When you're outside at 6 a.m. on a dark, cold morning with the wind howling, biting your dry rosy cheeks, and you look and see endless inches of snow to shovel off feet of sidewalk and driveway, it's natural if the words that get muttered aren't sweet and thankful but more of the vulgar variety.
So when I found myself in that situation already exhausted from months of sleepless nights the absurdity of being a lifelong Minnesotan smacked me upside the head and my thoughts turned from jarring to giddy and bounced around like a dropped marble on a wood floor. It was then that I was calmed by the notion of how much I enjoy whenever I stumble across unexpected combinations.
For example one of the first things I do every morning after my Tae-bo workout is read my favorite comic strip, Darby Conley's Get Fuzzy that features the antics of a grumpy pet owner and his dim but thersitical and theatrical cat Bucky, and his equally dim but forever sweet dog Satchel. This past week featured a strip where Bucky, having been locked up in his carrier cage to prevent him from ruining the house with his ferret fighting training, threatens his human keeper, Rob, by mocking Rob's love of Sandra Bullock. In the few years I've been reading Get Fuzzy this was the first reference to Sandra Bullock I've seen and it hit even closer to home than the strip usually already does. It was like breaking open an egg and finding an extra yolk.
I was also enjoying the shuffle feature of my iPod with the 3,800 songs I've loaded when up came Neil Young's "Rockin in the Free World." That particular song played over the closing credits of Michael Moore's Fahrenheit 911 and as obvious as the movie was, the sledgehammer song hit the perfect note of what is underlying all that is terrifying about our current path. It also seemed highly appropriate after listening to our President's inaugural speech that less than subtly hit upon the administration's latest corrupted fad phrase: freedom.
"There's colors on the street red, white and blue/People shufflin' their feet/People sleepin' in their shoes/But there's a warnin' sign on the road ahead/There's a lot of people sayin' we'd be better off dead/Don't feel like Satan, but I am to them/So I try to forget it, any way I can..."
To top things off I soon enjoyed another great movie from a pretty good year of movies, last year's Hero. The film was an abject attempt by Chinese director Zhang Yimou to top the mesmerizing great Chinese film Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. And Hero does just that.
Both movies transcend their martial arts material (and genre) to be cinematic artistry at its best- telling great stories against the backdrop of stunning visuals and blissful ballet. But for me (and maybe me alone) Hero tops the incredible Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon because among the many philosophical nuggets of its story is that the pen may not be mightier than the sword but it comes awfully darn close. (It doesn't hurt matters that both movies feature the work of the most beautiful actress of today's cinema, Zhang Ziyi.)
The writing message is delivered by the nameless one (Jet Li) to the King of Qin (Daoming Chen) when he describes how he beat one of his unbeatable foes by studying the way he writes. The strokes of his pen give away his strengths and weaknesses by all that is revealed by his mere movements.
At the heart of the movie is of course the fight scenes but there is one in particular that is both breathtaking and heartstopping and wholly original. In this scene the two warriors battle each other across the surface of a lake. As they skim their way atop the water the camera follows them swooping from above to beneath the surface ultimately creating something akin to a great painting. The colors swirl and the imagery blends together in an enlightening and dazzling fashion. The scene is one of many that transcends the passive act of sitting in the dark watching a movie, and is one that snow shovelers everywhere would be well advised to take the time to watch at some point in their life if only to forget their current troubles and appreciate how things sometimes mix well in a take the time to love this moment way.
Monday, January 24, 2005
Monday, January 17, 2005
When It's OK to Call a Cat an Underdog
After living with the late great Mr. Maximoto for over a dozen years it wasn't long that I came to marvel at his winsome personality and many of his quirky antics. Indeed my appreciation for him was so great that I became quite known for being a feline sympathizer to the extent I'd likely sell out my own species should the great kitty world takeover ever occur.
Now that I live with two other wonderful representatives of the feline world I am continuing to learn that though I'm the one with a fancy college degree I may not be the one in this household that has the wisest life philosophy. There's a lot to be said for a life of lying in splotches of sun, forever living in the moment, and occupying an hour of time swatting a sponge ball around the room.
Living with two cats creates as different a dynamic as their personalities are different from Max's. Diego-san and Thompson not only have learned to co-exist but there are times when they team up to show that in this house majority rules and it's not so much about who is responsible for bringing home the food and paying the heating bill.
Take for example the great box conundrum. For years I stored in my basement several cardboard boxes I used when I moved into my house along with some of the better boxes I had gotten in the ensuing years. Max never seemed to pay any attention to them. Days after I brought Thompson and Diego-san to their new home someone had gone downstairs and ripped holes in just about every box. Bite sized pieces of cardboard littered the basement floor. Yet I couldn't exactly yell or punish either one of the boys since I wasn't sure who was responsible.
It only took me a year and a half to figure it out. I recently bought a new futon bed for the upper wing and the frame arrived in a big box. I immediately cut up one side of the box and put it out on the sidewalk for recycling. The other side of the box I put in my office figuring I'd cut it up and put it out during the next recycling cycle.
Diego-san immediately saw the boxtop as the perfect place to rest. He stretched out his impressive black fur covered frame making the cardboard seem as comfortable as the futon itself. Thompson came in and gave away his one true misbehavior. He began gnawing at the edges of the box. If it had been the ever mischievous Diego-san I would have probably scolded him but it's hard to yell at Thompson because he takes it so personal. (He even seems to get upset when I'm hollering at Diego). Plus because the box was going to be ripped up anyway who was I to say that Thompson just wasn't doing his part to help out?
And I gotta say I continue to marvel at how Thompson overcomes his handicap of a missing leg. He not only keeps up with the ever energetic Diego, he often is the one to instigate their dual romps. I swear there are things that Diego does just because he knows that it will be difficult for Thompson to do the same. Diego has taken to drinking his water straight out of the bathroom sink tap. The sink's rim is a couple of inches wide so it is not something that Thompson can easily jump up on to and balance himself on. Plus Thompson is quite satisfied with doing like the rest of us and drinking his water out of a bowl.
Still with Diego's constant race into the bathroom every time I go near the room Thompson's curiosity got the better of him. One night he just had to see why Diego insisted at jumping up on the sink. He started by hopping on the toilet. From there he looked at Diego-san lapping up the trickling water flow. The next night Thompson sat on the edge of the bathtub and as Diego finished his drink he turned startled to see the nearby Thompson gazing up at him. Quite unexpectedly Diego reached over and patted Thompson on the back. I'm not sure if it was out of encouragement or if Diego needed at that moment to determine if it was indeed Thompson sitting ready to jump up on to the sink.
The next evening I was upstairs in the upper wing bathroom brushing my teeth. This fancy new room has a vanity counter and Thompson came moseying up and leaped on to the vanity. He looked at the running water and he looked at his and my reflections in the mirror. Diego-san came racing around the corner, preparing to leap up on to the vanity when he saw that someone else had beaten him to his usual spot. He looked a little confused as he pranced away in the other direction.
Thompson waited until the water was shut off and then he began licking the surface of the sink. Diego-san eventually returned and waited until Thompson was finished and had left the room and then he hopped up onto the vanity, let out a squeal to let me know it was his turn and it was time to turn the water back on. I patted him on the back. It may have been just another night in this household but it was also a reminder of how lucky I am to be sharing these times with these boys.
Now that I live with two other wonderful representatives of the feline world I am continuing to learn that though I'm the one with a fancy college degree I may not be the one in this household that has the wisest life philosophy. There's a lot to be said for a life of lying in splotches of sun, forever living in the moment, and occupying an hour of time swatting a sponge ball around the room.
Living with two cats creates as different a dynamic as their personalities are different from Max's. Diego-san and Thompson not only have learned to co-exist but there are times when they team up to show that in this house majority rules and it's not so much about who is responsible for bringing home the food and paying the heating bill.
Take for example the great box conundrum. For years I stored in my basement several cardboard boxes I used when I moved into my house along with some of the better boxes I had gotten in the ensuing years. Max never seemed to pay any attention to them. Days after I brought Thompson and Diego-san to their new home someone had gone downstairs and ripped holes in just about every box. Bite sized pieces of cardboard littered the basement floor. Yet I couldn't exactly yell or punish either one of the boys since I wasn't sure who was responsible.
It only took me a year and a half to figure it out. I recently bought a new futon bed for the upper wing and the frame arrived in a big box. I immediately cut up one side of the box and put it out on the sidewalk for recycling. The other side of the box I put in my office figuring I'd cut it up and put it out during the next recycling cycle.
Diego-san immediately saw the boxtop as the perfect place to rest. He stretched out his impressive black fur covered frame making the cardboard seem as comfortable as the futon itself. Thompson came in and gave away his one true misbehavior. He began gnawing at the edges of the box. If it had been the ever mischievous Diego-san I would have probably scolded him but it's hard to yell at Thompson because he takes it so personal. (He even seems to get upset when I'm hollering at Diego). Plus because the box was going to be ripped up anyway who was I to say that Thompson just wasn't doing his part to help out?
And I gotta say I continue to marvel at how Thompson overcomes his handicap of a missing leg. He not only keeps up with the ever energetic Diego, he often is the one to instigate their dual romps. I swear there are things that Diego does just because he knows that it will be difficult for Thompson to do the same. Diego has taken to drinking his water straight out of the bathroom sink tap. The sink's rim is a couple of inches wide so it is not something that Thompson can easily jump up on to and balance himself on. Plus Thompson is quite satisfied with doing like the rest of us and drinking his water out of a bowl.
Still with Diego's constant race into the bathroom every time I go near the room Thompson's curiosity got the better of him. One night he just had to see why Diego insisted at jumping up on the sink. He started by hopping on the toilet. From there he looked at Diego-san lapping up the trickling water flow. The next night Thompson sat on the edge of the bathtub and as Diego finished his drink he turned startled to see the nearby Thompson gazing up at him. Quite unexpectedly Diego reached over and patted Thompson on the back. I'm not sure if it was out of encouragement or if Diego needed at that moment to determine if it was indeed Thompson sitting ready to jump up on to the sink.
The next evening I was upstairs in the upper wing bathroom brushing my teeth. This fancy new room has a vanity counter and Thompson came moseying up and leaped on to the vanity. He looked at the running water and he looked at his and my reflections in the mirror. Diego-san came racing around the corner, preparing to leap up on to the vanity when he saw that someone else had beaten him to his usual spot. He looked a little confused as he pranced away in the other direction.
