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.

Come On-A My House

I first got to know Norm when he advised me via email on the meaning and use of stemware. This was back when I was shopping for a wedding gift for my friend Sara.

A couple of weeks ago I met the analog Norm, when he was in San Jose on business, and you'll never guess where we went.

OK, well, maybe you will.

It's become something of an inside joke that Friends of Sass who come to San Jose must either (1) take her grocery shopping or (b) help her put together a piece of furniture. Or, if you're really lucky, both.

The tradition was inaugurated by Jack, who picked me up at the airport on the day my alien ship landed from Canada, bought me the Aerobed, then took me to Safeway and even filled out the application for a Safeway club card for me. Next came Tim Bray, who consulted on the arrangement of my stereo, particularly the placement of my huge speakers which I dragged here from Toronto, but who, instead of taking me to Safeway took me to Gordon Biersch for dinner.

Then Blundering American flew all the way from the other sunshine coast, Florida, just to help me put my desk together. And to take me to Safeway.

Kay was here for two weeks in September, during which time we shopped for furniture at Ikea, which she then helped me put together, and from which experience we learned it's best to hold off on the cork-popping until you've figured out how to attach those cupboard doors. Then we went to Safeway.

Norm and I had a wonderful time bar-hopping around downtown San Jose, and, had there been any furniture left in need of putting together, I have no doubt he would have complied with tradition, however, my new sofa arrived only after he'd left, and Pinky was able to help me put it together:


Tonight there's no furniture that needs putting together, and my fridge is full, but since Wendy and Joey are in San Jose for the weekend, maybe I'll take one of my bookshelves apart so they don't feel left out.

My lack of education hasn't hurt me none

When my phone rang last night I didn't recognize the area code, but since the only area codes I do recognize in these here parts are 408 and 415, this came as no surprise.

It was Ace.

"Hey," he said, "Jack tells me you're the eBay expert."

"I'm sure he didn't mean it as a compliment," I replied. He's seen the three rows of shoeboxes lining the entire length of my Carrie Bradshaw walk-through closet, and he knows they came from eBay. Mostly from this place. But don't worry, Gentle Reader, I have not yet hit rock bottom; no intervention is required. When you catch me bidding on a pair of Uggs take it as a sign of the apocolypse. Until then, just admire my shoes, OK?

"Jack said you're the man," Ace said.

"I'm going to have to have a word with him about that. I mean, I know he's seen the contradictory parts," I said. "I've bought a few things on eBay, it's true."

"Have you sold stuff?"

"Yes, a few things. Mostly stuff I bought that didn't fit. And last summer I decided to try to sell this pair of fabulous red shoes I'd had since 1985, and that were always half a size too small but I could never bear to give them to Goodwill, so I listed them on eBay for $5.99, called them "vintage," and ended up getting $85 for them from some woman in Hollywood."

"Cool!"

"Yeah, it's all marketing, man. So, what do you want to know?"

We discussed the pros and cons of PayPal for a few minutes, then discussed the weather as all Canadians are wont to do. Then I asked, "So how are The Rock Star and The Big Giant Head?"

"They're great. Oak is eating everything in sight and Rowan is applying to kindergarten."

"You have to apply to go to kindergarten?"

"No, man, I already went, but he does," Ace joked. "Seriously, they want a letter of reference from his pre-school teacher."

"And he didn't have one?"

"No, he does, it's just funny. A letter of reference. Like, what are they gonna say, Rowan, man, he's great to work with but a little on the immature side. I can see he has musical talent but we're unsure at this juncture where those skills will lead him, however, I highly recommend him for a position in your school."

I laughed. Ace has perfectly deadpan delivery, which makes his joking all the more funny.

"I dunno," he says, "When I was a kid we just enrolled in the nearest school, you know?"

"Yeah."

Two years ago today, Postmodern Sass was invited to her friend Sara's wedding in New York. In the next story, Sass finally gets a new vacuum cleaner. And then she has a unique problem with a student.

He shouts, she bites, they wrangle through the night

"Hello?"

"Hi, it's me."

"Hi. Hey, that was fun last night."

"It sure was. Maybe a little too much fun."

"You mean the vodka?"

"That, and, well... this is embarassing. I feel like I'm seventeen again."

"What do you mean?"

"I have a giant hickey!"

"Oooh.... sorry about that. On your neck, you mean?"

"No, that's the small one. The giant one is; well, elsewhere."

Next, Sass tries without success to buy a machine that sucks.

Life's like Sanskrit read to a pony

Now, I'm not calling my friend Genie a horse or anything but she's been reading my stories lately and believing them too much. She sent me an email today and told me that this one both amused and alarmed her. Amused, because she recognized the boys in question — she was there, you see, in grade five with me and Kay, and she had a crush on Roger Larmon too. I can tell you that now, because it was so long ago, and we're all grownups, and so if by some bizarre accident Roger reads this, neither Genie nor I will die of embarrassment.

Back then, though, we thought we might. When you're ten, and your bra strap peeks out from under your top, there's nothing anyone can say to make you disbelieve the end of the world is coming.

The story alarmed her, though, because she worried that Kay's boyfriend, the motorcycle boy, was killed, and why hadn't she heard about it and when, exactly, had it happened?

Well, Genie, the reason no one told you about it is because it didn't really happen. What you're reading here are stories, not an autobiography. Like most stories, they are based on events and people in the author's life, but there's a difference between based on, and really happened. Kay's boyfriend — yes, you know who I mean, Genie; the guy with the red hair and the great smile, who looked a little like Parker Stevenson — wasn't killed on his motorcycle. He did have a motorcycle, though, and so did all his friends. And it was one of them who was in-real-life killed. If you email Kay, she can tell you his name. I can't remember it.

