Pennies from Heaven

The young man operating the cash register at my corner grocery this morning handed me back one of the three pennies I'd given him because it a Canadian coin.

"Good eye," I said, "Although, you know, it's worth more than yours right now."

"You mean ours," he replied.

"No, I mean yours. I'm not American."

The look on his face was not one of surprise, but of indignation.

"You're a citizen, aren't you?"

"No, I'm not."

He scoffed, as though to indicate that he hadn't time to play this game with me, and turned his attention to the next customer.

Turkey in the Straw

This is Big Bud's Beer Can Chicken Recipe, by Guy Fieri on Guy's Big Bite. It's a TV show, on The Food Network. An American thing.

God bless Guy. The Food Network has been featuring turkey since the first day of November, and if you can't imagine, Gentle Reader, how sick I am of turkey by now then you have little imagination, and I know that's not true.

Americans continue to amuse me in new ways every day. Of course I knew about their Thanksgiving, but this is the first time I've been in situ and paying attention to their customs. (Last year, I skipped town with Jack to hang with fellow Canadians.)

What amuses me today is what a big deal they make about turkey. How much they claim to love it. If they love it so much, why do they eat it only once a year?

Me, I'm making a big ass chicken with a beer in its ass, and Sparky's coming over to help me eat it. I'll post pictures of this endeavor later.

LATER

It's much later, as a matter of fact. Two days later. I needed all day yesterday to recover from Thursday's cooking experience. The chicken was awesome, as was the beer. Perhaps there might have been a bit too much of the latter. Perhaps that's the reason I'll have to renege on my promise of photos. I took them yes, but they are in focus, not so much.

More coffee, please!

He said I'm so obsessed that I'm becoming a bore

The triage therapist called me back less than an hour after I'd called the HMO's information line to ask whether my plan covered therapy. Oh yes, she said, up to twenty sessions per year, for a co-pay of $10. That's fine, I said, I'll take it, and I thought, I don't know what Michael Moore is complaining about. So far, this HMO system was working just fine, thank you. She, the triage therapist, asked me a few questions then booked an appointment for me with a clinical psychologist with the improbablename of Dr. Sloane Payne.

I was fifteen minutes into my session with Dr. Payne when he said to me, it sounds like you may have some abandonment issues. Holy crap! And I hadn't even told him, yet, how I'd called my salon the other day and was informed that my hairdresser, Sam, had left. Maybe he knew something was up because of my roots.

I told him about Jack. Just the highlights. That we've known each other since 1991. That it's complicated. What he said to me, that day at the beach.

There may have been some crying. That Dr Payne, he's so emotional! He said, are you sure it's over? Which is exactly the wrong thing to say to someone like me. Someone who never knows when to give up.

He asked whether I'd ever been on medication for depression. I said no, and added, I'm not so sure I'm depressed. He almost laughed at me. Oh, you're depressed, all right, he assured me. Then he shocked me. I don't mean literally, with electricity, but with what he said next: I think you should try it. This, maybe twenty minutes after meeting me.

I say, with all due respect, I don't think you know me well enough to drug me. I say, I am not in agreement, philosophically speaking, to taking drugs to solve my problems. I say, I don't want to take drugs unless it's absolutely necessary, and you're going to need more than one session with me to convince me that it is.

I don't say, what is it with you fucking Americans, pushing drugs as a cure for everything? I'm so sick of all your fucking television commercials pushing drugs, pushing people to "ask their doctor about miracle drug X": ads for drugs to reduce cholesterol, ads for drugs to reduce your chances of succumbing to a heart attack, ads for drugs to reduce the risk of osteoporosis. Yeah, cutting back on fatty foods, losing weight, and eating more broccoli are tough. Easier to pop a pill. Did you people learn nothing from thalidomide?

I tell him about the Lorazepam. How I don't like the way it makes me feel, and how I only take it when I need to feel that way. Like when I have to bury my mother twice in the same week, or when everything I believe is blown to pieces, or when I go to a medical doctor who needs to poke me with a metal implement. In those cases, I want to be so mellow I can't move.

He asks why I came. What I want. I tell him I want someone to listen to me, someone who's shoulder I can cry on. Because I know that no matter how great your friends are, there is a limit to how long they'll listen to you whine about shit, and it's a lot shorter than you think. I don't want to be that girl, you know, the one who's always whining to her friends about men who done her wrong. I don't want to cry in front of anyone. I fucking hate to cry. But I need to whine, and I need to cry a little, so I want to do it to someone who gets paid to listen to me do it.

He suggests group therapy. I say, I can't express to you how uninterested in that I am, but I'll try: no way, I'd rather shove fiery hot pokers into my eyes. Why not, he says. Keep an open mind, he says. Don't be so rigid, he says.

But I am rigid, I say. And judgmental. And though I would lasso the moon for a friend, I couldn't care less about the problems of strangers, and have no interest in listening to them talk about them. But you might be able to learn something from them, he says. I say, that's what I want to see you for. A professional.

We talk some more and eventually he says, I'm going to change my opinion, I don't think drugs are the answer for you, and maybe group therapy isn't what you need, either. You seem to be a very intelligent person, and I think you sincerely want to change your behaviour. I think you're a good candidate for individual therapy.

Great, I say. I think I like you, too.

But oh, by the way, he says, he can't take me as a patient. He tells me, the HMO doesn't cover individual therapy, and didn't the triage therapist explain that to me? I get only this one appointment with him, then he writes a quickie diagnosis and it's on to the next patient that he'll never see again. He tells me, all he can do for me is prescribe drugs, or put me in a group.

No, the triage therapist did not explain that to me, yet all of a sudden, the American health care system was a lot less mysterious.

Don't want to be an American idiot

Today, I've been a non-resident alien in America for exactly one year, and to mark the occasion I was invited to write a guest letter on To Whom It May Concern, one of my favourite best-kept secret blog envy blogs.

Love is the Drug

The best part about my visit to the doctor last week was sure not the trip there on the bus. The only thing that sucks worse than having to go see a doctor when you're sick is having to take the bus to go see a doctor when you're sick.

No, it was the lorazepam.

Lorazepam, in case you don't know, and are too lazy to look it up in the Wikipedia, is a happy drug. A chill pill. An anti-anxiety medication. Or, more scientifically, an anxiolytic. It's also categorized as a sedative, an amnesic, an anticonvulsant and, my favourite, a hypnotic.

Gosh, how I love this country!

