Head Like A Hole

Did you ever feel like you had been banging your head against the wall for, like, years, but you didn't realize it until you finally banged it so hard that you knocked yourself unconscious, and when you woke up you thought to yourself, yeah; I've got to stop doing that?

It's like that for me, working for Gilbert.

The offices of Gilbert's company, iWorks, are just this side of a disaster area about to be condemned by local government officials. Seriously, I would nominate the location for an episode of that reality show, Hoarders, but I think they only feature individuals in their home who collect junk for years until someone has to be called in to haul it all away for a fee.

You may think I exaggerate, and with cause since I've been known to do so, but just to give you an idea of the degree to which Gilbert hoards junk and forces us to live, work, and move among it, he recently bought an old moving truck, filled it with a small fraction of the decrepit, obsolete equipment cluttering the back room where the poor service technicians hang out, and parked it in the parking lot of the building, where it just sits.

The landlord is thrilled, I'm sure.

When I started working for the company last September, Gilbert took a moment to consider where to put me. Then he said, "Why don't you sit here for the time being," indicating the small meeting room with the very large table. He cleared off a corner of it for me to put my stuff. The rest of the table is piled high, and the room is full of upended furniture topped with banker's boxes full of files from the 1980s. There are a couple of old TVs, about 16 broken computers, some things that look like curtain rods, and a not inconsiderable amount of dust, and I've been sitting among them ever since.

Until last Friday, when Gilbert said, "You'll have to move temporarily; there's an auditor coming in and I'm going to put him in the meeting room to work. You can sit at Marge's desk." Then he helped me move all my stuff over there. Marge comes in twice a week for a couple of hours to help Mrs Gilbert with whatever it is she helps Mrs Gilbert with, and she has a small desk in the corner of the main office where Mrs Gilbert, the accounts receivable clerk, and Rex all sit.

Rex likes to sit in there; he says he likes to listen to the girls chatter all day. Me, I would go insane, but I figured it would be fine for a few days; maybe even better than fine since Marge's desk faces Rex's, and he and I are on the same level, hierarchy-wise, and often need to work together on projects. So yesterday I sat there, and it was pretty good. I asked Rex some questions about technical stuff and he was very helpful, and that, combined with the logistics of being out of Gilbert's line of sight and therefore line of fire, resulted in me having a very productive day.

So today I came in and went to my desk and before I even sat down Mrs Gilbert said, "We have to move you; Marge is coming in today." I tried to suggest that it might be less troublesome for everyone if instead of moving me again she moved Marge temporarily, but she was having none of that. Instead, she called Astro in and ordered him to move this printer and that filing cabinet and squeeze a small table in the corner so I could sit there. Rex started to help with the moving of things, and one of the service techs was also called in to help.

I shrugged and said, "Whatever you want," and left the room to go talk to the Web developers about a project we were working on.

By the time Gilbert arrived a half hour later there were three guys in the main office, moving stuff around under Mrs Gilbert's orders. I heard Gilbert say, "No, no! Put everything back!" Then he came into the room where I was, looking like the top of his head was about to blow off, and ordered me to come into his office and close the door.

Then he tore me a new one: the disruption, naturally, was all my fault.

And that's when I woke up from having banged my head to unconsciousness and said to myself, Self, you need to stop doing this. I love Gilbert, I really do. I've known him for more years than I'm willing to admit to you here, Gentle Reader, and by virtue of that alone I'm devoted to him as a friend. That's not even counting all the times he was there for me when I needed him to be, and there were lots.

But at work, he's an asshole, and I'm done.

New Divide

The first thing I did when I got home after driving Rex to the airport this afternoon was to hang about a dozen pictures around the house. I hung my mother's mushroom trivet and mushroom clay disks in the kitchen. I hung the lion door knocker I brought back from China in 2002 — though not on the door. I hung the five framed Leo cards I've collected over the years on the wall in my bedroom, beside the bookshelf; a couple of small framed prints in the new powder room in the foyer, and the two little red Ikea mirrors above the toilet.

I pulled out all my framed family photos from their boxes, where they've been since I moved home from California four months ago, and I'll think about where to hang them next.

I'm not sure why the impulse to do all this now was so strong. Maybe because it's the first time I've been alone for any length of time since September; since that day everything in and about my life changed, literally overnight. I lived alone for three years in California. Now I live in my friend Gilbert's big old house in downtown Toronto, with my high school boyfriend, Rex.

It's not what you're thinking. We're roommates. We don't live together live together.

All afternoon I've been watching TV, the shows I like, not just the ones both Rex and I like: NCIS, Power Play, Traders, Gilmore Girls, and, yes, I'm not afraid to admit it, Cougar Town. And I've been making a list of things I want to do this week:

1. Buy some more hooks and hang some more things
2. Shop for new underwear (and a self-smack to the head for forgetting to stock up at Victoria's Secret before leaving America for good)
3. Get some potting soil & sand for the cactuses
4. Organize my shoe closet
5. Hang the curtains I bought three months ago
6. Spend the Christmas money my Daddy gave me

It's not that I can't do these things when Rex is here, it's just that I can't seem to actually do them. It's as if a sort of paralysis comes over me, and I just want to go home after work and turn my brain off and let the world go to pot around me. I haven't been very productive lately.

So I'm going to try to do that thing that I used to do when I was angry, or upset, or embarrassed, or otherwise feeling like kicking myself. That writing thing. It's why I started this blog in the first place.

Give me reason to fill this hole, connect the space between.

In the next story, Sass goes underwear shopping and takes up drinking wine.

But then an old guitar was all he could afford

"Let's skip school go to Steve's," said Rex, as he passed me on the stairs this morning. I was going up, first coffee in hand, post shower, bathrobe and wet hair, on my way to finish getting ready for work. He was going down, pre shower, on his way to get his first coffee. You know how guys are. They can get ready in one third the time we require.