Thompson waited until the water was shut off and then he began licking the surface of the sink. Diego-san eventually returned and waited until Thompson was finished and had left the room and then he hopped up onto the vanity, let out a squeal to let me know it was his turn and it was time to turn the water back on. I patted him on the back. It may have been just another night in this household but it was also a reminder of how lucky I am to be sharing these times with these boys.
Monday, January 10, 2005
On the Sunny Side of the Street
In the end not much good came from writing my novel all those years ago but one thing that did was coining the adage that it is much easier tearing something down than it is building something up. Yup I'm quite sure I was the first one to think of that.
So as I struggle to think of something to jot down this week I thought I'd mention the few life moments from the past week where things seemed so perfect and in tune. Yes I could have followed the alternative and whined about things that didn't quite go as well as expected but that would be too easy. Instead while I didn't exactly find any moments of pure bliss I did find a couple of seconds that brought quite a smile to my face (and no it wasn't a smirk).
I returned to work Monday after taking the previous week off to recuperate from a difficult fall. I was sitting hunched over my computer in my small office, wrapped in my fleece Sports Illustrated sweatshirt and my favorite scarf that was knitted for me by a co-worker, listening to the shuffled songs on my iPod. Up came Frank Sinatra's live version of "I've Got You Under My Skin" from his 1974 concert in Madison Square Garden captured in all its splendor on the CD, The Main Event. It's a schmaltzy performance of a near perfect Cole Porter song and at the end Frank hams it up by introducing the next song, "Bad Bad Leroy Brown" by asking the musical question, "Are you ready?" at which point my iPod shuffled to a song from the Buffy the Vampire Slayer musical soundtrack Once More with Feeling. The song has Giles singing the opening line, "You're not ready for the world outside/You keep pretending but you just can't hide..."
It was like one song answered the other in perfect synchronicity. I sat there at my desk with a weary grin on my face and thought that somebody somewhere was responsible.
The next night I was lying in my brand new futon/bed watching the boys in their own worlds. Thompson was sitting peacefully on the ground nearby keeping an eye on me. Diego-san was a few feet away up to no good. He was clearly in playful pounce mode as his impressive tail was wagging like the tongue of a sailor on shore leave and sure enough he soon launched his massive frame airborne towards the unaware Thompson. I had a flying kitty and I had to chuckle as he missed his mark and fell far short of his victim.
Another perfect moment presented itself at dinner one night. I had just finished my unimpressive meal of processed grocery store ramen noodles (enhanced by my sister's homemade Japanese mochi rice cake) when I splurged and had some dessert- cookies made from two friends- tasty toffee/Heath bar like goodness from one of my favorite mothers of two, and cookies with white chocolate chips made from the Public Health scholar. Oh boy, I couldn't help but appreciate the baking mercy.
I threw my most perfect curling shot ever too this week. There were two of the opponent's rocks laying right in the home target and I flung my last rock of that particular inn as hard as I could aiming right down the middle. I split the rocks and sent them flying out of scoring range. Their curler came over and playfully cursed me and said he could do no better and I had spoiled it all. Indeed I did. It was quite intentional.
Then there was Wilco's performance of their spiffy song, "Late Greats" on the Late Show with David Letterman. There's something magical about the simplicity of the song- it's the type of composition that seems to have always existed yet it's truly original and out of its time. Watching the band have lots of fun with the stops and starts that drive the tune was something grin inducing. Even Paul Schaffer went out of his way to praise the band and its performance.
Finally I enjoyed the perfect big ass burrito (BAB) from the county cafeteria downstairs. The chicken was flavored just right and the preparer added just the right amount of cheese, pinto beans and rice, topped off with jalopeno peppers and spicy salsa. I woofed the BAB down in no time flat.
So as I struggle to think of something to jot down this week I thought I'd mention the few life moments from the past week where things seemed so perfect and in tune. Yes I could have followed the alternative and whined about things that didn't quite go as well as expected but that would be too easy. Instead while I didn't exactly find any moments of pure bliss I did find a couple of seconds that brought quite a smile to my face (and no it wasn't a smirk).
I returned to work Monday after taking the previous week off to recuperate from a difficult fall. I was sitting hunched over my computer in my small office, wrapped in my fleece Sports Illustrated sweatshirt and my favorite scarf that was knitted for me by a co-worker, listening to the shuffled songs on my iPod. Up came Frank Sinatra's live version of "I've Got You Under My Skin" from his 1974 concert in Madison Square Garden captured in all its splendor on the CD, The Main Event. It's a schmaltzy performance of a near perfect Cole Porter song and at the end Frank hams it up by introducing the next song, "Bad Bad Leroy Brown" by asking the musical question, "Are you ready?" at which point my iPod shuffled to a song from the Buffy the Vampire Slayer musical soundtrack Once More with Feeling. The song has Giles singing the opening line, "You're not ready for the world outside/You keep pretending but you just can't hide..."
It was like one song answered the other in perfect synchronicity. I sat there at my desk with a weary grin on my face and thought that somebody somewhere was responsible.
The next night I was lying in my brand new futon/bed watching the boys in their own worlds. Thompson was sitting peacefully on the ground nearby keeping an eye on me. Diego-san was a few feet away up to no good. He was clearly in playful pounce mode as his impressive tail was wagging like the tongue of a sailor on shore leave and sure enough he soon launched his massive frame airborne towards the unaware Thompson. I had a flying kitty and I had to chuckle as he missed his mark and fell far short of his victim.
Another perfect moment presented itself at dinner one night. I had just finished my unimpressive meal of processed grocery store ramen noodles (enhanced by my sister's homemade Japanese mochi rice cake) when I splurged and had some dessert- cookies made from two friends- tasty toffee/Heath bar like goodness from one of my favorite mothers of two, and cookies with white chocolate chips made from the Public Health scholar. Oh boy, I couldn't help but appreciate the baking mercy.
I threw my most perfect curling shot ever too this week. There were two of the opponent's rocks laying right in the home target and I flung my last rock of that particular inn as hard as I could aiming right down the middle. I split the rocks and sent them flying out of scoring range. Their curler came over and playfully cursed me and said he could do no better and I had spoiled it all. Indeed I did. It was quite intentional.
Then there was Wilco's performance of their spiffy song, "Late Greats" on the Late Show with David Letterman. There's something magical about the simplicity of the song- it's the type of composition that seems to have always existed yet it's truly original and out of its time. Watching the band have lots of fun with the stops and starts that drive the tune was something grin inducing. Even Paul Schaffer went out of his way to praise the band and its performance.
Finally I enjoyed the perfect big ass burrito (BAB) from the county cafeteria downstairs. The chicken was flavored just right and the preparer added just the right amount of cheese, pinto beans and rice, topped off with jalopeno peppers and spicy salsa. I woofed the BAB down in no time flat.
Monday, January 3, 2005
2004 Woman of the Year
Previous Winners: 1992: H. Ross Perot, 1993: St. Francis of Assisi, 1994: Newt Gingrich, 1995: Cal Ripken Jr., 1996: The Bob Dole Campaign, 1997: Dolly the Sheep, 1998: El Nino, 1999: Belinda Jensen, 2000: The Taco Bell Chihuahua, 2001: Randy Moss, 2002: The Cheapo Newsletter, 2003: Lindsay Whalen
Because of the fiasco of last year's Newsletter Woman of the Year process, Congress passed several law changes to address some of the issues that caused such controversy. The laws were meant to eliminate shoddy voting equipment and discriminatory administrative practices that kept committee members from casting their votes.
The result? More scrutiny over the process and less scrutiny over the actual candidates. As usual there were two major candidates (and as it will be revealed- no major differences between the two) and several minor candidates. The minor candidates were dismissed almost immediately because they weren't seen as having a viable chance winning even though they were the ones raising the important issues though they might as well been spitting into the wind for all the good it did them.
Among this group of candidates were all those involved in the BALCO steroids scandal. Regular readers of the newsletter, once they awaken from their naps, likely have noticed an obvious change in these pages since around 1996. For those wondering how the newsletter has kept appearing week after week for going on to 13 years- use of performance enhancing substances long rumored became obvious and confirmed publicly this fall. The editor's ensuing excuse of not knowing what the cream he's been rubbing on his belly seemed disingenuous at best.
Another candidate that the committee considered if only for a brief moment was George W. Bush. What is the deal with the endearing if not goofy way he over enunciates certain words as if he is learning them for the first time? David Letterman had a one off video spot called "Bush Shows Off" that showed our President speaking to a crowd saying that he had eaten KOYHBAY beef with Prime Minister KWIIZOOMEE. And then he breaks into his goofy smirk. It was the darndest video clip of the campaign- a reminder that we should all just grin at this lil affable fellow's antics.
Yet another minor candidate considered for the top honor was former indie-rocker Liz Phair. Just as her music almost tries too hard to get her hardcore fans to label her as the penultimate sellout, her clothes get skimpier and skimpier as if there's some perverse connection between the two. Yet she still has a way with words and her minor league wannabe Madonna act is quite charming because who can actually resist the catchy "Why Can't I" that informs us she was already wet before she went swimming?
Dan Rather was also considered because of the notion that bloggers brought him down that has spread from the Internet to mainstream media much like much of the news from campaign 2004 did. The basis of Rather's undoing was reporting on a story of our President's military career that was based on what turned out to be phony documents. Ironically just when Rather got the frequency right it was just then his wacky homespun Texas metaphors were too liberal, went a bit too far. In other words who cares about the story if what led us from here to there is more interesting?
So despite all the blogging and vote fixing it came down to two. The runner up was Ms. Martha Stewart herself, the queen of artificial homespun goodness because each and every one of the committee members felt bad that Martha was sent away for lying about a crime she never committed. Yes there are more legitimate political prisoners (Thank You! Mr. Ashcroft!) but Martha was the classic example of how our government has to make an example out of somebody in times of trouble. Yes the boys and gals from Enron destroyed actual people, and yes there might actually be just as much indifference in corporate America as there is in the much maligned public sector but goll darn it we gotta lock up Martha because someone's gotta pay! Besides, she's got seven kitties so how bad can she really be?
So the Newsletter Woman of the Year Selection Committee rifled through the hanging chads grassroots impassioned, yet ultimately hot air blown pleas, and came to a decision that could almost be called a mandate what with 50.0001 percent of the committee's support- a decision that will reverberate through the years what with the judicial subcommittee's appointment to the ultimate Newsletter Woman of the Year's Committee process hanging in the balance... Our winner in 2004? The Apple iPod. Why? Because it allows us all to tune everything out and just listen to our music. Repeat- OUR MUSIC. That it allows us to do that while changing the music biz itself should be seen as less a threat to the retail portion (and social strata) of our society as it is the opportunity that it really is. Take your iPod ladies and germs, and take your music with you wherever you wanna go. Shuffle Sinatra and Hole. Mix Dylan with Bananarama. Go ahead and listen to all that can and already has change(d) you. Just do it.