Sarcasm, Gentle Reader, sarcasm.

But you have to love a country with doctors that'll give you a prescription for an addictive hypnotic and sometime hallucinogenic just for the asking, when you came in to see them for an earache. For that, by the way, they prescribed Robitussin and nasal spray. Over the counter.

And if you think I'm joking, you must be one of my non-American readers.

Next, it's Postmodern Sass's birthday.

Money don't get everything, it's true

You know what comes after that: What it don't get, I can't use, which isn't entirely true, in my estimation, because there's one very important thing that money do get. The most important thing, even: peace of mind.

I tried to explain my sudden, nail-biting stress to my colleague, Karen, over a pint at The Loft the other night. She was great — she listened, and she sympathized, but then she had to leave. So I called first Nadine, then Sparky, to see if they wanted to join me.

The Loft is my local, now, like The Banknote used to be. I've ordered another Stella Artois, a beer that in Canada is my despised last resort, but that here in California is often the only non-American, non-British beer available on draught, and until (and unless) either (or both) Nadine or Sparky arrive, I'll tell you about what happened, Gentle Reader.

You should know that last week I got an email from my agent in Toronto telling me she'd found a tenant for my condo. Not just any old short term tenant, mind you, but someone who, god bless them, wanted to take it for a year A WHOLE YEAR, beginning July 1, and who was willing to pay the full price, which means this: it's enough to cover the agent's monthly percentage; it's enough to cover all the utilities, even if they crank the A/C and open the windows in the middle of July; it's enough to cover the increase in my mortage payments that I'm going to be hit with next month; it's even enough to provide a few hundred dollars extra at the end of the year, in case I need to buy a new microwave, say, or get someone in to fix a loose curtain rod.

What it means, simply put, is peace of mind for a year.

So you can understand, I hope, why I was so relieved. Why I was positively celebratory. Why I had started to MAKE PLANS for the summer.

(For the last two months, every time someone asked me, "So, what are your plans for the summer?" I wanted to scream, I HAVE NO PLANS BECAUSE PLANS INVOLVE SPENDING MONEY AND I CAN'T SPEND ANY MONEY UNTIL I KNOW I DON'T NEED TO SAVE EVERY PENNY IN CASE I NEED TO CARRY MY CONDO FOR THE SUMMER SO FUCK OFF AND DON'T ASK ME THAT QUESTION!)

I planned to go home for the last week of June.

I planned to see my dad.

I planned to go to Kickass Karaoke.

I planned to plant flowers in the bare pots on my rooftop patio.

I planned to spend a week IN MY HOME, sleeping IN MY BED, for the last time for a year.

I planned to enjoy every minute of my time in the place I think of as Home, capital H. It would be the best vacation ever, and it would make having to spend the next twelve months in a foreign country, living with foreigners, where everything from the rules of the road to the peanut butter is, well, foreign, bearable.

So I booked my plane ticket, then switched to my email to collect my confirmation, and there it was, a message from my agent saying that the tenant had changed his mind and he wouldn't be taking my condo after all.

* * *
There's no happy ending to this story, at least not yet, so I'll give it a day or two before I tell you the rest.

Let's do the time warp

Every so often — actually, quite often — life in America makes me feel like I've gone back in time. Sometimes it's twenty years, like when I read about how the California legislature is considering (only considering, mind you) a law that will make it easier for women to not have to change their names when they get married. Sometimes it's five years, like when I go into the bank and see people still filling out those tiny slips of paper. Today, it was ten years. Back to the early days of the Internet, when companies were just beginning to figure out what purpose real-time mass distribution of information might serve.

The note in my daybook says to pay my cable TV bill online today — and yes, I use a paper book, I carry it around in my bag, along with my paper notebook, and yes, I appreciate the irony, Gentle Reader, but I don't have thousands of customers, and I don't encourage them, on my website, to sign up for online billing. I'm all for saving trees and saving stamps, though, so last month I did just that on the Comcast website.

My first bill, for the first month and the installation (yes, I just got cable. Heck, I just got a TV, remember?), was due May 14. I paid it online, $45.35, on the Comcast website. The transaction was posted through my bank on May 16, but that's another rant. The current rant is about Comcast.

Last week I received an email message reminding me that my next Comcast bill was due June 3, so today I logged in to their website to pay my bill, and saw:

Amount due: $60.57

Well, that's just not right, I thought, and I knew I was right in thinking it. So I clicked on "view bill" to see the details:

Previous Balance $ 45.35
Payment(s) $ .00
Comcast Cable Television $ 14.07
Taxes, Surcharges and Fees $ 1.15

Payment Due Date 06/03/07 $ 60.57

I called Comcast's customer service.

"Hi. I'm on your website, trying to pay my bill, but the account information your system is showing me is not correct. I paid the previous balance of $45.35 on May 14."

"Well, yes, sometimes there's a delay on the Internet."

"I understand that, but this was more than two weeks ago. The Internet isn't that slow."

"Well, you see, it's showing you your current statement. If you were to get a paper statement in the mail...."

"But I don't get a paper statement in the mail."

"Yes ma'am, I understand, but if you were to get a paper statement in the mail..."

"But I don't get a paper statement in the mail. Your company encourages customers to sign up for online billing, to not receive paper statements in the mail, and I'm all for that, so I did that, and now I'm trying to use your online system and it's giving me incorrect information."

"You're not letting me finish."

"All right, go ahead and finish."

"If you were to get a paper statement it would have been mailed just after your last due date, and since your payment hadn't posted yet, it would still be showing on your next bill, the one that's due June 3."

"Right. I understand that. But the key point here is that this is not a paper statement we're talking about, it's your online system. It should be showing me current information. When I log in, it shouldn't tell me I owe you $60 when in reality I owe you $15. The information it's giving me is wrong, and that forced me to call you, taking up company resources that online billing is supposed to avoid."

"There's nothing I can do about it, that's the way our system works. It's basically the same as the paper statement."

"That's ridiculous. Then what is the point of offering online billing?"

We went around a few more times after that, but you get the gist.

* * *
Back in 1998 I worked for Chapters Online, Canada's first national online bookstore. I was the public relations manager, and spent my days dealing with the press. At that time there was a fear among consumers about using their credit cards online. I spent a great deal of time repeating our key message, "It's no more dangerous to use your credit card online than it is anywhere else." The other communications challenge I faced was countering the insane perception that "Canada is two years behind the U.S. in e-commerce."

