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.

The Angels Wanna Wear My Red Shoes

Yesterday I took my beautiful Mac G4, the one Jack gave me when I moved here, to the geniuses at the Apple Store. The Mac is for my music only, and sometimes for watching TV shows in bed on Hulu, but lately it's been acting cranky. Stopping, stuttering, stalling. You know, doing the sorts of things they say Macs don't do. It turns out they do.

"It can't be saved, I'm sorry," said the genius.

I miss my personal geek every day, but I don't think even he could have saved it. So I did what Jack would have done if he had been there. I bought a ridiculously expensive pair of shoes. I'm talking Michael Kors, at the fabulous Nordstrom's shoe department. They weren't even on sale. It was just like that day Jack bought me those beautiful pink shoes, except of course, he wasn't here to help me pick them out. Or to go get his shoes shined while he waited for me to browse.

There's a kind of poetry in the timing of all this.

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.

Gentle On My Mind

Yesterday I took Beauty, or, rather, she took me, to the City for the first time since we've been together. Jack's city, San Francisco, that is.


It's not that we haven't been together, Beauty and I, in and out of, and all over, San Francisco. It's just that I used to be in the passenger's seat. It still seems strange, sometimes, to be driving her without Jack. To remember that we'll be ending our trip in San Jose, instead of Pacific Heights. It feels wrong, but at the same time, it feels absolutely right. Jack wanted us to be together.

We both miss him awfully.

I was a little nervous about driving her in the City, because Beauty is a 5-speed, and, well, you may have heard about the insanely steep hills for which San Francisco is famous. I can drive a stick, don't worry. Before Beauty, all my cars were Volkswagens. I don't even know how to drive an automatic. It's the people who might be behind me at a red light that I'm concerned about. The people who pull up too close, never thinking that a German car might need a little rollback room!

My strategy, therefore, was to race up Van Ness, burning the first few yellow lights on the up side, so that I could make it to the peak without having anyone behind me. It worked, and we coasted over the top and down toward Union Street without incident.

We were going to The Black Horse. Jack's pub.


The charm of The Black Horse lies in the feeling that you're not so much in a public bar, but in a friend's home. You might be asked to run to the corner store for some ice, for example, or to wash a few glasses. If you're standing at the back by the storeroom, you probably already know that you'll be required to haul some beer to the bathtub, which serves as the fridge. Drink there frequently enough and you'll end up tending bar.

The Black Horse is the smallest bar in San Francisco. A dozen patrons make it crowded. This is also part of its charm; part of the reason why Jack loved it so, and why I loved going there with him. You can't help but meet everyone.

James, the regular bartender and owner of the pub, is another reason why I love it there. He's a charming Irishman with literary sensibilities, who posts pithy quotes on the tiny blackboard behind the bar for patrons to guess at. The first time I went to The Black Horse with Jack, on the way home, walking up the hill, he said to me, "You love him, don't you? James, I mean." And I had to admit it was true.

Last night, I asked if I might write on the board, and James allowed me to. This is what I wrote:

Death cannot stop true love. It can only delay it for a while.

Mirror In The Bathroom

I promised myself that I'd spend this weekend working on my dissertation. I have to force myself; make deals with myself. Cajole myself. Bribe myself.

You'd think that cold, hard pragmatism would be sufficient. You'd be wrong. Even though there are carrots and sticks hanging over my head — the carrot: if I get my damned PhD done, I'll be hireable in Canada, and maybe, just maybe, if I'm very lucky, I can move back to Toronto (though I'd happily take Winnipeg or even Saskatoon at this point); the stick: if I don't show proof of the completion of my PhD before school starts next September, my contract at USJ will be terminated — still I procrastinate. I am the queen of procrastination. Oh, and, my visa expires in August.

So this morning I got up, made some coffee, and set right to work:

I cleaned the microwave.

Then I had a second cup, and cleaned the mirror in the bathroom. Yes, really. And yes, I always hear the English Beat in my head while I'm doing it.

I'm on my third cup now. With one eye, I'm considering what might be in critical need of vacuuming; with the other, I'm playing Scrabble on Facebook with Rochester. And, of course, blogging.

Hey, at least it's writing!

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow

This is my home, and I miss it like crazy, every day.


It used to amuse me, but now it makes me want to strangle people here in California, when I tell them I'm going home to "Canada" for Christmas, and they get this horrified look on their face and say something like, "But it so cold there!"

I used to laugh because when people speak in clichés I find it funny, but after the hundredth time or so, it starts to wear. It makes me wonder, do you people have no concept of home? Whatever place you call home, is it really the weather that evokes nostalgia?

Or could it be (wondered the Grinch) if home means just a little bit more...

Home is where your heart is. That's a cliché, too, and anyway, I left my heart in San Francisco. Home is where the people you love, and who love you, are, and I don't have any of those here, so I'm going home.

I'm going home for a whole month, and I'm taking Pinky with me.

I have a return ticket, but a whole lot can happen in a month.

Someone Left the Cake Out in the Rain

The other day I posted on Facebook that I was baking muffins, and immediately my high school boyfriend, Rex, commented, "You're being metaphorical, right?"

He knows me well, even still, and though I enjoy the reputation I have among my friends as a non-cook, because that way they feed me, if truth be told (not that it need be, here) I can cook. And bake.

I recently started baking muffins on a regular basis, because I've given up trying to find real muffins in this land sans Tim Hortons. Chocolate chips, lemon goo, raisins (I hate raisins!)... if they're crammed with sweet stuff they're not muffins, they're cupcakes! So I make huge batches of batter filled with bran, and oats, and anything else grainy I can find at Trader Joes, and I bake me three dozen or so muffins and eat them for breakfast for two weeks.

I only set off the fire alarm once.

One Night In Bankok

Is about all my Director spent over there, before embarking on his hike into the mountains, and by hike I mean the kind you need a Sherpa for. Somewhere over there in Tibet, or wherever the Himalayans are; I don't know the geography so well; don't care.

I'm just bitter because he chose the middle of the semester, in the middle of a budget crisis, to take this month-long vacation to find his zen. Whatever that is. Before he decamped to the monastery, though, he was able to communicate via his Blackberry to the office, to direct the cuts. The ones I told you about here.