Because of the fiasco of last year's Newsletter Woman of the Year process, Congress passed several law changes to address some of the issues that caused such controversy. The laws were meant to eliminate shoddy voting equipment and discriminatory administrative practices that kept committee members from casting their votes.
The result? More scrutiny over the process and less scrutiny over the actual candidates. As usual there were two major candidates (and as it will be revealed- no major differences between the two) and several minor candidates. The minor candidates were dismissed almost immediately because they weren't seen as having a viable chance winning even though they were the ones raising the important issues though they might as well been spitting into the wind for all the good it did them.
Among this group of candidates were all those involved in the BALCO steroids scandal. Regular readers of the newsletter, once they awaken from their naps, likely have noticed an obvious change in these pages since around 1996. For those wondering how the newsletter has kept appearing week after week for going on to 13 years- use of performance enhancing substances long rumored became obvious and confirmed publicly this fall. The editor's ensuing excuse of not knowing what the cream he's been rubbing on his belly seemed disingenuous at best.
Another candidate that the committee considered if only for a brief moment was George W. Bush. What is the deal with the endearing if not goofy way he over enunciates certain words as if he is learning them for the first time? David Letterman had a one off video spot called "Bush Shows Off" that showed our President speaking to a crowd saying that he had eaten KOYHBAY beef with Prime Minister KWIIZOOMEE. And then he breaks into his goofy smirk. It was the darndest video clip of the campaign- a reminder that we should all just grin at this lil affable fellow's antics.
Yet another minor candidate considered for the top honor was former indie-rocker Liz Phair. Just as her music almost tries too hard to get her hardcore fans to label her as the penultimate sellout, her clothes get skimpier and skimpier as if there's some perverse connection between the two. Yet she still has a way with words and her minor league wannabe Madonna act is quite charming because who can actually resist the catchy "Why Can't I" that informs us she was already wet before she went swimming?
Dan Rather was also considered because of the notion that bloggers brought him down that has spread from the Internet to mainstream media much like much of the news from campaign 2004 did. The basis of Rather's undoing was reporting on a story of our President's military career that was based on what turned out to be phony documents. Ironically just when Rather got the frequency right it was just then his wacky homespun Texas metaphors were too liberal, went a bit too far. In other words who cares about the story if what led us from here to there is more interesting?
So despite all the blogging and vote fixing it came down to two. The runner up was Ms. Martha Stewart herself, the queen of artificial homespun goodness because each and every one of the committee members felt bad that Martha was sent away for lying about a crime she never committed. Yes there are more legitimate political prisoners (Thank You! Mr. Ashcroft!) but Martha was the classic example of how our government has to make an example out of somebody in times of trouble. Yes the boys and gals from Enron destroyed actual people, and yes there might actually be just as much indifference in corporate America as there is in the much maligned public sector but goll darn it we gotta lock up Martha because someone's gotta pay! Besides, she's got seven kitties so how bad can she really be?
So the Newsletter Woman of the Year Selection Committee rifled through the hanging chads grassroots impassioned, yet ultimately hot air blown pleas, and came to a decision that could almost be called a mandate what with 50.0001 percent of the committee's support- a decision that will reverberate through the years what with the judicial subcommittee's appointment to the ultimate Newsletter Woman of the Year's Committee process hanging in the balance... Our winner in 2004? The Apple iPod. Why? Because it allows us all to tune everything out and just listen to our music. Repeat- OUR MUSIC. That it allows us to do that while changing the music biz itself should be seen as less a threat to the retail portion (and social strata) of our society as it is the opportunity that it really is. Take your iPod ladies and germs, and take your music with you wherever you wanna go. Shuffle Sinatra and Hole. Mix Dylan with Bananarama. Go ahead and listen to all that can and already has change(d) you. Just do it.
Monday, December 27, 2004
2004+10 = 40
10) Wilco at the Orpheum- The guy behind me kept saying in an overly loud voice, "This is the best f%^king show I've ever been to." He may have been exaggerating a bit but the band, so hopelessly obsessed by studio trickery proved that it could rock with the best of them. I didn't like Ghost is Born so much but after hearing the live version of "Spiders" I was reminded that Wilco is a band I'll always listen to no matter how much they may initially annoy me.
9) Brian Wilson Smile- Finally finishing and releasing the long awaited (over thirty five years after it's scheduled release) lost masterpiece we finally got to hear what all the fuss was about. It's a great piece of music- a song cycle that takes us all across America, through time and through the heart of a great songwriter. Seeing Brian perform the entire thing live at the Orpheum was a magical thing.
8) Lucinda Williams at the Minnesota Zoo- She had recently canceled a few shows on the tour due to the death of her mother but Lucinda seemed in terrific spirits as she joked about playing in such close proximity to the animals. When she sang one of my all time favorite songs, "Am I Too Blue?" I almost fell out of my seat. So simple, so beautiful, so true (and blue too).
7) Prince at the Xcel Energy Center- Good lord almighty the little fellow can put on a show. From his searing guitar playing to his fantastic singing to his eye opening dancing he ran through most of his hits in his catalog. At times stunning at all times terrifically entertaining, it's a show/night that I'll thankfully never ever get out of my system . I only wish I had bought tickets for the other two shows at the same venue. That I got to go to the show with the still most beautiful soul I've ever known was an appropriate linking to Prince's inspired performance.
6) Creative Nonfiction Class at the Loft- When the fairly recently graduated Blue-Eyed Editor mentioned that she was interested in taking a writing class at the Loft with me I jumped at the chance. For me it was an opportunity for some structure in a never relenting nagging hobby. When the instructor asked us why we were taking the class I said something about writing this newsletter for the past ten years and how that meant I was pretty much writing the same thing over and over. My classmates chuckled. I wasn't exactly joking and the class did afford me the opportunity to stretch some muscles that were in the need of working some kinks out.
5) Bob Dylan's Chronicles Vol. 1- I must admit I sorta cringed upon hearing that Bob was writing his memoir. Despite all the astounding music he has written and performed in over 40 years it remains doubtful how much we truly know about who he really is. Dylan seemingly knew from the start that the best way to avoid failing to meet expectations was to continually leaving those paying attention wondering what to expect from him next. This autobiography is perhaps the best auto biography I've ever read (even better than Miles Davis' or Charles Mingus'). Dylan takes memories of his past, that may or may not be entirely accurate and follows them wherever they lead. It's like dropping a big glass ball on to the floor and following each and every chard wherever it lands. His mind is so unique and his writing ability is truly something to behold no matter the medium.
4) Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind- I loved this movie because it explored why we remember the things that we remember no matter how much they bother us. I loved this movie because it was also about how the things we forget can ultimately be the things that hurt us most. I loved this movie because behind its visual beauty it was ultimately about holding on to the things that may long be gone because they are what bind together the fabric of who we are and will forever be.
3) The Upper Wing- I finally got around to finishing the attic of my house into a master bedroom and bathroom. It's something I've wanted to do since buying my house eight years ago. My contractor did a great job and as I lie night after night under the stars that peep out from the skylights I can sometimes even allow myself to marvel at the wonder of it all.
2) Ike Reilly Sparkle in the Finish- I waited a long time for this CD to arrive. When Ike's website went online in early 2003 it said that the CD would come out in the fall. Two falls later it finally did and the wait was well worth it. Ten terrific songs from a terrific songwriter that rock and roll and are just as great to listen to as you wait in traffic as they are when you finally hit the long lost road.
1) Turning 40- It was in grade school when I began having a recurring dream/vision that I wasn't long for this world and I wouldn't make it past 40. So this was a rather big year for me. That I'm still chugging along surprises me and I'm even able to occasionally admit that where I'm at now is a good thing now and again.
9) Brian Wilson Smile- Finally finishing and releasing the long awaited (over thirty five years after it's scheduled release) lost masterpiece we finally got to hear what all the fuss was about. It's a great piece of music- a song cycle that takes us all across America, through time and through the heart of a great songwriter. Seeing Brian perform the entire thing live at the Orpheum was a magical thing.
8) Lucinda Williams at the Minnesota Zoo- She had recently canceled a few shows on the tour due to the death of her mother but Lucinda seemed in terrific spirits as she joked about playing in such close proximity to the animals. When she sang one of my all time favorite songs, "Am I Too Blue?" I almost fell out of my seat. So simple, so beautiful, so true (and blue too).
7) Prince at the Xcel Energy Center- Good lord almighty the little fellow can put on a show. From his searing guitar playing to his fantastic singing to his eye opening dancing he ran through most of his hits in his catalog. At times stunning at all times terrifically entertaining, it's a show/night that I'll thankfully never ever get out of my system . I only wish I had bought tickets for the other two shows at the same venue. That I got to go to the show with the still most beautiful soul I've ever known was an appropriate linking to Prince's inspired performance.
6) Creative Nonfiction Class at the Loft- When the fairly recently graduated Blue-Eyed Editor mentioned that she was interested in taking a writing class at the Loft with me I jumped at the chance. For me it was an opportunity for some structure in a never relenting nagging hobby. When the instructor asked us why we were taking the class I said something about writing this newsletter for the past ten years and how that meant I was pretty much writing the same thing over and over. My classmates chuckled. I wasn't exactly joking and the class did afford me the opportunity to stretch some muscles that were in the need of working some kinks out.
5) Bob Dylan's Chronicles Vol. 1- I must admit I sorta cringed upon hearing that Bob was writing his memoir. Despite all the astounding music he has written and performed in over 40 years it remains doubtful how much we truly know about who he really is. Dylan seemingly knew from the start that the best way to avoid failing to meet expectations was to continually leaving those paying attention wondering what to expect from him next. This autobiography is perhaps the best auto biography I've ever read (even better than Miles Davis' or Charles Mingus'). Dylan takes memories of his past, that may or may not be entirely accurate and follows them wherever they lead. It's like dropping a big glass ball on to the floor and following each and every chard wherever it lands. His mind is so unique and his writing ability is truly something to behold no matter the medium.
4) Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind- I loved this movie because it explored why we remember the things that we remember no matter how much they bother us. I loved this movie because it was also about how the things we forget can ultimately be the things that hurt us most. I loved this movie because behind its visual beauty it was ultimately about holding on to the things that may long be gone because they are what bind together the fabric of who we are and will forever be.
3) The Upper Wing- I finally got around to finishing the attic of my house into a master bedroom and bathroom. It's something I've wanted to do since buying my house eight years ago. My contractor did a great job and as I lie night after night under the stars that peep out from the skylights I can sometimes even allow myself to marvel at the wonder of it all.