I learned a valuable lesson about the news media; that if a phrase is repeated often enough in writing, it becomes the truth, regardless of what the truth actually is. That phrase, about Canada being behind in e-commerce, became a mantra in the press, despite the fact that it was patently ridiculous. Canada was the first country in the world to offer online banking (in 1995) and to have an airline that allowed consumers to buy tickets online (in 1996). Canada has always been a world leader in communications. We invented the telephone, for fuck's sake! We invented the first Internet search engine. We invented the fucking Blackberry. Since 1994, every year that some analysts publish data about Internet adoption rates among consumers and businesses, Canada is number one. Today — heck, for the last five years — I don't know anyone under the age of 50 in Canada who doesn't bank and pay all their bills online. Most people I know don't even own chequebooks any longer.

Yet here, in the country that harbours the delusion that it's the most advanced nation in the world, there are still signs in stores that explain the circumstances under which they will accept a cheque. When I tell that to Canadians, they don't believe me.

America, you do great P.R., I'll give you that.

Bad America

Kapp was still recovering from his trip to the City over the weekend, where he saw Iggy Pop and had a run-in with the stairs at a MUNI station, so it was just me and Sparky at Trials for pub quiz night.

When all three of us are there we make a killer team. Kapp is an expert on music and pop culture, plus, being a librarian his head is full of all kinds of trivia; Sparky is an expert on musical theatre, movies, and "down east" (he's from Halifax); and I know a little about hockey, 80s new wave, Shakespeare, and postmodernism. One week épanouie joined us and aced all the science questions. But last night it was just me and Sparky.

We ordered a beer, waited for quiz time, and discussed our favourite topic, Americans. Sparky just moved here. He's been working for a Silicon Valley company for two years, flying back and forth and racking up the frequent flyer points while waiting for his visa. It finally came through, and now he's living in San Jose with me.

Er, not with me. You know what I mean.

I told him that, in the days after the Virginia Tech shootings I had some new visitors to an old story of mine called "My United States of Whatever," and a couple of new hate comments that had to be moderated. (If you're a first time reader and you feel the need to leave a comment telling me I have no right to my opinions about Americans and that I should go back to Canada, be forewarned: This is my blog. If you don't care for my writing, just go away. We'll both be much happier that way.)

"You know what kills me?" Sparky asked. "The headlines that screamed, Why did this have to happen, and How could this happen. Are they really that stupid?"

"Every time," I replied.

"They really don't get it? That people can buy guns? Why are they always so surprised when someone starts shooting?"

"Beats me. That, and NASCAR are only two of the many things that boggle me about this country."

I have nothing to say about what happened in Virginia last week. I have nothing to add to the whining and crying and renting of clothing and poseuring of the masses who had no connection to anyone at that school. The victims of this latest shooting are not heroes, they are victims, and out of respect for them, I will not watch the sensational entertainment magazine programs that turn America's murderer's into America's celebrities.

You want to keep fighting for the rights of your citizens to own guns? Fine, it's your country. Just stop acting shocked every time someone uses one. I can't abide the disingenuity.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

Drive

One of the things I love about California is that there are always flowers blooming. Back home, we don't see cherry blossoms until May, but these were trimming the parking lot of the San Jose DMV office yesterday:

I studied The California Drivers Handbook as I rode the #82 bus to the DMV. Irony appreciated, Gentle Reader. The handbook sounds like it was written by Arnold Schwartzenegger, in terms of both style and theme. To wit:

"The maximum speed limit on most California highways is 65 mph. You may drive 70 mph where posted. Unless otherwise posted, the maximum speed limit is 55 mph."

and,

"THINGS YOU MUST NOT DO:
Do not shoot firearms on a highway or at traffic signs."

and, my favourite,

"Prevent a potentially violent incident by avoiding eye contact with an angry driver."

A short form to fill out, one very bad photo, and $27 dollars later, and I had a temporary driver's license. And then I had to write a test.

I learned to drive when I was 12 years old, and until I moved to California I'd had my own car since I was 16. It's killing me, not having a car here. I feel like I'm missing a limb. I've been driving legally for more than 20 years, and have had only one accident, which happened the same month I got my license. And now I have to take a test, and I feel like I'm 12 again.

Nothing to be done about it. You can't argue with the Governator.

The written test consisted of 36 multiple choice questions. A woman wearing a uniform and a shiny badge, and having a very bad hair day, asked, "You write test?"

"Yes," I replied.

She ordered me to turn off my cell phone, then handed me the paper and shoved me into a cubicle.

Ten minutes later I was standing in line with a herd of teenagers accompanied by their parents, waiting to have my test graded, and feeling like peeing my pants. Another woman with equally bad hair and command of the English language took my paper, and laid it side-by-side with the answer sheet. She ran her pencil down the column, then turned the page over and did the same. Then she did both the front and the back again. She looked puzzled. I wanted to cry.

"You got them all right," she said, finally, in exactly the same tone of voice your grade six teacher used when she suspected you had cheated on the midterm.

I didn't mind being treated like a criminal. I've gotten used to it, what with being an alien and all. Besides, who cares? I passed, and that means I'm about to become of legal age in this state. Finally, I'll be able to buy beer at the 7/11!

But Creepella wasn't finished with me yet. She got out of her chair, took my paper, and went to consult with a man behind the counter. Then she returned and smiled evilly. "You have to take drive test."

"I do?"

"Yes. Because you Canadian."

"But I don't have a car!"

"You have to take drive test," she repeated, which I understood was code for, "Not my problem, let's see you cheat on that one." She pointed across the room to Window 27, above which hung a sign reading, DRIVING TEST APPOINTMENTS, but instead of walking to the window, I went outside and sat under the cherry tree, where I lit a cigarette, and called Jack.

Next, the continuation of happy hour at the Poor House Bistro with Kapp the librarian. Two years ago today, Postmodern Sass learned a valuable lesson about folding. Click here to read about what happened when Sass went for her driving test.

Home, where my thought's escaping

Jack says when I say the word home, meaning Toronto, he can hear the capital H in my voice, so when I called the other day to say I was coming home to California, I said "home, small H."

Truth is, I'm a woman without a home. A woman without a country, really — homes, I have two: a condo in Toronto, which I own, and which has nothing in it that I care about, and an apartment in San Jose, which I do not own, and which has everything in it that I care about. Especially Pinky.