Genie was my best friend, too. Before Kay. Genie and I go back to grade three. And all three of us are still close. Well, as close as we can be when we live in different cities, some of us in different countries. We have email.

There was me, Kay, Genie, and three other people I haven't told you about yet, but will one day soon. I've had a story in draft form for months about my friend Red. Genie, you know who I mean, don't you? Red and I were in grade two together. She's the oldest friend I have, and I still have her. The other two, I hadn't yet given names, so give me a moment.

OK, the girl who was in our circle of friends from grade three until the end of grade thirteen, when she moved to Calgary, is Kaya. She had black hair and dark eyes, and always told us she was part native. Cree, I think. And the only boy in our circle, the one who used to drive all five of us girls around in the back of his El Dorado convertible, with the top down and us sitting in a row along the back, just like in the movies; the one who was shorter than all of us and whom we all loved like a brother, except for Kaya, who loved him for real, I'm going to call Gilbert.

(That's his real middle name, Genie. Or his confirmation name. Or something like that.)

Next to Kay, I've always been closest to Gilbert, and he's closest to me now, both physically and emotionally. He lives not three miles from me, in Toronto, and we see each other about once a week.

So there you have it, Gentle Reader, a new cast of characters. I have so many stories to tell you about them...

And only Genie and Kay, because they both know who Postmodern Sass is, will know what's true and what's not.

In the next story, Jack talks nerdy to Sass.

Oh, Give Me A Home

"Where do the buffalo roam? I asked Duncan, the bartender at The Bow and Arrow pub on Yonge Street.

I was perusing the menu, waiting for my buddy Darp. This is his local, and sometimes we meet here, instead of at The Banknote. Especially when I need a favour of him, which I do today. So the least I can do is buy him a couple of pints.

I'm borrowing his digital camera, so I can take pictures of some furniture I want to sell, and shop them around the antique markets on Queen Street. Earlier this afternoon I'd stopped in at the Dufferin Mall, on my way back from picking up my car, to see whether I wanted to buy a digital camera for myself. Thing is, I have two real cameras, and no real desire to own a digital unless it's a 35mm Canon EOS body that I can use my lenses on, but I don't have $1,200 to spare, especially not today, because my car blew up on Spadina Avenue yesterday and I just paid $800 to have it fixed.

At least Hans always returns it detailed.

"You know, that's a good question," replied Duncan, "I think it comes from buffalo farms."

The Bow and Arrow pub is famous for its bison dishes—bison is buffalo, for those of you, Gentle Readers, who live in countries where they didn't roam—including the Woodsman Pizza, which I'm planning to order tonight; Bison Maple Chili, made with ground bison meat and maple syrup; and Bison Chili Nachos. Oh, and, all the burgers on the menu offer your choice of beef, chicken, vegetarian, or, you guessed it, bison.

So Duncan understood that what I was asking was, where do you get your bison meat. I've heard of ostrich farms in Ontario; I've even seen a couple on drives out in the country, but I've never seen buffalo roaming in a field. And the thing about buffalo is, they're big animals, and they need roaming and grazing land, just like cattle. Cows, I see all the time. Buffalo, not so much.

Chicken wings are also on the menu.

"You should call them 'bison wings,'" I suggest. "You know, instead of buffalo wings?"

Duncan likes that one, and pours me a Moosehead.

Buffalo wings are named after the city of Buffalo, not the large furry animal. They're battered, fried chicken wings served with a hot red sauce, and are common fare at bars across Canada these days, but when I first moved to Montreal, to go to university, I was routinely made fun of for being from Ontario, "Where they eat the garbage we throw out: chicken wings and potato skins." I grew up right near Buffalo, as I told you here.

My Oma used to make the best chicken wings. They weren't like Buffalo wings, though. She cut up the wings into the mini-drumstick part and the flat part—the teeny tiny tips went to the dog—and roll them in flour spiced with salt and pepper, and sometimes garlic; then line them up side by side like soldiers on a cookie sheet, and bake them at pizza degree heat.

I miss my Oma's cooking. She's 91 now, and hasn't been her old self for the last year. Her mental quickness is gone; she can't follow our conversations. Cinderella was shocked when she saw her last week. "I'd take the finger pointing criticism any day," she said, which is something, because Oma used to make Cinderella cry.

The furniture I want to sell, for which I'm borrowing Darp's digital camera, is an antique mahogany dresser that my Oma and Opa bought in the 1950s, when they first came to Canada, from an old lady on the Smiths' farm that died. It was in my aunts' bedroom when they were little girls; my mother had it in her bedroom when I was a little girl, and I've had it for the last fifteen years or so, since my daddy sold our farm.

I don't know yet whether I'll be moving to California, but just the possibility has gotten me doing a spring cleaning to end all spring cleaning. I no longer need the Habs photo in my bathroom, and I don't know why I ever needed 57 coffee mugs. I've already taken four boxes of dishes and miscellaneous junk to Goodwill, and tomorrow Liz, my postie, is picking up another four boxes to take to a women's shelter she works at.

And whether I go, or don't go, it's time for the dresser to go.



In the next story, Sass and Maria play sprachspiele.

Na na na na, na na na na, hey hey hey, goodbye

But what a way to go, eh?



I'm still going to the game on Tuesday, even though it doesn't matter to the Leafs. What matters is that I'm taking my friend Gary, who I haven't seen for a year, and who used to be Jack's boss back in the old Internet days, because he's about to get divorced for the second time and so we're gonna get drunk.

Besides, in two days I won't care anymore.

Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is?

I meet the most interesting people in bars.

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

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

(That's sketch, not Scotch.)

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

Oh, how I love Chicago.

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

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

I get the impression he's done it before.

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

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

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

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

(I say, eBay!)

I like Andy Warhol's cats.

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

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

So I answer, "Yes. Eh."

"Pronounce 'against'," he says.

"Against."

"Say, 'Sorry'," he says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Don't you have any other bras?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Keep telling yourself that," I say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I like surreal.

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

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

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

Except for this one, which is from 1967.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The bar is closed, get out!"

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

Been a long time since I rock and rolled

When Dave picked me up at the airport last Thursday it was the first time I'd seen him with his pants on.

See, he usually wears shorts. Yes, even in winter. Even to hockey games.

I was at the baggage claim in O'Hare, where we had arranged to meet, but I didn't see him approach because I was watching for my suitcase. Then I heard a familiar voice ask, "Should I start singing Foreigner now?"

I laughed, and handed him a silver bag.

Just before I left home to catch my plane that morning, I had emailed Dave and asked, do you remember what I look like, or should we work out a code — like, I'll be the tall redhead carrying the bottle of Macallan?

He thought I was kidding, but I never kid about sketch.

I've been to Chicago five or six times before, but always either on business, or on vacation. Once, back in the glory days when Mecklermedia did their Internet World shows three times a year, including Chicago in July, I went shopping at Filene's Basement with Tim and Lauren. And once, the X and I and another couple took the train for a St. Paddy's Day long weekend. But before I met Dave I had never known anyone who lived there, so I was thrilled to be back in one of my favourite American cities, this time moving beyond the tourist attractions, like Navy Pier and the Sears Tower, and getting the tour from a local.

So naturally the first place I wanted to go was the Hard Rock Café.

Dave was beginning to learn that there are many things I do not kid about.

I'd been to the HRC in Chicago once before, about ten years ago, and I already have, on my jean jacket, the Chicago guitar pin with the Route 66 logo on it. I thought it was about time to add a second Chicago guitar.

"Look, I know it's overpriced beer and mediocre food," I explained, "So you have to think of it like a museum, and that's the price you have to pay for admission."

What I love about the Hard Rock is the clutter. The handwritten notes from Elvis to a fan. John Lennon's scribblings on a napkin with the title, Imagine. The Sonny and Cher salt and pepper shakers in the Hard Rock in Hollywood. The slightly battered Sex Pistols posters that you can believe were actually once on the wall of a club. The Kurt Cobain guitar in New Orleans.

I wasn't prepared for what I saw when we arrived.

The outside of the building was exactly as I remember it ten years ago, but inside, everything had changed. Gone was the clutter, replaced, instead, with minimal, stylish, enlarged photographs and only the occasional guitar.

You could actually see the walls!

Still reeling with the shock of this initial impression, I bravely proceeded into the restaurant proper where the sight of the bar, something out of a sci-fi nightmare, was nearly enough to send me screaming for the door.

But we'd come this far, so we sat down.

The main atrium bar, once solidly wood and decorated with guitars, was now stainless steel and glass. Towering from the centre was a cylinder composed of eight rows of small silver screens blaring the proprietary HRC video channel, interspersed with glass shelves upon which stood a bottle of Bacardi. I wondered if this were a new form of product placement advertising. The tower was too tall for the bottles to be functional stock.

Dave was looking at the menu. "I'm not a big fan of seafood. Give me a taco and I'm happy as a clam."

The secret to eating at the Hard Rock Café is not to order anything you expect to be good, but to order the most simple item, so that even they have a hard time ruining it for you.

Actually, it's best to avoid eating there at all, but we'd been walking quite a bit and were hungry, so we thought we might as well.

Oh, how I lived to regret that decision.

I ordered a chicken breast sandwich with onion rings. I love onion rings. Whenever I see them on a menu I ask if I can have them instead of fries.

Then I went for a walk around the joint.

Ain't That America was playing on the video screens as I examined the upstairs memorabilia. Where once clutter ruled, now there were only three or four inset glass cases, each featuring a gold record, a photograph, and a tastefully placed guitar. The silvery symmetry of it all made me want to kick the glass in.

I returned to our booth via the back spiral staircase, accompanied by the pants of Cher, John & Yoko, and Gary Glitter, and downed my beer in one gulp.

Our food had arrived.

"How is it?" asked Dave, who had never eaten at a Hard Rock before.

"Well, I was expecting mediocre, but this is unusually mediocre," I replied. "Try an onion ring."

He did so, and said, "It doesn't taste like anything."

"Yeah, I know. What do you suppose they fry them in that has absolutely no taste?" I wondered.

On Michigan Avenue, Chicago's main shopping street, the Victoria's Secret and the Borders, my other two meccas, are located side by side. Have I mentioned, I love this city? It was an hour or so later, in Borders, when I received what in hindsight I recognize to be the first clue as to what, exactly, those onion rings were fried in.

For your information and future reference, Gentle Reader, the bathrooms in Borders are located in the basement. We had been browsing on the fourth floor in the CD/DVD section when the rather urgent need to get to the basement hit me.

But it wasn't until another hour and a half later, back in Dave's part of the city, when we were two blocks from his apartment, on our way to the store to buy beer, that I finally had the answer:

Castor oil.

Ooh, let me get back, let me get back... now.

The Onion Ring Occurrence was not so acute as to require me to get on the next plane back to Toronto and never look Dave in the eye again, but, well, let's just say it's damned fortuitous that my purchases at Victoria's Secret included five new pairs of underwear.