2) Ike Reilly Sparkle in the Finish- I waited a long time for this CD to arrive. When Ike's website went online in early 2003 it said that the CD would come out in the fall. Two falls later it finally did and the wait was well worth it. Ten terrific songs from a terrific songwriter that rock and roll and are just as great to listen to as you wait in traffic as they are when you finally hit the long lost road.
1) Turning 40- It was in grade school when I began having a recurring dream/vision that I wasn't long for this world and I wouldn't make it past 40. So this was a rather big year for me. That I'm still chugging along surprises me and I'm even able to occasionally admit that where I'm at now is a good thing now and again.
Monday, December 20, 2004
Nothing Lasts Forever in the Cold December Rain
"A bad writer is just a good writer with writer's block."
-Bucky Katt
After giving me my airline snack of apple juice and buttery pretzels the stewardess looked at the book I was reading, Bob Dylan's memoir, Chronicles Vol. 1. She asked how it was. I said good although it later occurred to me that she may have been talking about my apple juice. If I had known I would have said the whole thing was sticky. The ride was nearly over and we were preparing to land. I always read with amusement those personal ads in the independent weekly newspapers, the ones that list a person's turn on's and turn off's. I'm not sure what I would list if forced to do so. Bad hygiene perhaps. Rude behavior probably. Landing in the dark- bingo! I hate being on a plane at night when the weather is bad and you can't see the ground until the last second. I like to know where I'm going. I like to see that there is something down below.
For a guy with a growing case of agoraphobia I sure do get around. This year alone I've taken trips to Portland Oregon, Auburn Alabama, and now Toronto Canada, sort of the Sunni triangle of North America.
This would have been nothing in past days as I used to love the freedom and adventure of going to a place I had never been. As lost as I often felt at home in my own skin the feeling of seeing some place new was quite appealing.
But now even if the trip is scheduled and booked by another, even if all I have to do is step on to an airplane and follow a mapped out route it seems to be daunting to the point of being paralyzing. I'm not sure exactly what's changed or how I've gotten to this point nor do I know where the line is between irrational fears and the people on the streets of any big city you visit who are mumbling to themselves living from day to day.
I had troubles. I found myself in the office of a minister telling him that after having seen a boatload of psychiatrists and psychologists with their cures of medicines and electrical currents I had decided my problems seemed to be more spiritual than psychological. He listened intently. I asked him if there were relevant passages of the Bible I should be reading which of course is a bit akin to unfolding a roadmap and asking someone to point to relevant places to go.
I had stopped writing, which for me was like the disease, but for those I spoke with was merely an annoying symptom. But it wasn't a writer's block it was the absolute terror of what I needed to write even if I wasn't sure what that exactly was. It just seemed like I shouldn't be writing what I needed to write. That voice that had always guided the words on paper was gone and when I mentioned this to the doctors they were alarmed at the confession I heard voices. When I mentioned it felt like God's voice was gone the minister seemed more like a clinician, another expert with a degree.
My writing wasn't merely an outlet for emotions or a canvass for expression it was part of who I was. Losing my writing was like cutting off a limb an analogy with now serious consequences as I watch every day with growing and loving admiration, a special soul, a cat who is getting by in life with only three legs. As important as something may be to surviving sometimes you just cut it off so the rest can remain and you can go on.
I left the minister's office feeling more lost than ever. And that's when I took a trip out west. I had been there before. My sister lived in Los Angeles but this was different. There was no itinerary or purpose for going. I wanted to write and I knew that the world was bigger than any problem that was wearing me down. It wasn't a matter of digging deeper within it was a matter of looking further out. I knew that, even if I was sure the minister and any of the doctors would have suggested I was running away.
Out west I went here and I went there. I didn't make it everywhere. But I did some writing. I would drive to a secluded area and sit for a while and then write whatever was on my mind. It mostly was all about stuff back home but I didn't care. Someone had to get it down. When I came home I fell in love and I carefully showed her some of what I had written. Her reaction was to tell me that my writing personal as it was couldn't ever mean anything to anyone who didn't know me. She eventually broke my heart so I headed out east to the other coast. Took a train this time. Philadelphia, Washington DC, Boston and everywhere in between. Went south far enough to see some historical Civil War stuff. Wrote a poem that was the best thing I had ever written. Wrote it on a train as the words rolled out of me faster than the tracks underneath.
Crickets grow silent whenever she's near/was it from comfort or out of fear?/A lucky rock a break or two/leaned on her crutches as good as new/A moth flips and flutters to its light /mended wing restores its flight/A walker in spirit the nurturing kind,/gentle friend with an original mind./She draws the map to all ahead/gave him a place to rest his head/Her knee had a screw, broken and scarred/the lone accident to which she starred/Her limp he saw before in a dream/Vitamin B ointment for self esteem.
Came back home and was comforted by the best friend I had ever had. Her daughters gave me bandages for my feet after I had tried to walk from work to home in a terrible blizzard one grave night tearing up the souls of my feet in the process.
Since then the trips have come fewer and farther between, slowing to a trickle, a mere crawl. Years back I did take a trip across the world (and back) but it was more of a trip to remind me where I came from not where I was going. As I got more serious about my job, about my life I guess, the option of just taking off and going somewhere had to be cleared by somebody else. I had to accumulate the needed amount of vacation hours and with the growing fear of leaving my home it just never seemed worth the effort. But perhaps the biggest difference about hitting the road between now and then is you can now connect to the Internet, the super information highway, from just about anywhere and read your emails and hometown newspaper. I used to just write on a rock. Now days you can't ever really get away.
So these days where anyone who is someone is going south to Mexico this winter, I decided to buck the trend and head the other way, north to Canada. And like trips past there really wasn't much of a plan. My boss was kind enough to pay for my ticket and hotel room and he plopped me down right in the heart of downtown Toronto with plenty to see.
Of course first came the incessant worrying. Who would take care of the kitties? Their favorite person in the world bar none. Could I afford to take time away from work when we remain ever incredibly and hopelessly busy? I'm not taking much time off anytime else so don't I deserve a few days now? How would I make it to the airport? I'd park my car in my 24/7 secure location downtown Minneapolis and take the light rail to the airport. How does one ride the light rail? The little redheaded girl and I took a long break one day and did a trial run. What if I don't make it through airport security what with my always-guilty look? They didn't look twice.
On the practice run to the airport with the little redheaded girl our return trip had us seated in seats facing away from the front of the train. I told her that when I was a kid my parents bought a station wagon that had a back seat where my brother and I sat. My parents thought that since the seat faced backwards it would give us a little area we could play and have to ourselves. It wasn't until the past few years that I revealed to my Dad that my brother and I hated that car because we couldn't see where we were going, just where we had been.
I arrived in Toronto late morning and took a cab to my motel. It was disorienting that the cabbie's accent was French rather than one of the Middle Eastern accents I've grown accustomed to hearing from that profession. It was also a little weird that the guy was wearing a limousine driver's outfit. On the ride I made a point to look for interesting places to visit. I paid particular attention once we got closer to the motel since I knew I would be doing a lot of walking. After checking in I decided to grab a bite to eat. Right outside my motel room window was a Japanese restaurant. A reasonably priced one at that. (I would only eat three out of my eight meals at Japanese restaurants despite that there were two within walking distance of the motel.) I also checked out the immediate vicinity but spent the evening in my room trying to draw a mental map of the next few days.
The next day the primary goal was to figure out the subway system and to find our CD store downtown. I looked up the address of the store and figured out where the nearest subway station was located. Once there I decided to buy an all day pass figuring I'd be riding the subway throughout the day and I didn't want to bother figuring out how to purchase the correct fare along the way. It turned out not to be an economically sound decision since when you are riding the subway you can't exactly spontaneously see when there is someplace that looks interesting to visit. Not knowing what I wanted to do or see necessitated that I do most of my traveling on foot.
The Yellow Pages ad to our store said it was within walking distance of the Bloor Street Station. I just hopped on to a train figuring I'd figure things out as I went along. Surprisingly the conductor called out Bloor Street two stops down from where I hopped on. I got off and walked up to street level. A light cold drizzle filled the air and with the address in hand I headed off. Of course is my nature I immediately headed the wrong way. The store's address was on Bloor Street West and the subway had dropped me off on Bloor Street East. I headed the direction that felt west but once I walked a few miles and was now out of any business type district as the numbers grew more and more out of range, I decided it was time to head back the other way. With the hood of my sweatshirt pulled up tightly around my head I thought I might look a little like a less than grown up Holden Caulfield, a somewhat average Cheapo customer.
It was quite the walk the other way so it was kind of comforting once I found the store to find somewhere that felt a little like home. It's a nice space in a nice area.
Much of what I had seen of Bloor Street was the typical big city chain store alley- The Gap, Pottery Barn, Pier One, etc. Closer to Sonic Boom were independent shops and even a piano bar. There were some colorful names like Spotted Dick's and FCUK (French Connection United Kingdom) but once inside the CD shop things looked familiar. It's a nice store and atmosphere. I browsed through the recent arrival bin and found some stuff I wanted to buy but I felt it was my duty seeing where I was to buy something Canadian either Leonard Cohen or Shania Twain, maybe Gordon Lightfoot or Celine Dion or perhaps kd Lang or Alanis Morissette. Anne Murray? I could only be so lucky. I almost settled on a Neko Case CD but I figured she was only an honorary Canadian having gone to college there.
Instead amongst my other purchases I grabbed a Gabrielle Destroismaisons CD. She's from Quebec and the French titles of her songs caught my attention. I wanted to tell myself that the reason I chose her CD was that she mentioned one of her favorite artists to be Bob Dylan but honestly really it was her looks reminded me of the girl who sat across from me at breakfast that morning who I embarrassingly couldn't take my eyes off of. She looked like a combination of Elisabeth Filarski and Judi Dutcher and the girl next door I used to work by. She had to be at least the second most beautiful woman I've ever seen. As I browsed the store I couldn't help but wonder if all the United States produced CDs shouldn't have been filed in the International section rather than in the main bins of the store.
When I was a junior high school kid a new kid, Ted, moved to town from somewhere in Canada and I thought his Canadian accent had to be an exaggeration. "Hey did you see last night's owkey game?" I thought Ted was putting me on. But those speaking English in the establishments I visited really talked that way. And the whole country (at least all that I saw on TV) seemed to be in mourning about the National Hockey League's player lockout. The thing I remember most about Ted was he was the first person I met who had actually smoked a joint. I remember he offered me one but I didn't take it, although I did inhale. The sweet smell of the weed surprised me. I expected something much more poisonous. As I left the store on the street in front of me was a young man who looked blue collar and like he had a plan. He was puffing on a cigarette and every now and then he'd glance back at me as if he was afraid I was sneaking up on him. Some of his smoke wafted back to my nostrils and it wasn't tobacco he was smoking. Suddenly I was in Amsterdam or at least wondering what ever happened to Ted.