It's the country thing that upsets me some. See, in this country, the United States of America, I am considered a "non-resident alien." That's my official status, bald silver head and glowing green eyes. I learned this only recently, when it was brought to my attention that I had checked the wrong box on an official form. Given the choice of "resident alien" and "non-resident alien," I selected the former, reasoning that I live here and what with the silver skin and all.

But it seems I am actually a non-resident alien. Don't ask me to explain the logic; it's not my country.

My country, since you asked, Gentle Reader, now considers me a "non resident."

All of which means I live in two places, or in no place at all, depending on your perspective.

So what's a woman who's just come home, small H, from home, capital H, and who resides in no country to do? Open the box that was delivered while she was away, and that contains her new purple stipey and flowered flannel sheets, and her new purple microsuede comforter cover, and climb into bed. There's something about soft, warm, new sheets that makes the world a better place.

Especially when your cat is the icing on that world.



Next, Postmodern Sass gets dooced by Dooce.

It Sucks

Welcome to HomeClick.com Please wait for an operator to respond.

You are now chatting with 'Daniella'

Your Issue ID for this chat is LTK69010057308X

Daniella: Hello. My name is Daniella. How can I help you?

Sass: Can you tell me if you have the Miele S183 vacuum cleaner in stock? Every other website says it is unavailable.

Daniella: One moment please, while I check on that item for you.

Daniella: The lead time for the item you are inquiring about is approximately 2-3 business days.

Sass: Are you sure? As I said, every other website says there are production delays at the manufacturer, and that the product won't be available for months. I want to verify that you have it in stock. I don't want to order it and then be told there will be delays.

Daniella: As per our website the lead time is 2-3 business days.

Sass: I know it says on your website that it normally ships in 2-3 days. I can read. I am asking you to check on the stock availability.

Daniella: You can call into our Sales Department and they can verify if we have this item in stock and the actual lead time it will take to ship to you.

Sass: I prefer to communicate online, that's why I'm talking to you. You are supposed to be the customer service person. Why can't you answer my question?

Daniella: One moment please sir.

Daniella: If the order is placed today it usually takes 24 hours for the order to process and once the order is processed it will ship within 2-3 business days. Therefore turnaround time before the item is shipped out to you is 3-5 business days.

Sass: You're still not answering my question. You are giving me the general information that's on the website. What you've said is only accurate if the item is actually in stock. I am asking you to verify that, for this product, today, right now, the information you just gave me is accurate.

Sass: If the item is in stock I will order it right now, and expect to receive it in approximately 3-5 days. I do not want to order it and then be told that it will not be available until March. As I've told you, every other website that sells vacuum cleaners online is saying they are out of stock, that there are production delays with the manufacturer, and that this product will not be available until March.

Daniella: Unfortunately ma'am if you would like to confirm that we do have this item in stock you can call into our Sales Department as they are better equipped to answer your question.

Sass: Aren't you the customer service department? I'm asking a simple customer service question. If you can't answer it, I will simply move on to the next vendor, and buy my vacuum cleaner elsewhere.

Daniella: As per our website it is stating that this item ships out within 2-3 business days. This is an answer that is unacceptable to you and our Sales Department has access to checking if items are in fact available that is why I am directing you to call them. They will be better able to assist you and provide you with a more accurate lead time.

Sass: Thank you. I will buy my vacuum cleaner elsewhere.

Her house may be dusty but Sass comes home to new bedding and a nice warm kitty cat. Later, one of Sass's heroes finds this story, and links to it. Thank you, Seth Godin!

Mustang Sally [redux]

"What I would do, is find myself a junked Corrado down there in California, peel off the VIN and stick it on your car. You only need the one on the dash," suggested Joe, my secondary mechanic, the one who does the emissions test that the Ontario government requires every two years. Hans, my primary mechanic, doesn't have the testing machine at his garage.

Two months ago, when I first made the decision to move to California, I asked everyone I could think of who might know, what I'd need to do to be able to take my car with me. I ignored those who advised me to get rid of it; that it wasn't worth it. You see, in my family we are irrationally emotionally attached to our cars. My friend Gilbert understands. Josh understood. So does Jack. But most people don't.

I couldn't get a straight answer from any official body. And so when Jack said, "Just bring it here, and we'll figure it out when you get here. I'll help you," I decided that's just exactly what I would do.

I didn't think about it again until last week, when I called the moving company to make the final arrangements for my move. I had discussed the car with them weeks ago, and they said they would be putting it on the truck, right along with my orange velour chair, my purple and yellow floor lamps, and my boxes full of boots. That's when they told me I'd need to get a letter of compliance from the manufacturer of the car. They made it sound like such a simple thing: "Just call Volkswagen Canada. They'll know what it is."

They knew what it is, that's true. But they couldn't give me one for my car. "I can see here, by the zero in the fifth position of your VIN number," said the extremely unhelpful customer service representative at Volkswagen North America, somewhere in Michigan, "that your car is equipped only with active restraint systems. You require passive restraint systems, such as air bags or ABS brakes."

"My car has ABS brakes," I offered. "Can you be more specific? That is, can you tell me from looking at the VIN number exactly what modifications I'd need to make to my car in order for it to conform to U.S. standards?"

"I'm sorry, but I don't have that information."

"Who does?"

"I don't know. All I know is, we would be unable at this time to issue a letter of conformity for this vehicle."

I tried to be polite when I hung up on him.

I called my local Volkswagen dealer to beg for their assistance as an official-type Volkwagen entity. "The question that I need answered is, assuming I can make whatever modifications are necessary to my car, how do I then go about getting that letter?"

The answer came half an hour later. I didn't like it, but at least it was an answer, and the woman at the dealer sounded certain of what she was telling me: "Unfortunately, if the car doesn't conform you can't ever get that letter from the manufacturer. The only way to get your car into the U.S. legally is to get a registered importer to handle it for you."

Emphasis on the word legally.

"But how can that be?" asked my cousin Markus, when I told him the story. "Don't tell me all the Corrados that are in the U.S. had to go and get airbags installed?"

"No, I don't think so. They're OK, because they were already there when the regulation was established. But you can't import a car without airbags."

"And it would cost a fortune to install airbags in your car, right?"

"Worse. They can't be installed at all. There's nowhere to put them."

Markus called his friend who works at the border — the town where I grew up, Beamsville, is only twenty miles or so from it; we learned to smuggle at a very early age.

"My friend says your problem is, you're trying to take it in legally. He says just drive it across the border, tell them you're going for a visit, and then have it shipped from there. Or drive it to California. And just keep your Ontario plates on it."