He came back last week, finally, and just before Thanksgiving sent us all this email. Brace yourself, you might barf. I sure did:

"Colleagues: It's good to be back at my desk after an exceptional trip. Being tangentially a part of the coronation of the King of Bhutan is a once in a (reincarnated) lifetime experience. But even in a Himalayan monastery I was still thinking about you. I read about the budget cuts on the front page of the International Herald Tribune while eating breakfast in Bangkok. So it's big news. Fortunately I was able to communicate back here enough to monitor the situation and continue wrestling with these tough decisions.

Today I finally received some preliminary budget numbers. It does nothing to offset the dire situation, but our numbers should allow some schedule corrections and the possible reinstatement of a few of the recent cuts. Shortly after the holiday, I should also find out about some anticipated one-time money rewarding us for growth, probably for the last time.

As for the future, it's a whole new paradigm in California higher education, but with Thanksgiving on the other side of today's rain, I'd like to express a few things I'm grateful for:

For faculty and staff that care very deeply about this School and what's best for our students. I've been touched by your understanding and selflessness. For great students, as evidenced by the graduate presentations Monday evening. For the comforts and security of living here, despite the sour economy. For my soon-to-be-born grandson, coming into the world at a time when a new day dawns in American history. For the impermanence of everything negative.

Happy Thanksgiving."

End quote. Begin barfing.

Thanks For The Memory

Now I know how the Jews feel at Christmas. Americans make a Friggin' Huge Deal about the Thanksgiving holiday, but to me it's just a day where I don't have to go to work, it's quieter than usual, and mildly annoying that everything is closed.

So I stayed in, and had a productive morning. I touched up my roots. I vacuumed. I reviewed the first pass proofs of the first two chapters of my textbook (due to be published in March). Then Monica called, and invited me over.

"I've been up since 6:00 this morning, cooking," she exclaimed into the phone, a claim I found puzzling, since Monica's idea of cooking is opening cans or packages and heating up their contents.

Nevertheless, I have a rule, and she knows what it is: any time anyone wants to prepare food for me, I am happy to consume it. So I headed downstairs.

"Jazz is coming, and I bought beer, but it's still in the trunk of my car," said Monica as she opened the door. Jazz is her Bible-thumping, drug-addicted sister, and the beer was undoubtedly Corona, but still I offered: "Give me your key and I'll go get it."

I waited fifteen minutes for the beer to chill in the freezer, then opened one and joined Monica and Jazz on the patio. They were in mid conversation about something so to amuse myself momentarily I replayed my visit to the parking lot, where I'd waved hello to Beauty.

"Monica, I think I may have forgotten to lock your car just now," I said. "Do you want me to go back down and make sure?"

"No, don't worry about it. It locks itself."

"Seriously? You mean it knows? How can it know?"

"It just does."

"I wish your car would talk to my car!" said Jazz. She's a crazy Christian Bible thumper, and frequently makes those around her want to tear off her head and punt it across the room, but in between those moments she's a hoot.

"I can't believe I've been up since six this morning cooking!" said Monica again. She appeared to be waiting for us to ooh and aah at her skill and dedication, but I for one was puzzled about what she'd been doing, lo those nine hours hence. She'd shown me the pre-cooked turkey breast she'd put in the oven to heat, along with a dish of something that looked like stuffing. On the counter were a few sweet potatoes and an onion, but no evidence that they'd been called into service. There was a store-bought pumpkin pie in a box on the counter, and mashed potatoes in a pot on the stove. As I watched her open the can of that cranberry goo that Americans seem to love so much, I wondered whether the nine hours had been spent, perhaps, peeling three or four potatoes, or whether the mash had also come from a box.

"Oh, I almost forgot!" moaned Monica, looking truly distressed. "I made appetizers!" Then she opened the fridge and pulled out a plate of deviled eggs. "I just love deviled eggs, don't you?"

"I sure do," I said, and I meant it. See rule, above.

I still wonder what she did for eight hours and fifteen minutes, before I arrived, though.

Guess My Heart Has A Mind Of Its Own

I've been told more than once over the course of my life that I don't know when to give up. This can be a good thing. At my high school reunion I was voted most likely to lead the country to war, and when the movie Titanic came out, during the sequence where you see how all the different characters deal with their impending doom, my friend Harrison, who was watching it with me, said, "That would be you, barking orders at everyone to fill those lifeboats."

So as character flaws go, it's not such a bad one.

Jack used to say that he hated the word hope. He would, from time to time, encourage me to give up on him. To give up my hope that one day, we would ride off into the sunset together, metaphorically. I told him I would never give up, and that I didn't believe him, in any event, because I knew why he went to Doc G for all those years, and I knew what he meant when he said, "I'm working on it." I knew what the Very Bad Things were, and I never once doubted he would beat them. I never gave up on him, until I had to.

The working title of the novel I was writing, before I decided to write stories here as Postmodern Sass, was I, Hope. It had a happy ending. So does my screenplay. But I digress.

I think it's time for me to give up on California.

I don't want to, but these last few days I've been forcing myself to answer the question, "Why not?" and so far the only answer I've been able to give myself has been, "You're a fool if you don't."

"But my students need me!" I attempt to defend myself.

"They'll manage," I reply, cynically. "The one in a hundred that appreciates you will remember you, and stay in touch. The rest don't matter, and guess what? They won't miss you a whit."

"Ouch!"

"Sucks, doesn't it? You want another reality check?"

"No, thanks," I whimper.

"Tough shit. Listen up. You know all the work you've been doing on the curriculum committee for the last two years, trying to improve the program?"

"Of course. And we've done some really great things. The students have already noticed."

"Yeah, well, the students might think the program is better now, but that and $5 will get you a cup of coffee at Starbucks. Are you really blind to what the rest of the faculty thinks?"

"Apparently."

"They think, who are you to come into their School and dare to suggest that the way they've been doing things for twenty years needs improving? They think you're a heretic because you tell the students newspapers are dying and online is the way of the future. Who are you, to come to San Jose, the home of the Knight Ridder empire, and suggest such a thing? They're horrified that you tell your advertising students they should be taking marketing courses, because you're sending them to the Business School. They might like it better over there, and leave the College of Communications, which pays your bread and butter, missy. You'd better smarten up and keep pushing the mass comm curriculum, and by the way, stop telling the creatives that they should be minoring in graphic design. They can learn to be an art director in our program, by taking that one class we offer in Basic Layout. And how dare you suggest that advertising students don't need a full semester course on the First Ammendment? That's what they think, Clueless One. And then they shake their heads and say, oh well, she's Canadian. She just doesn't understand how things work here."

