friend in San Francisco bought for her, and then on a futon.

On the floor.

For four months.


One day last week this same woman went out for a night on the town with that very same tall, handsome guy named Jack, and when she woke up she had a deadly hangover and her blog had turned purple pink and Christmassy.

"This is truly a magical place!" exclaimed the woman joyfully. "Purple Pink is my favourite colour!"

She skipped all the way home to the South Bay. She smiled at the magic painting outside her door. And when she went inside, this was what she saw:



Whoa, oh, oh it's magic, you know. Never believe it's not so.

My head is like a football, I think I'm gonna die

You know that feeling you get, when you're in pain but it's well-earned pain, and you wear it like a badge of honour? Like after a good day of rock climbing. Or after you've run a marathon.

You know?

No, seriously I'm asking if you know, because I don't climb those kinds of rocks, nor have I run, like ever.

I have had a hangover before, however, and I imagine I'll have one again someday, and perhaps one of those will be worse than the one I have right now, though at the moment that's inconceivable to me. It hurts to type. But I embrace the pain, because it was well earned. My first semester at USJ is over, my 207 students are finished with exams, their grades have been submitted, and I know they'll forgive me when I say I'm SO GLAD TO BE RID OF THEM!

Last night, as we were leaving Vesuvio, Jack pointed out the alley named after Jack Kerouac, because he used to pass out there after a good night of drinking.

At least I'm not in Jack's alley.

Either one.

When Postmodern Sass recovers from her hangover, it's magic.

Orange Crush

Today is Reveal Your Blog Crush Day. Say Sandra and Sizzle. They made up the rules, I'm just following them.

My Blog Crush is Tracy Kaply, of Kaply, Inc.

I think she's the cat's meow, and here are just a few reasons why:

She wages war with the gas company.

She once had to watch her goldfish poop.

She uses words like suckage.

I like her personality.


I love the fact that when she got her hair cut, her caricature got its hair cut to match.

She has a totally suckilacious condition that is in no way her fault and which sucks to the greatest depths of possible suckitude, and yet she never whines suckitaciously, but rather writes snidely and sarcastically about it. Though it must yea verily suck.

She will make you laugh. She will make you do a double-take and say, should I be laughing at a woman on dialysis? And then you'll go, but wait, she's the one who's making me laugh about it... and then, when you're over your white middle class guilt, you'll realize just how totally kickass cool she really is.

I hope she comes to Tequilacon so I can meet her in person.

To practice for Tequilacon, Sass goes out drinking with Jack in San Francisco, and nearly passes out in an alley.

What's too painful to remember, we simply choose to forget

The Christmas season is a time for reflection. It's that time of the year when I ask myself the deep questions, like why did I move to California? And why did I bring my 500-odd records with me when, four months later, I still haven't set up my stereo?


I am a keeper of things. Too many things. It's a characteristic I come by honestly: my father carried the newspaper notice of my birth in his wallet for 30 years, and when my mother died and I had to clean out her house, I was torn about what to do with my childhood art projects, which she had framed and hung on the wall.

I threw them away. Eventually.

Why can't I be like Kay, who moved kit and caboodle to Bermuda at age 30, carrying everything she needed in a few suitcases?

I think I need to keep things to remember. When I found that note from Josh last summer I instantly recognized his handwriting, and the memories poured into my brain. I remember where we were sitting when he took me to see Prism at Hamilton Place. I remember walking to the end of the pier at Lakeside Park. I remember the disapproving look on his mother's face when she saw my neon pink nailpolish.

And I don't want to forget any of it. Ich vill nicht vergessen.

Two years ago, I wrote this story about my grandfather, because I hate Christmas, and I can never throw away that Peggy March record.

Isn't it ironic?

I was procrastinating today, because I still have a pile of assignments to grade, though it's shrinking. Not noticeably, but it is shrinking, ok? And I was thinking to myself, self, what do you suppose ever happened to Craig Kilborn?

