Laundry Day: The Comrade's Last Post of 2004

Well, well... What a year.

As a kid, Mom and I would either stay home and watch New Year's Rockin' Eve with Dick Clark, or head down to City Hall on the one night a year when the transit commission frees up any obligation to search for loose change that had fallen through the small holes in jacket pockets, deep into the lining at the hem. Free transit. Sounds futuristic.

I worked with a girl once who said, "The way you spend New Year's Eve dictates how the rest of your year goes." The foundation, I suppose. Last year, after I called the separation, I spent it gleefully alone. At the stroke of midnight I was curled up on the couch, drinking a bottle of Prosecco and watching An Affair to Remember. It was lovely.

This year was the first year I spent more time willingly alone than any other year in my life. I began to like my own company so much that I began fighting for my own space and time. I can honestly say I am my own best company. And I think I'm hilarious, which works out wonderfully.

I was talking to Guiseppe, the boss whom I adore, last night. There is a phenomena I'd discovered. The more time spent alone, willingly alone, A) makes you often talk to yourself (sometimes forgetfully while in public) and B) makes you laugh at yourself (again, sometimes forgetfully while in public).

When I looked at the schedule at the beginning of the week, I was not scheduled to work on New Year's Eve. It really didn't matter whether I worked or not. I wasn't hell bent one way or the other. I was still going to go into work to celebrate with my friends. If I worked, it would simply be more cost effective. Instead of spending $200, getting very, very drunk, working I'd still end up just as drunk, making out with a few people by the end of the night, but leaving with more money than I came in with.

So, first I was not working.
Then I was.
Then not.
Then yes.
Then nope.
Then maybe.
Then forget it.
Then definitely yes.
Then a no.
Then a final affirmative.

So I'm working tonight.

There was a scheduling error. There wasn't a second bartender penned in. Now Matty's sick with the flu. I'm going to be bartending with the very lovely Svetlana. She's decided we're going to wear slutwear. Well, the Comrade is a bit of a prude and doesn't really feel comfortable wearing slutwear, without a good dose of humour in it anyway. Never negate. It's the first rule of improv.

Where I buy most of my clothing is at a store in Chinatown. U Right! For $15 this and $20 that you can buy excellent shirts that make absolutely no sense. For example, there was a hot pink, sleeveless, plunging neckline T-shirt with crude lettering that looks not unlike electrical tape fashioned into type. The shirt is inscribed with 70pt text that says:

NO REASON TO LIVE

I'm wearing this shirt tonight.

I am getting "perved" on constantly. It's freaking me out! I think everyone has a season for being perved on. Mine is definitely winter. Within a 90 second span, in 3 different areas of the restaurant last night, I received in this order:
1. A marriage proposal (strangely, a regular occurrence)
2. Was told by a silver haired fox, who looks not unlike Mr. Peterson (Elaine's boss from Seinfeld), that he was in love with me.
3. Was accused of being "super cool" by a very cute young man who has a black belt in several martial arts AND can kick the living snot out of anyone AND who offered to do it ANYTIME for me. Oh... if I'd only known him several years ago! All I want to do is love people now! Crap!

I went off to the Cheers equivalent bar after work last night. It was decidedly Sausage Fest in there. I sat with my part-time working comrade, Gary and his friend Trevor. Both are gay. Both were on the "make". Frustrated by the lack of prospects, they just ended up getting hammered.

Things about Gary:
1. Gay, in a butch leather way.
2. Prefers gingham to actual leather, unless it is in heated upholstery format in a SUV.
3. Owes me A LOT of money.
4. Has named a wing of his winterized cottage in my honour.
5. We're talking A LOT of money.
6. Is a total right wing proponent.
7. Spits when he speaks.
8. Doesn't argue well. Prefers accusations.
9. Inside he's a pretty, petite princess.
10. Is adored by the Comrade.

The thing about the Cheers equivalent bar is, in essence, the best thing about living in Canada. Social status is meaningless. There is the broadest spectrum of people that end up there. Directors, editors, industry people, actors, scientists, doctors, lawyers, construction workers, the homeless. The only requisite for attendance, or submission, is you have something to say. It's an excellent venue for that. It is the single greatest reason I go in there. Last night I went "diaphragm" on Gary.

Sometimes I get this one particular "tone" that cracks me up, but scares the living shit out of others. It is a very calculated, very deep and resonating, booming, powerful voice that comes from the center of the world and out of my mouth. The cause last night? Gary's definition of democracy and how it's carried out in America. He thought that every vote counted and everyone had a say. He believes in this war in Iraq. He believes that the kind of democracy demonstrated south of my border is the solution to the world's crises.

Boom.
Over 500,000 more popular votes for Gore.
Boom.
Electoral College
Boom.
Democracy is about securing contracts from one multinational to the next. In effect, it's about nothing but money.
Boom.

Gary said I should grow up. He said I could either choose to sit with children with adults.

I always choose the children; they're smarter and more fun.

Enter a blonde, curly haired young man who finds our conversation interesting.
He jumps in uninvited. I like that.
He defends me. I love that.
We have no shortage of things to talk about.
He sat very close to me.
Our knees touched.
We exchanged personal philosophies. Some he agreed with. Some he didn't.
He likes to argue. I love that.
He's probably 5" shorter than I. The interesting thing about height difference is it's all worked out in the wash when people sit down. Unless one has an extra verebrae, everyone is the same height when seated, give or take an inch.
We look into each other's eyes.

I always know when someone finds me attractive, in that way by the pattern of movement in the eyes. If there is a rapid scanning of my face, particularly when the eyes move up and down from eyes to mouth, I know they're interested. There was a lot of movement.

We were discussing my penchance for enabling at one point. He asked what type of enabler I was. I told him we often stop ourselves from fully living in a moment. We harness "bad" behaviour, feeling it "inappropriate" to demonstrate. We don't "act out" anymore because we were trained not unlike Pavlov's dogs in reward and punishment. I enable by giving people not only permission, but a proper and unjudgemental venue for expressing anything and everything that needs to come out. This was one of my personal philosophies he agreed with and silently applauded.

We were kicked out of the bar, as it was nearly 4:00am. Jimmy, the biting and subsequent sauce tasting bartender informs me he is a nuclear physicist. This is scary and cool to me at the same time. I hail a cab without an exchange of phone numbers. I don't give out my phone number as a rule.

On my way home I think about New Year's Resolutions. What are mine?

Take more pictures.

It's the only thing I can think of. Like the height, everything else works itself out in the wash.

The Cost and Reward for The Enabler

I was tooling around the computer yesterday at around 5:15pm. Completely inspired by my coffee post, I had just finished downing my 4th double espresso. Matty the bartender, whom I once shared reciprocal feelings of distain but has since endeared himself to me, called asking why I wasn't at work yet.

The Comrade: [totally wired for sound] Oh... ha, ha... uh... well... Sorry, Matty. Hm. I didn't know I was working. Um... I'm going to need a little bit of time.

I had made plans to hang out with Fatty last night, so first on the set of priorities was calling him off. I got taken to voice mail. Leaving a rather caffeine induced rapid fire message, I asked if a raincheck for the following night could be provided. Fatty's got a smoking membership at a bar downtown. Since he's quit smoking cigarettes he'd offered to pass the membership's privledges to me. I'm a very simple girl who doesn't need much to make happy: good company, good beer, Dunhills. Done.

It was approximately 6:15pm by the time I arrived at work. We tend to enlist a rather democratic process in the division of sections. It's a draw. Though sometimes it's a bit rigged. The last waiter to arrive always gets the worst section. Section 5. It's in the back of the restaurant, has poor turnover and whoever works there is closest to the kitchen, thus effectively creating the dual role of waiter and food runner. I never really care where I work, as I have a philosophy that dictates whomever I am meant to interact with, I shall regardless; the Universe provides.

The chef who hates the Comrade was working. Though I only made one mistake that night, it was still brought to the attention of all. Ah, the pettiness of some folk.

The Comrade: Well, gee... If I didn't fuck up at least once in a night, you probably wouldn't recognise me.