"You sure got that right. I don't understand why they seem perfectly happy to be working in what is clearly a third-rate School. They don't even seem to want to try to shoot for second-rate. I mean, I get that USJ isn't ever going to be Stanford, or Berkeley, but shouldn't we at least be trying?"

"What has trying gotten you so far?"

"You know! The student advertising agency! It's running right now, as a class, for the first time ever in the School's history. You know how hard I worked last spring, toiling through the layers of administration one has to pass in order to get a new course in the catalog. I wrote the syllabus, and presented the course proposal at the school, then the college, then the university level. You were there, don't you remember?"

"I remember. You used that business as a distraction, to keep yourself from worrying about what was going on with Jack's estate, his family, and Beauty. You didn't even go home last summer, you fool."

"Shut up, you know how Murphy's Law and all its corollaries work. If I had booked a ticket home, the day I left would have been the day Jack's father would have called to say they were coming."

"Yeah, and that worked out so well for you, didn't it?"

"Shut up."

"So, now what happened with the agency?"

"Well, because of all the state budget cuts, the axe has been falling in my department. You know we're tenure-track, so it's not like we're going to be cut, but my teaching assignment changed."

"To what?"

"From two sections of Intro to Advertising, one section of Consumer Advertising, and the Agency this semester; to two sections of Intro to Advertising and two sections of Consumer Advertising next semester."

"That's riduculous. There aren't enough students to support two sections of Consumer Advertising."

"I know."

"There's always only been one. There are 35 students, max. If it's broken into two sections, it'll be, like 20 in one and 18 or so in the other. How does that make any sense?"

"It doesn't. But you're missing the point. The Chair decided to cut the Agency faculty from three to two, and he cuts ME! I'm the one who did all the work to get it going! There wouldn't BE an Agency class if it weren't for me!"

"So, what are you going to do, give up on the School? Give up on California?"

"Wouldn't you?"

They say it's your birthday

It is, at exactly 3:30 this morning, and I have the best friends in the world, I really do. They've been all over my Facebook page for the last couple of days, already — I love Facebook, and that's one of the reasons, it alerts you to when your friends' birthdays are looming. And when you enter yours, you have the option of not displaying the year.

I started lying about my age when I turned 31, so I'm really good at it by now. Mostly, I just don't say, and let people assume what they will. Call me vain. I really don't care.

I've been dreading the day for weeks, and wasn't planning to do anything other than stay in bed all day, under the covers, but then JB called a few days ago and said, "What do you want to do on your birthday?"

Now, JB is motivated this summer to party all out because he's an impending father, and he knows his life as a party boy is about to come to an end. But that's OK, I'm fine being his enabler.

I want to go to this place, I replied. Karaoke.

I miss my karaoke buddies terribly. Carson, Mo, The Viking, Operaman, Wendy and Joey, Lana, Fudge, Jet Run, and most of all, Sparky. I miss my real old friends: Gilbert, Rex, Genie, Maria, Donny, Lulu, and Zee.


I miss Toronto.

When I go to Jack's city without him it's six parts sadness, one part happy, and three parts nostalgia, and I think that's just about right. He never missed my birthday in 12 years, and he's not going to miss it today. He'll always be with me.

It's not much of a story, I know, Gentle Reader, but it's all I've got.

To be where little cable cars climb halfway to the stars

My cousin Cinderella is on her way here, and we're driving up to The City tonight. That's San Francisco, where my heart is, for those of you who may be local to some other city.

It's not the first time I've been there since Jack died. There was the wake at his local pub, for one. Jerry took me to that party, quite the celebration of his life, it was, and just like Jack would have done he looked after me, made sure I didn't get too drunk, and made sure I got home safely.

He's awful swell, Jerry is.

Then there was the Friday night I talked Jeremy into driving me up to The City. I promised to take him out for dinner to a place of his choosing so long as he'd take me to The Black Horse for a pint afterwards. It was Jack's birthday, and that's where I wanted to be.

But the first time I was in Jack's city without Jack was the week after he died, when Tim invited me up to hang with the Java nerds. To take my mind off the frustration I was feeling then, because no date had been set for the funeral yet, and I thought my head would explode from frustration. I love to hang out with nerds, especially with Tim, because he's, like, a pretty famous one, and it's never boring to meet the propellerheads that flock to him.

And hang we did, from one Java fest to another, then one bar to another. Now, I don't believe in karma, as a rule, but I had to wonder what cosmic forces had aligned when the Java troop trooped into Jack's after-work bar, the House of Shields.

To be continued.

No Woman No Cry

When I got up this morning and walked through my closet to the bathroom (yes, just like Carrie in Sex and the City) and saw that the bathroom floor was shining like a mirror I swear the first thought that went through my head was, I'm going to need to get stronger glasses and sleep with them by my bedside — because, naturally, it wasn't possible that my bathroom was afloat in three inches of water.

Except that, well, it was.

It's not that I trusted my eyes. What I trusted was my foot, when it stepped into the water. But still, there's a certain amount of cognitive dissonance that you have to wrangle when you find yourself wading to the toilet.

(It gets worse when you sit down on it, and put your feet on your rug, and they're covered in water up to your ankles. You try to lift your feet up while you're sitting on the toilet, go on, just try it.)

I suppose if I'd had a dog he would have barked to alert me of the situation soon after the water entered the foyer, but I don't, I have a cat, and cats are happy to sleep for as long as you're willing to stay on the bed, which, if you're a cat owner, you already know.

Pinky didn't seem especially bothered that his litter box had floated clear across the bathroom, or that he wouldn't be able to jump onto the kitchen counter to eat breakfast because he'd have to swim to the counter first. He just looked up to me as if to say, later, dude, and good luck with all that. Then he went back into the bedroom and jumped up on the bed.

By now my brain had accepted the truth of the flood, and where it went next was, oh shit, what have I done? Did I leave the tap running? Did the fridge blow a fuse and defrost? And what is this, the 1950s? Since when does the ice in your fridge melt into a puddle deep enough to cover your ankles?