See, myself had the hots for Craig for years. Tall, dark, and sarcastic, that's how I like 'em, and he was all that in spades. He hosted The Late Late Show, the show that David Letterman used to host before he was promoted to host of The Late Show, for five years. And then, two years ago, he up and quit. And hasn't been heard from, at least not by me, since.

So I looked him up on the Wikipedia, where there's a lengthy, though disputed, entry about Craig, that describes how he also hosted The Daily Show before Jon Stewart, and how Jon Stewart had filled in as host for Tom Snyder, who was the previous (before Craig, but after Dave) host of The Late Late Show...

... are you still with me?

And I had to laugh at this comment, in the "disputes":

"I removed the word "ironically" from this:

former talk show host – and, ironically, occasional fill-in host for Snyder – Jon Stewart replaced Kilborn on the Daily Show.

Because it's not ironic. Why don't people understand what irony is?

I blame Alanis Morissette - Justin 21:59, 25 October 2006 (UTC)"

Poor Alanis.

So, maybe it isn't ironic, but it is awfully funny, and really, really cool, that one of my students, one of the ones who witnessed my fingers turning blue the other day, dropped by my office today and brought me a present:

Bus stop, wet day

Tonight I was forced to reconsider my opinion on God. Perhaps He does exists, after all. If He does, He's got a sense of irony, and you've got to admire that in a deity.

You see, all week long I've been making fun of the weather in California. How it's colder inside than it is outside. How what they call rain wouldn't even be remarked upon by people who live in places where it actually rains. How the weather is the same every day. How there really isn't any weather at all.

My students have been dropping in to my office all week, to pick up their assignments, and, upon noticing that the tips of my fingertips and the tip of my nose are blue, they remark, "Man, it's cold in here!"

It is approximately 50°F in my office. Outside, it is at least 55°F; 60°F if you're in the sun.

It's not just my office, it's the whole building; possibly all the buildings on campus. Last week I noticed two students wearing gloves in my classroom, and several wearing scarves. Indoors.

"You must be used to the cold!" they exclaim, knowing I'm from Canada. "At least it isn't snowing here!"

True. But in Canada we heat the insides of our buildings!

Jonathan, one of my favourite students, the one who was wearing gloves indoors, laughed. "It's true, we're all just a bunch of wusses! I'm from southern California, so it seems like it's freezing all the time up here."

Then there's the rain: "We get a little bit of rain and everyone runs home and stays inside. No one knows how to drive in it," explained Jonathan.

What they call rain is what I used to call mist from the Falls.

Today, I'd been in my office all afternoon, grading assignments. Yes, I can do that at home, but to do it at home requires (a) hauling said assignments home and, (2) hauling them back again. So I prefer to do it in my office. Less hauling.

I could hear the rain. My office is on the ground floor, and I have two windows. I didn't worry about it; knew it would stop soon.

It didn't stop.

Two hours went by; it was full dark now, and still the rain hadn't stopped. And it sounded like real rain. I went outside for a cigarette and for the first time since I've lived here, had to seek shelter.

It was 9:00. I still had a dozen or so assignments to grade, but I was getting hungry and I wanted to get home. And the damned rain was showing no signs of ceasing. It seemed there was no two ways about it; I was going to get wet. So I walked home, with that Hollies' song ringing in my brain, and wondered why there is never a handsome man with an umbrella at the bus stop when I need one.

When I got home, this is what the sidewalk outside my building looked like:



It was dark. It was wet, and windy, and downright miserable. Slippery piles of leaves obstructed the sidewalk.

It was just like home! I was overcome with verklemptness.

The leaves followed me into the elevator:

And marked the trail down the corridor to my door, like little wet breadcrumbs:

This is the wall directly across from my apartment door. The leaves painted on the wall are painted on the wall, but the ones on the floor are real. And the real ones appear to be from the Japanese maple in the arched open-air alcove just around the corner. They blow off, when it's windy, and...

... I just got it! The meaning of the painting, that is.