I hadn't seen any of my comrades since before Christmas, so there were a few moments of bear hugging and hand to hand and hand to ass slapping before a frustrated Guiseppe, the boss whom I adore, brought to my attention there was a party of seven waiting for me in the vault. Whoops. Matty warned me they may be a "handful" as they all exited from a white stretch limosine.

Hm. Definitely dubious.

The bank building to restaurant conversion allows up to 10 diners to reserve a table in the vault cum wine cellar. I have no idea, other than for novelty, why anyone would sit in there. There is no air circulation. There are no corkscrews hanging off the walls enabling patrons to uncork whatever they want. I do throw mine down on the table every now and then and walk away. Except for the coked up girls from a few weeks back, no one has ever, to anyone's knowledge, made off with any wine.

The party of seven consisted of a middle aged father, his new wife, his 3 children and their dates. They were celebrating the youngest daughter's 19th birthday. This young lady had 3 glasses of wine and 3 martinis (2oz each). At the end of the meal she looked as sober as a judge. A natural.

Nineteen is the legal age to drink in Canada. This young lady was a marathon pounder with no ill nor dizzying effects.

The new mother wanted advice on where to take the clan out. The plan was to go off on a Tuesday night, parents and children collectively partying.

What?!

I hear fables every now and then about families that are incredibly close. Not just loving and nurturing, but people other immediate family members actually want to hang out with. Party with. When I see it played out in front of me, I always say the same thing.

The Comrade: I'll just call my lawyer tomorrow to draft up the adoption papers. Tomorrow good for you?

And they were NICE. So polite, socially balanced, each of them confident and unique. Afraid of nothing. They all loved, listened and valued each other. It was the most beautiful thing I saw yesterday.

Oh, the things I see.

Several weeks ago a girl that looked mildly familiar sat at the bar. She had just started dating a local barfly. She is a fashion designer who scavenges thrift stores, buys up their donated furs and fashions them onto new cloth coat designs. On the night I met her, part of her patchwork design had wolf fur fragments, cut into diamond patterns, skirting the bottom of the A-line coat.

When I was 22 I had a dog who was a wolf crossed with a Siberian Husky. His name was Timber. He was wild, totally uncontrollable, except by Chicken, and would jump up on counters to eat whatever was up there: steaks, full pounds of butter, whole loaves of bread, ju jubes. I loved this beast.

I nearly slapped that girl.

I learned her name is Erin. We talked about light matter, as that was all she was capable of. Twenty minutes later she came up to me.

Erin: I need to ask your advice on something.
The Comrade: Sure. (thinking she wanted to know how next she should have her hair cut)
Erin: Um, well... Could you come to the bathroom with me?
The Comrade: (thinking she was a great big lesbian) Nope. Sorry.
Erin: No, really, I have to talk to you in the bathroom.
The Comrade: No, really! Absolutely not.
Erin: Okay, um... well... I kind of flooded the bathroom.

The Comrade runs to the source.

Erin met the local barfly at an afterhours speakeasy. Booze can, as we call it. These places are designed for people who have just snorted a succession of white lines. They are so hepped up on goofballs that the last place they are prepared to go is home. They have very "deep" and "meaningful" conversations with others in the same induced state. Sometimes, like Erin and the Barfly, they find "love".

People that make booze cans a lifestyle choice often keep beyond vampiric schedules. They don't rise until 7:30pm. Most people are enjoying their dinner at that time. Erin had just finished her breakfast, smoked a cigarette and needed to take her morning dump.

She took the most colossal shit and broke the toilet.

Luckily, and I never thought I'd ever say this, there were recognisable stools. Floaters.

Shutting the main water valve off, grabbing the mop and bucket, I offered my demands for the situation.
1. She was to buy me no less than 3 beers.
2. She was on squeezing the mop out duty.
3. I was allowed to tell anyone this story.

And anyone who drinks needs to go to the bathroom.

There were 4 people attempting to use our facilities during the mopping and squeezing portion of the evening. Each time, I would set the mop down saying, "Let me tell you a story..."

This is the thing: She keeps coming back to the restaurant.

I don't know what to call it, but had I done something remotely like this I would never, in a million years, step foot back in the place simply from sheer embarrassment.

Last night she showed up with a 3/4 length fox fur on. Though I never had a fox as a pet, I was still tempted, on so many levels, to box her ears.



As expected, Section 5 cleared out pretty quickly. I hadn't really been out in public, save the other day's coffee excursion. That was only for about an hour, not enough to do any real damage. Armed with the 4 double espressos and obvious pent up social energy, I felt I needed to suffuse my current hyperactive state with a liquid sedative. Beer. That did help. Dancing behind the bar with Matty helped too. I love dancing with Matty. He's a total groper.

Late in the evening, past the kitchen's close, a certain magical moment of epiphanal magnitude happens when Guiseppe proclaims, with mixed pride and sheepishness:

Lock the doors. Dim the lights. It's time to start smoking.

See why I love him?

One of my very favourite people in the whole world was at the bar. Craig Webster.

I don't know if this happens to anyone else. I hope it does. There are people that evoke a specific feeling each time I see them. Fatty makes me instantly gleeful. He's that kid you love playing with the most. Craig makes me instantly calm, just by his presence. I liken it to having had a rather long drive up north, destination: camp grounds. He's like the first moment you step out of the car and breathe your first breath of forest green, fully oxygenated air. Craig Webster. It's like I'm in the company of Buddha.

He looks not unlike a young, Jam era, Paul Weller. He's a deeply spiritual fella. His special powers enable him to be the best outdoor survivalist I know. He's still riding his bike in this weather. He would never accept a Christmas Vial token.

Last night 3 people fell in love with Mr. Webster.

1. Matty. He said he couldn't remember meeting anyone so lovely in his life.
2. Svetlana. Newest recruit. Looks like a cross between Sheryl Crowe and Michelle Pfeiffer. She's as lovely as she's beautiful.
3. Some chick with a straw cowboy hat on. Apparently, she thought Craig was "mine".

Certainly not all of them, but sometimes, I make out with my guy friends.

Guys I infrequently make out with:
Ian, my wrestling buddy
Craig
Jimmy, the bartender from my favourite watering hole, who verbally abuses me, and is painfully sexually attracted to me. Last night he bit my neck, rather hard, and accused me of tasting like sauce.
Ryan
Matty. Last night he asked me to marry him. I could be the next Mrs. White. Comrade White? I said no. He was thinking he'd do a name change: Le Blanc. Comrade Le Blanc? Better, but still no.

If I was actually having sex, I'd accuse myself of being a slut.

As mentioned in a previous post, all men who are drunk, regardless of sexual orientation, think I'm beautiful and some actually fall in love with me.


Someone I hadn't seen in quite some time, that came in last night, was James. James owns The Only Cafe up on The Danforth, an area directly north of my neighbourhood. If only it were closer and smoking wasn't outlawed, I'd be frequenting The Only rather often. It's a homey little joint with the most vast selection of beer from all over the world. I'm like a kid in a candy store over there.

I know several restaurant and bar owners. The majority of these people get into the business so they can stay up and drink, encouraging others to drink with them.

James is an alcoholic. I am an enabler. This is a dangerous combination.
James was raised Catholic.
James is gay.
James fell asleep at the bar, sitting upright. Several times.

Trying to gently coerce him into his coat, balancing his full weight and juggling his rather heavy knapsack, James fell down twice, knocking barstools over like bowling pins. He was a sweet, freckled wrecking ball. I enlisted the Golden Rules of handling drunk folk.

I realised last night it is a special skill to intrinsically know how to handle a drunk person. It's something I'd taken for granted. A gentleman who had been sitting next to James at the bar tried, with good intentions, to help me. He wasn't really helping. He just made James feel alienated, unattractive and ridiculous. I told him, "It's okay. I've got him."

With James on the ground for a prolonged period of time, I was admittedly a bit worried. For a split second I could imagine him never getting up again. I spoke quietly and closely to him. I smiled a lot. I was gentle. With an "alliooop" and a count of 3, we got up. Laughing like schoolgirls and screaming at the top of our lungs, just because it was fun. I escorted him into the back of a cab, kissed him about 15 times around the eyes, cheeks and forehead regions; gave the address he had whispered into my ear to the cab driver and asked he take him safely home.

