Teacher teacher, teach me more

This is why I do it:

Dear Professor Sass,

Just wanted to drop a quick note to say thanks!

For what? Well, for being such a great teacher, of course.

A teacher's job, first and foremost, is to teach, right? I think we can all agree on that. But you took it a step further. Your input, passion, and encouragement really took that role to the next level.

You not only taught me the curriculum of a given class, you taught life and career lessons that prepare for the long haul ahead, and for that I'm truly grateful.

I've had countless teachers throughout my long path as a student, and I can honestly count on one hand the ones that stick in my mind throughout the years that pass. These are teachers that make an impression, ones that really teach, and not just the simple task of teaching from a book or a series of lectures, but ones that help to shape and mold your view of what is actually possible in your future.

Now I'll be the first to admit, there's still a plethora of obstacles and challenges yet to overcome. But with graduation fast approaching, remembering the voices of those few teachers, yourself included, throughout my life who have pushed me to become greater with each step, and realize the potential I am really capable of; it's without question I can say that I have the foundation with which anything can be built.

-Billy

Eve

I was in my office at the university, the second day of classes, not yet in the swing of things at all. I was packing up my things to head home, trying to make it in time for the early weekday rerun of Scrubs, my new favourite show (well, at least until Lost begins again), when one of my students from last year, Eve, knocked on my open door and asked if she could talk to me for a few minutes.

"Of course," I said, "Come on in and sit down." There goes Scrubs, but it's not a big deal; there's another set of reruns on at 8:30, on WGN. Besides, I like Eve. She's borderline punky, has a cool haircut, and knows a lot about the underground and new music scene. She's an aspiring music journalist, and wrote one of the better blogs when I had my Survey of Media class blogging last fall.

"I've been thinking about becoming a teacher, and I wondered what you thought about that," she began.

"Well, I don't know yet. Why don't you tell me how this came about, and what makes you think you might want to do that?"

"I guess it's because I'm graduating in December, and though I want to be a magazine writer, I don't want to have to drive all the way to San Francisco every day to do it. I like living in Santa Cruz, and I don't want to commute anymore..." She went on to describe Santa Cruz, and why she likes living there. She said there's a college of education at UC Santa Cruz, and she's thinking of applying.

"Why do you think you might like teaching?"

"To be honest, I'm not sure I will, but I'd like to try. I've been looking into it, and to be a substitute teacher all you have to do is write a test. A friend of mine did it and he said it was really easy; he didn't even study. So I thought I'd do that, and try substituting, and see how I like it."

"That sounds like a good plan," I offered, "Though it's important to remember that the experience substituting won't quite be the same as when you have a class of your own full time. You were a kid. What happened in your classroom when there was a substitute?"

Eve laughed. "Oh, I can handle them. I've been a bartender for six years. How different can it be?"

Then it was my turn to laugh.

Eve continued, "I think I'd be good at it. I want to be like you, the cool teacher that all the students want to do their best for."

Have you ever heard someone say something that was so marvelous, so wonderful, it just hangs there in the air, like barely formed condensation, but the manner in which they said it was so throwaway, that you were afraid to give any sign you'd heard, lest it evaporate and you begin to doubt it was there at all?

Like that.

Sympathy for the Devil

I know, I know. What's puzzling you is the nature of my game. Where's the story you promised us about meeting Jack's father, is what you're asking, isn't it, Gentle Reader?

I don't like to blog about blogging, nor do I typically write about why I'm not writing, for the same reasons that I don't write about what I had for breakfast, which is, I can't imagine that you'd be interested.

I'm making this exception because I don't want you to think that I've forgotten about you. I haven't.

What's going on is that it's the end of the semester, and my head feels like it's about to explode. Most of the time I love my students, but right now I loathe all 127 of them for handing in their end-of-term projects because it means I have to grade them!

When it's all over, and I've survived, I promise to deliver not only the story about Jack's father (And what a swell, swell man he is, by the way. Too bad he's already married.), but also to catch you up on Sparky's move to San Jose. I might even tell you who I sent flowers to today, Mother's Day.

Postmodern Sass's mother is gone, but not forgotten. Here, Sass tells her mother about her decision to move to California, then, a few weeks after the move, her mother shows up to haunt her.

But there were times, Dear...

Continued from this story.