"Hmn. Well, while I'm not against alternative (to legal, that is) methods, the thing is, eventually that'd catch up to me. Can I insure a car with Ontario plates? Too many ifs... and if I get it down there, and then find out there's a larger problem, then I'm fucked."

Where Markus and I grew up, everyone goes "over the river" to the U.S. We used to go over just to drink, back when their drinking age was lower than ours. Now it's the other way around; American kids come to Canada to drink. But in California, home is not simply over the river.

I called the mover to see if he had any suggestions. "To be honest you're the first person I know who's ever tried to do this," he said. "Most people just sell their car here and buy a new one down there."

Easy for you to say. See, this car may not be much to you but I love her; she's my Baby. And, more importantly, she's paid for. I'm about to become a state employee. I'll be lucky to be able to afford to buy gas, never mind a new car.

"I can give you the number of the guy who works at the border in Blaine, Washington. It's where we cross all the time," said the mover, in response to my sigh of desperation. "It's a small station, and he's the only guy there. He'll be able to tell you for sure what you need to do if you want to get your car across."

So I called Blaine, and indeed he was helpful: "If you don't have that letter, the car would be turned back, so there's no way it can come in on the truck with your other items," Blaine explained. "I've had to turn back a lot of cars because people showed up without that letter. At least you were smart enough to investigate this before you shipped it. But I have to tell you, at this point, most people would just give up. It's not going to be worth the effort."

I hate to admit defeat. I will go to extreme, even outright ridiculous lengths to get done what I want to do.

I will not sell my car. Not yet.

I'm going to leave it with Markus until I come home at Christmastime. And then we'll see.

* * *
In the next story, Postmodern Sass hugs Kickass Karaoke Carson goodbye.

California Dreamin' [part X]

Continued from part IX. To read this story from the beginning, go here.

Thursday, April 27, 2006
Room 338, Westin Hall
(student residence, USJ campus)
midnight

It's been another long day.

Today, I had my formal interview with the entire faculty of the School of Business Communications at the University of San Jose. The entire faculty is nine professors, and eight of them were there: The Director, who threw me to the lions yesterday; the professor named Clive, whose lions they were; Candace Barker, who looks like a tiny bird. A canary, actually. Doris Stickler, who it's quite clear is not in favour of my appointment; Alex Farber, the only member of the faculty who's under the age of 50; a cool professor named Tom who teaches in the journalism program and who is also the staff advisor for the student newspaper; a woman named Christine who teaches public relations, and who didn't ask me any questions.

And then there was the Diversity Guy.

He was a professor of broadcast journalism; a black man of about 55. He'd been sitting there, smiling, and I'd been getting a good vibe from him, right up until he asked me, "What is your experience with diversity?"

I didn't know how to answer that question. What I was thinking was, I'm Canadian, for fuck's sake. My country didn't do that to you.

I honestly didn't know what to say. It's not that I was trying to figure out what I should say, in the sense of what's the "right" answer, it's that I was baffled.

In Canada, everyone's family came from somewhere else, whether it was Scotland 200 years ago or Sri Lanka 2 years ago. I live in a city of three million people, where every person you see on the street is a different size, shape, and colour and speaks a different language from the next one. What I wanted to say was:

"What kind of diversity, specifically, are you referring to? Race, religion, language, or skin colour? Most of my closest friends are Jewish; of the others one is Indian and regularly wears a sari, one is from Mexico, one is Filipino, one is from Newfoundland, though we never hold that against him, and one is Iraqi. I've taught students from just about every country on the planet, including Afganistan, and I taught in China for six months. I speak English, German, and enough French to understand the commentary at a Canadiens game. Or shall I tell you about the diversity in my family? My grandparents, the peasants, who came here not speaking a word of English? My cousins who are native Indian? My three (that I know of) gay relatives? Or would you like to know how many married-in black people there are in my extended family? You'd have to give me a minute to count."

But I didn't.

I was reminded that every time I visit the United States I feel like Mr. Peabody's sent me back to the 1950s.

To be continued in part XI, after Postmodern Sass finishes reading The Da Vinci Code.

California Dreamin' [part VIII]

Continued from part VII. To read this story from the beginning, go here.

Wednesday, April 26
Room 338, Westin Hall
(student residence, USJ campus)
2:15 p.m.

Can I just say, the mayor of San Francisco is hot!

I'm in my room in the residence hall—not the freshman hall but the new building, where they put up visiting faculty; really, it's a small suite—and I've turned on the TV. It keeps me company, and tunes me in to the local scene. So far I've learned that San Jose is the tenth largest city in the United States, and that USJ is the oldest state university in northern California, and has the largest business school west of the Colorado River. Or something like that. Americans' need to superlatize and rank every piece of information they impart will never cease to amuse me.

The big news today, according to this San Francisco NBC affiliate, is a fire that gutted a circuit board manufacturing company in Santa Clara, and the rumour that The Mercury News is being sold to some big corporate media company.

The big news to me was, I'm teaching a class at 3:00.

This news was imparted to me by Candace Barker, the tiny, birdlike professor of advertising who picked me up at the airport an hour ago.

She thought I knew.

I did not.

So now I'm rushing to wash the nine hours of travel grit from my body and make my hair and face presentable. No easy task in light of their activites last night.

My formal interview isn't until tomorrow, and I only brought one suit.

* * *
California Dreamin' will continue in part IX, and may go on for some time before Postmodern Sass decides whether to move to California. In the meantime, she's spring cleaning like nobody's business, just in case. She's painting her bathroom, and you know she posted an ad to sell her Ikea dining room table. Next it's time to sell Oma's antique dresser, but first she's going to see Pearl Jam.

California Dreamin' [part V]

Continued from part IV. To read this story from the beginning, go here.

Wednesday, April 26, 2006
10:00 a.m., Chicago time
on board United 719 to San José

I can't help but notice that the thinnest person in the dozen first class seats is only 40 pounds overweight, and I wonder whether I can live in this country. They speak the same language, they dress the same, they drive the same cars. It's the mundane matters that differ: the lack of French on packaged goods; the way they talk too loudly in public; their money that all looks the same; their incessant flag waving, both literally and figuratively.

And then there's the fucking guns. How proud it makes them; how free it makes them feel, knowing that any one of them, any ordinary citizen, on a day that he's feeling particularly pissed off, or she's PMS-ing, has the god-given right, sanctioned by the government, to walk into a Wal-Mart and buy a gun. Of course they don't have the right to shoot up the nearest McDonald's, but when they do, the rest of the country still acts like they're shocked.

