Greatest Hits Volume V

Coming to America as a literary leitmotif has been done to death, most recently to spectacular succes with Borat, and it never fails to amuse the natives, so long as the foreigner has a funny accent. But when you look like an American, and sound like an American, and you emigrated from a country that is more technologically and socially advanced than America, rather than having escaped third world oppression, well, the natives simply can't comprehend why you're having any difficulty. Canada is exactly like America, isn't it? After all, it's right next door to us. How different can it be? Come on, it's not like it's Mexico, or Cuba!

Such has been this half-year as Postmodern Sass aclimatizes into life in America.

October found me settling in to professordom at USJ. Oh, sure, my students poked fun at me from time to time for being Canadian. Who can blame them, eh? There were days when I felt like Mary Tyler Moore at her saddest and most pathetic, and others when I wanted to run away, but then I snapped myself out of it and went in search of hockey. My best friend Kay visited, and we toured the Winchester house. (Who knew there were tourist attractions in San Jose?)

Then there was the whole Neil Gaiman thing, which began with this story.

The fact that it took me ten weeks to get my social security number (and so I couldn't get paid) did nothing to change my opinion that America is ten years behind Canada in technology. (Have I mentioned that they still take cheques in stores? Cheques! Yeah, I know. And they still use those little paper slips in banks, too. Cracks me up.) But later, my faith in America was restored when the O.J. Simpson travesty was cancelled.

In November I celebrated one Canadian holiday and one American one, both with Jack, and I learned that Mardi Gras has a whole new meaning in San Jose.

Winter in northern California means rain, so I stayed inside and unpacked my records. It began to feel more like home when I bought my new bedroom furniture and finally got a sofa. And when I saw my first California hockey game, I was positively verklempt.

The Christmas holidays always bring the blues, but this year I was rescued by my Prince Charming and taken to the land of Hanah Lee. Then I made my New Year's resolutions while sunning myself on his roof.

In January, I got dooced by Dooce, but then I made three new friends: crazy Nadine, Kapp the librarian, and The Italian.

I began to feel more like a real Californian when I got my California driver's license, but gosh, how I miss my baby, and my Daddy.

Looking back on the last six months I have to say that the most entertaining experience I had was my whirlwind trip to Portland for Tequilacon. Because bloggers are simply the best.

Let it Go [part II - fin]

Continued from part I.

She called back just over half an hour later, and said, "Sorry about that, but you won't believe it, I was sitting down in the garage in my Mercedes for half an hour waiting for Ramon to show up, and then I finally went over to my parking spot and decided to drive in anyway. I'm so pissed off at him, it was just so inconsiderate, him going off for a day and a half and now it's been four days and I haven't been able to park in my parking space that I pay good money for, and have every right to park in, and now every day I've been coming home after a twelve-hour day and not being able to get into my parking spot and it's just been so frustrating..."

"Hang on," I say. "Back up. You mean he still hasn't moved his car? What happened when you talked with him just now?"

"I could sue him, you know. He's partly responsible for my car getting scratched, because he was parked over the line and he forced me to drive my Mercedes into that post. I'm not saying I would do that, but I could, if I were that kind of person. And I know that he did it on purpose, and that Pamela probably told him not to move his car, just because she likes to play those kinds of mind games. She likes to show that she has power, when really she doesn't have any. Ramon was playing power games with me. I can guarantee you that Pamela told him to do that."

There was no use trying to explain to her that Ramon cannot be held responsible for damage to her car that happened while his car was parked, and hers was the only one moving.

"So this has been going on since Monday..."

"But it's OK now? He moved his car?"

"Well yeah, but what's not good is that he left town on Tuesday and didn't even bother to move his car before he left, and it took him until Thursday to move his frickin' car! He told me on Monday he would take care of it but he didn't, and then to top if off he goes out of town and ignores all my messages..."

"But wait, are you saying that he went down just now and moved it, before you were able to get down there?"

"Yeah, but I sat down there in my car for half an hour because I didn't know he'd moved it..."

"But that's good, isn't it?"

"No! Because I've had to park on the street every day because I couldn't get into my parking spot..." Nadine is crying now, and has to pause every so often to inhale. "The temp in the office said she couldn't help me. What the fuck is with this management? I mean, I called every day, and Monica is off sick this week and I tried to explain to the temp what was going on and she was so useless!"

"But it's OK now? Your car is in its spot? Ramon moved his car?"

"Yes, but it shouldn't have taken him so long. He goes out of town for two days, I mean what the fuck? I left him three messages, and I said hey, you need to move your car, I can't get into my spot and I already dented my Mercedes against the post, so move your damned car. I have a twelve-hour day and then all week another 45 minutes is added to it because I have to try to find another place to park. And that bitch Pamela! I saw her in the garage and I said hey, there's someone in that parking spot you said I could use, where should I park? And she said, I'm not working right now, I can't help you."

"You mean Pamela was down in the garage just now?"

"No! That was on Tuesday. You know I know Richard, he's the owner of the building, and Pamela is after Monica's job and everyone knows it. They had a meeting with Richard and he said, Pamela I'm totally on to you, and if you don't shape up you're out of here, and you're not getting Monica's job so forget that. Whatever you do, do not trust her!"

I didn't ask how she could possibly know what was said in such a meeting, if it in fact did take place. I couldn't imagine Monica relaying that information to Nadine.

"She's young, she's stupid. And she's really dumb. She thinks she can better herself by putting other people down. You should have seen the look on her face when she saw me tonight in my Mercedes, down in the garage, she could have done something but no, she says she's not working she can't help me. And then she smirked. I can guarantee that Manny hasn't moved his car because Pamela said to him, fuck with her."

"But Nadine, he's moved his car now, right? And your car is in it's spot, and everything is OK? You can relax, and stop being stressed out. Even if you're right about Pamela, who cares? Don't let her get to you like that."

"I can't help it! You would have been pissed off too. I think I was actually cool and calm and collected compared to anyone else in the building."

Tomorrow is the release date of Postmodern Sass's Greatest Hits Volume V, in honour of her two-and-a-half year blogiversary.

Let it Go [part I]

The caller I.D. said "Restricted" so I knew it was Nadine. I had spinach and feta ravioli boiling on the stove, last week's episode of "What About Brian" playing on my laptop on the kitchen counter, and I'd just poured a beer, but I answered it anyway. We exchanged opening pleasantries, then she asked if I had a few minutes, and, silly me, I said yes, so she began to tell me about this week's drama.

"I'm so stressed out," she began, and I could hear the worry in her voice. "I get up at 6:00 in the morning and put in a twelve hour day, and I just don't need this kind of bullshit when I come home. I want to relax, and maybe have a drink, you know? But it's been four days now that I can't get into my parking space, and I can't deal with this anymore!"

"Hold on, Nadine, start at the beginning. What's the matter with your parking space?"