Back inside, a very sketchy fella was scruntinising the bill Matty had placed in front of him. I learned last night I have no special powers in dealing with people on chemical drugs. He left in a huff.

With nothing but a core crew at the dregs of the night, there was a very drunk Svetlana at the bar. She's in the process of moving out of her apartment, away from her boyfriend. The situation is dire and toxic. There is a 14 year age gap between them. He is 22. She is 36. In the interim she still has to drive the 40 minutes on the highway, to the place she currently lays her hat. She was in no condition to drive. Luckily no one had to fight her for the keys. She easily and readily relinquished them to The Comrade.

Just as we were locking the doors a streetcar destined to pull up directly in front of my apartment was edging close to the adjacent stop. I sighed, imagining being at home within 7 minutes. I walked instead, in the freezing night, in the opposite direction.

Disarming a foreign car's alarm, I took my friends Matty and Svetlana back to Matty's place, a proffered guest suite was made available as Kissy is out of town. After handing back the keys, collectively walking up Matty's street, there was another streetcar in sight. After a brief group hug, I deposited another Christmas Vial token, the vial now starting to sizably diminish in quantity. I smiled and said hello to the driver, who reciprocated equally and nicely. I sat in the single row of seats, my preferred station, looked out the window and thought: The Enabler gets taken care of too.

Ladies and Gentlemen... We Have Heat

It turns out the pilot light had gone out. It's not quite bikini climes in here, but hey, it could always be worse.

Kaldi, The Great Discoverer

One of my very favourite things in the whole world is coffee. More specifically, really good, hot, strong coffee. Even more specifically, excellent espresso. Sometimes, before going to bed, I dream about coffee. I think about how good it's going to taste in the morning and I can't wait to have it. I get so excited about really good coffee! I could have one now!

Years ago I had been an actor. I don't like talking about it, so I don't tend to talk about it. I don't do it anymore unless there are wackos that actually hunt me down, begging me to do "this one little production" of such and whosit. I don't like the business. It's full of false people.

The Comrade put an absolute halt to doing commercials, even though it's made her some money in the past. She doesn't like to be part of the problem. That, and she can't/won't sell anything she doesn't believe in. That's right, Guiseppe, the boss whom I adore, the canoli sucks!

Last year I was asked, without auditioning, to be in an income tax preparer's commercial spot. Well, I was so flattered by what the really lovely producer, a rare breed indeed, had said. I won't get into it, as I feel uncomfortable tooting my own horn. This was to be the last commercial the Comrade would be in. An internal was promise made.

The reason anybody does commercials is because they pay. A lot.

At the time I was still married to Ack, the current ex-husband/ best friend. With the proceeds, I had planned to have a espresso/cappuccino maker built into the kitchen's WALL. Once the cheque came in, I noticed that the accountant had made a critical error. There were obviously some missing zeros at the end. After calling my lovely agent/very good friend, she confirmed my worst suspicion. The numbers were correct.

Ah, crap. I needed to revamp my coffee fantasy.

On set, I worked a minding numbing 12 hour day, filled with gas. If I am sedentary, eating particularly high carb food, without drowning it in a good deal of water, an inordinate amount of pent up gaseous matter collects inside me. Chicks that fart with any degree of audibility get sent into an entirely different echelon of girldom. My little body is capable of whoopy cushion proportions. I am convinced this is the reason why I have many platonic guy friends. I'm truly foul sometimes.

The absolute worst thing about doing commercials is the waiting around for your turn in front of the camera. It drives me crazy. If I'm not busy, totally engaged and active while working, I have a tendency to disturb others around me. I become like an annoying child on too much sugar, no crash in site.

I just realised I haven't gotten back to the coffeemaker yet.

Yes, well... the coffee maker. On Ebay, I purchased a silver Baby Gaggia, semi-automatic (the weapon of choice), pump driven. In few words, a sexy little espresso/cappuccino maker. It's the one thing on Earth that Ack and I fought over during the division of worldly possessions. He lost. I think it was the "You're going to have to pry it out of my rigor mortis hands, hovering over my cold, dead body" comment that got him. And anyway, he made off with this.

I was on Day 4 of absolutely no heat in my mainspace. It went down to 8˙C or 46.4˙F in here during the night. A nice, hot coffee would be lovely. Dang, I'm out!

Throwing on my new hooded white parka jacket and snowpants, something I can't seem to take off, I headed out.

I have not been in public for about a week. Not really. I've gone over to Ack's to eat and visit over the holidays, but he's more like family, not company. It was such a nice day. Cold, but sunny. I decided to walk the 2kms (1.24274 mi). Walking briskly certainly creates a good deal of internal heat in the old central core region. I was walking on a green light that had just turned yellow, making me step up my pace a little, when a car, turning right, nearly plowed into my legs.

I hate shrill sounds. The worst thing happens when I spontaneously yell at someone and my voice pitches 3 octaves higher.

The Comrade (yelling and sounding like one of the Lollipop Guild): Dude! What the fuck?! I'm wearing white! [demonstrates her coat by running mittened hands up and down the front of her jacket] I'm kind of hard to miss!

Well, not really. It's been snowing lately and there are piles and piles of snowbanks that apparently look just like me. Kind of hard to miss... I'm an idiot sometimes.

I continue walking.

In Toronto, there is this stupid new law, with few exceptions, that dictates a ban on smoking in bars and restaurants. Apparently it is for the good of our health. It is a ridiculous law and should be abolished. This isn't just from a girl who smokes and smokes often... and loves smoking. No, no! Well, yes, yes. My problem is no one ever polled the town to see what the majority vote was. My boss' business has suffered over this year. My business suffers consequently. And the business of me going out to a bar now is very unappealing as I have to don jacket and various accessories just to enjoy a haul. And I don't get to bring a drink with me. The liquor laws don't allow it. This is another reason I like being at home. No one will narc me out.

I passed an old greasy diner. Once matte white walls now a glossy beige from Ye Olde nicotine stains, scrumptious deep fryer grease and generous human spittle. The windows haven't been cleaned since its date of inception. 1975. There is a rummy standing outside smoking. On his head is a red and white Canada flag toque. He has a Toronto Maple Leafs scarf tightly wound around his neck. He has an enlarged, pockmarked nose, bursting with pressure from its sheer volume.

I smiled.
I like smiling at people.
Specifically at strangers.
That lesson my mother kept hammering into me, of not talking to strangers, never really took.

Rummy with the Nose: Well-hell! Happy New Year to ya!
The Comrade: Happy New Year to you, darling!
RWtN: [drunk and slurring] Thanks, sweetheart! That's swell. You're beautiful!

I love drunk people. I do. Some of my fondest memories come from The Beer Store. Yes, it's really called that. It used to be called Brewer's Retail, but I think revenue has seriously increased after the namechange. Sometimes, in the summer particularly, I'll ride my bike over and buy beer. I love beer. The Beer Store is the only place I actually look forward to waiting in line. It's the best part! Someone's always up for a little conversation, or a little statement, a pronouncement.

Random Drunk Guy #1: Hee hee! I don't see too many GIRLS in here. But a Chinese girl?! You never see that! I can't wait to tell Bob about this!... Hey Bob!! [falls over himself]

Random Drunk Guy #2: [loudly] You know something? [pointing and totally slurring] You're beautiful!

I am accused of being beautiful by every drunk man I've ever met. Even the drunk chicks give me the big eye. Who would wonder why I love drunk people?

Continuing down the road I am caught behind and in front of 3 hacking humans. Just walking down the street, open mouthed hacking. I hold my breath and hurriedly walk past them.

I had my nose briefly pressed up against a jeweller's case. I'm half looking for a moonstone ring. I hear the gem has emotionally calming properties. I don't wear rings, or a lot of jewellery, but once I was shown a Tiffany's catalogue and there was a light blue rainbow moonstone ring in silver that really caught my eye. Not at all Tiffany's or knockoffs, but Ebay's got a couple around the $20 mark. Just in my price range! I do think I'll opt to find it in my journey, though. I do love cheap baubles. The only things in the jeweller's case were timely pieces not unlike the gems found on the Home Shopping Channel.

I fled with no new decoration.

Ack! Not the ex-husband/best friend this time. There was another case of hacking in front of me!