I took it very hard, the death of my Dean, not only because she was an incredible woman who did not deserve to die so early — though she was, and she didn't — but because her death came as a complete surprise to me. You see, I learned too late that everyone knew she was dying, everyone except me, that is.

It was almost exactly one year ago, a warm day in early May, a week after I'd flown to San Jose for my interview at USJ, when the phone rang in my condo in Toronto and it was her, the Dean, calling to say that she would like to offer me a tenure-track position, and that a letter was being drawn up, and then she elaborated on the terms and asked, was I inclined to accept. I can still hear her voice, her Norwegian accent.

I replied: Probably.

You know the rest, Gentle Reader. I decided to accept, and then I moved to California.

The day after classes began in January, an email came from the Dean's office, from the Dean herself. She had cancer, she said, and she would be taking a leave, effective immediately. She would be back as soon as she could, she said, and I never doubted it, not for one moment. People get cancer every day. They have surgery, chemo, radiation; they get better, they come back to work, and the people who love them get to love them a while longer.

Especially the tough ones; the tough ones always come back, and she was tougher than most, my Dean. She was tough with me, and I respected her for it. I'd been throwing myself into academia, serving on committees and writing grant proposals and conference papers, and I was going to show her she'd made the right decision, hiring me, that I was worth what I'd asked for, the terms we'd negotiated, you bet I was.

Three weeks passed, or maybe it was five, and another email came, this time from the associate dean, inviting all to attend a reception — that was the term they used, a reception, fucking euphemisms — that was to be held a week hence in the Dean's honour. A reception, what a silly idea, I thought, what was the point of that, when she'd be back in her office, maybe not as good as new, but good, and soon, and I would see her then, and so because the time and date of the reception were not convenient for me to attend, I did not attend, and only when she died two weeks after that did I realize that the reception had been held so that we might say goodbye.

I did not say goodbye, it's my stupid fault that I did not say goodbye, and I did not thank her, or tell her that I wouldn't let her down and that I'd never, never forget her, so I cancelled my classes Monday, because I was going to that funeral, you better fucking believe I was. I didn't know how I was going to get there, or how I was going to get home, but if I had to walk the 20 miles to Palo Alto that's what I'd do, and that's when he called: Jack. He called exactly when I needed him to, like he'd been hearing my thoughts with some sort of emotional radar. He asked what time I needed him to pick me up, not whether I needed him or what I needed, because he knew, he only asked when and where and said he'd be there. He'd cancelled his business trip, and he'd be there, because I needed him to be there.

He and Beauty arrived right on time, both of them dressed in black, and we drove to the church, and I was quiet because I was thinking about her, the Dean, for real this time, and Jack knew that, of course he did, and when I was a little too quiet he would ask me about her, so that I could tell him about her, even though they'd never met, and would never meet.

He sat at my side through the service, and he listened to her loved ones tell stories about her, and he laughed when they laughed, and he looked sad when they were sad, and he said, she was quite a woman, wasn't she, and I agreed that she was. There were five hundred people in that room. Five hundred people who cared about the Dean, and one who cared about me. One who I'd thought had let me down, but I was wrong, he hasn't let me down for a long, long time, and I wouldn't be here, I mean in California, if it weren't for him, not because I came here for him, but because I wouldn't have been able to come here without his help. He's the best man I know. I need to stop doubting that.

The Dean's son talked about his mother, and maybe because it made me think of my mother, and about how she died of cancer, too, but not suddenly; no, not at all, that I started to cry then, just a little, and I reached into my purse and rummaged to find the tissues that I knew were there, but I couldn't find them, and then, like he was Cary Grant in an old black and white movie, with one graceful swoop of his arm, Jack pulled his white linen handkerchief out of his jacket pocket, and handed it to me.

The final speaker was the Dean's husband, who told the story of how they'd met, more than three decades ago. How they'd been dating for a few months when she said to him, you talk about marriage, but you haven't actually asked me to marry you, so he proposed right then and there, will you marry me, he asked, and she replied: probably.

Jack laughed heartily at that. I laughed, too, but not quite as hard, because I could hear her speaking the words even though her husband had been the one telling the story. I could hear her saying it.

He'll never ask, I know that, no one every will again, it's too late for that, but if, just if the moons line up just right one day, and Jack asks me the question that I'd always thought I'd answer immediately with yes, well, I think now what I'll say is this:

Probably.