In the next Chicago story, Postmodern Sass becomes Surreal Sass. But first, she sings au revoir to Jack.

Hotel California

I was reading my karaoke buddy Operaman's blog over the weekend and I laughed when I read this story. Not only because it's a damned funny story, but because it reminded me of a similar embarassing tale of my own, and, as I always say, if you can't laugh at yourself you can't expect other people to laugh at you.

For those of you, Gentle Readers, who also read Tim Bray, and to whom I've hinted that one day I'd tell you a Tim story, well, sit back, make yourselves comfy, here it is.

Be forewarned, however, that it is a story embarassing only to me, not at all to Tim. And while he knows part of the story, because he was there, he never knew, until now, the embarassing part, but since he's no longer my boss I don't need to worry about it being a career-limiting move.

It was September 1995, and I was the marketing manager for that long-defunct Internet search engine called the Open Text Index. Tim was my boss, but I had only met him once or twice, and only briefly, because he lived then, as he still does, in Vancouver, and Open Text was then, as it still is, in Waterloo. We had just signed a Big Deal with Yahoo! and were hosting a joint press conference at an Internet café in Greenwich Village — in New York City.

Man, those were the days.

When the press conference was over, we all came outside and stood on the café's patio in the sun. It was a heartbreakingly gorgeous day. There were six of us from Open Text, including the president of the company, who was busy schmoozing with his Yahooligan counterpart; Linda and Steve, on technical duty — this was a live "cybercast" — and David Weinberger, at that time our hired-gun P.R. guy. It was early for dinnertime, but just right for beer drinking time, and so we discussed where to go.

I remember looking down the street and seeing, in the distance, the twin towers of the World Trade Center. We were staying at the Marriott in the plaza there, the Marriott that is no longer there.

"Why don't we walk back?" I suggested. "I'm sure there are lots of places along the way, and we're in no hurry, are we?"

We were all staying at the hotel that night, flying home the next day.

I was surprised at the grumbling replies of "too far" and "too tired" and "have work to do."

Only Tim said, "Let's go."

So we did.

I just love walking in Manhattan when the weather is fine, and I don't mind it even when it's not. I've been to New York many, many times and I've covered on foot the entire distance from the south ferry to Columbia University. I would have been happy to walk south to the World Trade Centre that day alone, but I was even happier to have some company.

Just between you and me, Gentle Reader, I was also a little bit nervous. This was my boss, remember. I didn't know him very well, but I knew him well enough to know that he was about eight million times smarter than me. And I was smart enough to know that he was still forming an opinion of me. The next few hours had the equal potential to be a friendship-bonding or career-ending experience.

We set off along a street whose name I can't recall, in a southerly direction. I've been to New York three or four times since September 11, 2001 and have missed the twin towers, and their guidepost-like ability to give you your bearings and act as a beacon. In Toronto we have the CN Tower, which serves the same propitious purpose.

It wasn't long before we chose our first oasis. Tim walked in first, headed straight to the bar, and took a seat.

"Are you a bar-sitting kind of guy?" I asked. I, too, prefer sitting at the bar rather than at a table or a booth.

"When I don't know the area, I always sit at the bar. Bartenders are a wealth of information," Tim replied.

"Bartender, what's on draft?" Tim directed his question to the man currently in charge. He's not one for small talk, I thought, and marked that as a point in his favour. I'm no good at small talk myself, neither am I above despising those who are.

The bartender recited his list.

"Is there a local beer?" asked Tim. Then, to me: "Always drink the beer that's brewed closest to where you're sitting."

I have never forgotten that piece of advice, and have imparted it frequently to friends, even to strangers. We had one beer, maybe two, then proceeded on our peregrination.

I don't remember where we ate dinner, or what we ate, and I remember little of the specifics of our conversation. I do remember that I was never bored, not even for a moment, and that I hoped the twin towers would be farther away than we had originally bargained for.

Night had fallen, but the evening was still fine and warm. We entered another establishment, and sat again at the bar. I don't remember which one of us said it first, and which expressed surpise that the other had, but the comment was this:

"Good single malt collection."

The bottles were, of course, clearly visible from the bar vantage. There was Glenlivet and Glenfiddich, Macallan and the other commonplace scotches, but what precipitated the comment was the Lagavulin, Dalwhinnie, and my favourite, Laphroaig.

Neat.

We sampled a couple of fine distilled malt beverages, and then the conversation became even more fascinating. Tim told me about working on the Oxford English Dictionary project, and about the interesting words he'd learned. (At such time as he sees fit to market his lustrous t-shirts, I will be the first customer.) He told me that he'd been married, and that he and his ex-wife were still friends, and how they had sent out divorce announcements the way people send out wedding announcements. He told me about growing up in Lebanon, and he likened the Internet to the telephone system he became accustomed to in that time and place — how it's far from perfect, it drops your connections now and then, it doesn't work all the time, but it's a great, great idea and it'll improve.

Have I mentioned I grew up in a hick town called Beamsville?

I was in awe.

And I was starting to feel drunk.

Now, I don't need you to tell me, Gentle Reader, that getting drunk is never a good idea, especially with co-workers and even more especially with your boss, but perhaps I don't need to tell you, either, that when you're drunk there's nothing you can say to yourself that will convince you of this truth.

I don't remember everything that happened after that. I very likely said some unintelligible, perhaps even downright stupid, things. On the bright side, I am a happy drunk — I love everybody, and at worst might need to be restrained from dancing on tables (or singing on balconies) — so it's doubtful I got into any serious trouble. Tim would have told me. I hope.