Oh, sure, we could be out the door in 20 minutes too, but then all day people would make comments like, "Gee, you look tired today," which is what happened the last time I left the house without wearing mascara.

But I digress.

Have I mentioned that Rex, who was all those decades ago my high school boyfriend, is now my roommate?

Yes, I know, I haven't, Gentle Reader, and I am very sorry; I have no legitimate excuse. I have an illegitimate one, though, and it goes like this: So damn much has been happening since I left California that I don't seem to know where to begin, and instead remain paralyzed, unable to write. Today I'm breaking that hold, and jumping right into the middle, to tell you a story. I'll fill in the other bits later, as I go along.

It will likely come as no surprise to you but in high school I was the kind of girl who scared most of the boys away. I was taller and smarter than most of them, and not exactly what anyone would refer to as a shrinking violet, and my mother being the kind of mother who was all about the women's liberation, and not at all about the finishing school manners, never instructed me in the ways to avoid bowling over men.

Rex didn't seem to be scared of me, and I'm not sure why. Wasn't sure then, still not sure now, because he actually is the shrinking violet type, man version. He had this way about him, though, when he walked down the halls at school, or into a classroom, that gave the impression that he didn't give a rat's ass what any of the other kids thought about him. Which, if you remember anything about high school, you know is no easy trick to pull off.

He didn't do it in a badass, don't-fuck-with-me sort of James Dean way, but in more of a Walter Mitty sort of way, which at first made me curious, then interested, and then the next thing I knew I was out of that dress.

Still not sure how that happened, exactly.

Anyway, the coolest thing about Rex was that he had a 1972 Rickenbacker bass, and oh, man, he knew how to use it. And it was badass. I had a somewhat less badass Ibanez electric guitar, which until then I had only played in my bedroom, plugged into my Toshiba stereo. (Blew the speakers playing Planet Claire.) So it was love at guitar sight, and we spent most of our grade 13 afternoons at his house, trying without much success to learn Rush and Saga songs, and when we tired of that, playing Smoke On The Water.

If you grew up in Ontario during the years when there was still grade 13 you probably remember that as soon as you turned 18 you could sign yourself out of school without your parents' permission. Our high school was in a one horse town called Beamsville; anything was more interesting than what was there, and Toronto, the big city an hour down the highway, was the most interesting of all. We used to skip school, drive to Toronto, and hang out all day at Steve's Music Store on Queen Street. We couldn't afford to buy anything other than Steve's guitar picks, and maybe some strings now and then, but it didn't matter. Just being there, in that place, in that city, was enough.

I still have some of those picks, but I sold the electric guitar and I'm still regretting it. I have an Ibanez acoustic, though, and last weekend Rex and I went to Steve's and I bought a little Roland amp and a pickup, and we've been playing every night since then.

Oh yeah, he's still got it. The Rickenbacker, I mean.

In the next story, Sass deals with a New Divide.

I'm Leaving On A Jet Plane

I haven't yet told you about my friend Q, who was swell enough to drive me and Pinky to the airport for our final trip home. He picked me up at The Librarian's apartment, early, but not too early, and wanted to stop for coffee before we hit the 101. Whoops, I mean 101. Only Southern Californians say "the 101."

I got into Q's car, a Honda something, and noticed right away that it was a standard. A stick. That's even more rare in California than in most other places, I've been told by car guys, and it's rare in most other places. By which I mean it was unusual and noteworthy, and even more reason to like him.

Not that I didn't already like him, you understand. I liked him the first time I met him, about a year and a half or so ago, when a mutual friend at the bar introduced us. Q is a music critic; his job is to go to concerts and write about them. That was my dream job, once upon a time. He knows fascinating bits of stuff about a whole slew of bands. He even knows who The Fleshtones are, and listed them on his Facebook page as one of the bands he'd seen live.

So he was a guy that I saw around from time to time, usually at local music festivals or at a bar where The Careless Hearts were playing, and then one time we got to talking about The Killers and that they were coming to play in San Jose, and Q said that if he could get a second ticket that he would call me.

Which he did, a few weeks later, and we went to the show together. It was one of the best live shows I've ever seen, incidentally, but I was a little distracted, just a little, because I wasn't sure if I was on a date or not. I guess if you have to wonder you're not, and that was fine, but it would have been finer if I'd known for sure.

On the other hand, how do you know for sure?

In between songs he asked me, so what's up with you and The Librarian, because he always sees us together. Everybody always sees us together, and I've only just begun to realize that that's not a good thing. He's like my older brother, but everyone thinks we're a couple. I think maybe he scares the real men like Q off.

After The Killers show I asked if I could buy Q a drink, but he said he had to go write the review. He had a deadline. He asked for a raincheck, which I eventually gave him, but it was a long time before I saw him again, and then when I did, he was with a different girl every time. He's not a player, and he's not particularly tall or good looking, but he has a quality... I don't know what it is, but I like it. So do lots of other women.

Lately I've seen him around quite a bit, and we'd taken to texting each other to see if we'd be at the same show, and then it was a week before I was leaving and he offered to drive me to the airport. We sang Love Shack together at my farewell party — he's a really good singer — but all that and we're still just friends.

That's a terrible expression, isn't it? "Just" friends. Like it isn't a wonderful thing to have a swell guy like Q for a friend. Yeah, it is. But for the record, I totally would have gone there.

One Way Or Another

So I was at The Blank Club with the Librarian and his new friend, Slade, last night. The two of them came to my place first, bringing beer with them as all good guests must do. I was in the bathroom, drying my hair, when they came in. I'd talked to Kapp on the phone earlier and said, just come on in when you get here, I'll probably be in the bathroom. He has a key because he looks after Pinky when I go away.