My Imagination

Continued from Girls who are boys.

We walked from the library, Kapp and I, because neither one of us has a car. This was only the second of many personal details it turns out we have in common. I learned quite a bit about him over the course of the evening, and such facts as I did not learn, I simply made up. It's more fun that way.

The Poor House Bistro is within cat-swinging distance of the train station; I'm surprised I hadn't noticed it before. I've become quite familiar with the public transit routes to the City, and I go up there as often as I'm invited. Yes, I know, Gentle Reader, it's a big city and I don't need to be invited to visit it, but I do, anyway. I'm going there tomorrow, as a matter of fact, but that's another story.

Then again, it looks like a little house.

The Poor House Bistro, I mean, not San Francisco.

"Those biologists really know how to party," Kapp was saying. We were meeting a baker's dozen of other professors there, most of them members of his freshman year cohort, which had been four years earlier. I was looking forward to meeting them. It's hard to meet people when you work at a university.

I know that must sound strange, and it's not entirely accurate. I meet lots of people there, it's just that they're either 20-somethings, or they're in their sixties and married. The former may know how to party, but you won't find me partying with them, and the latter are too busy running home to go to sleep.

Kapp claimed us the big table right in front of where the band was setting up. He'd come mainly because he was a fan of this blues guitarist. He took off his jacket and hung it on the seat beside him, to save it for the others. I put my purse on the chair at the end of the table.

"No one messes with a woman's purse," I said.

Kapp went to the bar to get us a couple of beers. He drinks beer, not wine, and he's not even Canadian. I was liking him more and more.

We ordered po'boys and chatted between bites and drips of mayonnaise and pickle juice. Kapp was telling me about a TV program, and asked whether I'd seen it, and I had to make a confession:

"I don't have a TV," I confessed.

"Oh yeah? Well, I don't have a cell phone!" Kapp smiled.

"Oh yeah? Well, I don't have a home phone, I only have a cell phone. Trump!"

"I don't have a car."

"Me neither. We've covered that already."

"Tie?"

"Cheers."

"To clarify, lest you think I'm one of those weirdo fanatics who insists they don't watch TV, I fully intend to have one, and I hope it's soon. It's just that when I moved here I didn't bring much besides my books and clothes. And my records."

"How many records do you have?" Kapp asked.

"About this many," I replied, holding my hands three feet apart, "Times two shelves."

"I've got about ten times that many," said Kapp. "It's such a pain to move them, I've been avoiding moving."

"I know what you mean. It was so much easier when we could use milk cases and our friends all helped us move in exchange for beer and pizza."

The band was getting ready to begin. The trumpet player stood right at the end of our table, tuning up my favourite instrument. I believe I was conceived to Herb Alpert, and the emotional attachment to the trumpet has never left me.

Kapp got us another round and we settled in to watch. Sitting this close to the stage, you can't talk, and that suited us both fine.

The other professors arrived during the first set, and we spoke in sign language to each other: they indicated they were going to the back, because it was too loud up here, and we replied that we wanted to be up front, and would come back to visit with them after the set.

The singer was singing "My Imagination," and we really did have to use ours to remind ourselves where we were. Downtown San Jose. In a New Orleans style bar. And dancing on the seven square inches of floor in front of the band were a middle aged woman with a bad dye job, and an enormous man in a Stetson. Dancing badly, I might add, and dancing inappropriately. That is, they were trying to do the jitterbug, and they had all the rhythm of a pair of hippopotamuses sunning themselves along the muddy banks of the Nile. Or wherever it is that hippopotamuses sun themselves.

"That's just wrong on so many levels," I said to Kapp. And then I admitted to him that I would be going outside for a cigarette. He can think less of me if he likes; we're not on a date.

I'd been outside for only a minute when Bad Hair and Stetson came out onto the sidewalk, and joined a small group of their friends, all of whom looked like they just came from a country and western bar.

"Hey, it's Mardi Gras next week," one of them said, and another replied, "Even better, it's NASCAR!"

I was doubled over trying not to laugh at them, and so I didn't notice that Kapp was standing beside me, with his beer in one hand and mine in the other.

Next, Postmodern Sass's imagination comes in handy when she takes the train to San Francisco to meet a man for what may (or may not) be a blind date. And no amount of imagination could have prepared her for Mardi Gras in San Jose.