"Well it started on Monday when I came home from work, and there was this car parked next to me and it was over the line and I couldn't get my Mercedes into my spot. I have a concrete post on the other side and I couldn't squeeze in."

"So where did you park? What did you do?"

"Well, I had to go back out and park on the street, what else could I do?" The horror of having to park on the street was being clearly telegraphed in Nadine's voice. "What would you have done?"

I started to say that I would have written a polite note asking the owner to please allow me a little more space next time he or she parks, and left it on the windshield, but I only got as far as "Well, I..." before Nadine continued her saga.

"The bullshit politics that's going on in this place! Don't trust Pamela. She's a bitch and a gossip and she has a huge drinking problem. A couple of weeks ago I called the building cell phone when she was on call, and it was 1:00 in the morning and she didn't answer because she was passed out drunk." Nadine hiccups, then continues: "She was drunk at 3:00 in the morning and tried to get out of the parking garage and she stalled her car and then couldn't figure out how to start it again!"

Pamela is the assistant building manager. She's approximately twelve years old and as dumb as a sack of weeds, but I've found her to be responsive on the occasions when I've called the office about something. But then, I don't call the office in the middle of the night, and I wondered how Nadine had come by this information. I also wondered what it had to do with her car parking problem, but I've learned that where Nadine is concerned, the Perry Mason principle, as taught to me by my mother, applies: Wait until the end of the story. It will all make sense.

"She's such a bitch. I called her on Tuesday and told her what was going on and she didn't even care. I should demand a different parking space. So when I came home on Tuesday the damn fucking car was still there in exactly the same spot, and I didn't know what to do so I squeezed the Mercedes into the spot but I was right up against the post and there's about an inch of space between my passenger side and the other car and..."

I took a stab at an interjection, in hopes of clarification: "Is it a new car in that space, or is it the same one that's always parked there?"

"Oh, it's the same one that's always there. It's Ramon's car," she added, calmly, as though I should have known so all along. I know Ramon. He lives on the first floor. Last fall I'd heard from Monica that he had some furniture he wanted to get rid of, so I knocked on his door and we chatted and had a beer, and then he and I carried a chest of drawers up to my place. And then we had another beer. He seemed like a nice guy.

"Nadine, have you talked to Ramon about it?"

"Yeah, so, I called him on Tuesday night and he said no problem, he'd move his car, but on Wednesday when I was leaving for work at 6:00 in the morning the fucking car was still there in exactly the same place. He hadn't moved it an inch! And I had to get to work, what could I do, so I tried to back the Mercedes out and I scratched my car on the post and I was so upset and how can people be like that? I've left three messages on his phone saying hey, Ramon, how's Anna Lucia — we have the same maid, you know — hey, come on, Ramon, move your damn car."

Nadine paused, briefly, to take a sip of her vodka and cranberry. I could hear the ice tinkling in the glass.

"When I got to work I called the office and Pamela answered and she was all sarcastic and like, that's too bad but what can she do. I bet she told him not to move his car. She's such a bitch. Did you know Monica only hired her because their families were friends. She has three older sisters and she's always been the bad sheep of the family, and Monica gave her a chance when she would have been out on the street otherwise."

Nadine was nearly hysterical, now, but every time I tried to say something soothing, it had the effect of riling her even more. So I just let her talk.

"I am so tempted to go down there right now and park right beside his car and leave one inch in between just to piss him off. That'd teach him a lesson! I'm so upset! I'm going to call the office and demand that he be reprimanded. He should be told to put his car in its proper place!"

Her other phone rings, and she tells me to hang on a second. I hear, "Hello?" A pause, then, "Oh, hi, Ramon." Another pause, then to me: "I'll call you back."

To be continued tomorrow.

In an octopus's garden, in the shade

It was my Daddy's birthday the other day, and so I called him, and the Wife answered the phone and told me, "He's taking a squirrel out."

"Taking a squirrel out?" I asked. "You mean, like, on a date, or with a shovel?"

"You're so funny!"

Yes, I know, but that hardly answers the question, woman.

My father's garden is an intricate web of flowers and vegetables; fruit trees and evergreen shrubs; bird feeders and waterers and houses; golf balled terrariums; assorted planks and hubcaps; and complex irrigation systems.




There are hidden traps for some animals, sanctuaries for others, and his reasons for granting asylum to chipmunks while having no compunctions about mercilessly ending the lives of moles are perfectly logical, at least to him.

He hand-picks, then crushes, the beetles that eat his grape leaves.



But there's a mourning dove that comes when he calls, and eats out of his hand.


(If you can't see the dove, click on the picture to make it larger.)

I have witnessed my father hurl baby birds against a tree trunk, and I went rabbit hunting with him once. Just once. He can be cruel, but sometimes cruelty is necessary. Like when I shot, but only wounded, that rabbit, and he made me track it and kill it.

I wasn't sure what his position on squirrels was, so I called back half an hour later to ask, and he explained: "I set traps for them in the garden. They go into the box to get the nuts, then VAM!, the door slams behind them."

"And then you take them away somewhere?"

"Vell, yes, about two kilometres avay, there's a nice woods where they can live. They dig up my bulbs."

"Don't they have babies this time of year, though? You shouldn't take them away from their babies."

"No, no, not now, in May. Right now they're... vat do you call it; they're starting only to make babies." He laughs to himself — ho-ho! — then tells me how, exactly, they are doing this. "The female runs up and down the trees, I vatched them just this morning, and seven males are chasing her. Und she runs and runs, up and down — it's so funny to vatch. Vichever vun lasts the longest, gets to catch her."

It is in exactly this manner that, many years ago, I learned about the birds and the bees. Through squirrels, and the tetras in our fish tank.

I told my father about the racoons: "I had neighbours, when I lived in High Park, who did that with racoons, trapped them, then took them into the park to let them go. There are so many racoons in that neighbourhood, because of all the big, old, trees. I never saw the point, you might as well vacuum the beach for all the good it will do, taking them out in onesies and twosies."

"Ja, racoons are a pain in the neck. I vould just kill them."

"In Toronto, you're not allowed to do that. Did I tell you about the skunk that was living in my building last summer?"

"No..."

"It was becoming quite a nuisance. It lived in the bushes at the front of the building, and every day at dusk it would start wandering around, and people were, naturally, concerned about it, especially the people who have dogs. So our property manager called animal control, and was told that they could send someone to trap it, but we couldn't kill it, and if it was trapped, it had to be released within one kilometre."

"Nah. That's just stupid."

"Of course it is, especially when you're talking about downtown Toronto."

My father was quiet for a minute, and then he said, "Vell, the lake is within one kilometre, isn't it?"


Next, Postmodern Sass gets a phone call from her crazy neighbour, Nadine.

Tonight we smoke them out

At the San Jose Sharks game last week I tried to explain to épanouie and LBF that The Tragically Hip are to Canada what Bruce Springsteen is to America, and I think they believed me, in the way that people who have never seen Mount Everest or the Grand Canyon or Niagara Falls believe they exist.