I headed on back towards the subway. The drizzle had turned into a light rain. The drops from the rain clouded my glasses as across the street I saw a big sign for the Bata Shoe Museum. The sign was too tempting to pass by so I stopped in looking something like an Asian Travis Bickell. The elderly ticket lady wasn't sure what to make of me and she sheepishly asked if I wanted to see the museum. I did. I did indeed. The first display featured the tiny shoes (though bigger than my own) of Monkee Davy Jones. Right nearby were the somewhat larger shoes of Michael Jordan.
I also got to see shoes worn by Marilyn Monroe, Tiger Woods, Winston Churchill and Elvis. Shaquille O'Neal's shoes could house my entire leg. The shoes of the Chinese women who had their feet bound were frighteningly tiny. What seemed like a goofy idea for a museum turned out to be great visit. The displays showed that throughout different decades and centuries how tastes changed to reflect the times. I decided the ornate beauty of the 1700's best captured my taste in things. My friend Spunky once told me he first judged people by the shoes they were wearing. It never had occurred to me up to that moment that such a thing was possible. And I'm not even sure how it is to be done. But a person in a good pair of shoes says something. The museum proved nothing if not that.
There's a box at the club I curl at full of what's labeled as "lost shoes." If I was in charge of the club I'd change the label on the box to read, "lost soles." That joke would never get old. The shoes are of all size and styles, not only all stripes but some swooshes as well. It would be interesting to decipher the story behind how each landed in that box. (If only shoes could talk- they do have tongues after all.) I doubt many people leave the curling club in their bare feet so it must have something to do with that most of us change shoes when we take the ice. We don't want to drag anything from the street on to that fresh sheet of ice. That would make it difficult to do the necessary sliding, make things a little too bumpy to play the game.
I could have walked around the streets with the music from my new iPod serving as some type of soundtrack, a musical backdrop to the sites of the city. At my disposal I had just about any relevant song in my collection at my fingertips available to color my thoughts like I was in some cinematic story. But I didn't want to do that. Whenever I'm in a different place I like to experience the place relying on all my senses. I needed to hear the sounds of the streets and the people as much as I cherished the smell of fresh fruit as I walked by an organic market. Toronto is a nice sized international city. It looked a lot like it does in all the movies shot there. Overcast skies and the constant drizzle gave the city that certain Midwestern industrial feel although the diversity of the faces was like opening up a broom closet only to find a spice rack full of flavors you'd never tried.
My first official acting job was as a pussy willow in a second grade play. My Mom sewed me a brown cloak that was supposed to have balls of cotton affixed but before that step I got sick and missed the performance. Gone was the chance to sing about shivering in the cold waiting for Jack Frost to arrive. I cried because I missed the big moment, my chance to shine. Mom comforted me by telling me there'd be other chances as she served me some chicken soup.
Walking the streets of Toronto I must have looked like I knew what I was doing. Two people approached me at different times and asked me for directions. I had to turn them away because I didn't know a thing. When I got back on the subway to head towards Queen Street, what was described as the bohemian part of town, I of course headed the wrong way and had to double back. Once I got to the right stop the rain was starting to freeze so I decided to cut my adventure short and go back to my room.
The next day I set off in the other direction where I found an interesting music store called Sam the Record Man's. They had an intriguing Japanese Bob Dylan import but the price wasn't right. I just kept walking. I saw signs for the Hockey Hall of Fame. I haven't been a fan of the sport since the late 80's and early 90's. What changed my mind about hockey I'm not quite sure as I spent many a wintry day ruining the ceiling of my parent's basement picking up a high sticking penalty or two playing my brother in a ferocious game of floor hockey in a much too small space. I remember being terribly disappointed in visiting the Hockey Hall of Fame in Eveleth on a family vacation. Turned out it was only the American Hockey Hall of Fame so I was not too impressed by the many names and faces of unrecognizable stars. Seemed to me like you should be recognizable to appear in a Hall of Fame. I think I gave up on hockey because it only reminded me of how much I hated winter. And Mary Meek. Besides a sport that takes place on a slippery surface seems to be trying too hard. But then I took up curling.
I was surprised by visiting the Canadian Hockey Hall of Fame at how much of the sport's history I already knew. It was great fun seeing and touching the actual Stanley Cup but it was equally fun seeing a video clip that had a snippet of an interview with Gump Worsley, the Minnesota North Star goaltender who happens to hold the distinction of being the last goalie not to wear a face mask.
Just about everything else I know about Canada came from watching SCTV. The show mocked the Canadian Broadcasting Company (CBC). Even though I knew nothing of that station I still found the show's spoofs of the slower pace of Canadian TV (fishing shows, Doug and Bob McKenzie, Count Floyd, Floyd Camembert and Bobby Bittman) that tried hard to imitate American TV to be endlessly entertaining. Little did I know how on the mark those spoofs were. As I sat in my room at night surfing the Toronto stations I couldn't help but enjoy the real deal. I just hoped that I would come across a televised curling match. Leave it to the last day and I did. (Though in all honesty it was shown on NBC so it likely was broadcast in the States as well).
Long ago my friend Fernande (who used to torture me with all things French even though she knew it was the last nail) asked me if I wanted to take ballroom dancing lessons with her (she also knew my worsening aversion to being touched). I considered the idea quite seriously for awhile, kind of always fancied myself as a song and dance man, but ultimately couldn't do it. In my mind I still pictured the still black and white photos my parents took off the black and white TV when I squared danced at the halftime of the state high school boy's basketball tournament back in grade school. My partner that day, Shelley Loomis said I was swinging her much harder than normal. I do know the adrenaline of being in the spotlight was causing me to dosey doh much more energetically. I told Fernande that I wasn't sure how my square dancing experience would effect my ability to learn to ballroom dance. The concepts were similar but the moves were entirely different.
Wandering around downtown on a Saturday afternoon the sound of bagpipe players (dressed in their requisite knickers) competed with the homeless looking who felt it in their best interests to put on some type of competing show. One guy tinkled on a toy-sized xylophone. Another caterwauled in a tone that sounded so inhuman I wasn't sure it was until I passed him by. The faces of Toronto were the diverse faces of a big city. Mine blended in quite well I'm quite sure.
In 1995 on a trip out East I was visiting my friend Alex in Washington DC. We were in a Baskin Robbins seated at a table at the front of the restaurant with seats facing toward the street. As we were enjoying our ice cream a homeless guy sat in the bushes in front of the store in front of us. If he had moved down a few feet he would have sat on a ledge but he chose instead to mush the plants. Still I was a bit surprised that Alex criticized his actions. I'm the type of guy who often time drops a coin into a cup. It's hard to look at the homeless like you're supposed to act like there is nothing unusual about seeing someone lying on the street trying to stay warm in a ratty blanket. Still more often than not that coin has probably been more for my own conscience than any real relief it could possibly provide. Alex's unmatched skill and ability to get to the real heart of the issue thus eliminating the otherwise cloaking sentimentality was one of the things I admired most about her.
I passed a woman in the hallway of my Toronto motel and she was wearing a fragrance similar to the one that Alex used to wear (and I do wonder if she still does). It's funny how far the sense of smell can take you. I miss Alex's scent. I almost felt like turning around in the hallway and following the woman for a while just to keep the fading scent in my nose for just a while longer. If smells could be seen, her fragrance would be a combination of something between a vivid flash and a multi-colored pastel. The pattern would be as precise as it is bright like the lingering image you see when you close your eyes after looking at something intensely absorbing and brilliant.
One penetrating impression I thought about in Canada is this psychological notion of borders. Somehow being a Minnesotan makes us different from being a North Dakotan. Somehow St. Paul residents are different from their neighboring Minneapolis kin. But being in Canada did feel different than being in the United States. Maybe it was the accents, maybe it was watching Canadian television with Canadian focused news, maybe it was the currency. I never did figure out on my purchases if I was getting a good deal. It struck me that in my day to day life the people I see in the Minneapolis skyways or on the streets of St. Paul may recognize me out of familiarity but don't know a thing about me. Looking into the gazing eyes of the people I passed in Toronto I wondered if the people knew something about me that I didn't know about myself. I've often been told that it is hard to read me by looking at my facial expressions (or lack thereof) but the reflection in the mirror I see is rather transparent.
Occasionally a Canadian would look at me funny and I thought back to a few months before when in my job I had managed to piss off more than a few residents from up North. There is an election law that allows a United States citizen who has permanently moved from the country to cast a vote for federal offices in the jurisdiction that they last resided in the United States. The issue I ran into was many of these people now had voting age children who had never lived in Minnesota but still were United States citizens yet were ineligible to receive a ballot from me. So I got to be the lucky one who told these soon to be angry people that they didn't get to vote. As I wandered the streets of Toronto and got a sideways glance, or as I received less than friendly service at an establishment I thought about letting go of my standard zinger, "I've stopped people just like you from voting!" I declared in my head. Funny what power does to you.
The last place I visited on my trip was a warehouse sized book store appropriately named "The Big Book Store." The bright florescent lights couldn't have contrasted more with the gray moist heavy air from the outside. A cheerful twentyish woman with pony tails and dressed in one of the store's smocks smiled at me as I entered the store. She was carrying around an empty shopper's basket and I thought she might like me until I noticed all the employees wore the exact same smile. Their chirpy banter with the customers seemed both forced yet natural as if this was how the interactions had been prescribed and preordained. The store was huge- one floor full of nonfiction subject books like computers and business and humor and war. The upper level had fiction and music and poetry and more of the stuff I'm used to reading save for the self help section. The prices seemed about right- lots of books on sale and discounted but I didn't need anything I had to then drag home. I had already packed my bags. I stayed longer than I wanted to in the sterile store but I had time to kill. It was a little spooky the way the employees acted- like they were in some kind of cult just waiting to brainwash you into joining their cause, their church.