I haven't had anything to eat yet. Since being single this time, I really haven't felt much like cooking. I really do like cooking, but I don't really like cooking just for me. I do like eating, though.

Ooh! Curry!

There is a place called Stratengers which is, to me, a triple threat.
1. Wood oven cooked pizza with toppings like goat cheese and rapini.
2. Wonderful curries.
3. With a one time $10 membership to their "Private Club", which they accept everyone, you can smoke until your face turns grey.

The Comrade: Hello!
Employee: Hi!
The Comrade: I was once here and had a FANTASTIC curry, though I've forgotten the name. Could you help me?
Employee: Sure! What did it taste like?
The Comrade: It was delicious! And very dark brown, with lamb bits in it.
Employee: Did it have any vegetables?
The Comrade: [frowning] I don't remember.
Employee: You don't remember?!
The Comrade: No... wait... yes... YES! There were vegetables!
Employee: Oh, so now there were vegetables.

After much deliberation... the curry was found.

Oh, I have to say, I like 'em surly.

Stepping into the place I buy coffee, Tango Palace Coffeehouse, is like stepping into some old drag queen's parlour. Feather boas are everywhere: on oversized cherubs in half pirouette, strung along baby carriages suspended from the spray gilded tin ceiling, along the tops of corset shaped silk lampshades. It's Aunt Mary's Big Gay Extravaganza replete with the best coffee in the east side.

I am a neighbourhood girl. I love neighbourhoods. I love working in my neighbourhood. I've always thought, since moving here, that this neighbourhood feels like a small town infested with really cool people.

At the Extravaganza, I enter into 4 separate conversations back to back and overlapping. I tried to initiate a 5th, but he wasn't biting. Everybody knows my name. I love this and I despise this at the same time. I only despise it because I never remember anyone else's name. Well, that and when I haven't run a comb or fingers through my hair yet, with no make-up on, I'm convinced I look like a different person altogether, rendered unrecognisable. Apparently not.

Person #1: I visited you at work. I heard you went overseas.
The Comrade: What?!
Person #1: That's what they told me.

People are always inventing the craziest things about me.

Person #2: Has the marsupial from Australia come in to visit you yet? He's so excited!

I have no idea who he's talking about.

Person #3: It's [insert my given name], right? I haven't seen you since my first day here! I kept hoping you'd come in all the time!

I explain my coffeemaker to him and how I can't possibly justify spending money on coffee I can make better at home. And at home I can smoke with it. Indoors. He understands.

Person #4 = Valentine! Valentine always knows how to grind my coffee! This is not a sexual metaphor. He's gay, just like everything and nearly everyone in there. He just knows how to grind my coffee!

My impromptu poll informs me that a good percentage of folk have had an uneventful Christmas. The rest had spent it like any other, filled with guilt, remorse, hangovers and poor gift choices. The overriding sentiment: Well, it's done for another year. I tell them about mine. Most leave the conversation predominantly depressed, yet thoughtful. Person #1 had made a mental note to graft something I'd said onto his resolutions list.

I am starting to sweat beneath my parka. My body has strangely started to adapt to the arctic conditions at home.

The streetcar was a block away from the next stop. I ran. My good-to-40-below boots make me run like Chewbacka. The driver stops. I'm grateful. I sit behind another hacker. I hold my breath again.

I go inside the fridgerator I call home and prepare my spoils. I feel like a King!

A Nullified Existence

I think I really messed up this time.

I met a boy in this realm that was scared, that wanted to live more than he was living and wanted to share more than he was sharing. But he was trying the best he could. I kind of fell in love with this boy, in this realm. In this realm. In my mind.

I desperately wanted to help.

We began a dialogue in Instant Messenger. I was careful. I chose kindness in the most loving and supportive ways in hopes for him to build trust in me. I’m not sure how much geniune kindness this young man has seen in his life. Not much by all accounts.

I’d received a really great and lovely email from my friend PJ, a fellow I don’t see as often as I probably should. He wanted to express to all his friends how he felt about each and every one of them. It was his non-consumerist gift for all who made a difference in his life this year. How he expressed his feelings towards me made me blink tears from my eyes. PJ is a wonderful constant.

Truthfully, I get flummoxed by people that are able to emote at a constant level. My emotion peaks and plummets. I’m like a quick twitch sprinter, versus a long distance runner. It’s a rollercoaster I’ve grown quite accustomed to, but it is something that most don’t understand. Maybe it’s nothing to really rely on, as I discovered today.

With every new person I meet, I get caught up in a sensation of a sort of novelty. It creates such a heightened seratonin level in me that becomes quite addictive. Once the person is ingrained enough in my life, I relax enough to allow all the bits of my personality to unfurl. I accidentally drop the careful. I let loose the hold of compassion. Loving kindness gets wrestled into the backseat. All at once there is nothing but shards of broken feelings.

Quite often I say harsh, abrupt and discounting things to people thinking they can handle it. It's the way I learned. And I'm not unlike a schoolyard kid who when she likes someone, really likes someone, she says stupid things. In a moment I am loving. In the next I am impatient and sometimes callous. This is the single most valid reason I will never have a child. I was too astute a student at home. I lack a sufficient amount of care sometimes. And sometimes it bites me in the ass. Like it did today.

This person whom I love, whom I wasn’t careful enough with, without an explanation nor opportunty to rectify the situation, removed me from his contact list in Messenger.

I don’t have his phone number. I don’t have his address. I feel as though I’ve lost him and though it is 9˙C or 48˙F in most of my apartment, I welcome the cold as I’m welcoming any other feeling than the feeling of utter loss. What have I done?

If you read this, if I haven’t been cast out from every corner of your existence, please understand that I tried writing more to you, but I couldn’t. I felt it too exposing. I felt too naked. I am ill prepared to feel these feelings.

I was reading an article on the new album Key, by Son, Ambulance. The writer had mentioned the singer’s awkwardness in finding his voice. There were imperfections. He mostly carries a tune, but his voice does warble and does squeak and does go flat and out of Key. Like Flaming Lips’ Wayne Coyne, I think it’s the biggest reason I like both singers. Their strive is not for perfection in pitch, or otherwise. They embrace the process. They forgive themselves for not being perfect. I think that's the greatest thing about them.

I am trying very hard to be the best person I can possibly be. It’s become very important to me. I am, though, forgetful by nature. I am painfully human, who does make mistakes, though consider things, new things, everyday.

Please give me an opportunity to tell you how important you’ve become to me.

You have made me think about life and situations outside of my own.
You have made me desperate with worry, like I am now.
You have kicked my proverbial ass when I threatened to quit writing.
You promised never to let me quit.
You have made me painfully aware of human frailty in others and within myself.
You often inspire what I write.
I did research Antonin Artaud, but I was trying to think of something clever. Nothing came. I felt stupid.
You had become the single greatest image in sexual fantasy fodder ever since meeting you.
And still are.

I wish I had listened to you more.

That I called you a name that I shouldn’t have was wrong, and I’m again, I’m sorry. I sometimes forget how important language is. I forget sometimes how powerful words are. I forget sometimes where the stem of those feelings potentially took root. My credo had always been that actions speak louder than words. I’m discovering that isn’t necessarily true. Thank you for helping me understand that.

Please don’t hate me. Please try to understand that we all live in this world where we’re all just trying to figure it out. I haven’t yet, but I’m trying.

I love you to the best of my ability right now. You’ve accepted this love to the best of your ability as well. It’s all process.

I know you’re punishing me. Please don’t do this. Please don’t shut me out.

The Comrade will always be your comrade.

Compassion is the Mainline

I'm sitting in my apartment that has no heat. I have my new snowpants on. I still have enough internal heat from sleep to sustain me, more than likely for 1/2 hour. To my right is a nearly finished Dunhill. To my left is a freshly made Espresso Americano with cream and honey. And my cat that moves all over my half lotus legs and my glasstop desk where I sit and type.

My hands have started to get cold. The right more than the left, as the right is my smoking hand.

The other morning I woke with the question of whether I should don jacket and respectable pants to go to church. I essentially went on Christmas Eve, though it was not a regular service and it was not of the denomination nor structure I was accustomed to.

The last time I went to church was when I was 17. As I had attended nearly every week for several years, there were certain elements of proper Anglican ceremony that had been ingrained in me.