So I grabbed a towel, went back through the closet, drying my feet as I went, and circled around to the other side of the apartment, turned on the light, and saw that the kitchen and the foyer were completely flooded, too. The rest of the floors are covered with carpeting, and the metal strip that bounds it in had, apparently, served as a damn to hold in the water. It reminded me of the parking lot on the grounds of Paramount Studios in Hollywood. It's slightly concave, and they fill it with water and hang backdrops from the adjoining building and float boats in it and film movies.

It's funny where your mind goes when you wake up in the morning, all unsuspecting and everything, to find a reflecting pool where your bathroom used to be.

There was no water running in my apartment, so I waded out into the hallway where I met my neighbours. They had sandbagged their doorways as a precaution, but the water hadn't quite reached them. No, it had only formed a lake outside my door, then rivered its way in. You see, my apartment is closest to the giant concrete planters with the built-in watering systems which, it seems, had overflowed during the night.

"We've been trying to reach the manager," the neighbour around the corner said, and the one next to him added, "I came home at 7:30 this morning and saw the water in the hallway. I've been calling the office every ten minutes since then, but no one has called me back."

"I'll call Monica," I said. "She's my friend, I have her personal number."

Monica's been great. I'm not sure I would have gotten through the last few weeks without her. We weren't that close, not until Nadine moved away a couple of months ago, but then she went through some stuff and I was there for her, and now she's there for me. I haven't spoken to Nadine since Jack died. She moved to Phoenix at the end of March, to live with her boyfriend in his big house with the swimming pool. He's buying her a diamond as big as a head of cheese and they're getting married in November, and all she does is bitch and complain about her problems. From where I sit, she doesn't have any problems, none that matter, anyway, and I can't bear to listen to her anymore. It's for her own good that I unfriended her, because if I had to hear once more about how she sprained her wrist unpacking, or how horribly hot it is in Phoenix, or how she couldn't bring herself to go to the Suns game because she was so tired from working all week, I'm going to grab her hair, pull her head off her neck, and hammer throw it into traffic on 101.

But Monica, she's terrific. She said, take Pinky and go make yourself some coffee down in the media room, and I'll go get you a breakfast sandwich from Starbucks. She knows I love them. So I did just that, I put Pinky's leash on and we went downstairs, and within half an hour we'd been fed, and Bert, the maintenance guy, had brought Pinky's litter box downstairs for him, and Monica said don't worry about anything, the cleaning crew's already here and they're cleaning up the water, and it didn't reach your shoes or the books, and everything's fine, and I'll even credit you a couple of days' rent this month because of the mess. We'll clean the carpets and it'll be even better than it was before, so don't worry, don't look so sad, everything's gonna be all right.

I knew she was right, I did. It wasn't so bad, and it could have been so much worse. The water stopped just inches short of a big pile of library books, and it didn't seep into the closet where all my shoes, the pink shoes, are. So there was no reason, really, no reason at all, that I should have broken down crying right then, sitting on the big, comfortable sofa in the media room, when I had a latte in front of me and Pinky was fine and my apartment was being cleaned and everything was fine, just fine, everything was going to be all right.


Except that, well, it wasn't.

No More Words

I'm talking and it all seems fair, but really, I have no excuse.

Oh, I could tell you about how, for the past five weeks, I've had no Internet access in my apartment. I could explain to you how one day of "it's down" becomes a week of trying something that doesn't work, to another week of excuses, to another week of making do by going to the building's coffee room and drinking cup after cup of café au lait while emailing and Facebooking until my laptop's battery runs down, all the while thinking, I don't have enough time to write a blog story, I'll just check my email...

But finally last Saturday, without any help from my favourite geek (since, well, he's currently being an asshole) I set up a wireless router and now I've got my pretty Mac-top running my iTunes over there on the built-in with my stereo components, and at night I can unplug it and take it to bed with me and watch episodes of Terminator on Fox.com; and over here at my desk I've got my USJ work computer, a beat-up old Dell laptop, for writing.

I'm getting back into the swing.

Today I got a letter from George Bush. You know the one, you got one too, didn't you? The notice about the Economic Stimulus package? Those billions of dollars George is going to send to us, a couple of hundred dollars at a time, that we're all going to run out and spend, and stimulate the economy.

I'm not American, so what do I know, but I just don't get how this is going to work. I mean, if you got $300, or $600 in the mail, wouldn't you apply it to some existing debt? And if you don't have any debt, well, are you even eligible for this money?

I've thought about what I'll do with my money. I considered spending it frivolously; buying something I've wanted, but was never willing to spend the money on. Like that pair of pink Chanel sunglasses I've always wanted. Or a super duper Swiss Army Knife. Go ahead, laugh. Or maybe I'll get my birthstone ring redesigned — I have a nice stone, but the setting is worn thin and the band is on the verge of breaking.

Any of those purchases would stimulate the economy, wouldn't they?

I think that, instead, I'll send it home to my bank in Toronto and have them apply it to my mortgage. (Attention Alanis Morissette: That would be ironic.)

Next, The Librarian turns out to be an asshole.

I'm coming home, I've done my time

Actually, I haven't. I gotta do at least three yards on the inside. Inside America, that is. Inside California. Inside San Jose, the armpit of the San Francisco Bay area.

I'm so sick of hearing that phrase, the bay area. See, the way they wield it here, the locals, I mean, is with the implication that it is the centre of the universe. They say "bay area" like everyone everywhere in the known world should know which bay they're referring to. Like there are no other bays.

Of course, this is the only one that matters to them, I get that. I get that nothing outside of a fifty mile radius matters to anyone here. I used to think Americans were provincial, woefully ignorant, and xenophobic. Now I'm sure of it.

I can't wait to go home. I booked my ticket this week, and decided to throw budget to the wind and take Pinky with me. That means no flexibility in booking, because I have to be on the United nonstop from San Francisco to Toronto, and there's only one a day. All in, including Pinky's fare, and travel to and from SFO, it'll be more than $1,000 which, nowadays, is about $1,500 Canadian. I never thought I'd see the day that that would happen. So much for, "At least you get paid in American money!"

Sixteen months down, twenty to go.