The Hip are my second favourite band; have been since 1989, and I've seen them in concert many times, but when they play in Canada they sell out cavernous stadiums, and even when you have Friends In High Places who let you watch from the Air Canada Club, it's not the same as watching them perform in a small club, the way they're meant to be seen.

When The Hip play in America, they play in small clubs. I've known this for years. It's one of the facts that was in the "pros" column when I was deciding whether to move to California. But I forgot to pay attention, and so I won't be going to see them at the Fillmore in San Francisco tonight, because the show sold out before I knew about it.

For those of you not familiar with The Tragically Hip, I present their signature song, "New Orleans is Sinking," as beautifully rendered with photos from the Hurricane Katrina tragedy of 2005:

Next, it's Postmodern Sass's father's birthday.

Calendar Girl [part II - fin]

Continued from Part I.

Sophia was terrifying me again.

"I wasn't changing the subject, honestly. It's just that there really isn't much to tell," I offered, in reply to her question. This was the truth. Mostly.

"Didn't you have a good time?" asked Sophia.

"Oh yes! At least I did. We spent almost an entire day together, going to different bars, coffee shops, and for pizza. We walked all over San Francisco."

"I see," said Sophia.

"It's just that nothing blogworthy happened," I told her. And this, too, was the truth. Mostly.

I know that I told you, Gentle Reader, that I had a date, but it was largely for Jack's benefit that I used the D-word. OK, and, well, I also said that to my salon girl when she was doing my eyebrows the day before, but the point is, in my own mind, I didn't know whether it was a date or not. In this day and age when children go on play dates, how does a grown-up define a date?

Just going out alone with a man does not a Date make. I know, for example, that when Blundering American visited me in San Jose it was not a date because he said so here. With Norm it was not a date because he's married. Same with Tim Bray, whom I've gone out with many times over the years, despite the fact that the first time was very nearly a career limiting move.

On the other hand, the times I've gone out with Jack to formally arranged events, such as Sara's wedding, or dancing on my birthday, or even to Jerry's party, I would have considered dates, but he, clearly, did not.

I'd like to propose, for your consideration, that what makes a date a date is that, though the get-together may have been arranged in all casualness, there is a possibility of, shall we say, a non-platonic encounter at the end of the evening.

The women among you will vouch for this, I'm sure, and may even wish to discuss the matching underwear question. The men among you, well, you can tell me whether Tod was right or not.

"Are you going to go out with him again?" Sophia was asking me now.

"Well, I'm not sure," I replied. "You see, I sort of ran out on him at the end of the night. We'd been walking from place to place, and were nowhere near the train station at 10:00, so I missed that train, and the last one is at midnight. So we wandered down to the Embarcadero and spent an hour at this wonderful little bar. It's right on the water, practically right underneath the Bay Bridge..."

"What do you mean you ran out on him?" Sophia asked.

"It kind of happened by accident. Suddenly it was 11:45, and the train station was a fifteen minute walk... and so as The Italian called for the check I said I'd run outside and try to find a cab, and that he should please forgive me if I was gone by the time he came out..."

"And you were?"

"Not exactly. It gets worse. I stood in the middle of the Embarcadero for what felt like ten minutes, and didn't see a cab, and then he came out and we started walking really fast, and he said he lived a block away and he would run and get his car, and I said OK but as a plan B I'll walk up to that corner and try to find a cab, so if I'm not there when you come back, you'll know it's because I found a cab and OH MY GOD I'M SO SORRY TO DO THIS TO YOU I'M SUCH A TERRIBLE PERSON!"

Did I mention he's Italian?

I suppose there are simpler ways to ensure you'll never be asked on a second date. Mist 1 carries a wedding dress in the trunk of her car for this exact reason.

The photo is of Sophia, Hilly, and Sizzle, at Tequilacon in Portland. Notice the looks of abject terror in their faces. There's one more Tequilacon story, but in the meantime, Postmodern Sass smokes out Canadians.

Something awful this way comes

I'm getting a lot of traffic today from a website called Something Awful, and I don't know whether to be flattered or to curl up under my bed and cry until it stops.

Calendar Girl [part I]

My friend Tod Hoffman once told me, years ago in Montreal, as we were sitting on a patio drinking beer, one of the secrets to understanding men. This was at a time long before he married Sally, and while I was with X, so it was spoken in the spirit of camaraderie, not as a pickup line. What he said was this:

"You should bear in mind that, whenever a man is sitting across a table from a woman he is always thinking to himself, I wonder what it would be like to sleep with her, which is followed immediately by, I wonder if there's any chance?"

"You realize you're sitting across a table from me," I pointed out.

"Yes."

I don't know why I was reminded of Tod's words last weekend in Portland, as I sat across the table from Neil Kramer and his separated wife, Sophia, eating sushi, although it may have had something to do with the fact that Neil's Penis writes blog posts. That, and Neil kinda reminds me of Tod. They're both smart, funny, tall, and Jewish, I haven't slept with either of them, and going out with them is in no way a date. I'm not always that certain of that many facts, especially where men are concerned.

My cell phone had rung as I was sitting in the back seat of Sophia's Prius. I looked at the caller I.D., and said into the phone, "Hey, you."

"Hey. I just wanted to tell you, knock 'em dead in Portland," said Jack. "Are you wearing the shoes?"

"Um, not exactly, but my white go-go boots match the dress perfectly. I brought the shoes, but it's raining tonight, and on the chilly side; I was thinking maybe open-toed shoes were not the best choice."

"Save them for California, then."

"So, um, do you remember me telling you about the blogger in Los Angeles, the one who is married, but separated, and he writes about his separated wife in a way that reminds me of the way I write about you, and how a couple of months ago they moved back in together and he wrote that she had told him that even though they were living together they were still separated?"

"Yes. I believe you said, he wins."

"Right. I had thought that our relationship was bizarre, but he wins."

"We don't have a Relationship."

"Small R."

"OK."

"Anyway, I'm sitting in his car right now, and we're on our way to have sushi before we go to the blogger party." Then, to Neil and Sophia, I say, "It's Jack."

Jack and I said a few more words, then I said goodbye, and Sophia asked, "Who's Jack?" and I was both crushed and relieved that Sophia, who terrifies me, obviously doesn't read my blog, but at that moment the Prius began talking to Neil, directing him to the restaurant, so we held our conversation until the Unagi had been served.

"So, who's Jack?" Sophia asked again.

"It's complicated," I replied.

"It's complicated," said Neil. "She writes about him on her blog."

"Is he your boyfriend?"

"Oh no! I mean, not exactly. Like I said, it's complicated. We've known each other for sixteen years. When I first met him, I was married to someone else." I didn't know where to begin.

"But you're not married anymore?" Sophia asked.