So I'm in the bathroom with the hair dryer going full blast, and Kapp opens the door — yes, I mean the bathroom door — and yells, "We're here!"

I came out a few minutes later, and Slade comes right up to me and sticks out his hand and says, "You must be Sass!" He said it with the exclamation point, all six foot five of him.

Kapp was in the kitchen, pouring beers for all of us. "You know, after three years, I've finally figured out our relationship," I said to him. "You're the annoying older brother I never knew I didn't want."

We went down to The Loft for a quick dinner, then headed to the club. The Careless Hearts, a popular and pretty darned good local band, were playing a double set. First as themselves, then as Iggy and the Stooges with special guest guitarist James Williamson. The club was full of old rockers. It was quite the event, Williamson coming out of retirement.

Between sets Kapp and I went outside for a while. People hang around on the sidewalk outside the club, smoking and just cooling down. It's really hot inside. So we're standing there and this guy who looks just like Clem Burke, black bangs and all, walks up to the door, then inside.

"Did you see that guy?" I asked Kapp. "He looked exactly like Clem Burke. It was freaky."

"I think that was Clem Burke," said the guy standing on the other side of Kapp.

Clem Burke came back outside. It was him, all right. I mean, he looked exactly like he does on the cover of Parallel Lines. I've been a Blondie fan for thirty years. They have always been my favourite band.

So of course I went over and talked to him. In my experience celebrities enjoy talking to real fans who don't act like idiots and who can say interesting and intelligent things. Like, "I was a card carrying member of the Blondie Fan Club in 1982," and "I actually met you briefly once before, in Toronto, during the No Exit tour. You and Chris Stein signed my copy of the first Blondie album."

After the show Kapp, Slade and I walked back to The Loft and made it for last call. And then, since we had been drinking all night and since there was no reason to stop now, it not being a school night, and there was still beer in my fridge from earlier, we went back to my place and listened to some tunes. Slade has thousands of records and CDs, mostly bootlegs, and he regaled us with tall tales and challenged us with music trivia. Who was the original singer for The Buzzcocks; what was Joy Division's name before they were Joy Division, and after.

Slade kept commenting on how tall I was, which was kinda funny since I was wearing flats. I told him I usually wear three inch heels. He seemed intrigued. Eventually it was time for them to leave. Slade was giving Kapp a ride home, so Kapp went on ahead. Slade closed the door behind him then said goodbye to me in that way that only very tall men can do. It involves a wall, is all I'm saying.

"I'm really sorry you're leaving," he said a while later.

"Me too," I replied, and I meant it.

Don't You Forget About Me

When I woke up this morning, or rather, when I finally went to bed to sleep this morning, I wasn't alone. It's not what you think, though. I wasn't at Rochester's condo.

But boy, was it nice. Very stylish. Very big. Very masculine in its design which was, he says, done by an interior designer. It's the kind of place that, if you saw it and didn't know who lived there, there wouldn't be any doubt in your mind that it was a man. I lost count of the number of TV screens. There was a huge one over the fireplace in the livingroom, and another twice that size on the wall in the second bedroom which he referred to as the man cave. Seriously, I didn't know they made screens that big.

There was also a screen in the kitchen, and one in each bathroom, and in each bathroom there was also a big soaker tub.

The most interesting objects in his place were the lamps, made from found objects by an artist in Santa Cruz. The lamp beside his bed (hey, he was just giving me the tour, OK?) has a hood ornament pinned through the base. Another is made from a collection of rusty gears and what looks like a transmission. And a fantastic floor lamp is made from an antique camera tripod.

He mixed me a gin and tonic, gave me the tour, and then JB called. He'd been invited, too, and he needed help getting in. Rochester's building occupies an entire block and has numerous entrances. Once inside, it's like a maze.

The three of us drank and talked for a few hours. I told them the story of what had happened the last two weeks, and that the movers were coming on the 15th. They were sympathetic, and they cheered me up. So did the shot of I forget what it's called Latvian booze. Eventually, Rochester said he had to be on a plane early tomorrow morning, so JB and I left.

I went home but then I remembered hey, I don't have to get up tomorrow. I don't have a job. So I went back downstairs to The Loft. Bender was there, of course he was, talking to a couple of Twinkies, but not for long. We took our beers out to the patio and had a cig. He lit mine with his Zippo. Yes, he carries a Zippo. I know. Pangs of desire shot down by an inner scream of how can you be so disloyal?

Bender is the sound guy at the theatre. He's the other type that I love: the long haired earring wearing intellectual artsie. His voice would make any girl's knees weak, and obviously did because he wore a wedding ring until two months ago. He hangs out at The Loft between shows.

I never went to the bar just to see him, I didn't need to, we were both there for happy hour at least twice a week. He has a way of listening that he hears things you didn't necessarily say, or maybe were trying not to say, and telling them back to you, because you missed them. He was there for the saga of me trying to get Beauty last year, and on the day I brought her home I pulled over in front of the Loft and ran in, hoping he would be there so I could show her to him. He was.

Last night we closed the place, then stood out front for a while, watching the usual Thursday night commotion outside the bars on Second Street. I know his routine, so I said, "So, what are you going to do, go back to your office and crash on the couch?"

"Yeah."

"Got any booze?"

"No."

We stood a while longer and finally I said, "I do."

In the next story, Sass meets a new interesting man and a celebrity.

Make 'em Laugh

I had only two boyfriends in my five years of high school, Josh, whom I haven't seen since his wedding in the 1980s, and Rex, whom I haven't seen since Monday when we met at the Kingsway Theatre. Our friend Gilbert bought it, reopened it, and is renovating it. In that order.