The longest conversation my entire time in Toronto was with the cab driver on the way to the airport. I asked him how much snow the city usually got and got a five-minute monologue about Canadian weather. He mentioned it doesn't get much colder than ten below Celsius and I asked him what that was Fahrenheit and he really wasn't sure. As he continued telling me about weather patterns across the country my mind flashed back to one of the last cognitive discussions I had with my Mom. I remember when I was a kid and we were all being exposed to the metric system because America was finally going to join the rest of the world (we're still waiting for that to happen) we were taught the conversion formula for Fahrenheit to Celsius and vice versa. I brought the information home and my Mom showed me another way to do it, an easier simpler way. It was something her advisor had shared in college. So during her illness we were watching the TV weather and I asked her again how to do the conversion and she pulled out a sheet of paper from the crossword she had been struggling on for days (she was a cross word puzzle expert) and tried to show me. She had forgotten though and I could see her frustration and not being able to remember something so ingrained. It was the morphine that dulled her eternally sharp mind.
I asked the taxi driver what the weather was like in Vancouver. He said it was warmer than Toronto but it rained almost all the time in the winter. He also said that the traffic there was horrible, the road system just wasn't designed to deal with the tremendous population growth the city has seen. Plus he added, much of that growth was due to the large Asian immigration and "no offense" Asians tend to be poor drivers. He was from Mississauga just northwest of Toronto, sort of the St. Cloud of Canada. It's the seventh largest city in the country as more and more people are moving to the outer rings of the Toronto metropolitan area.
I arrived at the airport three and a half hours before my flight home. I grabbed a bite to eat and then headed towards my gate. The line at the customs area was incredibly long- a room full of people wound around and wound around again by those ropes you see at banks. People were antsy that they would miss their flight but there was no way to speed up the process that involves having custom officers ask each traveler questions about their visit and where they were heading. After several minutes in line, a little boy in a skullcap standing behind me told his father, "I love you." It seemed like a strange thing to declare in the customs line. The svelte woman standing next to me was reading a book about breast-feeding.
When I got to the front of the line I said a cheery hello to the customs officer who looked a little too much like Dick Cheney. He asked me the purpose of my trip. This time it really didn't have as much to do with writing as it did searching. I told him I worked for a music retailer and was visiting our store in Toronto. He looked at the form where I was required to declare all my purchases. "What does your store sell?" he asked. I said compact discs. "Then why did you buy some here?" He asked. I told him our stores back home didn't have everything. I was going to point out my attempt to buy Canadian artists' music but figured that was more information than he needed to know. He let me go on.
-Bucky Katt
After giving me my airline snack of apple juice and buttery pretzels the stewardess looked at the book I was reading, Bob Dylan's memoir, Chronicles Vol. 1. She asked how it was. I said good although it later occurred to me that she may have been talking about my apple juice. If I had known I would have said the whole thing was sticky. The ride was nearly over and we were preparing to land. I always read with amusement those personal ads in the independent weekly newspapers, the ones that list a person's turn on's and turn off's. I'm not sure what I would list if forced to do so. Bad hygiene perhaps. Rude behavior probably. Landing in the dark- bingo! I hate being on a plane at night when the weather is bad and you can't see the ground until the last second. I like to know where I'm going. I like to see that there is something down below.
For a guy with a growing case of agoraphobia I sure do get around. This year alone I've taken trips to Portland Oregon, Auburn Alabama, and now Toronto Canada, sort of the Sunni triangle of North America.
This would have been nothing in past days as I used to love the freedom and adventure of going to a place I had never been. As lost as I often felt at home in my own skin the feeling of seeing some place new was quite appealing.
But now even if the trip is scheduled and booked by another, even if all I have to do is step on to an airplane and follow a mapped out route it seems to be daunting to the point of being paralyzing. I'm not sure exactly what's changed or how I've gotten to this point nor do I know where the line is between irrational fears and the people on the streets of any big city you visit who are mumbling to themselves living from day to day.
I had troubles. I found myself in the office of a minister telling him that after having seen a boatload of psychiatrists and psychologists with their cures of medicines and electrical currents I had decided my problems seemed to be more spiritual than psychological. He listened intently. I asked him if there were relevant passages of the Bible I should be reading which of course is a bit akin to unfolding a roadmap and asking someone to point to relevant places to go.
I had stopped writing, which for me was like the disease, but for those I spoke with was merely an annoying symptom. But it wasn't a writer's block it was the absolute terror of what I needed to write even if I wasn't sure what that exactly was. It just seemed like I shouldn't be writing what I needed to write. That voice that had always guided the words on paper was gone and when I mentioned this to the doctors they were alarmed at the confession I heard voices. When I mentioned it felt like God's voice was gone the minister seemed more like a clinician, another expert with a degree.
My writing wasn't merely an outlet for emotions or a canvass for expression it was part of who I was. Losing my writing was like cutting off a limb an analogy with now serious consequences as I watch every day with growing and loving admiration, a special soul, a cat who is getting by in life with only three legs. As important as something may be to surviving sometimes you just cut it off so the rest can remain and you can go on.
I left the minister's office feeling more lost than ever. And that's when I took a trip out west. I had been there before. My sister lived in Los Angeles but this was different. There was no itinerary or purpose for going. I wanted to write and I knew that the world was bigger than any problem that was wearing me down. It wasn't a matter of digging deeper within it was a matter of looking further out. I knew that, even if I was sure the minister and any of the doctors would have suggested I was running away.
Out west I went here and I went there. I didn't make it everywhere. But I did some writing. I would drive to a secluded area and sit for a while and then write whatever was on my mind. It mostly was all about stuff back home but I didn't care. Someone had to get it down. When I came home I fell in love and I carefully showed her some of what I had written. Her reaction was to tell me that my writing personal as it was couldn't ever mean anything to anyone who didn't know me. She eventually broke my heart so I headed out east to the other coast. Took a train this time. Philadelphia, Washington DC, Boston and everywhere in between. Went south far enough to see some historical Civil War stuff. Wrote a poem that was the best thing I had ever written. Wrote it on a train as the words rolled out of me faster than the tracks underneath.
Crickets grow silent whenever she's near/was it from comfort or out of fear?/A lucky rock a break or two/leaned on her crutches as good as new/A moth flips and flutters to its light /mended wing restores its flight/A walker in spirit the nurturing kind,/gentle friend with an original mind./She draws the map to all ahead/gave him a place to rest his head/Her knee had a screw, broken and scarred/the lone accident to which she starred/Her limp he saw before in a dream/Vitamin B ointment for self esteem.
Came back home and was comforted by the best friend I had ever had. Her daughters gave me bandages for my feet after I had tried to walk from work to home in a terrible blizzard one grave night tearing up the souls of my feet in the process.
Since then the trips have come fewer and farther between, slowing to a trickle, a mere crawl. Years back I did take a trip across the world (and back) but it was more of a trip to remind me where I came from not where I was going. As I got more serious about my job, about my life I guess, the option of just taking off and going somewhere had to be cleared by somebody else. I had to accumulate the needed amount of vacation hours and with the growing fear of leaving my home it just never seemed worth the effort. But perhaps the biggest difference about hitting the road between now and then is you can now connect to the Internet, the super information highway, from just about anywhere and read your emails and hometown newspaper. I used to just write on a rock. Now days you can't ever really get away.
So these days where anyone who is someone is going south to Mexico this winter, I decided to buck the trend and head the other way, north to Canada. And like trips past there really wasn't much of a plan. My boss was kind enough to pay for my ticket and hotel room and he plopped me down right in the heart of downtown Toronto with plenty to see.
Of course first came the incessant worrying. Who would take care of the kitties? Their favorite person in the world bar none. Could I afford to take time away from work when we remain ever incredibly and hopelessly busy? I'm not taking much time off anytime else so don't I deserve a few days now? How would I make it to the airport? I'd park my car in my 24/7 secure location downtown Minneapolis and take the light rail to the airport. How does one ride the light rail? The little redheaded girl and I took a long break one day and did a trial run. What if I don't make it through airport security what with my always-guilty look? They didn't look twice.
On the practice run to the airport with the little redheaded girl our return trip had us seated in seats facing away from the front of the train. I told her that when I was a kid my parents bought a station wagon that had a back seat where my brother and I sat. My parents thought that since the seat faced backwards it would give us a little area we could play and have to ourselves. It wasn't until the past few years that I revealed to my Dad that my brother and I hated that car because we couldn't see where we were going, just where we had been.
I arrived in Toronto late morning and took a cab to my motel. It was disorienting that the cabbie's accent was French rather than one of the Middle Eastern accents I've grown accustomed to hearing from that profession. It was also a little weird that the guy was wearing a limousine driver's outfit. On the ride I made a point to look for interesting places to visit. I paid particular attention once we got closer to the motel since I knew I would be doing a lot of walking. After checking in I decided to grab a bite to eat. Right outside my motel room window was a Japanese restaurant. A reasonably priced one at that. (I would only eat three out of my eight meals at Japanese restaurants despite that there were two within walking distance of the motel.) I also checked out the immediate vicinity but spent the evening in my room trying to draw a mental map of the next few days.
The next day the primary goal was to figure out the subway system and to find our CD store downtown. I looked up the address of the store and figured out where the nearest subway station was located. Once there I decided to buy an all day pass figuring I'd be riding the subway throughout the day and I didn't want to bother figuring out how to purchase the correct fare along the way. It turned out not to be an economically sound decision since when you are riding the subway you can't exactly spontaneously see when there is someplace that looks interesting to visit. Not knowing what I wanted to do or see necessitated that I do most of my traveling on foot.
The Yellow Pages ad to our store said it was within walking distance of the Bloor Street Station. I just hopped on to a train figuring I'd figure things out as I went along. Surprisingly the conductor called out Bloor Street two stops down from where I hopped on. I got off and walked up to street level. A light cold drizzle filled the air and with the address in hand I headed off. Of course is my nature I immediately headed the wrong way. The store's address was on Bloor Street West and the subway had dropped me off on Bloor Street East. I headed the direction that felt west but once I walked a few miles and was now out of any business type district as the numbers grew more and more out of range, I decided it was time to head back the other way. With the hood of my sweatshirt pulled up tightly around my head I thought I might look a little like a less than grown up Holden Caulfield, a somewhat average Cheapo customer.
It was quite the walk the other way so it was kind of comforting once I found the store to find somewhere that felt a little like home. It's a nice space in a nice area.
Much of what I had seen of Bloor Street was the typical big city chain store alley- The Gap, Pottery Barn, Pier One, etc. Closer to Sonic Boom were independent shops and even a piano bar. There were some colorful names like Spotted Dick's and FCUK (French Connection United Kingdom) but once inside the CD shop things looked familiar. It's a nice store and atmosphere. I browsed through the recent arrival bin and found some stuff I wanted to buy but I felt it was my duty seeing where I was to buy something Canadian either Leonard Cohen or Shania Twain, maybe Gordon Lightfoot or Celine Dion or perhaps kd Lang or Alanis Morissette. Anne Murray? I could only be so lucky. I almost settled on a Neko Case CD but I figured she was only an honorary Canadian having gone to college there.