"No. And I can't exactly say that Jack doesn't have anything to do with that."

"So he has been your boyfriend, then?" Sophia persisted.

Sophia was terrifying me less and less. She has a way about her that makes you want to tell her everything; to beg her to be your best friend. It's disarming. I thought about Tod again, and what he would be thinking if he were sitting here. I can only imagine the effect she has on men. Well, imagine, plus I read Neil's blog.

"We've known each other a very long time; we've been everything at one time or another, but he's not my boyfriend. In fact, a couple of weeks ago, I went on a date. That is, at least, I think I did. That is, I'm not sure whether it was a date or not, and I've been meaning to write about it on my blog but I can't quite figure out how to do that."

"I can't write a story until I figure out an angle," said Neil, and I remembered that he was the writer at the table, not Sophia.

"That's it exactly!" I exclaimed. "I haven't figured out an angle." Then I asked Neil what his secret was; how he has managed to accumulate so many adoring fans, almost all of them women, and so many so that when it's his birthday he is deluged by cards and gifts.

So we talked blog shop for a while, and dunked our Hamachi in soy sauce, and then Sophia said to me, "I noticed that you changed the subject and didn't tell me about your date."

To be continued on Thursday.

She Sells Sanctuary

The J&M Café on Sixth and Ash in Southeast Portland, Oregon, has a sketch of a garlic clove on its business card and the niftiest coffee mug tree I've ever seen.


I followed Stacey inside, and watched her sign in for a table, then go to the coffee under the tree and fill her travel mug, which she'd brought inside from her car. Have I mentioned that people in this part of the country are serious about their coffee?

She motioned for me to go ahead and take a cup, but I declined, thinking I'd wait until we were seated so the waitress could bring it to me. You know how when you're not accustomed to the customs of a place, you feel awkward about engaging in them? It was like that. We sat on the bench by the window to wait for our table.

A young couple came into the café and greeted Stacey. They chatted aimicably for several minutes, during which time Stacey did not introduce us, and the couple did not look at me once, even though they were standing directly in front of me, and even though they knew I was with her, because she had said we, and had nodded in my direction.

A few minutes later the waitress showed us to our table, and before we could even sit down Stacey was whispering, "Did you hear what they were talking about?"

I hadn't heard, really. I'd looked politely interested until I realized they were going to ignore me, so instead I looked at the walls and took in the ambience. There had been some mention of children; but I'm very good at blocking out ambient noise and conversation, unless I hear my name in the mix. It's a skill that served me well when I worked in a busy maze-like office of veal-fattening pens, but that simultaneously earned me a reputation for being standoffish. If you address me from behind without using my name, I will ignore you. I'm sorry.

"It was all about what hall they were going to now, and what hall was I going to, and did I know what hall so-and-so was going to," Stacey continued.

"Hall?" I was puzzled.

"They're Jehovah's Witnesses," she explained. "All JW's care about is what hall everyone's going to."

"Are you a Jehovah's Witness?" I asked.

"Yes, but I've left the church," Stacey replied.

"I don't know much about Jehovah's Witnesses," I offered. "When I was a kid I lived on this street with about ten houses, and all the kids on the street knew each other and played together, all except the girl and boy who lived next door to me. My mother told me they weren't allowed to play with us because they were Jehovah's Witnesses."

"They're not allowed to play with worldly kids unless they also have Bible study with you," explained Stacey.

"Seriously? Well, I guess that explains it. You know, they lived next door to me for ten years and I never even knew their names. We'd see them occasionally, getting in and out of the car with their parents, or over the back fence, but they never even looked our way, much less said hello. When I was little I felt sorry for them, but at the same time it was kind of creepy; like they were being held prisoner or something. And as I got older their behaviour struck me as... well, rude."

"They don't socialize at all with worldly people. Don't take it personally."

The waitress came and we both ordered the Chorizo Scramble. Then I went to the tree, chose a mug with Winnie the Pooh on it, and poured myself a coffee. When I came back to the table, I asked Stacey if she had done that door-to-door soliciting that Jehovah's Witnesses are so reviled for.

"Oh, yes!" Stacey enthused. "Every JW is required to go door-to-door; it's one of the primary tenets of their faith. I took my first door with my own presentation at age five. I was a true believer."

Stacey has the widest smile you've ever seen. I tried to imagine her knocking on people's doors, spreading the word of Jehovah. I would have found it hard to slam the door in her face. Those people had always struck me as rude, coming to strangers' doors, interrupting their lives without invitation, trying to convert them. I'm all for freedom of religion, though I have no use for it myself, but it's one thing to gather freely together and handle snakes or eat crackers or bang your forehead on the floor; it's quite another to foist your beliefs on your neighbours.

"That must have been hard," I offered, "I mean, you must have had a lot of doors slammed, and had to endure some rude comments."

"Yes, but I was really good at it. I truly believed if I were not effective, God would kill them for not listening, so I wanted to give them the best possible opportunity."

She told me more about the attitudes of true believers, and assured me that they were, in fact, terribly rude and anti-social. It explained why that couple who recognized her in the café had ignored me.

My mother never said a mean word about our neighbours. She just told me not to try to be nice to those children; to leave them alone. She said their religion was their business, and that was the end of it. But after listening to Stacey, I felt relieved; like I'd been given permission to think less than generous thoughts about them.

"It seems to me," I began, hesitantly, "that it's rather counterproductive, isn't it? To expend such effort actively evangelizing the religion to total strangers, yet being rude to your neighbours and acquaintances?"

"Oh, yes, it's completely counterproductive!" Stacey agreed. "It's a cult."

"So, how can you leave it, then? How did you leave?" I asked.

"Well, you can't officially leave, but there are ways. If you say you're leaving, you're disfellowshipped, and when JWs disfellowship someone it's not like when Catholics excommunicate you. Catholics just won't talk to you in church, but they'll talk to you everywhere else. If you're excommunicated by the Jehovah's Witnesses, no one will ever speak to you again, at all. Not even your family."

"That's terrible!" I said. "I'm sorry... but your family? That's just awful."

"I have a friend who moved in with her boyfriend, and was disfellowshipped. She didn't mind being out of the church; she hadn't been a true believer like me, but it's still really hard for her that her family won't speak to her. She has two children now, and her parents will sometimes pick them up and take them out for the day, and not say one word to her." As Stacey talked, my eyes widened in disbelief. "There are some people who are not quite so strict. I have another ex-JW friend whose parents talk to her occasionally, but only in the privacy of their home. They won't visit her in her home, and they haven't been out to dinner with her in ten years. This rule they take pretty seriously — you can't share a meal with a disfellowshipped person or you could be disfellowshipped also."

"Good fucking grief!" I said, and then added, guiltily, "Sorry."

"Oh, don't be sorry, you're right, they're horrible people, partiarchal, and hypocritical. That's why my husband and I left the church."