The three of us admired the theatre, and I inquired as to when the old popcorn machine might be operational. Then we walked down the street to a bar where we remained for the next ten hours.

When we were in high school the three of us spent most of our free time (and some of our scheduled class time) at a certain corner table in the library, out of sight of the librarian, where we talked about things that, in retrospect, pegged us as the nerdy pretentious clique that always thought they were smarter than everyone else. Thing is, we were. Gilbert became an engineer, then a computer scientist, and now runs his own high-tech company. And though they were good friends back then, Gilbert and Rex hadn't seen each other for over twenty years, until I hooked them up last spring. Now, Rex is Gilbert's right-hand man.

"What is it with guys?" I asked. "I mean, you two were best friends in grade thirteen, and then you both went to U of T. How could you have never spoken in all this time?"

"We did!" countered Gilbert. "We went out for pizza once."

"It was good," said Rex.

Gilbert's always been one of my closest friends; we've been through a lot together in the two decades between high school and the Kingsway, but I hadn't seen Rex since the New Year's Eve we broke up. We had a fight in his car, just before midnight. I don't remember what it was about, and have asked him not to remind me if he does, because I don't want to regret the stupid things I did when I was young any more than is absolutely necessary.

Rex is the deep, introspective type. He doesn't say much, but he's always thinking, and he notices and remembers everything. It's intimidating, but then, I'm not easily intimidated. When we were dating I told him my favourite movie was Singin' In The Rain, and for Christmas that year he bought me the soundtrack. It wasn't easy to find; it was a French import. I still have it. I think I still have everything he gave me. Even the letters.

It was those letters — in a box in my closet in San Jose, that I'd been looking through one day last spring, on a weekend when I needed to procrastinate; before my world fell apart — that led me to look up Rex on Facebook. "Is that you?" I pinged, though I never doubted it was.

"What's great about seeing someone you knew years ago, but haven't seen for a long time, is that you always see them the way they were then," mused Gilbert. He's not usually the deep one; more the let's poke this thing then pull it apart from the inside and examine it type. But he was right. I looked at Rex, sitting across the table from me looking all the world like Jack Donaghy, right down to the smirk, but what I saw was the boy with the long, dark brown hair and big brown eyes. The smirk hadn't changed a bit, though.

We went through two waitresses, lots of food and drink, and a hockey game, and then it was time to go. My car is at the garage (that's the next story), and Gilbert had picked me up on the way to the theatre, but Rex wanted to drive me home, even though he lived about a hundred miles in the opposite direction.

I was glad he wanted to, but I was a little scared, and so I talked all the way home, nearly forgetting to give him directions in time for him to follow them. We took a detour through the Exhibition, just for fun, and for a moment I was 18 again.

He pulled up in front of my condo building and I had to get out of the car, I mean, what else was there to do? I felt like I should say something deep, but then I realized it wasn't necessary. This wasn't a deathbed confessional, and it wasn't a chance meeting of two people who would never see each other again. It was a beginning. So I said, "I feel like you're back in my life, now. I hope that isn't presumptuous of me."

He replied, "No."

They Storm the Crease Like Bumble Bees

I was at the Leafs game at the Shark Tank last Tuesday night when, seconds after the first Sharks goal, I felt my pocket vibrate. It was a text message from Rochester. He'd gotten the tickets for me, really good ones, at the end where the Leafs would be shooting two of the three periods.

"So how's that working out for you?" it read.

I texted back: "Fuck off :)"

"Hey, I took time out of my class to inquire...some people got no gratitude!" he texted back right away. I love how he capitalized and punctuated his text messages. I mean the fact that he did, not the manner in which he did.

I texted back: "Fuck off :)"

I thought that would be all I'd hear from him until later that night, when I'd get back to our Facebook Scrabble game. I mean, he was in a class, an evening class, and they usually run from 6:00 until 9:00. It was the reason he wasn't at the game himself. But the text messages kept coming.

After the third goal: "Ouch, eh?"

And after the shorthanded goal: "Ooh, a shorty! (That's what she said...)"

There's a rule in comedy that it is the persistence of the inappropriate behaviour that makes it funny. It's why we laugh at Wile E. Coyote. Kevin Smith, being interviewed about the success of his movie, Clerks, said, "Three times is funny." In the middle of the movie an old man who comes into the convenience store and asks to use the bathroom. Then goes away, comes back and asks for toilet paper, the soft kind. Then goes away, comes back a third time and asks for a magazine. A porno mag, that is.

So I texted Rochester for the third time: "Fuck off. :-)"

Oh, and yes, that's Molson Canadian on tap. They brought it in special, and it was only available in a couple of places in the stadium. The funniest thing about it, though, was that they called it a "premium beer" and charged a premium for it.

I went back three times.

I Can't Drive 55

"Do you like my new car?" I asked Rochester, in the chat window alongside our online Scrabble game. He doesn't know the saga of Jack and Beauty, but he'd noticed my latest Facebook profile picture (the same one I posted here), and the congratulatory comments that were pouring in from my RL friends.

"Couldn't find a Bricklin, eh?" he replied. One of the things I like about Rochester is that he knows a lot about Canada.

"Nice catch, showoff. But it's not like that's the only car ever built in Canada. Did you know that all the Toyota Corollas you see on the road here were built there? And the Matrix. And the Lexus RX330." I knew all this because I'd just finished working on chapter 8 of my Canadian marketing textbook.

"I had a Mazda RX-7 for 18 years. Now I drive a Porsche that was made in Finland."

I gulped, silently. Not that Rochester could hear me at the other end of Facebook. "You have a Porsche?" I typed. Of course he had no way of knowing how that word, Porsche, affects me. Or how learning that he had a car — any car — for 18 years makes me feel. That he would understand about Beauty.

"Well, a Boxster," he replied.