Be quiet.
Be reverent.
Look like you're here to worship.
Try not to make obscene, though natural, body noises.
In essence, don't be like yourself.

I was invited to attend a church production of Christmas. It was an original musical starring John Q. as the Prophet. It was perfomed at the Unionville Alliance church in Richmond Hill, a borough about 45 minutes in bad weather and Christmas Eve traffic jams, outside of downtown Toronto.

I borrowed the car from Ack, the ex-husband/best friend. The weather system created some fierce snow and icefall over the last 48 hours. He was worried about my potentially getting into an accident. I don't fear oblivion. I do fear being maimed. Pain.

I arrived, unscathed. I was surprised with the size of the church and the amount of parking that was available. The double lot was as large as that of a shopping mall. The lot was full. All at once I felt surprise, surprise, surprise.

I honestly thought, even knowing that most of the US had voted Republican, thus rendering it a majority of Believers in any number of faiths, religion had become rather passé. Douglas Coupland's quote on Generation X, a category I fall into, pontificated, This is the first generation raised without God.

When I walked in, the entrance was flanked with coat racks. My suspicion of having my coat stolen by a Born Again Christian was unfounded, but it was something that was at the back of my head. I justified keeping it on by telling myself I'd grown used to cold churches, hard benches and general discomfort when brought to prayer.

This was a very warm church, filled with smiling people of all ages and as colourful as Sesame Street. Everyone was represented. This was Canada incapsulated. A woman of perhaps 56 years greeted me warmly.

Her words were:

Welcome.
Thank you for coming.
Happy Christmas.
As she held my hand.

When I walk into a store, and Payless is the worst for this, I am bombarded with a succession of “hellos” from the start. As I'd taken enough sales seminars in my past, it is my understanding that these people are, mandated from Whichever Company's H.Q., paid to be friendly, fulfilling a principal guidepost for effective salesmanship. It feels smarmy to me. I don’t believe them.

I judge actors by their ability to unequivacally convince me they are that character they are playing. If I don’t believe them, they are cast in dim shadows of in absentia on those rare occasions when I go to the video store to select an evening's entertainment.

I believed everything she said. She said it with the most love and earnestness I'd felt in a very long time. She said it like I say most things to most people. My reaction, though outwardly gracious, was mixed in feelings. I immediately understood, at that moment, why people chose faith. There is total acceptance. They don't care where you've been or what you've done. They don't care that you've hurt others because chances are you've been hurt and it was just a lashing out. They worship Jesus, He who forgave - and often.

In an instant I felt as though I was singled out, which I happen to be quite often because of how I look and how I present, but this time it was different. She knew I'd never before come there, to worship, or otherwise. It was as if she could see the light inside me, the love that I possess.

I was admittedly scared. I felt targeted. I felt like they wanted to convert me. To be one of them. Signs everywhere were placed announcing, Hot Apple Cider. Please have some before you go. There was a suspicion inside me that considered the cider tainted. A Jonestown harkening. I did not help myself to any apple cider.

I chose a seat in the second row of pews. Center stage, right. This was a new-fangled church with drywall, central heating ductwork, dusty rose wall to wall carpeting and matching upholstery on the bench pews. The stage was decorated in Punch and Judy fashion. A once miniaturised version of a puppet playhouse though, as if with a wave of a wand, magically enlarged.

The "opening act" was a group of 5 singers in chevron formation. Again most races and age groups were represented. Omitted were East Indians, small children, the elderly, Natives. Fronting was a black woman who sang in the style of Whitney Houston. The others were back-up vocalists used as support to young Whitney. They all held MICROPHONES, something I was never used to, and they all DANCED. Again, something I was not used to. The congregation was asked to stand and sing some Christmas carols with the Fab Five on stage.

I sang.
I laughed out loud.
I sang some more.
I thought this was ridiculous.
I continued singing.
I continued laughing some more.
Then I got caught up in the moment and thought: This was marvellous.
I alternated from soprano to alto.

I'd just discovered another method of collective euphoric religious alacrity.

Song.
Lift your voices up!

The minister stepped up to center stage. After a few words of welcome to the invited guests that were attending the play, he made the most audacious statement: Something you hear tonight will touch you, individually, by the end of the play's close. It was as if a spell had been cast. The statement made me tear up.

I was instantly captured by one of the performers. Dallas, as I learned later, was her name. She was pointing at an image projected on the wall of a Tudor style house; cream shutters, black gloss paint on the door, white picket gated fence with a wreath on it. She used the gate as a metaphor for the position of our hearts. Locked. Impenetrable. This was something Dallas understood. This is something The Comrade understood.

I understand the armament of the soul and of the heart as a protective mechanism for potential pain suffered. I also understand that to keep it protected by keeping it closed doesn’t actually work. Nothing stands a chance to get in, good or bad. Slowly it’s being opened, bit by bit; sounds of creaking minimised by the juice of love. How it’s being opened is rather interesting, to me anyway. I find people that suffer. As much as I didn’t want to, I cried. As much as it's surprised me, I've been crying quite a lot during the last 48 hours.

For months I'd been searching for Son, Ambulance's new album, Key. No one has heard of this band. Though I'd been encouraged to order it online, I kept a vigil of finding it, or it finding me, when the time was right. Months passed. I never forgot about it. I'd heard the track "Paper Snowflakes" on Indie Pop Rocks once and fell in love with the song. On Christmas Eve, a day notorious for last minute frantic shoppers, I decided I felt like CD shopping. I wasn't buying Christmas gifts. I decided this year I was going to vanquish all things consumerist. I wanted to buy a few full album disks I'd ripped new beloved singles from, using Limewire as my downloading device. In addition to buying some for myself, feeding my little soul, I chose some of the best current Canadiana Indie Rock as gifts for my new friends in Chicago when I visit in January. This made me happy. I found Blonde Redhead's Misery is a Butterfly LP, an album created during the recovery period after near fatal injury to the singer, at Sunrise Records. This too was a difficult album to find. I not only found it but, after months of searching, I found the Key as well.

I whooped and hollered in the aisle. Half a victory lap in, I was relieved no one really noticed my outburst. They found me on Christmas Eve. This was an excellent gift.

I actively seek music out because it helps me open. It makes me feel. It helps me bring full expression to whatever it is that I'm feeling at the time.

God? I feel so strong. But at the same time I feel so helpless.

On Christmas Eve, through a lovely friend, I found Kolya. He's 24 years old, eloquent, has the wisdom of a sage, understands humanity more than most, is really, really, sick. He had to spend Christmas alone because he wasn't well enough to get on a plane to spend it with loved ones. He thinks this is the first of a potentially short succession of Christmases he will have to spend alone. He might only see 4 or 5 more of them.

I have broken and sprained both of my ankles. Not at the same time. I have had chronic back pain. I have had headaches, heart aches and stomach aches where the only thing I can do is cry to make myself feel better. Maybe to exhaust myself enough to fall asleep. Unconscious, we don't feel pain. I don't feel physical pain now. All my organs perform optimally. My body is in total compliance with my brain's wishes. I have never truly considered my end of days because I was in too much pain. Though it's freezing in here, I know it will one day be warm again. Like all the pain I've endured in the past, this too will pass.

Why is he made to suffer, God?

Maybe it is because he can so succinctly document it. He's erecting a 10 storey strongbox of complex emotion in me. His discovery of "Pain is awareness, the root of all compassion" stuck. Is adhered in indelible ink, then chiseled deep.

Since discovering Kolya, I pray for him at least twice a day. I ask that he doesn't suffer too much. I ask that the pain be minimised. I've even asked that I take some of his burden because I feel so strong, yet so helpless. The only answer I get is to continue to watch over him and to love him.

Kolya has a deep faith. He doesn't ask trite questions like, "Why me?" Not in a conventional way, anyway. Instead he asks essentially, "Why have you chosen me?" He's simply put his faith in a greater power, understanding that perhaps there's a greater purpose for him.

Jason had written a post about the woman who survived an impalement by a 12' fence post. I was interested in finding out what happens to these people that survive these near-fatal accidents, the ones who are spared. Maybe they go on to do great things for humanity. Maybe they sire offspring that will do amazing things. This woman, who less than 3 weeks ago suffered this massive blow, is now walking. Unassisted.