Girls who are boys

I was waiting for my new friend Kapp in the lobby of the university library on Friday afternoon when I saw my student, Pat, just outside, walking back and forth and talking on a cell phone.

Hurry up, hurry up, I mentally willed Kapp to come down from his fourth floor office. He's a librarian, and president of the Friday Nighters Club, but right now I needed him because he was a man.

I have a problem, with Pat, you see, that requires a male perspective. I'd been considering asking my colleagues what to do about it; even you, Gentle Reader, but as long as Pat was right outside on the library plaza, talking on that cell phone, it was the perfect opportunity to ask Kapp. He'd be able to see Pat, which would be much more useful than only to hear me describe the situation.

If only he would hurry up!

We were to meet at 5:00. I'd been there since five to, and so had Pat, but still no Kapp.

Finally, at 5:02 the elevator door opened and Kapp stepped out. I grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the glass doors, through which I could see Pat walking away from us, toward the intersection.

"I need you to look at a student for me, like right now. I'll explain later."

Pat was at the intersection, waiting for the light to turn.

"See that student there? The tall, thin one talking on the cell phone?"

"Yes..."

"Is it a girl or a boy?"

Kapp considered for a moment. He had a good view of Pat's right side, crossing the street about thirty feet away.

"Well..." he began, "Short hair; no clue there. The shoes could go either way, and the bag is androgynous."

Pat was carrying a canvas tote, the kind you slip over your neck so the strap is on your opposite shoulder.

"The coat has a hood, which would seem to suggest female. It looks like a boy, but it could also be a thin, flat-chested girl."

"I was hoping to get her — er, or him — to talk so you could hear his her its voice."

"Oh! You mean he's your student?"

"Yes."

"And you don't know whether its a boy or a girl?"

"Well, I thought I did. He — it — argh; she was in my class last semester, and I thought she was a girl, judging mostly by the voice and, well, just by the usual way one judges that sort of thing. There wasn't any doubt in my mind until last week. See, she's in my class again this semester, and the students have to work in partners and write a report on each other's consumer behaviour. Her partner's report referred to her as a he. So now I'm confused."

"Maybe it was just a typo."

"That's what I thought when I read the first instance, but it was sustained throughout the report. Then I thought, maybe English is not the first language of the student writing the report, but that's not the case either."

"Maybe the other student has it wrong," Kapp suggested.

"Well, that's possible, but the thing is, they went shopping together. They had to spend time together, talking. So I'm starting to think that the other student knows something I don't know. I wish I knew how to find out for sure."

"What's the student's name?"

"No help there. It's an Asian name, so who knows? Chinese, I think. Maybe I could ask one of my Chinese friends if they can tell from the name. I would hate to address her, or him, incorrectly and embarass both of us."

"So, just avoid using either pronoun. That should be easy enough."

Kapp was nonplussed. We were on our way to the Poor House Bistro to listen to some blues and eat po' boys, and the prospect of beer and jambalya, to him, far outweighed any academic considerations at this moment.

To be continued in My Imagination, but first, Sass has more out of town visitors.

Isn't it ironic?

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

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

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

... are you still with me?

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

"I removed the word "ironically" from this:

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

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

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

Poor Alanis.

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

California Dreamin' [part XI]

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

Thursday, April 27, 2006
Room 338, Westin Hall
(student residence, USJ campus)
not long after midnight

The Director invited me to sit in on a graduate seminar this afternoon, and afterwards some of the grad students and I went to Gordon Biersch to watch the Sharks game. I'd been to this brew pub on previous trips to San Jose, and so it was on my must do list.

What a great group of students they were. And talk about diversity! One girl, Tamara, was born in Syria and raised in France. José looks Mexican and is from Mexico City, but Juan, who looks Puerto Rican, is from Massachussetts, speaks with a broad Boston accent, and only knows a few words of Spanish. There was Felicity, a beautiful Chinese girl who spoke English with no discernable accent (I asked her whether she was Canadian. She was not.), and Temma, who was Indian with hair down to her knees.

They teased me because I drank pints of beer and because I was the only one of the group interested in the hockey game, but that was OK because I'm sure I wasn't the only person in the bar that night who knew what a touque was. Most of the patrons were watching the game, and there was enthusiastic hooting and hollering at each appropriate moment. No one would have needed to explain to that crowd what offside means.