"Remember the other day when I joked that you weren't necessarily cooler than JB? Well, I take that back," I said, then added, "and you get bonus points for modesty."

He played his tiles; COULISSE, 61 points, then wrote: "It's not an S, though. I test-drove that, and decided I could get enough speeding tickets without going 80 mph in second gear."

I pondered his Porsche, then wrote, "Triple bonus points if it's a stick."

"Do they make them without a stick?" he asked. Disingenuously, charmingly.

"Quadruple bonus points!"

What's it all About, Alfie?

Yes, Gentle Reader, I'll get back to this story soon, but it's still very hard for me to write about Jack now that he's gone, so allow me to distract both of us with a different tale.


If you know what "what does this mean" means, you must be a Lutheran, and just like only Newfies can make Newfie jokes and really really get them, only Lutherans can make catechism jokes and really get them. For example, that picture is Martin Luther doing the Chicken Dance. Come on, that kills!

On the other hand, if, unlike Newfie jokes no one else even thinks they're funny, the whole politically correct issue is deftly avoided.

Where was I? Oh yes, so, when Rochester Facebooked this video the other day, it not only had me in stitches but it impressed me that in addition to being a Sloan fan and knowing to say hockey, never ice hockey, he was one of mein people.

I know what you're wondering, Gentle Reader: We thought Postmodern Sass was an Existentialist? I am, now, but if you know anything at all about Germans you know that you can't ever un-become what you were born into. California is not exactly what you'd call a land of diversity in culture, so discovering that Rochester is Lutheran was rather like spying a Canadian flag on someone's knapsack in a rural Chinese village.

He's a friend of a friend of the Librarian's, and I first met him about a year ago when the Librarian's friend, JB, took me to his apartment. Rochester's apartment, I mean.

That sounded so much better in my head.

See, the Librarian and I had been out at one of our favourite pubs, O'Flaherty's, and JB's wife had let him out for the night so he called — my cell phone, because the Librarian doesn't have one — to find out where we were. The thing I like about JB is that when he goes out, he goes out hard, so even though the Librarian checked himself out around 10:00, JB was still rarin' to go.

I like going out with married men because you always know where you stand.

"I'm going to call my friend Rochester," said JB. "He lives downtown, and is usually amenable to the idea of beer." I liked him already. More so, when we arrived at his place a few minutes later and he handed me a Molson.

I've seen him two or three times since then, and last weekend we went to see Get Smart together, though it was definitely not a date, which suits me just fine because I don't want to date anyone right now, maybe not ever again, but it's nice to have a smart, interesting man to talk to.

Even if he's not married.

I'm an asshole (he's an asshole, what an asshole)

Are all men jerks, or is it just the ones in my life?

See that bed? That's the most comfortable bed in the world, a Marriott hotel bed, and I was supposed to be sleeping in it tonight and tomorrow night and the night after that, at the San Francisco Marriott, but instead what I did this afternoon was call and cancel my reservation, and it's all the fault of the Librarian, because he's an asshole.

Let me back up.

Last fall, before he became an asshole — or, at least, before I realized exactly how much of an asshole he truly is — he and I got to arguing about U2, and The Buzzcocks, and bands that either have or have not "sold out" by licensing their music for use in television commercials. He knows about music, and I know about advertising, and so as we argued we bashed out an idea for a paper we could write together. Rather than bash each other over the head.

We agreed, surprisingly enough because we so rarely do, that this would be a brilliant paper to give at the Pop Culture Association conference in San Francisco in March. We submitted an abstract and it was accepted and so, whenever we would hang out together, which was frequently two or three times a week, we would talk about our paper.

As the date of our presentation crept up on us, the first sign of incompatibility reared its head when, referring to the stack of papers he'd gathered for our initial research, he said, rather pointedly "I'll look through them first."

A week later he realized the deadline was approaching and not only hadn't he looked at the papers yet, but he was planning to go out of town for the weekend. He dropped by my office with the stack, and began whining about how he had no time. I asked how he was travelling. By plane, he replied. Then why not take the stack, or at least part of it, with you? Because I can't read on planes. What about the rest of the weekend, then? I don't know whether I'll have time...

Then leave them here, and I'll vet them. I have the time.

Well, I think I should look through them first...

Then take them with you.

Oh, I don't know, it's just too stressful...

I refrained from calling him a girl and said, How about this: why don't we divide the pile in half? I'll look through some; you take the rest with you, and if you have time, look at them. When are you coming back?

Sunday afternoon.

Why don't you give me a call when you're back, and maybe we can get together and see where we're at then.

No, I can't, I'll be too tired from the trip, and I know I'm going to need to relax and recover, you know?

Then give me at least some of the papers, and I'll look at them this weekend, and start drafting out our paper and our Powerpoint. He sighed, as though this were all too much for him to handle, and reluctantly agreed.

Last Monday, after his weekend away, we got together and I showed him what I had done, and what I had done was this: I'd vetted 20 papers and noted half were worthy of citation, and I'd cited them in Endnote. I'd begun a draft document (with citations) of our paper. And I'd created about a dozen snazzy slides, with links and pictures, in Powerpoint. I put it all on a Flash drive for him and told him I'd be out of commission all day Tuesday, because I had to be with a friend who was going to be in the hostpital. He said that's ok, he would work on it on Tuesday. I said I'd call him Tuesday night when I was home, and he could tell me where he was at.

Meanwhile, I'd long ago made my reservation at the hotel where the conference would be held, and had planned to be up there for the duration. I figured that, if there was still work that needed to be done on our paper, that we'd do it in my room

— I don't like the way that sounded —

and I felt confident, since both of us are, we said, deadline-driven, that we'd have our presentation ready to go on Friday morning.