I remember a fountain. One of those big, round, constantly spraying ones, in a plaza. The kind that children will climb into on a hot day. I vaguely recall standing on the edge and daring Tim to dare me to jump in, a dare I would have taken, because I rarely can resist a dare, especially when I'm drunk.

But he didn't, and so I didn't. I think.

I'm sure we made it back to the Marriott, because of what was about to take place, but I have no recollection of the last few blocks. There may have been one last oasis; I'm not sure.

The next thing I remember is waking up in the middle of the night and having to go to the bathroom very, very badly. You know how, when you wake up in a strange place you take a moment to get your bearings? Well, I didn't take that moment. I didn't turn on the light. I may have thought I was at home, and so I tried to find the bathroom door by rote.

When I opened my eyes I was in the hallway, and the door to my room had closed behind me.

You can check out any time you like, but don't forget to go to the bathroom first.

I was very drunk. The scotch had had a few hours to seep into my brain, but good. I had no idea what time it was. There was no one in the hallway; no sound from anywhere.

I couldn't remember which door was mine. Not that knowing would have helped me enter it.

I wandered in the hallway with no plan. Then I knocked on a door. I have no idea what I hoped for, maybe that I'd find Linda — she might have been staying on the same floor. Someone yelled at me from inside a room to go away. It wasn't Linda. Tim may have been on the same floor somewhere, too, and to this day I thank god, even though I don't believe in him, that I didn't knock on Tim's door in my stuporous condition.

Before long I came to the elevator. I shook the cobwebs out of my rattled brain and reminded myself how one functions. I was crossing my legs and walking funny by this time.

I remember being just aware enough of my predicament to realize that I was about to enter a world of embarassment in the lobby of the Marriott, but I had to pee so bad I no longer cared. It was a very, very big lobby, but thankfully it was almost empty. I went to the desk.

The clerk took pity on my and led me to the bathroom behind the desk. I imagine there was one out in the lobby somewhere, but I wouldn't have been able to find it with simple directions. The clever man must have sensed this, and weighed allowing me into forbidden territory versus having to call someone to clean up the mess I would surely make if left unattended.

I have never been so relieved, metaphorically and literally, in my life.

Then the desk clerk, god bless him, made me another key, and called a bellman who escorted me back to my room. He actually opened the door for me, turned on the light, held the door to let me in, then gave me the key.

I hope I thanked him.

Throughout this adventure, Gentle Reader, I was wearing my favourite dusty pink silk Victoria's Secret nightshirt with absolutely nothing on underneath. It was then about 15 years old, had been washed thousands of times, and was, and still is, very, very flimsy.

Come to think of it, that may have been why the desk clerk and the bellman were so solicitous.

Then again, I'm sure they've seen stranger things. As I told Operaman, if you work at that Days Inn for a few months you'll be able to write a book.

* * *
Gentle Reader, there may be a dearth of stories for the next week or two, until I return from England. Until then, do visit some of my bloggerly friends — you'll find them over to your right.

Hungry Like The Wolf

Maybe it's the arrival, finally, of warmer weather. Maybe it's the smoking ban. Maybe the clientele have simply disappeared, like Tequila Mockingbird. But Kickass Karaoke at the Bovine Sex Club has been cancelled, and at the Rivoli it's been cut back to every other Sunday, instead of every Sunday, and last night was a slow night.

I hadn't seen my karaoke buddies since there was snow on the ground, and gosh darn it all, I sure missed them. I thought the cutbacks would drive all the regulars to be there early, to get a good table, but I was the first one there, and I sang to the crickets for the first hour. No Lana. No Punky Nerdster. No Operaman, since he's gone back to Calgary.

Then Joey arrived. With his accordion, of course.

Tim, my favourite Canadian Idol non-finalist (one of the judges, it seems, forcibly dragged him off the stage during his audition), practiced for his lead role in the Joe Cocker story, to be produced in 2028.

The Viking showed up, and he'd done something new with his hair. Highlights, or possibly lowlights. I'm sure he's got more hair product in his bathroom than your average three females.

Sparky had just flown home from San Francisco. You know you're obsessed when you start scheduling your business trips around karaoke.

Mo was sitting across the table from me. He was looking very spiffy, and was in grand spirits, having recently started a new job at a major Internet company, where he's in charge of their portal Web site. He leaned toward me, looked into my eyes, and said, "I've been thinking about French Fries."

"You have?" I replied, "Do you often think about French Fries?"

"As a matter of fact, I think about French Fries every day, but I haven't had any in a long, long time."

"I know what you mean," I said, "It's been a long time since I had any French Fries myself."

Actually, I had some French Fries when I was in New York in March.

"I was thinking of having some French Fries," Mo continued.

"Right now? Here?"

Can you do that at the Rivoli?

"Yes."

"I can hardly remember what French Fries taste like," I sighed.

"The thing is, I don't like to eat French Fries alone."

"It's always more fun with a partner," I agreed.

"Would you like to have some French Fries with me right now?" Mo asked.

"I'd love to."

They were pretty good fries, too.
* * *
Next: another chorus of Working For The Weekend, wherein Postmodern Sass thanks her Gentle Readers. Or, you can click here to find out what Postmodern Sass learned about men from watching Wild Kingdom, or click here to read the next adventure of Postmodern Sass and her karaoke buddies.

Who Are You?

A Canuck, an American, and a Viking walk into a blog and...

I'm not sure how to complete that joke, but I do know the joke's on me. Until last night I had thought that a week ago Thursday, in the car with The Viking, I had survived the most embarassing conversation of my life. I was wrong.

Accordion Guy and The Redhead, a.k.a. Wendy and Joey, were at the Rivoli last night with a couple of their "real friends" who were introduced to me as brother and sister.