This is California. It doesn't snow, no one yells "Car!" and they call it ice hockey — yet their team is in the playoffs. I'm so embarassed.

But the Sharks are a good hockey team, and I like the beer at Gordon Biersch. I think maybe I could live here.

Most interesting of the student bunch was Donna: six feet tall, hair like Billy Idol, a fantastic deep voice that was a joy to listen to, and boy, did we listen to her, because she told a lot of stories, mostly about her baby. She asked me for advice about job hunting, and I learned that she's about to graduate with a master's degree in advertising and has never heard of Goodby Silverstein.

Maybe I can be of some use here, I'm starting to think.

We stayed until closing, then we went to a late-night pizza joint and had one last pitcher, and the kids told me about their ad campaign projects and what it's like to be a newcomer to la la land.

Tomorrow night when I see him I'll tell Jack, "If I get offered this position by the time I move here these kids'll have graduated, and so they won't ever know how much they're going to influence my decision."

In part XII, Jack calls.

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 IX]

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

Wednesday, April 26
Room 338, Westin Hall
(student residence, USJ campus)
11:10 p.m.

There's a Mercury News newspaper box in the lobby of the residence and a Starbucks in the next building, and I've already settled into a routine. The thing about spending a few days on the left coast, when you're from the East, is you're wide awake at 6:00 every morning.

Today my horoscope read:

"Guard against being vulnerable. The new moon might mark the start of a new cycle in business or career. Certain relationships can have an impact on your reputation for good or for ill."

Ho, boy.

My horoscope, likely, was of interest to no one but me. The rest of the city was more interested in the front page of today's Mercury News, which showed a picture of the front page of today's Mercury News, and a headline reading, "Extra! Sold!"

How very postmodern.

It's been a long day.

This afternoon the Director of the School of Business Communications at USJ threw me to the lions. A group of fifty or so very bored lions, who looked like they'd just had their fill of gazelle and were settling in for their afternoon naps on this gorgeous, sunny California afternoon. Either that, or it was the last week of the semester and they'd just been informed they'd be having a guest lecturer from Canada in their Advertising 101 class.

"Hello," I began, and I looked them straight in the eyes. The ones whose eyes were open, that is. "My name is Postmodern Sass, and it's true, I'm from Canada. You can probably tell from my pasty white skin. And yes, it's also true that we say "eh" at the end of every sentence, eh, though we try very hard not to when we're in this country, so see if you can catch me doing it."

One or two of them chuckled at this.

"I've only been here for two hours and already a dozen people have told me that this is the first nice day you've had here in weeks." I paused, for dramatic effect, then said, "You don't expect me to believe that, do you?"

A girl in the back jumps up and exclaims, "Today's the first day all week it hasn't rained!" There are murmurs of agreement from around the room.

"Well, I'm sorry, but I simply refuse to believe that. I saw frost on the ground at the Buffalo airport this morning. I came here because I expected it to be beautiful and sunny. This is California, after all; don't try to dispell my illusions!"

A few more lions have lifted their heads from their desks.

"And I hear you have a hockey team here that actually made it into the playoffs? I'm from Toronto. You know, Original Six, and all that. The Maple Leafs have been the Stanley Cup champions a bunch of times, though not in my lifetime. And here I am in California, where it doesn't even snow and you're the ones with the team in the playoffs?"

I walk toward the front of the room, shaking my head sadly, then raise my arm towards the students in a "stop" gesture, and say, "I don't even want to talk about it!"

I kept talking for an hour and fifteen minutes, the full length of the class. I showed them The Globe and Mail's Web site, and asked them to pick out the advertising. I asked them to explain how they knew it was advertising, and how, in any media, we can tell the difference between advertising and editorial content. I explained a little about how online advertising is bought and sold. They didn't know what CPM meant before I got there, but when they returned to their jungle they did.

Later, the Director and some of the faculty took me out for dinner to a fabulous seafood restaurant in downtown San Jose. I hadn't mentioned that seafood is my favourite, and I felt this made up for springing the teaching the class thing on me.

Being grilled while you're eating grilled salmon isn't as unpleasant as it might sound. I think they liked me. All except for Doris Stickler, that is.