On Tuesday night he called me and said, I've decided I'm not going to come up to the City on Wednesday or Thursday, I need to stay in my office and work on the paper alone.

What do you mean, work on the paper alone? We're supposed to be in this together.

I'm not like you; I can't work on a train or a bus or wherever; I have to be in my office, it's my sanctuary.

Um... this is not a novel you're writing, this is an academic paper. We need to be in the same place, brainstorming, looking things up, discussing, and writing.

I can't do that. I can't work that way. When I'm writing I have to write here, and alone.

Look, Kapp, this is not what we agreed to. We're supposed to be doing this together.

Why can't you go up there, and I'll stay here, and we'll just talk on the phone and email?

Because I'm going to strangle you, Jennifer.

We need to work on this together. I have the hotel room. We can work on it there. I thought you wanted to go to some of the conference sessions? They start tomorrow.

I know, I know, but I started thinking, if I go I'll have to change my voice mail message.... it's just too stressful, I don't want to do that to myself.

You have got to be kidding, Marsha.

That's just lame. I mean, seriously, that has to be the lamest excuse I've ever heard. Are you listening to yourself? You don't want to go because you'll have to change your voice mail greeting?

Oh... I don't know... I don't want to fight about this... I have to go, my ride is here. I'll call you when I get home.

Kapp doesn't have a car, and he doesn't have a computer at home — that's why he stays late in his office when he has work to do. He's not exactly a chart climber, if you take my meaning.

An hour later the phone rings. He says, how's this for a compromise. If you can postpone your reservation and stay in San Jose tomorrow, we can work on it tomorrow. Then you can go up on Thursday and I'll stay here and write the paper.

Do you hear yourself?

What?

You'll write the paper? What do you call that eleven page Word document I gave you on Monday?

Well, I thought those were just rough notes —

They are. That's how you begin a document. Kapp, have you ever worked on a paper with another person before?

Yes, once. And I guess I sort of took over then, too. I'm sorry, I'm being a jerk, aren't I?

Yes, you are.

Oh, oh, I'm sorry...

And that's when he started to cry.

No, I'm not kidding.

Then he said I have to go and hung up.

He's a big giant baby with a penis, and I'm done with him.

* * *

Freakshow

I never thought the day would come, at least not on the Gregorian calendar, when I'd learn a life lesson from Britney Spears, but that day is today.

Fortunately for me, I'm able to do it without actually having to listen to her music. I needed only to search for lyrics relevant to tell you the following story, and I found a reference to her latest album, Blackout, and a song titled Freakshow.

It would seem, Gentle Reader, that last night I became something of a Britneyesque Freakshow. I'm so embarrassed by what I vaguely remember doing, and even more by what I'm afraid I might have done, that I turned off my phone and may not turn it back on until ever.

I'm certain I drunk-dialled crazy Nadine. I think I even sat outside her door for a while. I think I may have done the same to Monica. See, she's the building manager, so she would be able to open my apartment, which I kinda needed her to do because I locked myself out. That's right, it was Hotel California all over again.

I probably called The Librarian, since it was he with whom I had been drinking. I don't remember where he went, or how I got home, but when I woke up this morning — and, by this morning, I mean 3:00 a.m. — he wasn't here. So that's something.

Oh god, I hope I didn't dial Jack's number. Please, Lord, if you're up there.

Last night's much too drunk drunk and this morning's resulting hangover is all The Librarian's fault, really it is. He's the one who suggested drinking bourbon after our third pint at O'Flaherty's. He's the one who always wants to go there, so now we're regulars and the bartender likes us and so, when we order a shot, he makes it a triple. So you can see, can't you, why The Librarian is to blame?

What did I learn from Brit Brit? That when you get drunk and behave like an idiot, you're, well, you're an idiot. As penance, and owing to the fact that I could do little else, I spent the afternoon watching the charming 1980 BBC production of Jane Austen's Sense and Sensibility, grateful for the reminder that there is subtlety in literature, if no longer in society.

Next, Postmodern Sass explains her two month blog sabbatical.

Tales of a Librarian [part iv - fin]

Continued from part iii

On Monday morning a giant bouquet of flowers in a big, glass vase walked into my office and behind it was Margaret's frizzy-haired head. The flowers were mostly pink and white and the bouquet was replete with both colours of my favourite flower, lilies.

Kapp had been sure she wouldn't remember anything about Friday night. I'd called him as I was walking home from Margaret's at about 1:00 in the morning, after I'd half walked, half carried her a dozen blocks to the other side of downtown, never sure whether she was lucid enough to actually find her way home. She was expectorating every three minutes or so, and I didn't think it would be prudent to pour her into a cab. I didn't know where she lived but I couldn't just leave her on the sidewalk.

"You owe me, buster," I said when Kapp picked up the phone after the second ring.

Don't question the drunk logic of that statement, Gentle Reader. Margaret was his friend, I'd just met her, so that made me, I reasoned, the last person at the table who should have had to take her home. What Kapp didn't say, but could rightfully have said was, "You didn't have to stay until closing." Instead, he listened to me detail the night's drama and comedy, laughing at some places and offering encouraging and sympathetic comments at others.

"There was a moment on her front porch when I was sure she wouldn't be able to find her key, and I was prepared to just leave her there and deem it close enough," I told Kapp.

"This is California. It's not like she'd die of exposure," he replied.

"But then, just when I was about to prop her up in the corner and leave, she found her key and opened the door. And then I saw the stairs. Have you seen her place?"

"Yes. Long, narrow, winding staircase, right?"

"Right. Not enough room for me to negotiate it beside her. So I pushed her up and stayed behind in case she fell backwards. She made it all the way to the top, I could see her door. She reached for the keyhole and then she fell down on the landing and threw up again."

Kapp laughed.