Yeah, I'm counting.

Turkey in the Straw

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

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

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

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

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

LATER

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

More coffee, please!

I Feel The Earth Move

I was just about to sit down at my computer yesterday afternoon to tell you about my first California earthquake experience, when I had my second California earthquake experience. The second one didn't make even the local news.

The first one, on the other hand, made only the local news, judging by the fact that I got no phone calls or emails, not one, from any friends or family outside of California inquiring as to my continued existence.

I've learned that The Big One, in earthquake terms, is a mythical creature related to the One That Got Away on the fishing trip, which is to say, it never arrives. It's always in the future. The earthquake in 1989, the one that broke bridges and destroyed neighbourhoods in San Francisco, wasn't the big one. Neither was the one in 1906 — though it was big enough to warrant an elaborate centennial celebration in the City last year.

The earthquake that I experienced on Tuesday night, though it registered 5.6 on the Richter Scale and was by far the biggest one since 1989, was water cooler fodder for one day only. Two days, max. Britney Spears's daily escapades attract, and probably deserve, more media attention.

For me, though, it was a unique experience. You know how in movies, when they want to indicate slow motion, you see a shadow trailing a moving object? Sort of like time-lapse photography? Well, that's what I saw on Tuesday night. I was in my local, the bar in the same block as my apartment building. It's a two storey affair, with a beautiful brick wall that spans the height of the two floors. I swear, I saw that wall move in slow motion, with a trailing shadow.

Then a huge cloud of dust, or smoke, I didn't know which, billowed down the stairs. Through it ran a dozen or so people, down, then straight out onto the street.

Where everyone immediately got on their cell phones.

Fifteen seconds later it was over. I was still standing, frozen, wondering if that had been an earthquake. I know how stupid that sounds. So I called Sparky, who was upstairs in his apartment, and asked if he had felt it.

"Felt it? Yeah, I felt it! I nearly peed my pants!"

So good, it wasn't just me.

My Hero, Zero

One night last spring Monica, Nadine, and I were sitting on Nadine's fabulous patio, the one that overlooks the courtyard, and is so much nicer than mine, which overlooks the chicken place where the students hang out, when Nadine started telling us about a friend of hers who'd recently married a millionaire she met online. Some site called Millionaire Match, or something like that, Nadine wasn't sure.

You can probably guess what happened next, Gentle Reader. That's right, I signed up. Heck, it's free to browse them millionaires, and they, the millionaires, almost all of whom are men, of course, have to initiate communication, because they're the ones paying to be advertised, so to speak.

I spent a couple of hours browsing, had a couple of "winks" (and you thought Facebook was moronic), but nothing materialized storywise, never mind date-wise. Until now. I got this email today:

My Name is Kelvin and i am 46 of age i am a Polish American by nationallity and i seek to find the love of my live.. Having gone through your profile i find it really cool and i decided to email you peharps we could have a chance to get along and who knows where it could lead us to.

For Me true love must be characterised by honesty and sincerity and the foundation must be build on Trust and with the help of God we could make this work..

I am a Building Engineer by Profession and i love my Job.. I am sure you love your Job as well. For me i am Honest and Sincere and i possess a great sense of humor. I would love that you write me back it is my very first time on this dating stuff and i hope i find my soulmate soon enough.

I did prefer that you email me at my private Email dontplaykelivn1@yahoo.com so we could have a good conversation and also use the Instant Messenger.

God Bless you and i hope to read from you soon

Kisses and Hugs

K.
http://www.MillionaireMatch.com/user_details?user=Kelvinisgreat

Other than deleting his last name (yes, he included it), I haven't altered so much as a comma in his message.

By the way, doesn't Kelvin mean absolute zero?

What's that you say, Mrs. Robinson?

"I want to go where you're going," said the Trader Joe's employee who was just coming in as I was going out, carrying a wine box loaded with Warsteiner and Bitburger.

There are many things I don't like about California, but the price of German beer at Trader Joe's just about makes up for all the lousy stuff. I mean, you can't believe how cheap the best German beer is at Trader Joe's. Six Warsteiners: $6.99. Six Bitburgers: $5.99.

(That's right, Markus, you heard correctly! I know, it's at least twice that much at home.)

I only bought 24 today, because that's as much as I can carry in one trip, but I'll be back to TJ's at least twice this long weekend, because, woo-hoo, I rented a car! That's right, a car. And oh my god, it's been so long since I wrapped my hands around a steering wheel, that I plan to spend at least 65 of the next 72 hours doing exactly that.

I'm leaving now for Half Moon Bay, where I'll be throwing rocks into the ocean until my arms get sore, then having dinner at Sam's Chowder House. Who's my date this evening? It's my favourite student, Jeremy, but before you go all "Ewwww" on me, let me explain why this is not creepy. First, he's not my student anymore. Second, he's gay. And third, he's only old enough to be my son if we were in Tennessee.

Which we're not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I've got my hash pipe

Do not be alarmed, Gentle Reader. It is no more my intention to turn this into a cooking blog than it is to turn myself into a cook. But I've been watching the Food Network a lot, lately. That is, not so much watching, but having it on in the background while I've been writing. And so, this is what I cooked tonight:


Shut up, I know what you're thinking. Writing? Well, she hasn't been doing much of that lately, has she?

Actually, she has. Just not here. Sorry.

I've been writing a screenplay. The first draft is finished, now, so I'll be able to get back to you on a more regular basis.

Today, in honour of my late grandfather's birthday (he would have been 93) and the completion of my first draft, I wanted to cook dinner, but, having no idea how to do that, I watched Rachael Ray's thirty minute meals show at 6:00, and decided that whatever she made, I'd make. (I've seen the show a couple of times, and she's no Emeril. I figured I could manage a Rachael.)

Tonight, she made ground sausage hash, topped with grated sharp cheddar cheese, then topped with a fried egg and garnished with salsa. Yes, I even made the salsa. With yellow tomatoes, just like Rachael.

Tomorrow I'm guest blogging at To Whom It May Concern. I've written a letter called "Dear California," to mark the occasion of my one year anniversary of living here. It's not a love letter, sorry to say.

My therapist said not to see him no more

I was supposed to be on a plane to Hawaii today, but instead, I'm taking Colleen's advice, four months late but better than never, and going to see a therapist.