Instead amongst my other purchases I grabbed a Gabrielle Destroismaisons CD. She's from Quebec and the French titles of her songs caught my attention. I wanted to tell myself that the reason I chose her CD was that she mentioned one of her favorite artists to be Bob Dylan but honestly really it was her looks reminded me of the girl who sat across from me at breakfast that morning who I embarrassingly couldn't take my eyes off of. She looked like a combination of Elisabeth Filarski and Judi Dutcher and the girl next door I used to work by. She had to be at least the second most beautiful woman I've ever seen. As I browsed the store I couldn't help but wonder if all the United States produced CDs shouldn't have been filed in the International section rather than in the main bins of the store.
When I was a junior high school kid a new kid, Ted, moved to town from somewhere in Canada and I thought his Canadian accent had to be an exaggeration. "Hey did you see last night's owkey game?" I thought Ted was putting me on. But those speaking English in the establishments I visited really talked that way. And the whole country (at least all that I saw on TV) seemed to be in mourning about the National Hockey League's player lockout. The thing I remember most about Ted was he was the first person I met who had actually smoked a joint. I remember he offered me one but I didn't take it, although I did inhale. The sweet smell of the weed surprised me. I expected something much more poisonous. As I left the store on the street in front of me was a young man who looked blue collar and like he had a plan. He was puffing on a cigarette and every now and then he'd glance back at me as if he was afraid I was sneaking up on him. Some of his smoke wafted back to my nostrils and it wasn't tobacco he was smoking. Suddenly I was in Amsterdam or at least wondering what ever happened to Ted.
I headed on back towards the subway. The drizzle had turned into a light rain. The drops from the rain clouded my glasses as across the street I saw a big sign for the Bata Shoe Museum. The sign was too tempting to pass by so I stopped in looking something like an Asian Travis Bickell. The elderly ticket lady wasn't sure what to make of me and she sheepishly asked if I wanted to see the museum. I did. I did indeed. The first display featured the tiny shoes (though bigger than my own) of Monkee Davy Jones. Right nearby were the somewhat larger shoes of Michael Jordan.
I also got to see shoes worn by Marilyn Monroe, Tiger Woods, Winston Churchill and Elvis. Shaquille O'Neal's shoes could house my entire leg. The shoes of the Chinese women who had their feet bound were frighteningly tiny. What seemed like a goofy idea for a museum turned out to be great visit. The displays showed that throughout different decades and centuries how tastes changed to reflect the times. I decided the ornate beauty of the 1700's best captured my taste in things. My friend Spunky once told me he first judged people by the shoes they were wearing. It never had occurred to me up to that moment that such a thing was possible. And I'm not even sure how it is to be done. But a person in a good pair of shoes says something. The museum proved nothing if not that.
There's a box at the club I curl at full of what's labeled as "lost shoes." If I was in charge of the club I'd change the label on the box to read, "lost soles." That joke would never get old. The shoes are of all size and styles, not only all stripes but some swooshes as well. It would be interesting to decipher the story behind how each landed in that box. (If only shoes could talk- they do have tongues after all.) I doubt many people leave the curling club in their bare feet so it must have something to do with that most of us change shoes when we take the ice. We don't want to drag anything from the street on to that fresh sheet of ice. That would make it difficult to do the necessary sliding, make things a little too bumpy to play the game.
I could have walked around the streets with the music from my new iPod serving as some type of soundtrack, a musical backdrop to the sites of the city. At my disposal I had just about any relevant song in my collection at my fingertips available to color my thoughts like I was in some cinematic story. But I didn't want to do that. Whenever I'm in a different place I like to experience the place relying on all my senses. I needed to hear the sounds of the streets and the people as much as I cherished the smell of fresh fruit as I walked by an organic market. Toronto is a nice sized international city. It looked a lot like it does in all the movies shot there. Overcast skies and the constant drizzle gave the city that certain Midwestern industrial feel although the diversity of the faces was like opening up a broom closet only to find a spice rack full of flavors you'd never tried.
My first official acting job was as a pussy willow in a second grade play. My Mom sewed me a brown cloak that was supposed to have balls of cotton affixed but before that step I got sick and missed the performance. Gone was the chance to sing about shivering in the cold waiting for Jack Frost to arrive. I cried because I missed the big moment, my chance to shine. Mom comforted me by telling me there'd be other chances as she served me some chicken soup.
Walking the streets of Toronto I must have looked like I knew what I was doing. Two people approached me at different times and asked me for directions. I had to turn them away because I didn't know a thing. When I got back on the subway to head towards Queen Street, what was described as the bohemian part of town, I of course headed the wrong way and had to double back. Once I got to the right stop the rain was starting to freeze so I decided to cut my adventure short and go back to my room.
The next day I set off in the other direction where I found an interesting music store called Sam the Record Man's. They had an intriguing Japanese Bob Dylan import but the price wasn't right. I just kept walking. I saw signs for the Hockey Hall of Fame. I haven't been a fan of the sport since the late 80's and early 90's. What changed my mind about hockey I'm not quite sure as I spent many a wintry day ruining the ceiling of my parent's basement picking up a high sticking penalty or two playing my brother in a ferocious game of floor hockey in a much too small space. I remember being terribly disappointed in visiting the Hockey Hall of Fame in Eveleth on a family vacation. Turned out it was only the American Hockey Hall of Fame so I was not too impressed by the many names and faces of unrecognizable stars. Seemed to me like you should be recognizable to appear in a Hall of Fame. I think I gave up on hockey because it only reminded me of how much I hated winter. And Mary Meek. Besides a sport that takes place on a slippery surface seems to be trying too hard. But then I took up curling.
I was surprised by visiting the Canadian Hockey Hall of Fame at how much of the sport's history I already knew. It was great fun seeing and touching the actual Stanley Cup but it was equally fun seeing a video clip that had a snippet of an interview with Gump Worsley, the Minnesota North Star goaltender who happens to hold the distinction of being the last goalie not to wear a face mask.
Just about everything else I know about Canada came from watching SCTV. The show mocked the Canadian Broadcasting Company (CBC). Even though I knew nothing of that station I still found the show's spoofs of the slower pace of Canadian TV (fishing shows, Doug and Bob McKenzie, Count Floyd, Floyd Camembert and Bobby Bittman) that tried hard to imitate American TV to be endlessly entertaining. Little did I know how on the mark those spoofs were. As I sat in my room at night surfing the Toronto stations I couldn't help but enjoy the real deal. I just hoped that I would come across a televised curling match. Leave it to the last day and I did. (Though in all honesty it was shown on NBC so it likely was broadcast in the States as well).
Long ago my friend Fernande (who used to torture me with all things French even though she knew it was the last nail) asked me if I wanted to take ballroom dancing lessons with her (she also knew my worsening aversion to being touched). I considered the idea quite seriously for awhile, kind of always fancied myself as a song and dance man, but ultimately couldn't do it. In my mind I still pictured the still black and white photos my parents took off the black and white TV when I squared danced at the halftime of the state high school boy's basketball tournament back in grade school. My partner that day, Shelley Loomis said I was swinging her much harder than normal. I do know the adrenaline of being in the spotlight was causing me to dosey doh much more energetically. I told Fernande that I wasn't sure how my square dancing experience would effect my ability to learn to ballroom dance. The concepts were similar but the moves were entirely different.
Wandering around downtown on a Saturday afternoon the sound of bagpipe players (dressed in their requisite knickers) competed with the homeless looking who felt it in their best interests to put on some type of competing show. One guy tinkled on a toy-sized xylophone. Another caterwauled in a tone that sounded so inhuman I wasn't sure it was until I passed him by. The faces of Toronto were the diverse faces of a big city. Mine blended in quite well I'm quite sure.
In 1995 on a trip out East I was visiting my friend Alex in Washington DC. We were in a Baskin Robbins seated at a table at the front of the restaurant with seats facing toward the street. As we were enjoying our ice cream a homeless guy sat in the bushes in front of the store in front of us. If he had moved down a few feet he would have sat on a ledge but he chose instead to mush the plants. Still I was a bit surprised that Alex criticized his actions. I'm the type of guy who often time drops a coin into a cup. It's hard to look at the homeless like you're supposed to act like there is nothing unusual about seeing someone lying on the street trying to stay warm in a ratty blanket. Still more often than not that coin has probably been more for my own conscience than any real relief it could possibly provide. Alex's unmatched skill and ability to get to the real heart of the issue thus eliminating the otherwise cloaking sentimentality was one of the things I admired most about her.
I passed a woman in the hallway of my Toronto motel and she was wearing a fragrance similar to the one that Alex used to wear (and I do wonder if she still does). It's funny how far the sense of smell can take you. I miss Alex's scent. I almost felt like turning around in the hallway and following the woman for a while just to keep the fading scent in my nose for just a while longer. If smells could be seen, her fragrance would be a combination of something between a vivid flash and a multi-colored pastel. The pattern would be as precise as it is bright like the lingering image you see when you close your eyes after looking at something intensely absorbing and brilliant.
One penetrating impression I thought about in Canada is this psychological notion of borders. Somehow being a Minnesotan makes us different from being a North Dakotan. Somehow St. Paul residents are different from their neighboring Minneapolis kin. But being in Canada did feel different than being in the United States. Maybe it was the accents, maybe it was watching Canadian television with Canadian focused news, maybe it was the currency. I never did figure out on my purchases if I was getting a good deal. It struck me that in my day to day life the people I see in the Minneapolis skyways or on the streets of St. Paul may recognize me out of familiarity but don't know a thing about me. Looking into the gazing eyes of the people I passed in Toronto I wondered if the people knew something about me that I didn't know about myself. I've often been told that it is hard to read me by looking at my facial expressions (or lack thereof) but the reflection in the mirror I see is rather transparent.
Occasionally a Canadian would look at me funny and I thought back to a few months before when in my job I had managed to piss off more than a few residents from up North. There is an election law that allows a United States citizen who has permanently moved from the country to cast a vote for federal offices in the jurisdiction that they last resided in the United States. The issue I ran into was many of these people now had voting age children who had never lived in Minnesota but still were United States citizens yet were ineligible to receive a ballot from me. So I got to be the lucky one who told these soon to be angry people that they didn't get to vote. As I wandered the streets of Toronto and got a sideways glance, or as I received less than friendly service at an establishment I thought about letting go of my standard zinger, "I've stopped people just like you from voting!" I declared in my head. Funny what power does to you.