I have a long way to attain the kind of faith Kolya has. But my heart is now radiantly opening, ready to receive. And I'm really happy to be having a more frequent dialogue with God again. I think this was the best Christmas ever.

Amen.

The Things That Captured Me Today

I remember it was around this time last year, when I was still married, I hadn't called it off yet. I was lying on the couch, surfing channels, when I still had a television and cable. My thumb stopped suddenly on MuchMusic, the Canadian version of MTV. I saw a shoe, an eye that didn't match the other, a screaming face, tousled hair, a new sound.

The Strokes.

Lying prone, once the beat attached onto my spinal cord, my body went perpendicular. Automatic. The last time I got that close to the screen was the first time I watched Thelma and Louise and discovered Brad Pitt.

There was something about the Strokes that resonated in me. It wasn't necessarily what they were saying, so much as how they were saying it. I'm convinced now that young Casablanca is at least partially responsible for the demise of my marriage. Room on Fire was the anthem of my freedom.

It was the distortion. The beat was driving, though totally cohesive in collective sound. The build's reward was so sweet. It was total boy angst. It was played to death.

Sometimes I play it and it sends me back to a place, a place I can still smell. I can still feel the walls around me. I'm so glad I'm not there anymore, but I'm glad it was part of my past.

I went to NYC a couple of times and each time I really didn't like it. The city itself is interesting, but I derive my impression of a place more by the interactions with its inhabitants, rather than the impersonal visits to buildings, exhibits or kiosks. Truthfully, I didn't like the money divide. Too vast a canyon between rich and poor. AND I didn't appreciate being charged $12 for a shot of vodka. What I do support is the rock that has come out of NYC in the last while. It did spawn Interpol.

This is a band that makes me feel completely different each time I play it. It always makes me feel like a different organism. Something that swoops, swoons, dives, falls or rises in catapult fashion. Something my body doesn't do, or can't do, but my mind takes me there anyway.

The song that, without fail, propels me to joyfully dance, and this is usually relegated only for home, as I haven't heard it outside of my house and those times when I sneak it in at work, is the last track of the The Faint's Wet From Birth album. Birth. Jesus. I can't contain myself. It is singularly the best dancing by myself song of all time.

The song that makes me feel beautiful is Blonde Redhead's Elephant Woman. It's so cinematic. At once it's dark. Night time. I'm wandering Parisian streets. A secret rendez-vous is imminent. I'm wearing a fitted trenchcoat. I have on no underwear. I carry Gauloise cigarettes in my clutch. I'm running with heels on cobblestone, breathy and breathless. It reeks of espionage. I'm so happy it hurts. It is a cool spring night that gets released in ardent, deep, fleshy kisses.

This is the song of love/lust.



This was outside my window today.

Strange and wonderful, I feel like I'm in love.

When He's Not Yelling At Me...

Hunter? Gatherer!

Allakazam!

The very first funeral I went to was when I was 8 years old. The body? Norman.

Norman was at least 80 years old. Chain smoker. Scotch swiller. Curmudgeon. Married to one of the most delightful, angelic women known to humankind. Audrey. Aubs! We called her that because we couldn't pronounce her name with underdeveloped palettes in our wonderful childhood.

Aubs and Norman had a big, shiny, red convertible 1960's Cadillac. They also had a double garage. Before overused camcorders, there was Super 8. Film. More expensive to process. More precious per linear foot.

My oldest friend, of 36 years, is Heathie. She and I did nearly everything together when we were kids. Shared the same playpen. Sang together in the church choir. Had crushes on the same boys, one of which she ended up marrying! Once ate too much until we puked. Drank our first alcoholic beverage of Cherry Brandy, a young Comrade busting into her parent's liquor cabinet. Digested every porn magazine George, her father, had stashed in the basement. Bore witness to watching her little brother running around naked in his house every morning while french kissing the dog. Competed.

I inherently hate competition. I'd seen what it did to my family and I hate what it does to humans. It makes them animals. It makes any man or woman the enemy. Penny, Heathie's mother, was responsible for convincing my cheap father to send me to summer camp.

Horse Lover's Day Camp. Good times. My horse was a Palomino. Bartholemew. He was lovely. I never treated him like My Little Pony, though I did have to groom him. I had awe and reverence for this creature. Like Audrey, I couldn't pronounce his name either. Sitting over on Aub's porch, I'd be eating "sangwiches" and talking about "Barfollamew". At the end of the 2 week tenure, there was a competition. There was a series of challenges each participant had to perform. Down to the wire, the last challenge was against Heathie. And I won the Blue Ribbon. I was the winner.

I hated that day.

Directly after the final competition and all the way home, Heathie oscillated between crying and not talking to me. I vowed, from that day forth, never to compete again. It was too destructive.

At 2 years old, parents sipping gin and tonics, smoking cigarettes, laughing, pointing a Super 8 camera at 2 young girls who believed in magic, we were asked to say a succession of magic words:

"Oooohhhhh Great Spirits of the Garaaaaage! Opennnnnn Sesameeeee!"

And the garage door opened!

Glee! Delight! Magic!

"Okay... Spirits... Cloooossse Sesssameeeee!"

And it closed.

This went on until the film ran out and the camera operator, Pickled George, was less steady.

Norman had just installed the very first automatic garage door opener.

Aubs would invite us inside to her parlour where she had a secret stash of Double Bubblegum. Norman would always wish a cavity hex on us. As I said, Norman was a curmudgeon. But we loved Aubs, so we suffered Norman.

When I saw him in the casket, I knew he was dead. It didn't freak me out. I didn't cry. I didn't fuss. I really never had anything to say to him, other than "hello", which I did often.

Months ago I'd met Ramón. He was from Chile. In his 50's. Beret wearer. Suited him. The first time we talked, as this often happens with me, it was of a very lovely philosophical nature. We spoke of death, dying, burials and goodbyes. He had been somewhat close to a gentleman who would frequent a neighbourhood bar he often haunted. Ramón had lent this man his bicycle, knowing this man was ill. The man expressed concern over not being able to return it with any immediacy. Ramón just asked him to keep it until he felt well enough to return it. Ramón had always expressed his friendship to this fellow.

One day, Ramón went back to the bar, after a rather extensive trip. He asked the bartender how his friend was. The bartender got a little emotional when she said, "Didn't you hear? He died 2 weeks ago."

He hadn't heard. He felt sad for the loss of his friend but he didn't have any regrets. He had said everything he had to say to him before his passing.

Last week, at the restaurant, a fellow in his 40's approached me wanting to talk about his experience at the restaurant. I no longer manage the place, a stipulation I made upon my request, upon my return after my summer's sojourn. Most people think I manage it, though. I do walk around like I own the place.

This man told me it was his first visit. He talked about the food briefly, but he really concentrated on how Kissy, my sweet comrade, had delivered one of the best, most memorable service interactions he'd ever received. He was pointing at her. He said, "Her!" And she approached. He waved his hand, casting her away. He said, "Go away, I'm saying nice things about you. I don't want it to go to your head."

Go to her head?

Kissy is one of the most remarkable people I have the good fortune of not only working with, but calling friend. I always look forward to working with her. If people remotely look like animals, facially, she looks like a rabbit. Bunny! She is the embodiment of all that is good in humanity. She is just, fair, kind, gracious, loving and for some reason she looks up to me. I truly love this woman.

Why do people think that if they say a kind word, demonstrate any act of gratitude, praise someone or just be nice, that it will go to their head? People do this to me all the time. They are convinced that since I seem so strong and self-confident, I mustn't ever need to hear anything really positive. Why? Do they think it would make me stronger? Cocky? What?

I tell truths. Sometimes it's what people want to hear. Sometimes it's the last thing they want to hear. For me to keep anything inside feels like a cancer growing. I can't help myself. Harnessing feels like a seismic implosion within. The release of pressure is more relaxing. The need for expression had been mandated long ago. I spew.

Ack, the ex-husband/best friend was talking about how serotonin levels rise when one person gives another person a gift. It's the body's reward for giving. The same chemical reaction, I think, happens when a true compliment is paid. One denies the chain reaction of goodness when there is harnessing of expression. Why would people deny that?