"How did you leave without being excommunicated?"

"You just stop going to meetings, but you don't tell anyone you've stopped. When I was talking to that couple they asked me which hall I go to, and I just named the suburb where I live. If someone from your hall asks why they haven't seen you for a while, you say you're going to a different hall, or you make up some excuse. I don't lie to the JWs, but there are some who will, in the interests of self-preservation."

"Don't they catch on, eventually, that you're not going at all?"

"Yes, but no one says anything directly. My husband and I left the church four years ago, and our parents don't officially know, but they know."

The Chrorizo Scramble was outstanding, the coffee was excellent, and the conversation enlightening. I hope I have reason to return to Portland one day, and if I do I'll look Stacey up, and I know she won't shun me. Between now and then, however, if you're a Jehovah's Witness, please stay away from Sixty South Street in San Jose, because I'm done being polite to you wackos.

Next, Postmodern Sass meets Neil Kramer of Citizen of the Month, and the mysterious Sophia.

You Give Love A Bad Name [redux]

I'm not exactly proud of my crazy antics of a year ago this week — well, except maybe for the feeling like Demi Moore part — but it's amazing how much can happen in a year.

This week, my karaoke buddy, Sparky, is staying with me, and trying on my shoes.


Last year at this time, I ran off with the Hot Chef from the Junction.

Vertigo

My ticket for last night's San Jose Sharks game cost me only slightly more than my allowance had been as a teenager: $24. We sat dead centre behind the Sharks' goalie, 847 rows up, and I had an overwhelming urge to dye my hair blonde and dress up like Kim Novak.

There was me, épanouie, LBF, LBF's husband, a Mormon, a Brit, and an Australian. They're all science nerds. Real science, you know, like, with test tubes and mice and bits of intestines. I'd just met them all, because épanouie had only given me one hour's advance notice. Lucky for her I'm a hockey slut.

I'd worn my Toronto Maple Leafs jersey so that my people could recognize me. Not épanouie and her friends, I mean Canadians. I also own a red Montreal jersey (Chris Nilan #30) and a white Pittsburgh one (Mario Lemieux #66), but I figured those would be complete non-sequiters. Worse, even, than palm trees outside a hockey arena.


I had walked to the HP Pavilion along Santa Clara Street, where I joined in the parade of sweaters.


Two guys about my age, one short, the other tall, fell in beside me at a traffic light. The tall one had lived in Toronto, and expressed sympathy at the Belfourness of my sweater.

We chatted about hockey, and how it is done here in San Jose, as we walked. They explained that there's free parking in the direction from which I'd come, and that this pre-game westbound parade is therefore part of the festivities.

"Wait until you see the bunny," said the short one.

"The bunny?" I asked.

"Yeah. He belongs to the trumpet player."


"So, does the bunny have a name?" I asked my travelling companions.

"Dinner!" the tall one replied.

I bid my companions goodbye at the entrance to the Pavilion. They were anxious not to miss the opening ceremony, during which, they told me, the home team skated onto the ice through a giant shark head. Miss it I did, however, as I had to wait outside for LBF to come out with my ticket. Epanouie was still on 280, but LBF was already inside with the others, watching the players being vomited through flaming sharks' teeth.

She found me easily enough. I imagine épanouie directed her to look for the Amazon in the Toronto hockey sweater.

When the Sharks scored their first goal, two minutes into the first period, the giant dismembered shark head, now suspended from the ceiling, flashed its red eyes and blew smoke out its neck.


"I don't see anyone drinking beer," I commented to LBF, after scanning the crowd for plastic cups filled with amber liquid. "Are we not allowed to?" Then I noticed the people beside me had beer bottles in their hands. "Holy shit, they let you take the bottles to your seats?"


"They're probably plastic," says LBF.

"No way, beer bottles aren't plastic!"

"They make them especially for sporting events," LBF insisted.

I had to buy one. Turns out she was right, they are plastic:


Then I bought another one, you know, just to be sure.

Epanouie was late arriving, so in the mean time I answered LBF's questions about hockey. This was her first time at a game, and she wanted to know, for example, what the rules were for taking the puck from another player.

Um, are there rules for that?

Instead, I explained offside.

After the first period, while waiting in line for a $7.25 beer, an enormous young man wearing a sweatshirt emblazoned with FRISCO asked me, "Is there a break after every part? I thought it wasn't until after the second."

"Can I have a beer, please?" I asked the service person behind the counter, an older Hispanic woman.

"What kind?"

"You mean I have a choice?" I was excited now. I'd only seen Budweiser; I hadn't realized there were other kinds available. "What have you got?"

"Budweiser," she said.

The beer was insanely expensive, but the steak burrito was awesome. Burritos are big here in California. I know, I'm surprised, too.

Back inside, bad metal was playing, and I felt very at home.

When the Sharks go on a power play, the theme from Jaws plays, and the fans in the audience extend one arm and move it up and down, imitating shark jaws opening and closing. It's ridiculous, silly, and cheesy, and I loved every minute of it.

With only 12 seconds left in the game, Bill Guerin took a penalty shot, making the final score 7-1 and earning a hat trick for himself. The fans threw hats — baseball caps — onto the ice.

Just before that spectacular final play, during a musical interlude, I heard the familiar honkey hokieness of Stompin' Tom's "The Good Old Hockey Game." My sinuses got all pluggy and my eyes got that weird welling up-edness and I made a joke about it to épanouie and she giggled but it was all I could do not to bawl.

In the next story, Postmodern Sass learns that it's OK to be impolite to Jehovah's Witnesses.

Chicago, Chicago, it's my kind of town

I've been skating at Logitech Ice, where the San Jose Sharks practice, and I've whined about the lack of hockey bars in this city.

I've watched the Canadiens play in Montreal. I've been to countless Toronto Maple Leafs games. And back when there was X I used to give him hockey tickets as a birthday present: one year we drove to Detroit, once to Pittsburgh, and a couple of times to Buffalo. There was a time when it was my goal to see all of the Original Six.

Tonight I'll make it four out of six: I'm going to see Chicago play the Sharks. My met-through-my-blog buddy, épanouie, just called and offered me an extra ticket to tonight's game, on the condition that I cheer for Chicago.

I am fine with that. I love Chicago.

I'll return to Tequilacon Tale Telling soon, but first, the good old hockey game.

My love is warmer than the warmest sunshine

My linky love page is updated with links to all the Tequilaconners, at least all the ones I have some memory of meeting, which is not saying much because I have a terrible memory, just ask Jessica, whom I didn't recognize outside the Marriott Sunday morning, even though I'd been drinking moonshine in the broom closet with her for, like, eight hours the night before.

Today I'm busy reading everyone else's Tequilacon Tales, instead of, you know, preparing for my class in half an hour, so all you get right now is my one word post-party impressions of people I'd had pre-party impressions of. And yes, I know I just ended a sentence with a preposition, and yes, I'm fine with that.