Joey used my analog name to introduce me to Donny and Marie, and then Donny said, "You're Sass, aren't you? I read your blog."

"Really?" I was surprised and flattered. It continues to amaze me that anyone, especially those of the Donny, rather than the Marie, gender, reads my blog, but more surprising was that this was a person who was there in person. I've heard from many of my Gentle Readers, and they are in San Diego, Stuttgart, and Sydney. I don't expect to run into them in a bar.

"I've been reading you since you posted the comment on Joey's blog about the Han Solo /Princess Leia cake topper," said Donny. "The more I read, the more I put the pieces together, and thought to myself, I think I know who she might be."

"Donny, you have to stop approaching blog reading like a reporter from 60 Minutes," interjected Joey. Then he turned his attention back to Wendy, and became oblivious to the world. If you have never seen the two of them together, in person, you are missing a truly awe-inspiring scene. No exaggeration at all.

"A 525 isn't a real BMW, you know," continued Donny.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Well, it is, if you want a BMW for, say, taking out the trash. It's not good for much else with that little engine."

Way to make a good first impression, I thought — insult my friends.

"I think you should kick Jack to the curb," he said, firmly. "He's had his six years."

"You don't know yet, what happened last night, at the wedding," I replied.

"Doesn't matter. Forget about him. Dave's a great guy." Of course Donny would know Dave; he's sitting there with Wendy and Joey, and Dave is going to be Wendy's bridesman.

Wendy, upon hearing her name, tore her gaze from Joey long enough to agree with Donny, and to inquire, "Sass, I hope you like cheeseburgers."

Donny wasn't through yet. Two down, one to go.

"I know you had some guys offer to do away with The Viking for you, but I thought someone should offer a word in his defence. Try to explain his side of it."

I was all ears.

"The Viking seems like a really nice guy," Donny began.

"He is," I agreed, assuming he had inferred this from reading my blog.

"So I think what it might be is that, because he's a nice guy, and because he really likes you, and wants to be your friend, he doesn't want to take the chance that you might go out with him, then break up, and then avoid each other. I remember when he and [insert real name of stripper — sorry, burlesque dancer — here] broke up they divided up the karaoke places so they wouldn't have to run into each other..."

Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait.

Oh, fuck.

"You know who The Viking is?"

"Of course. How many famous Vikings are there? And, by the way, you'd better not let M— catch you calling her a stripper."

I hurt my nose a bit as my forehead thumped the table. I hoped I would wake up in a Soho doorway.

"He's too short for you, anyway, you know."

Hey, I don't wear go-go boots all the time. I take them off when I go to bed. And when I walk the dogs.

Donny indicated that he believed my shocked reaction to be disingenuous. "You're publishing stories on your blog, you're not writing in your diary and hiding it under your mattress. Don't act like you're surprised that people are reading it."

It's not that; I know I have readers. They email me all the time. It's this: I gather most bloggers tell their friends and family about their blogs. Not me. Carly and Simon; Magda and her creepy boyfriend, Romeo; my best friend since high school, Kay; my newly married friend, Mrs. Stephen King; even my cousins — they don't even know I have a blog, much less have they read about the characters based on them in it. And may I remind you, Gentle Reader, that should they perchance stumble upon it, they won't necessarily recognize themselves anyway. The perchances are minute, in any case. Thirty trillion blogs or so out there in the World Wide (very wide) Web. I mean, what are the odds?

"Does Jack know about it?" asked Donny.

"Yes, but he only reads it when I write about him. Same with my karaoke buddies."

"What makes you think The Viking doesn't read it?" persisted Donny.

I would think the answer to that question is obvious. The Viking told me himself. He's not interested.

* * *
In the next story we meet Sass's father. And the next time Sass sees Donny, she can't believe who he's sitting with.

Thank You For Being A Friend

My horoscope today reads, "Instant romance could be yours if you go out with friends."

It's Valentine's Day, and I'm no one's inamorata. I woke up alone and didn't find my bed surrounded by 99 red balloons, as I have in years past, so I decided to trudge out to the corner store, despite the freezing rain, and pick up the fixings to make myself my favourite breakfast: a pumpernickel bagel with bacon and Swiss cheese. While the bacon was crisping and the bagel toasting I listened to the CD that E lent me last night, and made coffee. Strong and freshly ground, not instant.

I'm pretty sure I don't want instant romance, either. But I do like to go out with friends, and I feel blessed that I have them. My best friend; my ex-ex-friend; my old school friend; my karaoke buddies; my cousins, who, now that we're grownups are my friends; my shoulder-to-cry-on friend; my "big brother" friend. And Jack.

Then there are all the new friends that I've made since I began blogging, some whom I've met in person, and some who remain virtual. Logan's Dave referred to me as a dear reader today, which is nice, and posted some pictures of himself in a kilt. I canna' resist a man in a kilt. Happy V-Day, Dave.

Earlier this week it was my best friend, Kay's, birthday so I called her. She lives in Bermuda, so a long distance phone call is the present. I told her about what stupid Sparky did, and how I'm never speaking to him again, and I told her that Sara's getting married, and she said it's about time, and was happy for her, too, even though Kay and Sara only met each other once, years ago, in New York, when the three of us went Bloomie's-crazy.

Kay told me that she agrees with me and Lana: boys are stupid. She had called her boy a couple of days ago, and left a cheery message, "Hi, how's it going? Just wondering what you're up to, and oh, by the way, it's my birthday tomorrow."

She's subtle. Like me.

When she hadn't heard from him by late afternoon day of, she called again. "Oh, sorry," he told her, "When I heard it was you, and you sounded fine, I just deleted the rest of the message."