I've never feared death. Dying. If I'm gone tomorrow, I'd be fine with it. Actually, I'd like to live long enough to wrap my arms around my new friends in Chicago, these people whom I adore. But after that, it doesn't really matter. I have simply had and continue to have a marvellous life, rich with experience, wonderful friendship, warm memories, powerful lessons and inordinate amounts of love that I give and have finally learned how to receive.

Fatty once said 2 great things about me:
1. I make him believe in people again.
2. I never want to know how he does a card trick.

I'd rather believe in magic.

Commencing Count-Down, Engine's On

Lately I've been the recipient of barrelfuls of shit piled on top of me for the lack of consideration of not being a good friend to others. This is something that is important to me: being a really good friend. I realised that if I can't give 100%, if I'm not fully there emotionally and mentally, I shouldn't do it. It is unfair to all parties. After at least a month, after some time and more consideration, I finally called my good friend Dirty.

Dirty Diana.

It's not that she did anything wrong. She wasn't mean, or stupid or callous or vengeful. She didn't embarrass me or kill anyone I cared about. She did nothing out of the ordinary. She just was. I stopped calling her because I simply didn't feel like it. My focus was somewhere else. It would have taken a great deal of effort to pick up the phone and dial her number. Well, that wouldn't have been the hard part. The hard part would have been suffering the inevitable fifteen minutes of her giving me shit for not calling her in over a month.

Dirty: I'm pissed off at you! Well, first you don't call and I think I've done something horribly wrong and that's why you haven't been calling. Then I ask others, who HAVE seen you. They report you're fine. More than fine, actually, and I don't know this. I have to get this second hand! Seriously... What the fuck?!

The Comrade: Dirty, I've just come to the conclusion that if I can't give you 100% of my attention, and this goes with all my friends, I fundamentally think it's unfair to both parties. I adore you. Just know that I love you. Please make that enough.

Well, it wasn't enough. She still went on for another 13 minutes about how our relationship had grown, how she didn't have too many actual girl friends, how I now had this new "responsibility" to her, how maybe she was in a place of need. I never got the white flag phone call. I never got the distress signal. Had I, I would have dropped everything to listen to her woes, her wants, her needs. Then I would have counselled. She would have confessed. She would have received some relief.

Dirty has been single for around 2 years. She's going through what many people are going through in their sordid lives right now: What the hell am I living for? Why am I working so hard? What are my passions? What are my goals? What the hell does it all mean, anyway? Am I supposed to be with someone, or not? If I am, where the fuck is he/she?

This year, 2004, the Year of the Monkey, has been a rather tough year for many people. It's been a year of self-discovery, a year of solitude, a year of personal bests. Potentially. A year of self-deprecating personal worsts. This has been for the majority of the people I've informally interviewed who happen to be single.

Many of the single friends I have, both gay and straight, have chosen this life of solitude for much the same reason as why Dirty often doesn't leave her house. She says it's not worth it. They're not worth it. She'd rather stay at home, order some take-out and Pay-Per-View, curl up with Baby and Al, her two gorgeous and slutty cats, and call it a night. Though her bed is lush, in much the same way as I would imagine a bedchamber of royalty, decked out in velvet and silk, she still opts for another night on the couch, back soothingly cradled by the sofa's backrest. It almost simulates another person. Almost.

Getting further into conversation she complains about not having time off to go to my Robert's Christmas Sing-A-Long. This is an annual tradition hosted by Robert's family where family and friends alike go caroling around the matriarch's neighbourhood, peppering cheer, broad porous smiles made grey by way of numerous bottles of red plunk, barely memorised lines made no easier by the aid of sheet music or plain lyrics as the intoxication has reached seasonal highs. My Robert is Mensa smart and always has something interesting to say.

The problem is not everyone does.

She missed me, and this came out after 90 minutes of phone conversing, because there are very few people she can have an actual dialogue with, and not have to talk about base, uninteresting fodder. The shit that doesn't matter. The shit that makes you forget about conversations. People.

I realised just now, actually, that the reason I forget people, and this had been a source of shame for me for some time, is because so often people have nothing really memorable to say to me. People love talking, love talking about themselves. I listen. They love talking about their problems. I still listen. The sentiment gets stored in my memory banks, but the individual gets released. Forgotten.

I love talking to Dirty. She's actually one of my favourite people to talk to, though specifically on the phone. It's different when we're in public. We tend to meet at our favourite bar, one in which she introduced me to, but happens to be in my neighbourhood. It's a tiny trek for her, a hop, skip and jump for me. This bar is very much like the bar Cheers for us. Everyone knows everyone elses name, business, status. Everyone vies for our individual attention. We do not get to have an opportunity to just talk. Just us.

Occasionally Dirty creates a booty-call scenario for herself while there. Historically, it’s staved off loneliness. She'll strike up a conversation with someone who doesn't completely repulse her, bringing him back to her lovely home. She gets what she needs and he leaves in the morning. Sometimes she's there. Sometimes she asks him to leave the key with the concierge. I wouldn't in a million years do anything like this. The idea of a booty-call repulses me. And I don't have a concierge.

Home is somewhere I collect my thoughts, my Self, my socks. Very few people have been invited over. Having company disrupts my peace. I seek tranquility here. My life on the outside is inordinately social. I prefer my solitude right now. I love to come home.

After work, Matty and Kissy, my lovely work comrades, had invited me to go to the Cheers-equivalent bar for their annual Christmas party. We all took the streetcar, depositing 3 of the Christmas Vial tokens my mother gave me. I hugged both of them and wished them well on the rest of the evening’s adventures. I opted for home.

Kissy: This will be the last time we'll see each other before Christmas!

Matt: Oh, just come! Just for one!

The Comrade: No... the old girl's tired. I just want to go home.

They both looked strangely stricken.

I love these people. I love them just as I love Dirty, just as I love all of my friends. But I just wanted to engulf myself in my own surroundings, feel the calm, the peace of my space’s tranquility and just be.

I couldn't sleep last night. I hate not being able to sleep. I took advice I once heard, a remedy for sleep inducement: Write out whatever's on your mind. I did.

I wrote that maybe I fear attachment. Maybe I fear others attaching themselves to me. Maybe I fear me attaching myself to others.

When I begin to think about who the next significant person will be, if I’m not shuddering at the thought, it will have to be someone completely different than what I’d grown used to. I don't think I want to have a best friend in my next lover. I already have a best friend. I don't want to spend all of my free time with one other. I would still rather spend the bulk of my time with myself than anyone else, in addition to spending it with other people. This is the place I belong: with the People.

I realised, since being single this time, that it's unfair and truthfully impossible to place the responsibility of complete fulfilment upon just one other person. When I look around at the spattering of friends I have in my life, there is a little secret each of them knows about me, but the information is spread out. No two people are acutely aware of the same secret. I like it like that. I want to keep it like that. Everyone has a secret. A precious gem.

When I engage in one on one conversation it is rarely the stuff of mere fluff. I don't like small talk. I can do it, but I don't care for it. I like ideas. I like sharing concepts. I like discussing whatever's on my mind at the current moment. Once I figure out, often through dissecting it with others, the outcome, the end result, the answer, in essence, I move on. Some people like to discuss the same thing over and over again. They stay stuck. This frustrates me. Some people can gain answers but they aren't really satisfied with the conclusions. They continue to spin the problem over and over in their minds, never acting upon anything, just a constant woeful complaint stream. It feels like stagnant water.

Everyone is trying to find extra meaning in their lives. Whatever that means to the individual. Like Jason's post on the prison analogy of his last relationship, something that completely resonated in me and most everyone I know, history informs us to take a backtrack, to the places we've known, a place where there was once significant meaning. At one time it was just with one Other. It's what we were used to. Is this the Meaning of Life? Finding one soul mate?

Doesn't make much sense.

I actively seek connection. I seek meaning in just about every interaction I make with other people. Lately I haven't had a need to be with just one man because I've felt completely fulfilled with the relationships I cultivate on any given day.