"At this point I didn't care about the vomit anymore; I'd seen so much of it. She's such a tiny person, I figured there couldn't be much left, and in any event it wasn't my carpet and I had no intention of sticking around to clean up the mess."

"So, what, did you just leave her on the landing?"

"I was going to, but I worried that she might fall down the stairs, and then I started envisioning the whole Jimi Hendrix Bon Scott Keith Moon scenerio and felt too guilty. She had her key in her hand, so I opened the door and literally dragged her inside."

"And she was passed out this whole time?"

"No, she drifted in and out. Every time she'd come to she'd gush about how wonderful I was, and then she'd say something about you."

"About me?" Kapp sounded surprised.

"Yes. Mostly about some librarian you're boinking."

"Moira? I told you about her. And she's not a librarian, she's a library assistant."

"I know, and I told Margaret so. Look, the whole conversation all night long had me baffled. She kept bringing you up every few minutes. No pun intended."

Kapp laughed again.

"I think maybe she has a thing for me," Kapp suggested.

"My, aren't we full of ourselves? No offence, Lothario, but I didn't get that impression from her at all."

"So how did you leave her?"

"I peeled off her clothes and threw them in the shower, then dragged her over to her bed and sort of tossed her into it. She'll probably have some serious rug burn in the morning, but with any luck she won't be dead."

A year later, The Librarian turns out to be an asshole.

Tales of a Librarian [part iii]

Continued from part ii

I really liked Margaret. We gabbed away, and as the evening wore on, one by one the other librarians made their excuses and bid their goodnights, until there were only she and I left on the patio. The waiter passed by every so often, and when he did we'd order another round, because we'd long since left discretion behind.

Whenever the conversation had strayed for too long to other topics, she'd bring it back to her favourite subject, Kapp. She seemed in equal parts to be trying to set us up, trying to find out whether we'd slept together, and trying to keep us from doing so.

"I think he's probably terrified of you," Margaret opined after our second beer.

I laughed and said, "I have that effect on a lot of men, unfortunately."

"I know all the librarians he's had flings with, and they're all beneath him. You're the first woman I've seen him with who's actually his equal."

Now it was my turn to be surprised. Not that he'd slept with bimbos, but that there had, according to Margaret, been many. Kapp's not exactly the sort of guy anyone'd describe as a lady killer. Tall, dark, and handsome he isn't, and I'm pretty sure he wouldn't be able to swing me around. But he's smart and funny and sarcastic, and he knows about music, and it's for all those reasons that I like him very much.

"We're just friends," I said.

"That's good, you should keep it that way." Margaret is a petite woman, and she'd been matching me Märzen for Märzen. She was visibly drunk, now. "He's a great guy, don't get me wrong, but he's not husband material. He's not reliable, and he never has any money."

"OK, then, I promise not to marry him," I joked. She wasn't telling me anything I hadn't already noted, and, besides, if I'm going to not marry someone the whole Internet already knows who that is.

"You could probably sleep with him, if you wanted to, though," offered Margaret, and then she hiccupped.

"Yeah, I know." I remember the Tod lesson.

Margaret had been hiccupping for two or three minutes. We both laughed about it at first, but then we both became accustomed to it. That's probably why I didn't realize right away when the hiccups turned to barfing.

To be concluded in part iv.

Tales of a Librarian [part ii]

Continued from part i

The librarians were gathered around two pushed-together tables on the patio at Gordon Biersch looking very much like, well, like librarians.

I've been out drinking with the science profs, and they all have a sort of earthy, outdoorsy look to them. Business school profs wear suits; computer science geeks look like geeks (and are some of my best friends), but I'd never been in close proximity to a pack of librarians before, and so hadn't learned the stereotype.

Now that I know what it is, I struggle to put it kindly.

Hmn. Let's see. The group of Kapp's co-workers I met at Gordon Biersch were... not exactly stylish. Not so much chic. They had, shall we say, some sartorial challenges. And a singular unkemptness in the hair department.

They were frumpy.

But they have good qualities, not the least of which is, they can drink. And not fruity girly drinks, either. The waiter was carrying an astonishing number of pint glasses on a tray, and when Kapp and I joined the party he took our beer orders and immediately returned with two more. Introductions were made and I learned that not all the librarians were librarians. Some were assistant librarians and some were reference librarians and some were library assistants and some were from the I.T. department and so weren't librarians at all. I realized that I understand the academic hierarchy only as it applies to professors, but I was given the impression, from the pack at the table, that Kapp was fairly high up on their library ladder.

Kapp introduced me as "My friend Sass, from Marketing," which wasn't entirely accurate but was close enough, and for a time they eyed me the way tourists eye an exotic giraffe at a zoo, but then judged me acceptable company because of my acquaintance with Kapp. Plus, I made them laugh by gently poking fun at him, which may have been the reason Margaret got the wrong idea about us.

We had two, or maybe it was three, rounds, and then Kapp asked me what time it was, because he never wears a watch, and when I told him 9:15 he said he was going to try to catch the 9:20 bus, even though the last one is at 11:00. I offered to buy him a beer if he stayed and when that didn't work I called him a girl but since he'd already been called that once tonight, that didn't work either, and so he left.

I said, oh well, and pulled my chair closer to the others, beside Margaret. I learned that she's been working at the library for almost ten years and that she's studying library science and is almost, but not quite, a real librarian. We were both drinking Märzen, which may have been another factor in the prodigious hangover that was to come. Margaret asked me where I was from, and made a joke about me saying eh, and then she said, "It really surprised me when Kapp left so suddenly."

What I was thinking was, he'll very likely miss that bus and then he'll be back, it's happened before, but what I said was, "Oh, he has that bus schedule memorized, and he knows exactly when he has to leave so he can catch it. Why did that surprise you?"