What you don't see in that picture of the breakwater at the south end of the beach at Santa Cruz, is Jack, but he was there, Gentle Reader. You'll just have to take my word for it. I cut him out of the picture, and, it would seem out of my life.

I had been rehearsing the speech for a week. Wrote it down, even. Then, that day on the beach, recited only a very small part of it to him. It went like this: I know you make the rules in this relationship, and you know I like it that way, but I get to choose what I will and won't tolerate. I will be your just-friend, I will be your girlfriend, but what I won't be is your second choice. I can't be with you if you're thinking about someone else. It hurts too much.

And then the man who said these things to me, and who said, when I told him I was moving to California, "I'm going to be awesome for you, Sass."; the man who promised he'd never abandon me, and that he'd always have my back, said this: Then don't be with me.

James's "Laid" continues here.

They say it's your birthday

It is, on Sunday, and this is what I want:

Found Objects, Toronto

Nothing Freudian going on here, people, move along.

Next, Postmodern Sass sings James's Laid.

My name is Luka

One side of a cell phone conversation, overheard on the bus, yesterday, on my way to see my first American doctor:

"Well, you remember my mom...

I could see that I was more together than her, and I was five!

But your dad was just a regular dad. Mine was like...

I remember he used to say, whatever she says, just do the opposite.

Well, you know, you must succumb to whatever mom wants!

Have they finally accepted that I was beaten?

Well, yeah, that's what made my dad successful and rich, but what has it done for you?

Oh, no! My dad was completely miserable. My mom was just icing on the cake!"

His mother's not the only one who's crazy.

My head is like a football, I think I'm gonna die

It's not from a hangover, far from it, but there don't seem to be any songs written about plain old being sick.

That's my Throwdown Chicken Soup over there, made on Sunday night and inspired by my new hero, Bobby Flay. My mother, whose 1970s soup pot I still use, would have loved him.

The last two weeks I've been spending most of my time at home, writing, with the TV on in the background for inspiration and company, and I've become a fan of the Food Network. Not, you understand, because I like to cook, but because I like to watch other people cook. Especially Bobby Flay.

This cough and cold, and, as of last night, earache, were acquired, if I had to guess, from Jack, the night we went to see Chris Isaak at the Mountain Winery, and if you can imagine a more romantic setting in which to hear perform a man who makes women's knees turn to jelly, I'd like to hear about it, Gentle Reader. It was a fabulous evening, or would have been, had Jack not been sick. He'd been coughing at me over the phone for a couple of days before the concert, and I'd been working on a plan B to sell the tickets on Craigslist but he insisted he was well enough to make the trip. He wasn't, really, but he did it anyway.

Jack's recovered from his cold by now, I suppose. We're not exactly speaking these days, I explained to Ace the other day, because he asked, and then I added: and by the way I want to rip his head off and stuff it down his throat.

So today I'm staying in my jammies and I'm watching All My Children, something I haven't done since around the time that Maria was Edmund's wife, not a DNA expert on CSI: Miami. Can I tell you how much I love that Jack and Erica are married? Gosh, I love Jack. I've always loved Jack.

This Jack. The character on All My Children.

Sheesh.

Next, Postmodern Sass rides the bus and overhears a conversation.

Fire

The sirens of the firetrucks that rushed to the site of the old Victorian house in downtown San Jose that burned down the other day didn't wake me, though the house wasn't three blocks away. I heard about it on the news later that day, as reporters wailed and moaned about the tragic loss of an [sic] historic monument, the former home of a former mayor, and so I went to survey the damage.


The smell of smoke was overpowering, even a block away, if you were downwind, and the firemen (I love firemen!) were still on the scene.


I couldn't get close enough to read the plaque near the front door, but you can see it there, can't you? According to the City of San Jose the house is landmark #HL00-125.


"Are you from Toronto?" asked the PG&E serviceman who'd come to make sure the gas and electricity connections to the building were not live. They weren't, he said, and hadn't been for years. He was from Detroit, he said, and I was glad I'd worn my Maple Leafs t-shirt. The building was abandoned and was scheduled for demolition. The owners wanted to put up a parking structure, just like the one in the lot right behind the house. We counted ten hydro — er, electric — meters, and concluded that the last use of this historic monument must have been as a flop house.


Somehow, this seems like a more dignified way to go.



Footnote to history:

This website describing the plans for restoring the house appears to have been abandoned nearly as long as the house itself, so I doubt that whoever created it will mind if I steal the photos of what the house looked like before:




In the next story, Postmodern Sass tells you what it is that she passionately hates — and loves.

Take On Me

It's Day 9!

PrincessAhAh asked whether I have a cassette deck. She wants to send me a hypnotherapy cassette to aid with the no-smoking.


Next, Postmodern Sass takes on Americans.

Action is his reward

It's Day 7 without a cigarette, and I don't want to hear about the junk food, OK?

Sure, I consumed three small bags of chips today, Miss Vickie's Black Pepper and Lime, if you must know (I just love that they have those here; seems Miss V sold out to some American company, but right now I'm glad she did!), and I know it's just substituting one oral fixation for another one, and I'm fine with that, so just SHUT UP!

That box of peanut buttered Ritz crackers? Ate the whole thing last night, while watching three episodes of 24. Season 4 is seriously lame, by the way.

X and I quit together, years ago. He used to say to people, I can never think of a reason why I smoke, until I quit, and then I know all the reasons. Maybe that's why I had a nightmare about him last night.

Just let me make it through this weekend, that's all I ask, and if I do, I'll tell you the story about how I took a drunk librarian home.

Super Freak

It's Day 6 of Postmodern Sass quits smoking, and this sign outside the local chiropractor's office pretty much sums up how I'm feeling.


I appreciate your support, Gentle Reader.

Some of you have suggested laser therapy, acupuncture, the patch, nicotine gum, even drugs, but I don't need any of that because I have the best weapon of all: this blog.

You see, though I do enjoy writing stories that entertain and amuse you, the reason I started writing this blog was for me to write out my fears and frustrations, and deal with them by publishing them. Metaphorically speaking, I like to put the thing that's bothering me up on the wall and slap it around a bit.