Jenny: shyer
Dave: duckier
Sizzle: crazier
Colleen: sharper
Neil: older
Sophia: nicer
Hilly: prettier
Dustin: younger
Dan: urbaner
Kimberly: blonder
Karl: weirder

Stories still to tell: how the driver who took me to the airport on Sunday was nearly killed by a rattlesnake — twice; how Sizzle rescued my little pink purse; my time in Detention; what I learned about Jehovah's Witnesses; and how Jack called me while I was in Sophia and Neil's car.

Live Through This

It's downright unsporting of me to refer to San Jose as a hole, I know, and to call it an armpit, as I'm afraid I did on at least one occasion last night at Tequilacon in Portland, Oregon, is a spite-filled misrepresentation. After all, it's not Elizabeth, New Jersey.

I just wish people would stop asking me how I like living here. If you can't say something nice, you shouldn't say anything at all — I learned that from Thumper's mother in Bambi. And I try, but, well, most of the time I don't do a very good job of it.

Oregon is beautiful, and I loved Portland. I loved the we are SERIOUS about coffee culture. I loved the greenness, and that there were trees that I recognized. I loved the artsieness of it. I absolutely adored McMenamin's Kennedy School, where we spent 15 hours drinking on Saturday night. The website and the pre-Tequila descriptions of it did not do it justice. But most of all, I loved Powell's bookstore:


It was so beautiful there, it verged on depressing, because it reminded me that I live in a giant smog-filled desert suburb with delusions of grandeur and a chip on its shoulder because of the fantastic world-class city just up the road. The best thing about living in San Jose is San Francisco. Sorry, Mrs. Thumper.

I loved what I saw of Portland, even though it rained, even though I spent only 24 hours there. I'd like to visit it again. I've also got a growing itch to visit Alaska, fueled by reading the in-flight magazine on my Alaska Airlines flight to and from Portland.

But I have to remember that vacation syndrome that Dan explained to me when I first moved here. Portland may be beautiful, but it's not home, any more than San Jose is. This is still a foreign country. Communicatrix, a.k.a. Colleen, hit the nail on the head during our very interesting conversation last night. That woman is scarily sharp and I was, as usual, clueless. I didn't realize until I saw them leaving together that the sexy photographer who'd been snapping pictures of us all night was Colleen's BF.

We were leaning against the wall in the hallway, outside Tequilacon HQ, when Colleen asked me, "Is Jack here?" The chance of that would have been only slightly greater than leeches falling from the sky, a phenomenon that occurs with alarming frequency in the novel I read on the plane, Kafka on the Shore.

Next, Postmodern Sass's one-word summaries of Tequilaconners.

Tequila!

I booked my ticket to Portland but after Episode #55 of Lost a couple of weeks ago, I've got to admit I'm a little frightened about travelling there. On the other hand, if I end up trapped on an island with Josh Holloway for three years, well, please don't feel obliged to rescue me.

The Tequilacon (ahem) conference is being held at the Kennedy School, which is not so much a school as a microbrewery.

Dave of Blogography is making us lanyards, because, as Jenny says, it's not a reputable conference if you don't have a lanyard. And as you can tell by the name, Tequilacon '07, this is a serious blogger conference.

I'm staying at the Marriott in downtown Portland. Because, heck, I'm worth it. And because it's only for one night.

Some of the bloggers on the list are known to me, at least virtually, and I am looking forward to meeting them in person so they'd better show up! That means you, Neil, gallivanting across the Pacific Northwest, flashing old ladies. And Jenny, whom I almost met when I was in Chicago a year ago. LSL, Ms. Sizzle, Karl of Secondhand Tryptophan, and Colleen the Communicatrix, who says while in Portland she might just get stinking drunk and buy a crapload of books. There's my kind of broad. So's Hilly, who's been emailing me to arrange Saturday's pre-drinking drinking.

Then there's Colin, who I don't know but who, according to his blog, A Fish on a (Misspelled) Bycicle, is in love with a girl who doesn't exist. I wonder if her name is Jackie.

There's Ashbloem, a Knit Girl like my friend Maria, with blue hair who likes Swedish music. If there's karaoke at Tequilacon, maybe she'll sing some ABBA with me.

Jessica wrote recently that she was thinking of pulling the blog plug. I hope my new shoes have given you a reason to keep living. If you're my size, I'll even let you try them on tomorrow.

THIS JUST IN: Neil Kramer just called me. Yes, on the phone. Yes, that's right, I heard his voice. And nothing, ladies and gentlemen of Tequilacon, can prepare you for his accent. He may live in LaLaLand, but he's got Brooklyn in his soul.

My first Tequilacon story is here.

Drive [redux]

The drive test examiner wore a white lab coat without a smile and carried a clipboard. I'd been sitting in Beauty, in the designated spot, for ten minutes, waiting. I'd turned off the engine as the sign on the brick wall ordered me to do, and I'd just taken the keys out of the ignition because I'd begun to suspect that perhaps I was supposed to go inside again and alert them to the fact that I was outside. That I was the girl in the gorgeous, shiny, black BMW.

She approached the driver's door and rapped on the window with her knuckles. I opened the door slightly so I could talk to her, and she ordered me to roll down the window.

"I have to turn the car back on first," I said, and, simultaneously, did. The door was still ajar.

"Close your door properly," she barked, and I explained that I would have to roll the window up first, then close the door, then roll the window back down. Jack had given me the Beauty training an hour earlier, and his first point had been, never slam the door with the window rolled down, or it will break.

If you've ever driven a not-so-new car, Gentle Reader, I'm sure you understand that they all have their quirks. I knew Beauty's, and I wasn't going to let anything harm her on my watch.

While I dealt with the window she walked around the car, barking at me to touch the brakes, signal left, signal right. Then she got into the car.

"Show me your turn signals."

I did so.

"Show me your hazard flasher."

I did so.

"Show me your front window defroster."

The heat, A/C, and fan controls in a BMW are similar to those in a VW, with which I'm intimately familiar. There is not one control, but three. One controls the location of the vent. One controls the temperature. And one controls the speed of the fan. I hesitated, because I didn't know whether to simply point to the three controls, or to explain their function.

Note to self: hesitation during driving test, bad.

"It's here," the examiner reached over and pointed at the fan symbol. Then she made a note on her clipboard.

"How do I move this?" she asked, indicating the part of the seat on which she was seated. I didn't know whether she was testing me, or whether she really wanted to adjust the seat. And I didn't know how to do it, either. Adjust the seat, that is. Not when I'm not sitting in it.

"It's not my car," I told her. "I'm not really sure..."

"It's not your car!" she exclaimed. "That's not good."

Apparently I'm the first citizen of California to ever take a driving test in a car that's not her own. She was confusing me, getting to me, and we hadn't yet left the parking lot.