China Girl

Last summer, before I left Toronto, I met my friend Tod's wife, Sally, for the first time. I'd been hearing about her for almost ten years from AC, but had never seen her. Tod and Sally live in Montreal, so that's not so surprising, but last August they came to visit.

We had a lovely dinner on the roof of the Park Hyatt hotel, the menu and details of which in no way affect the story I'm about to tell. It was after we bid good night to Tod and his wife, when AC and I were deconstructing and debriefing, that I made the following observation:

"She looks like she might be a little older than him. Is she, do you know?"

"She's fifteen years older," he replied, and I almost fell over from the shock — not at the idea that Tod would be with someone so much older, but because she doesn't look that old. At all. I mean, seriously, no way.

Sally is Chinese, and a fashion designer, and only the first part of that statement is relevant to this story.

Something about Asian women is age-defying. I've had this conversation from time to time with colleagues and friends, and no one has offered a viable explanation for this phenomenon. The simplistic answer is that we, as pasty white folk, simply aren't familiar enough with their physiology to be able to make age judgements, but I say that's hogwash. In my six years of teaching I've frequently had half my classroom populated by students from China. One of my closest friends is Chinese, and I lived in China for two months in 2002. I can recognize an ethnic Chinese and distinguish them from Japanese, Korean, and southeast Asian complexions. I just can't tell how old they are, is all.

Of course, the ones I'm most familiar with are the ones I know are approximately 20 years old. Twenty, going on 45.

There's an assignment I give my students that requires them to do a marketing analysis of a new product. I encourage them to choose a product that they can buy and use, rather than chosing something like a plasma TV or a new car. The boys tend to choose video games or electronic gadgets — a couple of years ago I graded no fewer than two dozen reports on the X-Box. The Canadian girls typically choose a girly product like high-tech mascara or something like this. But the Chinese girls choose products like Chanel Maximum Radiance Exfoliating Gel, which costs in the neighbourhood of $90 for a tiny one ounce tube, and Biotherm Hydra-Deto2x Detoxifying Moisturizing Fluid, which costs $47.

At first, I thought they were choosing these products capriciously, but after reading their reports I realized they choose them because they use them, which baffles me on two fronts: Why does a beautiful 20 year old feel she needs a high powered skin potion, and how the hell do they afford them on a student budget?

In their product reports they attempt unwittingly to answer the first question:

"But in the whole world now, the overall air index is more and more terrible, therefore, this kind of product may be needed in each area. For instance, Toronto's climate is relatively quite dry, and it is an industrial city; the air index is quite low. People's skin often appears rough and aged. Therefore, chooses a good radiance skin enhancing product is very important."

"People spend very long time in front of computers, especially young people. The radiation from the screens does a lot damages to our skin, as well as the polluted air. Unhealthy lifestyle also causes skin problem. As the result, skin is dull, dry and toxic. Consider these situations, detoxification products are necessary for young women."

and the second question:

"Women of low income also can choose it, because if women with low income cannot spend 40 dollars on cosmetics, which would be used in a month or less time, they might consider buying a good cosmetic which they can use for half a year, and which will make them more beautiful."

and, they explain why they, as opposed to, say, me, comprise the target market for these products:

"The target market for most Biotherm products is young people who are about 18-25 years old. Detoxification products help to block pollutions and radiations from computer or TV. In addition, this product is oil-free, it eliminates acne problems."

I'm sure it does, but so does Clearasil, which costs about $3 a bottle. I don't believe I've ever spent in the double digits for a single container of facial unguence. These girls are not living in the same world as me.

* * *
Today I was at the drugstore, the local Walgreen's, examining the lower-tier brands of moisturizer — I do have dry skin, I just don't believe it needs exfoliating, polishing, or deep reconstructive therapy on anything like a regular basis — when I became engrossed in eavesdropping on a conversation between the salesclerk, a Hispanic woman of about 45 and her customer, a young Chinese woman. It was fascinating, and truly funny, because English was obviously neither woman's first language. It went something like this:

"This is the one you want," began the clerk, or at least this is what she was saying at the time I started listening in. She was pointing to the tiny jars of Olay that are kept locked in a glass cabinet, which gives you an idea of their price points. She held the glass door propped open with one elbow, while with the other hand she pointed and selected.