We—Canadians—just don't get that. Never will.

"So what are you going to do if they offer you the job?" asked Markus on Tuesday night as he and his wife Amy and I were having a couple of pints at Wrigley's Field in St. Catharines. "Would you move to California?"

"So fast your head'll be spinning like the Tasmanian Devil in my dust," I had replied.

"Good! 'Cause Amy and I will come visit you. We've never been to San Francisco."

"Well, I'd be in San José, not San Francisco," I told them, "But the city's not that far away." And then I sketched a map of the Bay Area on the brown paper tablecloth in our booth.

"Does Jack know you're coming?" blurted Amy.

Markus looked at his watch and exclaimed, "Great job! You managed to hold it back for an hour and a half!" Then, to me, he added, "She's been dying to ask you that since I told her you were coming here."

Amy and Markus had scrutinized Jack last summer, when he came for my birthday.

"He knows," I told her, and he does, "But I don't know whether I'll see him while I'm there."

That was the truth.

"In fact, I'm not even sure I want to," I added.

And that was a lie.

To be continued in part VI, but first, a brief stop in Hell.

California Dreamin' [part II]

Continued from part I

Wednesday, April 26
Still in the Buffalo airport

At security I count 18 signs warning that no lighters are permitted on planes. Mine is in my cigarette pack, in my purse, as it always is. If they find it, they can have it. I can always pop into the newstand as soon as I'm on the concourse and buy another one.

They don't find it, but they do make me take off my light jacket, which has no metal on it, and my shoes, which have small metal buckles. My belt, which has a much larger buckle, is allowed to remain undisturbed — and does not set off the metal detector. Neither does the row of metal snaps on my shirt. There's no logic to it. Once, at a Canadian airport, a small, decorative, metal ring in my bra set off the alarm.

Soon, they'll be making us strip down and walk through a decontamination tent before boarding a plane.

I remain baffled by most changes in security procedures at American airports in the last five years. There's one that makes sense: They used to allow anyone to go onto the concourses. Remember that? So when you'd be coming off a plane there'd be three hundred smiling relatives craning their necks and trying to get as close to the jetway door as possible, and when they recognized their loved ones they'd all stop in place to greet and slobber all over each other. There were always ten times as many people in the airport as there needed to be.

No, it was never like that in Canada. No one goes through security without a boarding pass. It just makes plain old good sense. Not only that, but our airports are designed so that arrivals and departures are on separate floors, so when you're de-boarding you don't run into boarding traffic.

The changes that don't make sense to me are everything else. The extra scrutiny and time spent considering whether to allow my nail clippers to remain in my purse. Making us take our shoes off. Look, if I really wanted to smuggle something small, thin, and sharp in here, there are fifty places in my carry-on that it could be. Don't you people watch Alias? A pen could be concealing an icepick. For that matter, a pen, weiled by a person of upper body strength and nefarious intentions, could be a weapon. And someone with those same qualities, plus training and determination, doesn't need my nail clippers to take over the plane.

Between the time I check in and the time I'm seated on the plane, I have to show my I.D. to three people. Now, I'm not saying you shouldn't check my I.D., but why three times? I remember September 11, 2001. Vividly. They were showing the photos and names of the terrorists on CNN while the towers were still burning. Clearly, they had I.D., too.

In the first few weeks after September 11 all the American airlines stopped accepting e-tickets. That's the other one that baffled me. E-tickets, purchased electronically with a credit card that, presumably, had to be verified, was suddenly considered risky. But you could walk up to a ticket counter and pay cash for a ticket, no I.D., no problem.

Why don't you just stop allowing people to carry suitcases onto the plane? Not only would it improve security but it'd speed everything up. I've rarely had to wait more than five minutes for my suitcase to arrive at baggage claim, but I've frequently had to wait 15 minutes or more beyond scheduled takeoff while the passengers and the harried flight attendants try to find space in the overhead bins for everyone's suitcases. I always check my bag, even my small one. It's just polite. Not to mention the fact that it's easier negotiating O'Hare without it.

But I won't be at O'Hare for another couple of hours. I'm still in Buffalo, looking for coffee. I find it in one of the airport's restaurant/bars. I like to sit at the bar in a bar, even when it's too early to drink beer.

"How much is a bottle of water?" the woman in front of me asks the cashier. What I hear is: battle of watter — rhymes with matter. Americans are immediately identifiable by the first vowel they enunciate.

The breakfast menu reads:

Bagel with cream cheese
Breakfast sandwich on a hard roll

The concept of a hard roll sounds only slightly more appetizing than the bagel, which I have no doubt will be of the doughy grocery store variety, and untoasted. Besides, I'm curious about this hard roll thing.

Turns out a hard roll, at least the airport variety, is neither. At home I'd call that a hamburger bun.

But the coffee is huge—just what I need. I take it and my breakfast sandwich to the bar, sit where I can see the TV screen, and pull out my notebook.

As I'm writing this I'm listening to the early morning news on the local ABC affiliate. As I take my first bite of my breakfast sandwich the anchor is introducing a story about a "dot com" firm. What I hear is: dat cam.

I grew up watching Happy Days and The Mary Tyler Moore Show on these very same Buffalo affiliates of all the American television networks. Yet when I pronounce Lackawanna, Tonawanda, or Cheektowaga — which is where the Buffalo airport is actually located — I use twice as many vowel sounds as Americans do.

I've only been in this country for an hour, and already I'm having second thoughts about moving here.

To be continued in part III

California Dreamin' [part I]

Wednesday, April 26, 2006
7:00 a.m., Buffalo airport

Everything is different here. It's like a whole other country.

Buffalo is only a 45 minute drive from the small town where I grew up; from the university where I teach. Not very far, in the grand scheme of things. And we speak the same language.

Sort of.

"Where were you born?" barked the U.S. customs agent on the wrong side of the Peace Bridge.

I hestitated because I didn't know whether to say Canada or Beamsville. And because it was 6:00 in the morning and I hadn't had a cup of coffee yet. Not to mention the fact that I'd only had four hours of sleep because I'd been out drinking with my cousin Markus the night before. I spent the night at his house so I'd be closer to the airport in the morning.

Hesitation, to a customs agent, means you're thinking up a lie, which, in turn, means woe is you.

"Uh, Beamsville," I said, eventually.

"Where are you going?" he barked again.