I wish I could report, Gentle Reader, that things improved once Beauty and I started moving. They did not. The instructor barked commands, and I did my best to follow them, but there were times when I didn't understand what she meant, and she had instructed me not to ask her any questions, and so it shouldn't have come as as big a surprise as it did, ten minutes later, back in the parking lot, when she tore the top sheet off her clipboard, handed it to me, and said, "You'll have to come back and do it again."

Fuck.

Double fuck.

I felt like I was eight years old and had just been sent to my room for a timeout. I felt like strangling that bitch for making me feel that way. I felt like kicking myself, were it only possible, for having failed my fucking driving test when I've been driving nearly every day of my life for twenty-five years.

Jack was inside the DMV office, sitting in the waiting room, working on his laptop. I seriously considered leaving him there and taking off in Beauty, the repurcussions of which would be easier for me to bear than having to tell him I failed my fucking driving test.

But I didn't. I waved for him to come outside, and I lit up a cigarette to calm my frazzled nerves.

I told him what had happened. I said fuck at least twelve more times.

He did that thing that he does, which is to say nothing and wait for me to tire myself out, and when I did, he took Beauty's keys from my hand and said, "Come on, let's go shopping. What you need right now is a ridiculously expensive pair of shoes."

A year ago a similar set of events took place. It was not a driving examiner, but simply an X, that brought Postmodern Sass to her knees in anger and frustration, and, once again, it was Jack who rescued her.

Iko Iko [part iv - fin]

Continued from part iii.

I grabbed the bag and ran down the stairs, then along the hallway to the front entrance. The elevator in my building is notoriously slow; I thought I'd be able to catch him before he was even out the gate, but I was wrong. Out on South Street there was no Kapp in sight.

I ran down the block to Park Street. The intersection is smack dab in the middle of the two bus stops; I wasn't sure which one Kapp would have gone to, so I mentally flipped a coin and headed south. The gang-bangers were beginning to swarm, so I couldn't see the stop until I was nearly at it. He wasn't there, so I turned around and walked up to the next stop. I didn't see a bus, and I didn't see Kapp, so I assumed he'd gotten onto it, and I hoped his keys weren't in his bag.

He's a guy. They usually keep those things in their pockets, right?

No big deal, I figured. I'd bring the bag to the library the next day, maybe tease him about how I'd rifled through it and checked out his portable porn stash. I walked back to the front gates of my apartment building, entered the code, and pressed the elevator button.

When the doors opened, there was Kapp, leaning against the wall, waiting for me.

I burst into laughter.

"I didn't even make it out the gate," he explained. "As soon as the elevator door opened on the street, I realized I'd forgotten my bag, so I came back up."

"Then how... oh; I went down the stairs. We crossed paths."

"Your door was unlocked. I looked in, saw the bag wasn't there, and immediately knew what had happened."

"I figured your keys probably weren't in it, but I'd try to catch you just in case."

"My keys are in it."

"This is like something out of a Marx Brothers movie, don't you think?"

"Who's on first?"

"Well, we've got an hour to kill and no beer, which, under normal circumstances would be a sad situation. Luckily, I have a couple of bottles named Glen I'd be happy to introduce you to."

"Glen?"

"Fiddich, for one. You'll see."

A little while later we were sitting on my new orange sofa, drinking Scotch, and listening to The Tragically Hip. Kapp is a music guy, so I had to introduce him to Canada's best-kept secret.

"So, the old forgot my bag trick, eh?" I said, slyly. "Is that like the old high school ploy of running out of gas?"

"Well, I don't have a car, you know," Kapp replied. He's quick with the comebacks, I'll give him that.

"So, are you one of those people who, under the right circumstances, smokes after all?" I asked, lighting up a cigarette in my livingroom. Something I don't usually do, but this was not a usual evening.

"It depends what you mean."

"I mean, would you like one?"

"I meant, what type of cigarette?"

"Ah! Well, I only have these."

"Are you... amenable to other kinds?"

"Why, you got?"

By way of answer, he pulled out a baggie.

"I'm not sure I have any rolling papers," I said.

"It's OK, I do," replied Kapp.

"What were you, a Boy Scout or something?"

"Not exactly."

I haven't been stoned since The Sex Pistols concert at Ontario Place two years ago, and I'm pretty sure this was my first time in America.

In the next story, Postmodern Sass takes her California driving test.

Iko Iko [part iii]

Continued from part ii.

There's no commonsensical reason whatever that I should, at my age, be struck with teenage shyness at the prospect of telephoning a boy, and so I only hesitated a nanosecond before calling Kapp. He's lived in San Jose for six years. Surely if we're to expect rioting on Tuesday night, he would know, and would not have made plans to walk a mile across downtown with only a tall redhead for protection.

The phone rang twice and the answering machine picked up. I heard the opening chords of Public Image and the gravelly voice of John Lydon singing "Hello, hello," and then Kapp picked up the phone and said, "Hello?"

"Is Keith Levene there?" I asked.

Kapp burst out laughing. "You're only the second person ever to get that," he said.

"Clearly you don't have enough musical snobs for friends," I said, and I wished he could meet Ken Clean-Air System. "So, I'm here at my neighbour's, and I mentioned to her that I was planning to go to the Poor House on Tuesday, and she kinda freaked out on me. She seems to believe that there will be a riot and that my life will be in danger if I venture out into the streets."

"Aw, I was hoping to surprise you," Kapp said.

"You mean it's true?" I asked.

"Well, I wouldn't use the word riot, but yes, it's true," he admitted.

"This is San Jose, right? Big suburb that has delusions of being a city? Inferiority complex because there's a real city just up the road? California cuisine, whatever the fuck that means, taquerias, Mexicans, and flip-flop wearing blondes? Did I miss an exit somewhere? We're talking about Mardi Gras, not Cinquo de Mayo!" Kapp grew up in Michigan and spent most of his adult years in Austin, Texas, so it's OK for me to make fun of Californians with him.

"It's like this," Kapp explained, "About four years ago a bunch of the bars on Second Street got together and advertised a Mardi Gras party. It was very successful. Too successful. It got a little out of hand, so they never did it again, but for whatever reason the gang bangers have adopted it as hoodlums night out, and the city has been trying ever since to stop it, but they can't."

"Gosh I'm so happy I moved here," I said. "So do you still want to go out on Tuesday?"

"Oh yeah, it'll be fun!" Kapp said. "Don't worry, we'll go early and I'll have you home by nine."

"I'm sure my neighbour is comforted by the knowledge that I'll be protected by a libarian," I said, more to Nadine, who was listening to the conversation, than to Kapp. I'm not easily frightened, and I had no intention of backing out of our non-date, but I could tell by the pallor of Nadine's face that she thought I was insane.

On Tuesday morning I cut through the library on my way to the university, and nearly tripped over an enormous sign standing in the middle of the foyer, announcing that the parking garage would be closing at 9:00 that night. When I arrived in my office there was an email from Kapp suggesting we meet at 5:00. I replied see you then, and I'll be wearing my biker jacket, just in case.