The last place I visited on my trip was a warehouse sized book store appropriately named "The Big Book Store." The bright florescent lights couldn't have contrasted more with the gray moist heavy air from the outside. A cheerful twentyish woman with pony tails and dressed in one of the store's smocks smiled at me as I entered the store. She was carrying around an empty shopper's basket and I thought she might like me until I noticed all the employees wore the exact same smile. Their chirpy banter with the customers seemed both forced yet natural as if this was how the interactions had been prescribed and preordained. The store was huge- one floor full of nonfiction subject books like computers and business and humor and war. The upper level had fiction and music and poetry and more of the stuff I'm used to reading save for the self help section. The prices seemed about right- lots of books on sale and discounted but I didn't need anything I had to then drag home. I had already packed my bags. I stayed longer than I wanted to in the sterile store but I had time to kill. It was a little spooky the way the employees acted- like they were in some kind of cult just waiting to brainwash you into joining their cause, their church.
The longest conversation my entire time in Toronto was with the cab driver on the way to the airport. I asked him how much snow the city usually got and got a five-minute monologue about Canadian weather. He mentioned it doesn't get much colder than ten below Celsius and I asked him what that was Fahrenheit and he really wasn't sure. As he continued telling me about weather patterns across the country my mind flashed back to one of the last cognitive discussions I had with my Mom. I remember when I was a kid and we were all being exposed to the metric system because America was finally going to join the rest of the world (we're still waiting for that to happen) we were taught the conversion formula for Fahrenheit to Celsius and vice versa. I brought the information home and my Mom showed me another way to do it, an easier simpler way. It was something her advisor had shared in college. So during her illness we were watching the TV weather and I asked her again how to do the conversion and she pulled out a sheet of paper from the crossword she had been struggling on for days (she was a cross word puzzle expert) and tried to show me. She had forgotten though and I could see her frustration and not being able to remember something so ingrained. It was the morphine that dulled her eternally sharp mind.
I asked the taxi driver what the weather was like in Vancouver. He said it was warmer than Toronto but it rained almost all the time in the winter. He also said that the traffic there was horrible, the road system just wasn't designed to deal with the tremendous population growth the city has seen. Plus he added, much of that growth was due to the large Asian immigration and "no offense" Asians tend to be poor drivers. He was from Mississauga just northwest of Toronto, sort of the St. Cloud of Canada. It's the seventh largest city in the country as more and more people are moving to the outer rings of the Toronto metropolitan area.
I arrived at the airport three and a half hours before my flight home. I grabbed a bite to eat and then headed towards my gate. The line at the customs area was incredibly long- a room full of people wound around and wound around again by those ropes you see at banks. People were antsy that they would miss their flight but there was no way to speed up the process that involves having custom officers ask each traveler questions about their visit and where they were heading. After several minutes in line, a little boy in a skullcap standing behind me told his father, "I love you." It seemed like a strange thing to declare in the customs line. The svelte woman standing next to me was reading a book about breast-feeding.
When I got to the front of the line I said a cheery hello to the customs officer who looked a little too much like Dick Cheney. He asked me the purpose of my trip. This time it really didn't have as much to do with writing as it did searching. I told him I worked for a music retailer and was visiting our store in Toronto. He looked at the form where I was required to declare all my purchases. "What does your store sell?" he asked. I said compact discs. "Then why did you buy some here?" He asked. I told him our stores back home didn't have everything. I was going to point out my attempt to buy Canadian artists' music but figured that was more information than he needed to know. He let me go on.
Monday, December 13, 2004
The Kids in the Hall or What 2004 was Really About
T'was the month before Boxing Day and all through the house, not a creature was still not even a juiced louse.
In a small (but expanding) abode in St. Paul three boys lived and this night was only different because all three were present and one of the boys (the one who was now beyond his expiration date) decided in the middle of the night that he no longer wanted three couches in the living room and the logical one to move was the sofa bed since there was room in the spare bedroom and the spare bedroom does need a bed after all.
Throughout his life the boy had a history of trying to execute decisions not fully thought out and often times he paid the price (that often times was more akin to a FAO Schwartz price than a Kmart price). Moving the couch because of its size and weight, was probably a multiple being job but since not all involved had all their limbs let alone opposable thumbs, the big boy gently led the other two feline sized boys into a section of the house where they would be out of the way and quickly shut the door that barricaded them from the moving activity.
The idea was to tip the sofa onto its side so that it would slide on its cloth upholstery through the opening of the living room into the hallway towards the bedroom. The boy was working on faith that the couch would actually fit through the bedroom door. Somehow, he figured, things would just work themselves out in the end.
The act of tipping was the first clue that the undertaking might be a tad more challenging than expected. The couch was heavy, even heavier than the burdens the boy had been carrying for quite some while. Pushing the couch was doable but maneuvering around corners was a chore. The boy got to a point where he could push no more so he decided to stand the thing up on end. Pushing it upright took all his might and as he held it in mid air he tried to in one motion guide it around the corner of the wall that was serving as an obstacle more daunting than its appearance. The boy pushed and pushed harder and the resulting noise indicated (though he didn't want to look) the scraping of paint from the wall and the scratching of his beautiful wood floor.
With determination and the skinning of knuckles and fingers he finally got the sofa into the hallway but there was nowhere left to go so he stood it up and decided to take a breather. He could hear the other boys rustling on the other side of a closed door, curious at what all the commotion was about and wondering why they were not involved. Hoisting the sofa up on end he knocked a carbon monoxide detector off its wall. "Oh well," the boy thought, "If I die tonight it probably won't be from an undetectable gas anyway."
The boy cooled down and caught his breath. Then he looked at what needed to be done. And there wasn't much to be done. The sofa couldn't move forward and wouldn't move back. He tried turning it. He tried twisting it but it just seemed to get further stuck in place. At this point he felt like crying. But he didn't. The lateness of the hour suddenly was a factor and sleeping on his problem became a tempting option. Instead he let the other boys out of their homey cage and they immediately went over to the sofa that they had never seen in that exact place in that exact position. One of the boys, whose nature caused him to constantly get into everything, immediately climbed his way to the very top of the couch a mere inches away from the ceiling. It was there he perched himself as if this was what all the work had been about. The other freed boy sat with a look of concern on his face as if he wasn't quite sure what to make of the new arrangement.
The option of sleep wasn't going to happen so the decision making boy put the others away again behind the closed door and contemplated what to do next. He decided it might be easier if the metal bed inside the sofa was detached so he got out his screwdriver and tried unscrewing from awkward positions. That was new.
Once the bed was removed the sofa was movable but the angles of the hallway and the narrowness of the bedroom door indicated there was no going forward as much as that was prayed for and desired. Instead the boy became content at trying to get the sofa back to its original position. With further scratching of the floor and nicking of the wall he managed to end up almost where he had begun. Only the bed wouldn't go back into the sofa so now it was useless. It had to be destroyed.
After putting its pillows back in place the sofa looked somewhat worse for the wear, now abnormally shaped. The boy opened the door and the other boys scampered out and again went straight for the object of the commotion. Together the three of them checked out and looked at what was and what was now in front of them and together they knew things wouldn't be quite the same ever again.
In a small (but expanding) abode in St. Paul three boys lived and this night was only different because all three were present and one of the boys (the one who was now beyond his expiration date) decided in the middle of the night that he no longer wanted three couches in the living room and the logical one to move was the sofa bed since there was room in the spare bedroom and the spare bedroom does need a bed after all.
Throughout his life the boy had a history of trying to execute decisions not fully thought out and often times he paid the price (that often times was more akin to a FAO Schwartz price than a Kmart price). Moving the couch because of its size and weight, was probably a multiple being job but since not all involved had all their limbs let alone opposable thumbs, the big boy gently led the other two feline sized boys into a section of the house where they would be out of the way and quickly shut the door that barricaded them from the moving activity.
The idea was to tip the sofa onto its side so that it would slide on its cloth upholstery through the opening of the living room into the hallway towards the bedroom. The boy was working on faith that the couch would actually fit through the bedroom door. Somehow, he figured, things would just work themselves out in the end.
The act of tipping was the first clue that the undertaking might be a tad more challenging than expected. The couch was heavy, even heavier than the burdens the boy had been carrying for quite some while. Pushing the couch was doable but maneuvering around corners was a chore. The boy got to a point where he could push no more so he decided to stand the thing up on end. Pushing it upright took all his might and as he held it in mid air he tried to in one motion guide it around the corner of the wall that was serving as an obstacle more daunting than its appearance. The boy pushed and pushed harder and the resulting noise indicated (though he didn't want to look) the scraping of paint from the wall and the scratching of his beautiful wood floor.
With determination and the skinning of knuckles and fingers he finally got the sofa into the hallway but there was nowhere left to go so he stood it up and decided to take a breather. He could hear the other boys rustling on the other side of a closed door, curious at what all the commotion was about and wondering why they were not involved. Hoisting the sofa up on end he knocked a carbon monoxide detector off its wall. "Oh well," the boy thought, "If I die tonight it probably won't be from an undetectable gas anyway."
The boy cooled down and caught his breath. Then he looked at what needed to be done. And there wasn't much to be done. The sofa couldn't move forward and wouldn't move back. He tried turning it. He tried twisting it but it just seemed to get further stuck in place. At this point he felt like crying. But he didn't. The lateness of the hour suddenly was a factor and sleeping on his problem became a tempting option. Instead he let the other boys out of their homey cage and they immediately went over to the sofa that they had never seen in that exact place in that exact position. One of the boys, whose nature caused him to constantly get into everything, immediately climbed his way to the very top of the couch a mere inches away from the ceiling. It was there he perched himself as if this was what all the work had been about. The other freed boy sat with a look of concern on his face as if he wasn't quite sure what to make of the new arrangement.
The option of sleep wasn't going to happen so the decision making boy put the others away again behind the closed door and contemplated what to do next. He decided it might be easier if the metal bed inside the sofa was detached so he got out his screwdriver and tried unscrewing from awkward positions. That was new.
Once the bed was removed the sofa was movable but the angles of the hallway and the narrowness of the bedroom door indicated there was no going forward as much as that was prayed for and desired. Instead the boy became content at trying to get the sofa back to its original position. With further scratching of the floor and nicking of the wall he managed to end up almost where he had begun. Only the bed wouldn't go back into the sofa so now it was useless. It had to be destroyed.
After putting its pillows back in place the sofa looked somewhat worse for the wear, now abnormally shaped. The boy opened the door and the other boys scampered out and again went straight for the object of the commotion. Together the three of them checked out and looked at what was and what was now in front of them and together they knew things wouldn't be quite the same ever again.
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