"Sass taught Clive's class today," beamed the Director to the others at the table. "She did a great job, even though she didn't know she'd have to do it."

"Imagine how good I can be when I actually have time to prepare," I said.

They all laughed at this. All except Doris.

Much later I drove back to Westin Hall with Alex Farber, who's also a new professor. He just moved to San Jose from Wisconsin, and is living temporarily in the USJ residences. Of all the faculty I met tonight, he's the only one who isn't over 55. He looks like he might be a year or three younger than me, which would make me only the second youngest faculty member at the School of Business Communications. And I haven't seen thirty for some time, Gentle Reader.

"Doris should have retired years ago," Alex told me. "Don't take it personally: she doesn't like anyone."

* * *
California Dreamin' will continue in part X, and may go on for some time before Postmodern Sass decides whether or not she'll move to California. In the meantime, she's spring cleaning like nobody's business, just in case. You know she already painted her bathroom and posted an ad to sell her Ikea dining room table. Next it's time to sell Oma's antique dresser. But first there's a game of Trivial Pursuit to be played, and a book to be read.

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 VI]

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

April 26
Still on board United 719
12:35 by my watch
9:35 a.m. San José time

Time to change my watch.

I love my Esquire watch. It's stainless steel with gold trim. Gold coloured, I mean, not real gold. It's not digital; it has arms. It also has a small date display, so small I can't read it without my glasses, but I don't mind, because it's never right, anyway. Today it's displaying 23. I last remember setting it to the correct date on New Year's Day.

It was an expensive watch. I bought it back when I had money. Back when I worked for Internet companies that had lots of it, and an X who also earned some. When I didn't have to walk dogs to supplement my income.

Come to think of it, I bought it the first time I was flown out to California for a job interview, when the X and I were still together and he made me promise that I wouldn't contact Jack while I was there. I kept that promise. It was 1999, and the company that was interested in me was called Geocast. They were considering me for the position of VP of Marketing. They put me up in a fancy hotel and paid for me to rent a car for the weekend, so that I could explore the South Bay area.

They were keen to get me out there, so I thought I'd better dress the part. I bought a new suit in that year's hottest spring colour, pale blue; new sandals—this was California, after all—and a matching purse; a trendy yet professional-looking necklace and matching earrings. And when I tried on this outfit at home with my narrow, gold, bangle-style very 1980s watch, I went back to the mall.

I didn't get the job. No one did. The company went bust instead.

The second time I was flown to California for a job interview was last summer, just before my birthday. I didn't get that job either, though the company didn't go bust. They just didn't want me.

This time, it's not a company that's flying me out for an interview. It's a university: The University of San José. And I'm hoping that three times is the charm.

So you see, Gentle Reader, this trip has nothing to do with Jack.

To be continued in part VII

I Don't Care Anymore

I'm going to the Leafs game tonight. It's their last home game of the season, against Pittsburgh, and it doesn't matter to anyone whether they win or lose. Last Saturday the Leafs' last hope of making it into the playoffs was stomped out. There'll be no Stanley Cup playoffs in Toronto this year. There is no joy in Mudville.

You have to wonder why they bother to hold the game at all. In baseball, if the winning team is last at-bat, they don't bother to play. It seems cruel, somehow.

Wearing my Ed Belfour jersey also seems unneccessarily cruel, but it's the only Leafs jersey I own.

The thing is, I understand how the Leafs feel about this game; how they'll feel playing it. It's how I feel right now, proctoring my second year marketing class's final exam.

The last time I saw their 42 faces, two weeks ago at our last class of the regular season, I cared about them. I went through a review for the final, and gave them my "Ten Tips for Doing Well on Exams." I wanted them to do well. I wanted to encourage them. I wanted to give them all As, so they'd like me. (Not that I would, mind you, I'm just saying I wanted to, then.)

But that was two weeks ago, when the post season hadn't yet been decided. When there was still hope. Now, I don't care anymore.

They do not know this, and please, Gentle Reader, don't tell them. I don't want to hurt their feelings, if they care whether I care; if they thought I cared; If they knew that I did. Let them think I still do.

I don't care anymore, because I won't be here in September.

Oh, sure, I'll finish off the season. Play that last game. Mark their exams, and submit their final grades. They bought their tickets; they'll have a game. But it won't matter to anyone.