As we walked along San Fernando in the direction of the Poor House later that afternoon, the police were already out in full force, and just beginning to set up barricades on the cross-streets. Nadine had told me to be sure to get home early, and to carry my I.D., because the police won't let people through on the roads, even if they live there. I've known her for two months now and she still doesn't remember that I don't have a car here. There was no sign of hoodlums.

"They don't show up until about 11:00," said Kapp. "And they come straight down here to Second Street. They don't even know about the Poor House, so we're not likely to run into any trouble."

"And if we do? You're packing, right?"

Kapp is about an inch shorter than me. Not what I'd call short, man-wise, being freakishly tall myself, but he's not an especially big guy. He's Scandinavian blond, with floppy hair in need of a trim, and he's wearing khakis and a non-descript light jacket. Mild-mannered in appearance, like, well, like the librarian that he is. But he's armed with sharp wit, so if we do run into any hooligans I'm quite sure he'll have them crying for their mommies in a few sentences.

If they don't kill us first, that is.

The Poor House Bistro was jam-packed and bopping with authentic Mardi Grasers. We lucked into the last high table near the bar, and the band was about ready to start. The singer was a hep cat with a short, pointy beard, wearing a beret who reminded me of a character in that episode of The Flintstones where Fred becomes a pop star named Hi-Fye.

There were beads galore, and I added to my collection from the bartender's stash. He liked the fact that Kapp and I ordered the New Orleans beer (called voodoo-something) and that we ordered it in quantity. I believe in the when-in-Rome philosophy of eating, drinking, and partying and one of the reasons I like Kapp is that he does, too. Several of the patrons that night were wearing the kind of beads you can only get in New Orleans; the ones that light up, and are the size of Christmas tree ornaments. At the table next to us were three middle-aged couples, the women all wearing feather masks and full-length sequined gowns in peacock blue, purple, and emerald green.

It was a great party.

At 9:00 on the dot Kapp said, "It's time to go." The streets near the Poor House were quiet, but as we approached Second Street we could hear, then see, roving packs of drunken, loud teenagers in hip-hop gear straight from the 'hood.

"They don't even know what Mardi Gras is, do they?" I asked.

"They don't have a fucking clue," Kapp confirmed. Then he said, "The next bus isn't for about twenty minutes. We've got time for one more beer at The Loft."

I like the way he thinks, but when we arrived at The Loft it was closed. Six big guys stood in a row in front of the windows, with their arms crossed. "We had our windows broken last year," one of them explained to us.

I did a quick mental calculation of the cost to replace the windows, weighed that against the cost of lost business on a night when the place would have been full, and marvelled again at the city that I now call home. I've never missed Toronto more.

"I've got a couple of beers at my place," I said. I led Kapp back the way we'd come to South Street, and the back entrance of my apartment building. He admired the courtyard which was, thankfully, deserted.

Upstairs, I opened my last two Beck's and offered one to Kapp. He was crouched on the floor, rubbing Pinky's head.

"What a great cat," Kapp said.

"I know. He really is," I agreed. "These are my last two beers. If you miss the bus all I've got after this is single malt."

"I should make it," Kapp said. "I've been riding that bus for years now; I know how to catch the one that I need. And there's one more after this, at 10:30, but it's the last one for the night."

We drank our beers and played with the cat. Kapp admired the built-in entertainment centre in my livingroom, the cabinets that house my record collection, and I knew that as a fellow music aficionado he'd want to look at them, but there wasn't time. In a few minutes he said, "I'd better get going."

I walked him to the elevator and pointed him to the front entrance, which would put him closer to Park Street and his bus, said goodnight, then walked back to my apartment door.

I stepped inside and there was Pinky, sniffing Kapp's bag, which sat on the floor.

To be concluded in part iv.

Iko Iko [part ii]

Continued from part i.

When Kapp first introduced me to the Poor House Bistro, the first time we went out on a non-date, I'd been surprised, though delighted, at the idea of a New Orleans style restaurant in San Jose. I adore New Orleans, I've been there several times (the last time was particularly noteworthy), but the cognitive dissonance of visualizing Louisiana Cajun culture in a part of the world that was Mexico not so long ago was giving me some trouble.

Still, if I can't have a decent hockey bar, I find catfish and jazz an agreeable alternative, so when Kapp called to suggest we go to the Poor House on Mardi Gras, I said, "I'll be there with beads on!"

The Sunday before Mardi Gras I was over at my neighbour Nadine's. We were having a smoke break on her balcony, watching the Grammys through the window, and drinking heavily, when I mentioned my plans for Tuesday evening.

"Oh my god," she exclaimed, "Don't go out on Fat Tuesday. It's dangerous."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Last year there was all sorts of trouble downtown. The gang bangers all came in from the East Bay, and roamed around in these huge packs of guys, all drunk off their faces. If they see a woman they scream at her to show her tits. There was all sorts of damage downtown — broken windows, rolled cars. The police were all over the place; there were even helicopters with search lights sweeping our courtyard, because people jump the gate and hide in here. It was really bad."

Talk about your cognitive dissonance. I was so puzzled by what she was saying, I didn't know where to begin with a question. This is San Jose, for fuck's sake. What the hell does it have to do with Mardi Gras celebrations?

"Are you sure it was because it was Mardi Gras?" I asked. "I mean, what you're describing is basically a riot. Are you sure there wasn't something else going on that caused all the trouble, and it was just coincidence that it was Mardi Gras?"

"They call it Fat Tuesday here," replied Nadine, in her typical not answering the question manner.

"That's what Mardi Gras means. Tuesday is Mardi in French, and gras means fat."

"Oh, okay," said Nadine, in a tone that implied she didn't believe me. I wondered what she thought I had meant when I said Mardi Gras. If she doesn't understand that Mardi Gras and Fat Tuesday are the same thing, I was going to give little credence to her claims that there had been a riot in downtown San Jose because of the holiday. I went inside to get another beer.

"Monica's staying in a hotel Tuesday night," said Nadine as she reached over my shoulder for the bottle of vodka in the freezer. "She asked me if I wanted to come with her."

Monica is the resident building manager, and is, unlike Nadine, one of the most level-headed women I've ever met.

"You mean to tell me that she's expecting trouble that night, so she plans to not be here?" I exclaimed. "If she really believes something bad is going to happen, shouldn't she be doing something to protect the building? Like hire a security guard?"

"They can't do that, because security guards aren't allowed to carry guns."

Cognitive dissonance again.

"They could post a guard at the gate to keep people from jumping the fence, couldn't they?"

"But the guard wouldn't have a gun, and the gang bangers do, and if the guard were to get shot the building would be sued."

Fuck, if I live here the rest of my life I will never understand how Americans think.

To be continued in part iii.