I've quit smoking twice before, and both times I did it cold turkey, so I know I can do it so long as I am motivated to do it. It is that motivation I lacked until my Dean died. And it's not that I want to quit now because she died of cancer and that scared me, though it did, some. It's because I didn't get a chance to make her proud of me, and I know that if she'd known I smoked she'd have been so disappointed in me... and I can't bear that thought, not after I failed to attend that reception to say goodbye.


I am not going to have a cigarette today. And I'm telling you, Gentle Reader, so that you'll hold me accountable.

Tomorrow: Day 7

If I Didn't Care

Lauren Bacall is still alive and kicking in New York, and I've heard she still smokes and I know her voice is still gravelly, and she's such a dame. She's my girl-hero.

It's Day 5, and I'm doing fine, just fine, really. Well, I'm doing OK, I guess, except for the difficulty I'm having quelling the urge to stomp on small furry animals and grind them to death under my heels.

Why am I quitting again?

Out of respect for the Dean, that's why.

Tomorrow: Day 6

Smoke Gets In Your Eyes

And in your clothes and your curtains and your upholstery, but that's not why I've decided to quit smoking again.

Smoking turns your walls and your teeth yellow, and it's an expense that nothing justifies. It's harmful to your health, advanced science now tells us, not like in the 1920s when doctors used to recommend cigarettes to pregnant women as a way of controlling their weight. Yes they did. I'm serious. Go look it up.

Smoking is messy and unpleasant, potentially harmful to cats, and makes people look down on you unless they're doing it too, which fewer and fewer are. You don't need to tell me any of this, Gentle Reader. I may be clueless sometimes, but I'm not a moron.

Goddamit, though, smoking sure looked sexy when Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall did it in To Have And Have Not. There must be something good about it.

Let me think on that and I'll get back to you tomorrow.

Can't wait to get back to San Jose

"Do You Know The Way to San Jose" was written by Burt Bacharach and Hal David, and recorded by Dionne Warwick in 1968. The lyrics tell the story of a woman who moved to Los Angeles to pursue fame and fortune, but plans to move back to San Jose, where she was born and raised. —Wikipedia

Because, after all, there's nothing more homey and welcoming than A CITY WITHOUT ONE SINGLE TREE.






Pictures of downtown San Jose in 1975 stolen from the website of the San Jose Redevelopment Agency (and thank GOD for them). To view the entire slideshow, click here. Thanks, Joann, for the link.

Where The Boys Are [part II - fin]

Continued from Part I

"That's right, Rowan, you don't know her," explained Ace gently, as he came down the steps to give me a hug, "But I know her, and so does Uncle Jack."

"And she's from Canada, too, just like Daddy," added Maggie.

Rowan took this information under advisement for a moment, then decided to let me pass. We stepped inside, and Maggie was just explaining how I should put my bag somewhere out of reach of Baby Oak, who was at that stage where he had to grab, explore, put in his mouth, or throw, everything he could wrap his tiny hands around, when Rowan reached up and pulled my hand and said, "Do you want to see my room?"

"Of course I want to see your room!" I said. "It's why I came."

The tour began with his bed, which was covered with a patchwork quilt. "Look," Rowan pointed to the bottom left corner, "It has my name on it." Then he explained why the temporary railing was there ("So I won't fall off.") and how he liked to sleep against the wall on the far side, which was painted sky blue with clouds.

Next, we sat on the floor and he showed me his favourite truck. It was over a foot long; a model of one of those trucks that carries cars, but so much better than the real ones because it was lime green and trimmed with black flames.

"Do you have any cars we can put in the truck?"

"No," he said, wistfully, "It's only for pretend cars."

"Ah, I see."

Then it was time for the tour of the music corner. Rowan owns a child-size but working guitar, and a similar child's toy but works pretty darned good keyboard.

"Can you play this?" I asked, indicating the keyboard.

"Oh yes," he said, and reached over and pushed a button. The machine began to play "Fly Me to the Moon," instrumentals only. It sounded just like those old MIDI files people used to send around before the invention of MP3s. I hummed along, singing the bits of the chorus that I knew, and tried not to think about the last time I'd heard that song, when another child had been singing it to me.

"You know that song?" Rowan was thrilled that I knew one of his machine's songs. Kids have such a cool limited perspective on the world.

"I know the tune, but not all the words. You know who I bet knows the words? Your friend Jack, that's who." That was as sure a bet as the sun rising in the morning.

I thought Rowan would demand, and receive, proof of this statement but he was no longer interested in what songs I knew or didn't know. "I know a different song," he told me, and then he started to sing,

Are you sleeping
Are you sleeping
Brother Oak?
Brother Oak?

I could have swallowed him up right there.

Before long we were gathered around the table, drinking not beer but Diet Coke, and eating not turkey but stuffed squash and spinach cakes, and I was thinking this was just about the best Thanksgiving dinner I'd ever had.

Jack and Ace were asking each other about mutual friends from the homeland. Ace is aquainted with Peter, which I knew. I didn't know how well, though, so I asked, "Better or not as well as me?"

"Not as well as," he replied, and then he asked, "Hey, do you ever hear from Ian?"

Ian had been the boyfriend of my friend Hannah, whom I'd met in a writer's group back around the time I'd first met Jack. He was a saxophone player, and, I later discovered, hung in the same circles as Ace. I remember they'd been surprised when they realized I knew both of them.

During those years, when I lived in that town where Jack's family raised him, and where our paths crossed by coincidence not once, but twice six years apart, Hannah had been my best friend, and Ian had been X's.

"Not any more," I said, answering Ace's question. "I didn't get custody of him."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean X made everyone choose, and Ian chose him."

"What?"

"Yeah, I know."

"You're kidding!"

"No."

"And he's how old, again?"

"I know."

"But everyone knows you don't choose the person who makes you choose!"

"I know."

"Man, what a..." but Ace held his tongue, on account of the echolaic four year old in the room. The same reason I didn't repeat my mantra, I'm done with the fuckin' Irish.

Instead, I said, "You've heard that old chestnut about the mid-life crisis men have?"

"Uh huh."

"Like a timer had gone off. Right on schedule, and straight out out of the textbook."

Jack had a look on his face that expressed something between puzzlement and fascination. You never told me that, the look said. My return look told him, You know I don't talk about him to you.