"San José," I replied, this time without a nanosecond of hesitation.

"California?"

Is there another San José somewhere? is what I was thinking, but what I said was, "Yes, sir."

I parked in the Preferred Long Term Parking after having literally stopped my car on the airport road to consider my parking options: Short Term Parking, Short Term Parking International, Long Term Parking Lot A, Long Term Parking Lot B, Long Term Parking Lot C, and Preferred Long Term Parking.

There were two shuttle buses lounging at the end of the lot closest to the terminal, and lots of empty parking spots near them. The sun had been up for a few seconds; the darkness was beginning to fade, and so as I stepped out of my car I could see the grass edging the lot.

It was frosted. Frost! At the end of April! Fuck.

Yesterday, before I left Toronto, I had agonized over whether to bring my tomato plants inside, as my daddy had instructed me to do at night until May. There are three tiny plants, in three very large clay pots, on my rooftop patio. If I bring them inside, they are protected from the cold but they get no light. And since I was planning to be away for several days, they'd get no light and no rain, either. So I opted to leave them outside with burlap wrapped around their cages, and hope for the best.

Poor little things. They're surely dead now.

The shuttle bus driver was cheerily inquiring as to which airline I would be using this morning.

"Uh..." I hesitated again. "Sorry; haven't had any coffee yet. United."

"Well, it's quiet this morning," he said, and it was, "You'll have lots of time before your flight to find some coffee and maybe have a nice hard roll, and then you'll be good as new."

Hard roll?

I recall that Americans say "roll" instead of "bun," so perhaps a hard roll is what we would call a crusty bun. But describing it as "hard" does nothing to make it sound appetizing. Stale bread is hard.

Half an our later I learn that what Buffalonians designate a hard roll is, in fact, neither, but first I have to walk the gauntlet of airport security.

To be continued in part II.

Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is?

I meet the most interesting people in bars.

Take Phil, for example. He's a graphic artist for the Chicago Sun-Times, and has an Academy Award — for best educational film of 1989. He tells me about his latest project, constructing a 3D model of the new Wrigley Field.

I wait for him to say "da Bears" in a sentence, and when he does, it sounds just like John Goodman in the Saturday Night Live sketch.

(That's sketch, not Scotch.)

And then, later in his paragraph, as he's describing his attendance at a recent football game, Phil says, "I never bin an the field before."

Oh, how I love Chicago.

A good bar doesn't have a clock on the wall; only neon beer signs. And Warsteiner on tap, not Budweiser. A good bar has an entertaining bartender. And chairs that spin around. And french fries. And of course the very very best bars are the ones that have karaoke.

Resi's Bierstube has the first three of these, and the bartender's a doozie. His name is Seiser. Dared by the patrons, Seiser tends bar for several minutes with his pants around his ankles. (Thank god for boxer shorts.) This is no mean feat, make no mistake; the bar at Resi's is about 30 feet long, and he is the only one behind it. That's a lot of waddling back and forth.

I get the impression he's done it before.

A good bar has bar clutter. Bierdeckeln and cheesy plates on the wall. Entertainment for your eyes. I like clutter, and I miss it when it's gone.

Speaking of clutter, Dave wasn't exaggerating about the clutter in his apartment. Two people, two sets of furniture, two complete collections of books, CDs, DVDs, and video tapes, neatly labelled, of every episode of Star Trek TNG and the X-Files. On her way out the door on Friday morning Dave's roommate Bess picked up her keys, didn't notice that her magnetic clip-on sunglasses were stuck to them, and accidentally flung them across the room. She was still searching for them when I left on Sunday.

I tell Phil that Dave and I went to the Art Institute earlier that day. I don't tell him that I think the practise of hanging a Christmas wreath around the lions' necks is, well, disrespectful. To the lions.

Phil tells me that his mother went to art school with Andy Warhol, and that she has his box of pastels — used, and with his name written inside the lid. Phil says he's asked his mother to leave it to him in her will.

(I say, eBay!)

I like Andy Warhol's cats.

The Andy Warhol Museum is in Pittsburgh. That's also where Keppel is from. Keppel is sitting kitty-corner across from me at the bar, talking to Carrie. Dave tells him I'm Canadian.

"You're Canadian?" he asks, and I detect more than a little note of snarkiness in the question.

So I answer, "Yes. Eh."

"Pronounce 'against'," he says.

"Against."

"Say, 'Sorry'," he says.

"You mean as in, 'excuse me' don't you?" I clarify. "Like, What did you say? Sorry?"

He grins what can only be described as a Grinchy grin.

"Hey, do you hear that?" asks Phil.

He means the music being played on the bar's stereo system, as chosen by Seiser. I'd noticed Interpol earlier, and was impressed, but then became distracted by Mountie games with Keppel.

"It's The Buzzcocks," said Phil, answering his own question. "Noise Annoys. From Singles Going Steady."

"One of my favourite albums," I say, making sure to pronounce the word favourite with the U. "If it'd been Ever Fallen In Love, I would have noticed it right away."

Carrie was lamenting her lack of cleavage: "I was getting ready to come here tonight when I discovered my dog had chewed my bra! I had to resort to the sports bra. I didn't even bother to shower. I mean, what's the point of being clean when you don't even have a decent bra to wear, you know?"

"Don't you have any other bras?"

"No! I threw all the old ones away when I got the new one. It was my new one the little bugger chewed. So I had to decide whether to wear the sports bra or just boggle around. And now I have no tits!"

"What are you, Hunter S. Fuckin' Metcalfe?"

"Ever hear of a band called Naked Ragon?" asks Phil.

"No. How do you know so much about music?" I ask him.

"My mother was a singer. A famous singer. Well, small F famous. She was in a group called the Sweet Adelines — they once toured with Kenny Loggins. And she sang at the governor's mansion. Governor Clinton's mansion."

Someone mentions The Arcade Fire and I can't help myself; I go on my rant about how such overproduced, self-important, pretentious crap could only have come out of a bunch of guys from Montreal, the musical Bedrock of Canada, where young musicians grow up listening to Men Without Fucking Hats and are still listening to Yes and Genesis and Rush on CHOM-FM.

(I'm entitled to this opinion. I lived in Montreal for eight years during which time I never heard CHOM-FM play a song that was recorded later than 1979. I also managed a band, partied with Ivan from Men Without Hats, and learned to recognize the havoc they wreaked.)

"What do you mean, The Arcade Fire is Canadian?" says Keppel. He's offended that I should suggest such a thing.