Kay doesn't know anything about Jack. Remember the Seinfeld episode where Jerry's dating a girl whose name he can't remember? And he explains to George how it's too late to ask her now, because they've spent so much time together; the moment to ask her name has passed, so instead he tries to contrive a way to discover her name. It's kinda like that. I don't know where to begin, to tell Kay the story. We used to tell each other everything, but I met Jack during the eight year period in which Kay didn't speak to me. Then, three years ago, when she showed up at my mother's funeral and we got back together again as friends, well, that was during the time that Jack wasn't in my life.

So we discussed plans for a trip to Mexico in the spring. We had a swell time together in Memphis last fall, even though we didn't go through with the tatoo, that we want to do it again. A trip, that is. And maybe the tatoo. We did spend an hour in Memphis Tatoo, talking to Roger, himself a fine specimen of his art. Field research, so to speak. He recommended bringing a photo, or a picture "off the Innernet" which he could stencil and replicate in whatever size we wish.

Me, I'm thinking something small. Maybe a flower. Maybe a Tiger Lily. Kay's thinking along the same lines, surprisingly and thank goodness. As for real estate location, we both agree that you gotta flaunt it if you got it, so mine will be on my ankle, Kay's on her chest.

Kay has been one of my 2:00 in the morning friends for twenty-five years. Everyone needs at least one of those: someone you can call in the middle of the night who would bail you out of jail, or help you bury the body. A few weeks ago I discovered that I have more than one.

Carson was hosting a special KAK at the Drake, and Lana and I were there, but none of my other karaoke buddies could make it. It was a slow night, probably owing to the fact that it was early January and -30º. When Lana got up to leave, she lifted her coat from the back of the chair where it had been hanging, and I noticed that mine, which had been hanging right under hers, was gone. We conducted a search, with the help of the bouncer and the bartender, but my coat was nowhere in the Underground. The bouncer suggested I stick around until closing — with the lights up, maybe we'd find it, or find another abandoned coat that might explain that someone had taken mine by mistake.

Then it was 3:30 a.m., and no coat.

My keys were in the pocket. The keys to my house, three miles away, and the keys to my car, parked on Queen Street, on the eastbound side, where, in four hours, it would be towed to make way for rush hour traffic.

And that's when the friends kicked in. Lana offered her phone and car. Carson, who lives around the corner from me, lent me his coat and his car. I drove him home, then drove myself home, then banged on the door of my friend and neighbour, Zee. Her dog, Gracie, started barking, and moments later a bleary-eyed Zee opened the door.

"I'm so sorry to wake you! Long story. Tell you tomorrow. Need my keys."

She reached behind her, located my keychain in the dark, handed it to me, and asked, "Are you OK?"

"Fine. Just cold. And I have to go rescue my car from Queen Street. I'll call you tomorrow. I owe you one."

Then I ran home and let myself in. It was now 4:00. The cats came downstairs to greet me, went straight to their food dishes, but looked perplexed. It was still dark outside.

I dialed AC's number while I hunted for my spare car keys.

"Don't panic. It's not a dire emergency, but I need your help."

"Now?"

"Um, well, yes. I mean, not immediately, but soon. I have to go get my car. It's up on Queen Street."

Only after I had hung up the phone did it occur to me that I could have taken a cab.

I have the best friends in the world.

Sometimes, if you're very lucky, there's a moment when you realize that those people you had considered only acquaintances cross the line and become your friend. It happened to me last night.

My karaoke buddies and I have joked about the fact that we're not really friend friends, we're just karaoke friends. We talk about our "real friends" — just like that, in quotation marks — who don't like karaoke. We've had the occasional awkward introduction moment, when it didn't seem quite appropriate to say, "This is my friend, Mo," or "This is my friend, Sass."

So I thought it wouldn't matter if I never spoke to Sparky again. I'd just think of him as that jerk who sometimes comes to the Rivoli. But last night, it had been two weeks since the incident, and when I saw him there, I felt a little sad.

Then Mo told me that he had spent much of the two weeks talking to Sparky, trying to get him to, well, stop being a jerk, but that Sparky was stubborn that way and he wasn't going to apologize. I thanked him for trying, and resigned myself to having lost a friend I never quite had.

And then, a little while later, Sparky came to sit beside me, and said, sheepishly, "I buy you a drink?"

"Is that by way of an apology?" I asked.

"It comes with an apology," he replied.

And so it did. And a very nice one, it was, at that. It looked like it was just about killing him to offer it, and for that I appreciated it even more. We kissed and made up.

And so, in the wee hours of Valentine's Day morning, I drove three of my favourite guys home. I like them even better than balloons.

Go to next story

Highschool Confidential

Though we have, like Elvis, left the building, we never really leave highschool until we get married and start procreating. That's when we become grownups, not one hour sooner.

Until then, we remain social teenagers.

Like we're still in highschool.

Take the other night at karaoke, for example. Please.

My karaoke buddy, Sparky, caused grievous insult upon my person by singing a karaoke duet with Punky Nerdster, when he and I had discussed singing that very song together not two hours before. Then he compounded the insult to what may be unforgivable levels by not even realizing that he had insulted me. Apparently, to him, our earlier conversation, the words of which were barely dry, had been of so little importance he didn't even remember participating in it.

So I'm never speaking to him again.

When they got up to sing and I realized they were doing Come What May, I thought maybe she had cajoled him into it. See, the girl in question — who, by the way, is nineteen years old, wears a dog collar around her neck, nerdy-cool glasses, and her hair in braids — has a crush on Mo, my other karaoke buddy. He and I had done I Got You Babe earlier. I thought maybe she wanted to get back at him by singing with Sparky, which I could totally understand.

