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.

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.

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.

Sometimes you wanna go where everybody knows your name

Where everybody knows the name Postmodern Sass, and some even know the name on her birth certificate, is here, at The Rivoli, on Queen Street in Toronto. That's Joey "Accordion Guy" deVilla front and centre, smiling at the camera. The blonde to the left, also smiling for the camera, is Maria, the Naked KnitGirl. Sitting at the near end of the sofa bench are Wendy The Redhead and Logan's Dave holding Shoshanna the Cow. Behind them are Rannie and Jay. At the back, in blue, is my PhD buddy, Denise. The skinny dude in the shorts is Donny. The barely visible head behind him is Liz the Postie. The elbow and black t-shirt in front of Donny belong to Sparky. The pink t-shirt is Darla, and just behind her, in black, is The Viking. Did I tell you they are dating now? Or, at least, they were when this picture was taken, last August at my farewell party.

And I miss them all more than I can express, Gentle Reader. Sometimes, you just wanna go home, where everybody knows your name, and where the boys will sing to you,


and sing with you,




even serendade you.


Where the Canadian flag waves,


And where your karaoke buddies are.


So this is where you'll be able to find Postmodern Sass on Sunday night, January 7, 2007: Upstairs at The Rivoli, for Carson T. Foster's Kickass Karaoke.


My Gentle Toronto Lurker-Readers, I hope to see you there!

Her visit home is everything Sass expected... and a little bit more.

Blue Moon

I hadn't been back to the town where I lived for seven years with X, the town where I first met Jack, in four years, but I remembered the way to the Blue Moon. It's an old German joint out on one of the surrounding rural highways, just one of many places in that part of the province where one can find pork hocks and, if one is really lucky, Laugenwecken. Today, we weren't that lucky, but the beer was fine and cold. We'd been cruising around town in the sweltering heat in Jack's mother's convertible.

Jack had just returned from a week spent up north with his father and brother, fishing. I've heard much about both of them but have never met either one. Nor his mother. Nor anyone else in his family.

"Where shall we go next?" asked Jack.

"How about your father's house?" I suggested, since he gave me the opening, but I knew what the reply would be. Jack's father played in a band in the 1960s, and still has his Fender Stratocaster. I've waited 15 years to meet him, and I'll have to wait a little longer.

"No."

"What about your brother?"

Jack considered for a moment, then said, "Sure."

Just when I think I've got him figured out.

Jack turned the convertible around and headed back to the city. "They do know about you, you know," he said, "In general terms, that is."

"Oh?" I was surprised at this. "How general?"

"They know that you're a tall redhead named Sass, and that you're moving to California."

"That's pretty general," I said, but secretly I was thrilled that he'd told them anything at all about me. Jack is a fiercely private man.

Twenty minutes later we pulled into the parking lot of a low-lying building. "This is where Jason works," explained Jack. "He called me earlier today and said he was having trouble with his laptop. I'm going to take it back to my mother's place and have a look at it."

Jason was exactly as I'd imagined him, and nothing like Jack. Not all siblings resemble one another, and Jack and Jason are a shining example of this. It's not that they look that different: they are both tall, handsome, and blue-eyed with sandy light brown hair. It's just that you wouldn't guess they were brothers.

We chatted about California, and I wondered whether Jack hadn't told Jason more about me than he let on. Jason hadn't known we were coming, yet he didn't seem the least bit surprised to be meeting me. I, on the other hand, couldn't stop grinning as I listened to their avuncular repartee.

Nor when we got back into the car.

"I'm going to have to take the computer back to my mom's place," said Jack. A convertible with the top down, in 44 degree heat, is no place for electronics.

I'd been to the house where Jack's mother and her second husband live once before, ten years ago when Jack and I worked together. It's a sixties style bungalow, with a fabulous back patio, the only place we're allowed to smoke. Jack took a seat on one of the rattan chairs and lit a cigarette with his Zippo. The expression on his face told me something was bothering him, and so I replayed the last hour in my mind, searching for the point at which his mood had turned.

He'd been his usual, jovial self with his brother, and when we got back into the car... let's see... he told me he was planning to meet Peter later, for some guy's night out drinking and cavorting. I asked whether I might join them for a beer — just one, and then I'd head back to Toronto, I promise. Jack had agreed and then...

Yes, that was it. He'd hardly spoken since then.

"Jack, something's bothering you. Is it me? Would you prefer it if I went back to the city?"

"Would you mind?" he asked, apologetically.

"Of course not," I said. Then he moved to the sofa where I was sitting, and kissed me. "I know you don't like to believe this, but I know you pretty well."

"You're always going to want more from me than I can give you," he said, and his eyes were sad. "That's gotta suck."

"Let's have one more cigarette, then I'll go, OK?"

"OK," he agreed. And then, like a ray of sunshine breaking through the thunder clouds, he was back to his old self. It was almost an hour before he walked me out to my car.

Jack opened my car door for me, as he always does, but instead of getting in I asked him a question.

"Jack, do you think my father loves me?"

He was taken aback by the question, not because it demanded an obvious answer — he's met my father, and he knows the answer is far from obvious — but simply because of the unexpectedness of it.

He took a moment to think about his answer, and then he said, "Yes."

"Why? A lot of people, many of my relatives included, wouldn't think so."

"Because I saw the look on his face when he watched you dance."

"There you go," I said, and smiled.

"What, you mean because they're our parents, they love us no matter what?"

"That's not what I meant."

"What did you mean, then?"

Instead of answering, I kissed him goodbye, and got into my car.

"Think about it."

In the next story, Postmodern Sass learns she can't take her car to California. At least, not yet. The farewell party happens Sunday night at The Rivoli, goes until closing, and Sass and Carson sing the final number: Green Day's "Holiday." The moving truck arrives Thursday, and Zee breaks up with her boyfriend again.