I was beginning to recognize Keppel, too. As the resident wannabe recondite music critic.

"You didn't know?" I ask. "I'm not surprised; we walk among you unrecognized all the time."

(So long as we can keep from saying 'eh' after each sentence.)

Keppel practically spits his retort: "They're not Canadian. I happen to know for a fact that one of the guys in the band is from Texas."

"Keep telling yourself that," I say.

A girl at the far end of the bar who's been trying unsuccessfully to get Seiser's attention for some time now, finally does. She orders a glass of water. He brings her a giant glass mug full; it must have held one litre.

"You know those signs they have at pools?" Seiser is asking the patrons at the other end of the bar, now. "The ones that say, we don't swim in your toilet so don't pee in our pool? What if I wanted to swim in your toilet? What then?"

"You can get dyes that'll let you know if someone pees in your pool," offers Keppel.

"I don't like the pee pee discussion," says Carrie.

Dave is scanning the other side of the room, where a row of padded benches runs against the wall.

"Whenever I see a couch I want to lie down on it and take a nap," he says. "I can't help myself."

Dave's apartment has two entrances and lots of doors, many that I'm convinced lead nowhere, except perhaps to Narnia. Each of the two roommates' bedrooms has two doors. It struck me as surreal.

I like surreal.

The Art Institute of Chicago is home to the painting American Gothic, made famous by Bugs Bunny and a host of other comedians. There's always a big crowd around it. Those are the people who want to go back to their hometown of Buttfuck, Iowa, and say they saw a famous painting. They have no sense of irony.

I couldn't care less about American Gothic. I get the joke, and it's an ugly painting. Too, I am unmoved by most realist, naturalist, and impressionist paintings, uninterested in exhibits of pottery and ancient coins, embarassed on behalf of the abstract artists who are too stoned to be embarassed themselves for the great fraud they perpetrate on museum patrons, and I am drawn to the surrealists.

The Art Institute has a few Dalís, including A Chemist Lifting with Extreme Precaution the Cuticle of a Grand Piano (1936). I love his titles, and I prefer his earlier work.

Except for this one, which is from 1967.


I see it every morning when I step outside my bedroom door. I fell in love with Dalí when I saw the original in the Salvador Dalí Museum in St. Petersburg. It's four meters high by three metres wide. I stared at it for half an hour.

Several other Dalís and a couple of Magritte prints are framed and hanging in my home. Dave's favourite Magritte is Time Transfixed. This is mine.

This trip, I discovered a new artist: Gerhard Richter. At the Art Institue there were four of his canvases. His style is somewhat Jackson Pollacky; layers of paint, globs of paint, then some of it scraped away. It's supposed to be abstract, but close up I swear I saw snowy mountains with tiny brightly coloured skiers on one, and brightly coloured tropical fish on another.

I should have asked Bess about him — she was an art history major. Dave's roommate, Bess, is a delightful, curly-haired Star Trek nerd who knits but doesn't blog. And boy, does she knit. On New Year's Eve she declined to attend Jaime and Jamie's party, opting to stay home with an order of sushi, a bottle of champagne, and her knitting needles. When Dave and I returned from the party I counted six new scarves, two hats, and a cardigan on the dining room table.

Someone down the other end of the bar says, "I once saw the band Chicago play live."

"Does anybody know what time it is?" asks Phil.

"Ladies and gentlemen, it's time to go home," announces Seiser.

"What the heck does 25 or 6-2-4 mean, anyway?"

"The bar is closed, get out!"

In the next story, Postmodern Sass has an update on Andrew the bartender.

My United States Of Whatever

It's the day before the American presidential election, and I'm having breakfast at the Comfort Suites in Southhaven, Mississippi.

It's a self-serve breakfast bar, but a cheery young black woman, Sharonda, is behind the bar replenishing the biscuits and that kindergarten paste they call gravy. The TV in the common room is blaring. It's a morning news program, running a satirical feature. Footage of a college football game is voiced-over with commentators describing the plays in terms of Bush vs. Kerry. Sharonda is laughing.

"On th'other station," she says, "Dey do dat with a couple horses, too. It's funny! Dey call da horses Bush an'..." She looks at me, "Wha's th'other guy's name?"

An hour later I'm checking out. Rosetta at the front desk is white, about 25, Southern fried friendly and at least 50 pounds overweight. She's wearing an enormous button that says God Bless Our Armed Forces.

Rosetta finishes up with my invoice, and before I leave I ask if she might direct me to the nearest Democrat campaign office. I'd like to pick up a Kerry button for my karaoke buddy Goldilocks back home who was, coincidentally, born down here in the South. He is rabidly political, and American. I like him anyway.

Rosetta looks at me like I have two heads, and says, "I have no idea."

I ask if she could possibly find out somehow. She goes in the back and returns with the manager, a young black man. He looks at me the way annoyed adults on a plane look at the mother with a crying baby in the opposite seat, and says, "This is Bush country."

"Really?" I reply, surpised to find that the land of cotton-picking slave descendants would support a gun-toting moron over a liberal. "Well, that's a shame, but in any case I hope you get out there and vote tomorrow. No offence, but this country needs all the help it can get."

"Oh, I don't vote," says Rosetta. Her tone was exactly that of a person saying, "Oh, I'm lactose intolerant," in reply to someone who inadvertently offered them milk.

(I knew it was a bad sign when the cable service in my room didn't include Comedy Central. I've had to go cold turkey off Jon Stewart, and let me tell you, it hurts.)

It's afternoon, and I'm in Oktibbeha County in the heart of Mississippi, stopping in at the Walmart to pick up a few things before heading to the next Comfort Inn on my agenda. Orlicia at the checkout examines my credit card with curiosity.

"I'm Canadian," I offer.

"Oh," she says, followed by something I can't parse, even though I've gotten pretty good at listening slow.

"I hope you're going out to vote tomorrow," I say. I can't help myself.

She looks at me, blankly. I don't know whether she didn't understand what I said, or that the idea of voting was unimaginable to her. But I fear it's the latter.

Starkville is home to Mississippi State University. Surely a university town has one or two liberals running free?

I wonder what people do for fun here. This is where I'll be watching the returns.

As I drive to the motel I scan the landscape for a campaign sign for Kerry — or any Democrat. I spy a long, low building with a big sign advertising GUN SALE.

In the next story, Postmodern Sass imagines what the United States of Whatever is going to be like for the next four years.