Maybe I'll stay at this university for another year, maybe not. It turns out there's hope after all. (That always seems to happen right after I give up on something completely.) Maybe I'll move to California instead.

I Love Rock & Roll

On the day that my course syllabus for Marketing 101 reads "Services Marketing" I wear my Levi's jacket to school. It has 28 Hard Rock Café guitar pins pinned onto it at the angle which the guitar would be held if, you know, they were real guitars and if, well, I was holding them the way you hold a guitar when you play it. Except for the one that looks like Paul McCartney's Hofner, right down to its being left handed, so it has to point the other way on my jacket.

"How many of you have been to a Hard Rock Café?" I begin.

[They all have.]

"Who's been to a really interesting one? Someplace exotic. Other than the one at The Falls, I mean?"

[They laugh. They tell me about their experiences at the Hard Rock.]

"Have you been to all of those?" a student asks me.

"Yes I have. I've been to the original Hard Rock Café in London, and to most of the ones in the States and Canada. I've even been to this one, and I have the guitar pin to prove it.

[And the photo of me and my teddy bear, Antoinette, out front.]

"My favourite pin is the one I got in St. Thomas. The island in the Carribean, that is, not the town here in Ontario, on the way to Windsor. I was on a cruise a few years ago,

[with the X, before he abandoned me]

"and the ship stopped at the port in Charlotte Amalie. This is the pin I got from there:



"My other favourites are the Boston guitar pin, with the lobster wrapped around the guitar, and my twin Route 66 guitar pins, one from Chicago, the other from Los Angeles.

"As you can probably tell, I like the Hard Rock Café. And, just like you, I go for the great food and the fine selection of draught beer."

[They laugh. If they're paying attention, that is.]

"What, you mean you don't go to the Hard Rock Café for the beer?

"I want to tell you about an experience I had at a Hard Rock Café in New Orleans a couple of years ago. It was a few days before Mardi Gras started in earnest, on a weekday, at about 3:00 in the afternoon. It doesn't get much deader at a bar in New Orleans than that time of day, and that suited me just fine because when I go to the Hard Rock Café I like to walk around and look at all the memorabilia on the walls, and that's hard to do when the place is full. I've found people get annoyed at you when you approach their table and say, Excuse me, do you mind if I have a closer look at that autographed B-52's album cover behind your head?

"The friend who was in New Orleans with me humoured me on this mission. He's what you might call blasé about music, but he's reasonably enthusiastic about beer, and I said I'd buy. We sat at the bar, and by doing so doubled the population of patrons in the restaurant.

"While I'm waiting for my beer I study the guitars hanging behind the bar, and just as the bartender, a woman named Chris, places the glass in front of me I squeal, Oh, it's Kurt Cobain!

"It's not, of course; it's only one of his three sonic blue Fender Mustangs, and it's autographed."

[His custom-modified Fender Jag-Stang is in the Hard Rock in Dallas. I haven't been there. Yet.]

"Would you like to hold it?" asks Chris, and before waiting for my answer, she reaches behind her with one arm like this

[I demonstrate Chris's movements for the class.]

"and the next thing I know I'm sitting at a bar holding Kurt Cobain's guitar.

"I was too speechless to say thank you. I mean, aren't those things, like, bolted to the walls? I'd always imagined alarms would sound if someone dared to touch one.

"So I'm sitting there, holding this guitar, trying to remember how to make an F chord, because I think that's the opening riff of Smells Like Teen Spirit,

[I demonstrate, again. To tell you the truth, I've been acting the whole scene out with an air guitar.]

"and I look over at my friend, and he's got this look on his face that suggests to me that he is not appreciating Chris's marketing efforts, nor would he care to hear my explanation of what services marketers mean by "the experience economy." In fact, I'm pretty sure he doesn't even know who Kurt Cobain is.

"Then I look over to the door, gauging the distance,

[I look over to the door of the classroom.]

"then back to Chris,

[then back to the students]

"then back to the door, and I'm thinking to myself, yeah, I could make it!

[They laugh.]

"Of course I don't, but I'll never forget that bartender who made me a rabidly loyal customer of the Hard Rock Café."




* * *
Next, Postmodern Sass promises to finally tell you the story of her friend Angela who spent the summer with a cult in San Francisco. And maybe she'll tell you more about the Boz situation — the hockey game is next Monday.