"That he left you here, I mean," she said.

"Oh! Oh no, no, we're just friends, we just hang out and drink beer."

"Mnm Hmn," Margaret hmned, unconvincingly.

We ordered another round.

"I really like you," gushed Margaret, "I'm going to invite you to my next girl party. We cook and eat and read Tarot cards. You should watch out for Kapp, though."

"Watch out?"

"He's a good guy. Really smart. I love him like a brother. But he sleeps around."

To be continued in part iii.

Tales of a Librarian [part i]

We started drinking too early last Friday night, which was part of the problem, I later realized, though it was only one factor contributing to the prodigious pounding in my head the next day. The other culprit was the sugary drinks at the tiki bar with Kapp and Sparky.

"What's the biggest, fruitiest, girliest drink you have?" Sparky asked the waitress, Tanya, after we'd settled into a thatched roof booth at the sunny end of the patio.

In response, Tanya described a frou-frou beverage called a Blue Mama, which Sparky deemed perfect for his needs. Kapp chose something banana-y while I scanned the cocktail menu for the least sweet concoction, and settled for a Mojito.

The drinks arrived a few minutes later: Sparky's, tall and blue and topped with a pink umbrella; Kapp's tall and pink and topped with a blue umbrella. A Mojito is made with clear rum and lime juice, and is topped with a mint leaf.

We raised our three glasses and I offered the toast: "Cheers, girls."

I love hanging out in bars with the boys.

It was my first Mojito, and it was excellent. Both Kapp and Sparky explained to me that it was a Cuban drink that had been popular years ago and was now trendy again, the way Cosmopolitans had been during Sex And The City. I was amused to learn that Americans would adopt the drink of a country they purport to hate.

"Have you been to Cuba?" I asked Sparky.

"No. Have you?"

"Yes, but only once, about three years ago when I needed a veg-out vacation and didn't have much money."

"You've been to Cuba?" Kapp exclaimed.

"Sure. Everyone in Canada has. Well, everyone in the eastern parts of the country, that is. Kinda like how everyone here in California goes to Hawaii. But it's way cheaper. You can get a week all-inclusive for about $600. We can buy Cuban cigars, too, and no one throws us in jail. Speaking of which, have I mentioned HOW BADLY I WANT A CIGARETTE RIGHT NOW?"

"How's the quitting smoking going?" asked Sparky.

"Better than I expected, actually. Except for RIGHT NOW!" The patio at the tiki bar was smoke friendly. I fervently hoped that someone would light up in the booth next to ours, and that I'd be downwind.

The sun went down, a duo of guitarists started playing lethargic Hawaiian music, Sparky announced he was going home after the next round, and Kapp suggested we head back to Gordon Biersch and meet up with his librarian buddies.

So that's where we went drinking next.

To be continued in part ii.

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.

Calendar Girl [part II - fin]

Continued from Part I.

Sophia was terrifying me again.

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

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

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

"I see," said Sophia.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And you were?"

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

Did I mention he's Italian?

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

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

Calendar Girl [part I]

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

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

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

"Yes."

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

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

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

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

"Save them for California, then."

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

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

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

"We don't have a Relationship."

"Small R."

"OK."

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

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

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

"It's complicated," I replied.

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

"Is he your boyfriend?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To be continued on Thursday.

Iko Iko [part iv - fin]

Continued from part iii.

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

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

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

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

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

I burst into laughter.

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

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

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

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

"My keys are in it."

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

"Who's on first?"

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

"Glen?"

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

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

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

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

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

"It depends what you mean."

"I mean, would you like one?"

"I meant, what type of cigarette?"

"Ah! Well, I only have these."

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

"Why, you got?"

By way of answer, he pulled out a baggie.

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

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

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

"Not exactly."

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

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

Iko Iko [part iii]

Continued from part ii.

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

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

"Is Keith Levene there?" I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was a great party.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What a great cat," Kapp said.

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

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

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

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

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

To be concluded in part iv.

Iko Iko [part ii]

Continued from part i.

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

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

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

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

"What do you mean?" I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cognitive dissonance again.

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

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

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

To be continued in part iii.

Iko Iko [part i]

The reason I haven't yet told you about my date, Gentle Reader, is that I have to make some editorial decisions first. You see, the person — ok, man — to whom I refer does not fit easily into the three categories of characters I have defined and, so far, have adhered to. To wit:

Category 1: People I'll never meet again, like Tommy and Orlicia and Phil. I can write about them with impugnity.

Category 2: Real people who blog under their real names, like Maria and Tim and Joey, and real people who sometimes read my blog, like my cousin Markus and my karaoke buddies. I am careful what I write about them, because they recognize what's true and what's fabricated, so there is a line I try not to cross.

Category 3: Real people like Angela and Boz and Zee who know the real Sass but who have no idea who Postmodern Sass is, and are about as likely to find out as I am to live happily ever after with Jack, which is to say that it's theoretically possible, in a splitting-the-atom sort of way, but the thought of it doesn't disturb my sleep.

The person causing my conundrum definitely doesn't fit into Category 1. He meets the criteria of Category 2, but the problem there is, if I treat him, bloggitorily speaking, the same way I treat the others in Category 2, I'd be curtailing my future options. And Category 3 is right out because, well, he's one of my readers.

Therefore, in the true spirit of reflexive, ironic postmodernism, I'm gonna need to reflect on it a while, all the while consciously cognizant of the fact that he's reading these words. And, very likely thinking to himself, "What? Was that a date? I didn't think that was a date!"

So instead I'll tell you about my it-wasn't-a-date-either with Kapp on Mardi Gras.

To be continued in part ii. The actual Story of the Was-It-A-Date won't be told until Sophia drags it out of me at Tequilacon in Portland.

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.