"No, it say here," argued the customer. In her hand she held an empty jar of Olay brew. It was clear she had brought it with her, and was in search of its replacement.

"Yes, but this is the one," insisted the clerk. "That one has been discontinued."

"Continue?"

"Discontinued. They don't make it anymore."

"Oh!"

"This is same one, but is five more times powerful."

"More powerful?"

"Thats mean it work better. You understand?"

"Can I try it?" The younger woman was opening the packaging.

"Not here," the saleslady said again, with the patience of Sisyphus, "You have to buy it. You try it at home, and if you don't like it for any reason you can return it with the receipt for a full refund."

"Refund?"

"We give you your money back."

The Asian woman didn't seem convinced that this was the same product. She studied the label, and the clerk tried again to persuade her that, despite its slightly different appearance, the ingredients of the full bottle were exactly the same as what had been in the empty bottle. She did not go so far as to state what I'm sure she and I both suspected: the ingredients of all the fancy bottles in that glass cabinet are exactly the same as what had been in the empty bottle.

Instead, she pointed again to the packaging in the customer's hand, and said, "It has a powerful anti-aging complex. See, powerful anti-aging vitamin complex. It visibly fights the seven signs of aging."

"What is this, anti-aging?" asked the customer.

Because of the angle at which she was leaning, with her elbow jammed into the cabinet, the clerk was facing my direction. She now gave me a look of bemused desperation. I was powerless to help her.

"You know, age?" she said. "There is young, there is old. This is to make you look not old."

"Yes, yes. I need this?"

"You're not old," said the clerk then. It was merely a statement, and an accurate one.

To think, there are still people who scoff at the effectiveness of advertising.

* * *
Two years ago today, blog was the word of the year. In the next story, Postmodern Sass gets rained upon, and wonders where all the handsome men with umbrellas are hiding.

I'm dreaming of a white Christmas

I'm trying so very hard not to be homesick, and having 136 term reports plus 35 group projects to grade helps by keeping the mind overwhelmed, and then I have to go and look at these pictures on Jamie's blog, and I want to cry.

In a few days it will rain, and Sass will be homesick again.

Stumblin' In

The interweb is such a magical place. It's like an enchanted forest.

A lovely new Gentle Reader named Kostia stumbled upon my blog. Literally. Through StumbleUpon.

And after she stumbled upon my story Where The Boys Are, several other stumblers followed.

I don't know how to thank Kostia, other than to do it here. So, thank you, Kostia. I hope you'll come back again. You might like this story, if you do.

Speaking of "Where The Boys Are," I had an email from Ace yesterday, in which he commented on his alias and the fact that I'd published his child's head. On the former, he writes, "Ace is great, in a Brent or Chad sort of way, but cooler." On the latter, "It's totally cool about Oak, he's not the sapling-about-town kinda guy yet, no one knows him."

Rock Lobster

David Ogilvy famously said, if you work in advertising, your hobby should be advertising. Today, Gentle Reader, I feel compelled to share my hobby with you. I won't force you to analyze the message strategy and tactics, the way I do with my students; to explain why the crab has a vaguely Spanish (or is it Italian?) accent; or to translate the homeboy lingo in The Rat and The Mole executions.

No; I'll just tell you that my favourite of the set is The Platypus, because it reminds me of that joke about the grasshopper going into the bar and ordering a drink, and then I'll leave you with the following links to some extremely clever advertising, to amuse yourself with over the weekend:

The Crab
The Burro
The Rabbit
The Opossum
The Platypus
The Lobster
The Rat
The Mole


One year ago today, Postmodern Sass discussed boys with her life coach.