* * *
"I hear you made a pie," said Maggie, as we carried the dishes into the kitchen.

"Actually I made two pies, one after the other. The first was a sacrifice; I had to taste it, and I didn't want to bring it with a piece missing. But then when Jack reminded me that if there was milk in it, you couldn't eat it, I decided to leave it at home. Right at this moment there are one and 9/10ths pies in my refrigerator. Jack gets to take the whole one home."

"Oh," said Maggie, "So you made it for him."

"Yes; it has no sugar in it. But it had been my intention to bring it along for everyone."

"Well, I made a pie, too! It's got maple syrup in it, and a little bit of molasses."

"It looks just like mine. What did you use instead of milk, to hold it together?"

"Soy milk! What did you use instead of sugar?"

"Sugar-free vanilla pudding mix!"

"Oh, good idea!"

"Mine also has seven secret spices, which are really not so secret; they're the same ones I use when I make pfefferkuchen."

"Let me guess: cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger... and maybe cloves?"

"Yes. Also cardamon, coriander, and allspice."

"Next year, let's work together and make one amazing pie that everyone can eat."

"It's a date."

"Mommy," Rowan asked Maggie, "Can't Uncle Jack eat the pie?"

"No, honey."

"Why not?"

"Well, Rowan, you know how we don't eat anything that's made from animals? Well, Uncle Jack doesn't eat anything that has sugar in it."

"I see," said Rowan. He's four years old, but I believe he did see, and didn't require any further explanations or justifcations. He caught on quicker than many adults I've encountered in similar situations.

We were getting ready to leave, and I bent down to hug Rowan. He gave me a big sqeeze, and said, "Thank you for coming to my room."

"You're welcome," I replied. "I'll come back again soon, OK?"

"OK." Then he stepped behind me and pulled up the pink hood of my knitted Gap sweater. "You should put your hood on," he said, solemnly. "It's dark outside."

I'm hopelessly in love with both of Ace's boys, and I can't wait to visit them again. Maybe by the next time, Rowan will have learned how to sing "Fly Me To The Moon," and maybe Oak will have grown into his head.



Next, Postmodern Sass shares her hobby with her readers. And then Ace stubles upon Postmodern Sass's blog.

Where The Boys Are

Jack and I drove up to Napa yesterday, to visit our friend Ace, who plays bass. When I say Jack and I drove, what I mean is Jack drove, in a fabulous fire-engine red Nissan 350 Z. Beauty is in the shop, you see.

And when I say our friend Ace, what I mean to say is, Jack's friend Ace, with whom I am also acquainted, though only because he was Jack's friend from a long, long time ago.

Napa is stunningly beautiful. The leaves turn colour up there — even on the grape vines, something I've never seen before, and I come from grape & wine country.



That sea of red, with its border of yellow, is a vineyard. It seems different kinds of grape leaves turn distinctly different colours. Where I come from they turn black, freeze, and crash to the ground, all within seconds following the harvest.

Driving through the quaint towns of Yountville, Calistoga, and Sonoma, was almost like being in New England in early fall, if you squinted your eye to block out the occasional palm tree.

Yountville is home to this restaurant, called The French Laundry.





To say that The French Laundry is an exclusive restaurant is to say that the Mona Lisa is a painting. It's the restaurant, at least in this part of the world. There are websites dedicated to giving tips on how to get a reservation there.

It was closed, yesterday, because of the Thanksgiving Day holiday, which is just as well, because Jack and I were planning to have dinner with the vegans.

That's right, Ace and his wife, and their two little boys, are vegans. That means no turkey for us.

Incidentally, I'd like to take a moment to point out, for those of you unclear on the concept, that Jews are not vegetarians because they don't eat pork, and neither is your best friend Buffy Sue, who doesn't eat red meat. ("Ewwwww!") A vegetarian is someone who doesn't eat the flesh of animals. Any animals. And yes, an Orange Ruffie is an animal. So is a chicken, and so is a salmon.

It's not just Americans that irritate me, Gentle Reader; I have many pet peeves, one of which is having this conversation with people:

"I don't eat steak. I'm a vegetarian."

"You mean you don't eat any meat?"

"Well, I eat fish and chicken, and some seafood. Like Chicken of the Sea."

"Then you're not a vegetarian."

"Oh yeah? What am I, then?"

"You're a person who likes to eat some foods, and prefers not to eat others, you stupid fuckhead, which makes you exactly the same as every other human being on the fucking planet, so stop acting like you're in some fucking special, superior category just because you don't like steak."

And you wondered why I had to travel three hours north to get a dinner invitation.

Vegans don't eat anything that comes from animals. Which is why, in the end, Jack got the whole pie that I made yesterday.

You see, the primary motivation for yesterday's baking experiment was not so I could bring something to the party, it was to bake a pumpkin pie that Jack could eat. He's diabetic. Bringing something to the party was secondary, and, in the end, I brought nothing, because when Jack arrived to pick me up, and I told him about the pie, he asked,

"Does it have milk in it?"

D'oh!

So we drove pieless to Napa.

I was excited about seeing Ace again. It had been ten years, almost exactly, since the summer in New York, when I was working for that Internet startup, and he was playing bass with a band that had a gig in the Village, and we'd walked around the city together, both of us over six feet tall and dressed in biker jackets. His hair had been long, then; I mean all the way down his back long. I remember him commenting, "Nobody's going to fuck with us, are they?"

Jack told me that Ace had cut his hair to normal guy-length short. That his wife's name was Maggie, and that she was a dancer he'd met in New York — a real dancer, Gentle Reader, get your mind out of the gutter — and that their little boy's name was Rowan.

They'd also recently had another baby boy, and named him Oak.

Rowan and Oak. And their father is a musician. Shall we start guessing the name of the band they're going to form in ten years or so?

The red Nissan pulled up in front of a tiny house on the outskirts of one of the Napavilles; I forget which one; and shadows of figures gathered behind the glass door to watch us get out. We made our way up the sidewalk, to the porch, and there was Rowan, four years old and long, streaming blond hair, looking every inch the rock star I have no doubt he will one day be. Barring our path with his arms crossed. He looked at Jack and smiled, then looked at his father, then back to me. He set his little mouth firmly, pointed straight at my head, and declared, "I don't know her!"

To be concluded in Part II.