(In case you're thinking, Gentle Reader, that perhaps it is Sparky who has a crush on Punky Nerdster, I can assure you that isn't it. Sparky has a girlfriend, and it seems quite serious between them, though she rarely comes to karaoke.)

There are unspoken, but understood, rules of karaoke etiquette. You don't do someone else's signature song. You don't even do a song by someone else's signature band, unless you ask them first. When it's Lana's birthday, she gets to sing twice as much and you don't do any of the songs that she wants to sing.

And if you tell a girl you're going to sing Come What May with her, you don't go singing it with a different girl.

When Sparky and Punky were finished singing I sent Mo to tell Sparky that I hate him and am never going to speak to him again. Then Mo and I went out behind the bleachers for a smoke.

It gets worse.

So Mo and I are out having a cig and he says, "You're really mad, aren't you?"

"Yeah, I really am. I mean, it was about two weeks ago when Sparky and I first discussed the possibility of doing Come What May. We thought that, with some practice, we could do a passable job. At least as well as Ewan McGregor and Nicole Kidman, you know? It's a challenging song, and you know how Sparky loves to learn a challenging song. And there are so few duets on the song list."

"Well, there's Fairytale of New York." Mo and I have sung that one together several times.

"I know, darlin', that's our song. So anyway, we agreed that we'd practice our parts at home and try it in a couple of weeks. Tonight, when we first got here, we talked about it again, and decided that when it got slow at the end of the night, maybe we'd give it a try. And then suddenly he's up there with Punky, singing Come What May. With not so much as a by-your-leave. What am I, dirt?"

"It sounds to me like Sparky owes you an apology."

"Yeah, well, that would be nice. At least they sucked. That makes me feel a little better."

"Meow!"

"I know how catty that sounds, but I'm not jealous of Punky — though I would have been, had she nailed the song — I'm insulted at Sparky treating me like I don't exist."

"It doesn't make any sense to me. Sparky emailed me the other day and asked me for Punky's email address. He said he wanted to ask her about a song."

I waited in vain for a moment for the manhole beside me on Queen Street to open up and swallow me. When it didn't happen I decided to go back upstairs and get drunk instead.

Curse him.

Lana was onstage, again, this time singing Add It Up. She was celebrating her birthday, and had invited a dozen or so of her friends, karaoke virgins all. Carson granted her the immunity challenge and put her in the rotation twice.

One of the friends that came for the party is the boy Lana has a crush on. Remember when you were in highschool, you had crushes? They'd come upon you for no sensible reason. The object of your crush was usually someone you'd known for years, and then one day he smiles at you a little differently and boom, you're crushed.

Yeah, you guessed it, there's a boy I have a crush on, too. He comes to karaoke sometimes. Good thing he's not the same boy as the boy Lana has a crush on. Since we're both mature, intelligent, desireable women, instead of talking to the boys we like, we went out for a smoke and talked to each other about the boys.

Me: "So the boy you like is the tall one, right?"

Lana: "You mean the one I've been practically hanging onto and making cow eyes at all night? How'd you guess?"

Me: "Don't worry, no one else noticed. Boys never notice when you like them.

Lana: "Boys are stupid."

Me: "Yeah. Have you ever seen that poster?"

Lana: "Which poster?"

Me: "This one:"



Lana: "So what do you think?"

Me: "He's cute! Where do you know him from?"

Lana: "He was a friend of a friend, and is in the circle of people I hang out with, so I've known him for a couple of years. I think he has a girlfriend, though."

Me: "You're not sure?"

Lana: "No. See, he mentioned this girl he met on Lavalife a couple of weeks ago, and I thought he was going to bring her tonight, when he said he was coming to karaoke, but he's here alone, so I don't know."

Me: "Do you want me to talk to him and try to find out?"

Lana: "Do you think you could?"

Me: "I can try, but I can't push it. If I ask him too abruptly, he'll think I'm the one who wants to ask him out. And then we'll find ourselves in the middle of an episode of Three's Company."

Lana: "So what about... you know, him?"

Me: "What about him?"

Lana: "Have you asked him out?"

Me: "No!"

Lana: "Why not?"

Me: "'Cause then he'd know I like him!"

Lana: "Isn't that the point?"

Me: "Not if he doesn't like me."

Lana: "What's wrong with men?"

Me: "Nothing's wrong with the one behind the bar. Let's go back in and have him pour us another little something."

Back inside, I sneak up behind Goldilocks and mess up his hair a little. I can only do this when I catch him off guard, and even then he squeals in protest. He has really great hair, it's so hard to resist. I wonder if he carries a comb in his back pocket, the way I used to do when I was in highschool.

I call him Goldilocks, to tease him. Remember when you thought that if a boy teased you it was because he didn't like you? Even though you teased the boys you liked, and just ignored the ones you didn't like? And much later, when it's too late to do anything about it, you realize that the boy who teased you by pulling your pigtails or lifting up your skirt or calling you "Blondie" did so because he liked you?

The verb to tease had a different meaning back then, too.

When I was actually in highschool, I used to read Cathy. It wasn't available online back then. I haven't read it for years, and only this week learned that Cathy and Irving, after two decades of dating, are getting married. Sadly, she doesn't think the silly pretty shoes were what did it.

* * *
Go to the next story in sequence, in which Postmodern Sass learns that her friend Sara is marrying Stephen King. Or, skip ahead to find out whether Sass and her friend Sparky make up. If you want to know who the boy Sass has a crush on is, you can read all about it in The Viking Trilogy, beginning with this story.