Everyone wants to feel connection with others. I asked Dirty what she doing about it. I asked her, when she embarked in the world, if she was an active or passive object. Did she wait for others to come to her? She said engaged, but was dissatisfied with the outcome. I asked her what she presented to the world. Which facet of her personality did she most engage? As she is Croatian in descent, she learned from an early age that people were disinterested in having dire, serious conversations. She learned to keep it fluffy. Light. Safe. Small talk. She doesn’t divulge too much. She isn’t nosy.

This is how we are different. I am nosy. I ask a lot questions. People tell me things they’ve never told another living soul before. I love that about myself. I told her she is capable of creating whatever type of conversation she wanted. Most just don’t know how to do it. It’s very simple, as most complicated things are. Ask whatever comes to mind.

I don’t think it’s that I fear attachment to or of others. I think I just don’t want to feel responsibilty for other people. I still want to be their friend. I still want to help. I realise now that I don’t think I’m a constant. I appreciate that quality in other people, but it’s something that’s not inherently within myself. I am more a force than a constant.

I'm beginning to believe what Ack, the ex-husband/ best friend said about my having Super Powers. I think we all do. It's the single reason, or many reasons, why we are here on Earth. Our specific jobs. Our Real Jobs. My job is to encourage. To enable. To cheer. To love. I bust boundaries others have had around them for most of their lives. I offer a vision of freedom that historically I’ve denied myself.

This time it's slightly different, though. This time, in addition, my freedom vision is for me.

Ground Control? The Comrade is ready to come home.

What I Do in My Spare Time*

* Fashioned and photographed by Comrade Chicken

The Christmas Vial

It was at 4:56pm yesterday when I ran out of the house in hopes to catch a streetcar to work, where I was supposed to be in exactly 4 minutes. I waited 6 minutes. The ride takes about 7 minutes, depending.

The car looks full from my vantage point. It's a double streetcar, attached by a device that looks like an accordian in the waist area. It was designed to hold a greater number of passengers. The accordian was designed to be able to make turns effectively without derailing.

I stepped on, deposited a...

Prior to having lunch with my mother the other day, we had talked on the phone to confirm a time and place. We had a discussion on how I felt about Christmas:

I don't want anything and I don't want to give anybody anything.

It's not that I'm a cheap cunt, it's just that I feel I have everything I need. Everyone else in the family has more than they need. To buy something, just for the sake of buying, to give something that will inevitably go into the garbage because it's not "just right", or doesn't "fit into the scheme", filling landfills in both my country and the country immediately south of me, where none of our garbage belongs, simply to secure a contract and good relations internationally sounds ridiculous to me. Sounds irresponsible.

My friend Dirty is an interior designer and, in addition, has worked for years in a retail store selling home accessories. Chachkas. She's a very generous creature and loves to express her fondness for her friends by often wielding staff-discounted gift items whenever any of us see her. They sit and collect dust.

Once upon a time I used to collect all kinds of little items. Interesting objects. Some were found while walking around. Some were bought. The found ones are the ones I tend to keep. They tend to tell a tale of a journey taken. Since moving into my loft, a completely white, save the darkened bedroom, bright and airy place with huge windows and enough floorspace to either do 3 cartwheels in succession or to watch 2 whirling dervish dancers perform, without moving any furniture, I'd made the decision to keep my life and my surroundings as simple as possible. As uncluttered as possible. When Fatty was over the other night he said it was really calming in here. The calm is what I love best about my home.

So this is Christmas, or just about... and what do we need? What do I need?

I need food. I need to eat. I need to eat more. Personally, I'm getting too goddamned thin, which pleases my gay friends, but really, I need to eat something. Something warm. I don't like eating cold food in the winter. It makes me colder.

I explained to my mother how the advertisers start their campaigns just after Hallowe'en. They send everyone into a frenzy trying to buy shit no one needs, making retailers fat, themselves fatter, selling their souls, while, for one day, giving the populace an opportunity to stave off guilt.

It's on at 50% off.
Buy yours now.

My mother, who inherently understands me, took me out for lunch. "It'll be your Christmas present, since we're not going to be spending it together this year," she said.

At the beginning of lunch she presented a used prescription vial for my inspection. I was reading the label when she said, "No, look inside." Looking in, I estimate there were about 50 public transport tokens. She worries about me riding my bike in the winter. I told her I haven't ridden it in weeks. But she loves me and she doesn't use them anymore as she's now considered a senior citizen. Seniors pay less than half the price of a regular adult fare. She hoarded them years ago when the transit commission threatened to raise the price on them. She froze the prices. She passed the savings on to me. I love my mother. This was the best present anyone could give me. It was born out of concern. It was something I needed without knowing I needed it.

For the last 5 years, prior to my separation with Ack, the ex-husband/best friend, we had hosted Christmas dinner at our house. It was never fun, save the after dinner guests we'd invited; the ones we really wanted there. The family portion was something we were made to suffer. The banal conversation was the worst.

Stock quotes.
"Did you know x just bought another cottage?"
Future business dealings.
Piggy backing off each other.
Feeding frenzy.
Complaints of the turkey being too dry.
The same fight where my father drinks too much and gets belligerent about being "fine" to drive home.
Insults lobbed into the air.
Ridiculous current events not based in fact, but conjuered up by what the government really wants us to think (oh the Comrade has a whack of conspiracy theories).

I spend the majority of the family portion playing with my adopted twin nieces. They offer the best conversations and the most fun. At home, their sheets are Egyptian cotton with a 300 thread count. The toys they will have received by the end of business day, will survive from 1/2 hour to a week, depending on the manufacturer. The result of these gifts will be pitched into black garbage bags, thrown by the curb, by a hired hand and dumped into a waste station, processed, and delivered to wherever the city has a contract to send it to.

Christmas.

Christ Mass.

When I was a child I sang in the church choir. There is something so incredibly holy sounding about the sound small lungs and a little resonating head produces. It was by my own volition that I chose the church as a child. I loved everything about it. The reverence, the ceremony, the stained glass, the architecture, the refreshments, the boring sermons that invaribly would be punctuated by someone in the congregation farting or audibly yawning.

The music.

Musical director Roma Lynne was an ancient, frail little woman, who was both loving and fierce. Just like God, I suppose. With mangled fingers and bony frame she worked the organ like a spider weaves a web. Every appendage was active; pulling knobs, feet bouncing on the pedals that operated the lower bass registers, her whole body got into the music and it was such a beautiful sight to behold. I always wished she would play In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida, but she never did.

At 13, I was baptised and confirmed on the same day, thus allowing me to receive the body and blood of Christ, something to this day kind of sicks me out, as a concept. I remember sitting in the choir's altar pews looking out at the flock and thinking, "It's standing room only at Midnight Mass. They're all trying to save their souls by being in attendance one night of the year." Heather, my oldest friend (of 36 years) and I snunk potent rum balls my sister made, with 12oz of booze, between choral sets of "Holy, Holy, Holy" and "Onward Christian Soldier"; getting drunk by way of confectioneries.

I stopped going to church by own volition. Truthfully it was the Honour Thy Mother and Father thing that got me in the end. What about the abuses and the injustices parents inflict upon their children habitually? What about all the damage they've done? Just because the seed they planted, potentially out of hate, took root? One drunken night of forced rape and God has made it a sin to do less than revere and honour this creature named parent?

I said no.

I reverently placed the cross back in its rightful place. I turned in my cassock.

Ever since, I've been fighting a battle I've created in my mind. I've been fighting for my own truth.

I miss it, though.

Ah, who knows... maybe I'll deposit one of those tokens and make my way up to St. Timothy's to be another one standing, trying to save her soul.

Adjusting the Volume to Real

I took the streetcar to meet my mother for lunch yesterday. Public school kids were invited to a dance recital at one of the universities downtown. They were just on their way home, catching the streetcar I was running late on. The car was already packed, but they rammed their little butts in anyway.

They noticed everything.

Noses pressed up against glass, drawing pictures from the steam of their nostrils, looking up at frozen construction workers made warmer by creating sparks 3 storeys high.

"Look at that guy!"
"Look how he's walking!"
"Ew!"
"Why haven't they changed that sign?"
"Get off my foot!"
"Ow!"
"Heeehehehhee"

The sound of a kid's laugh is one of the best sounds in the world.

Yesterday was spent with my Mom and Fatty. In that order. Not all together. Mom would like it if I didn't talk about any other man outside of Ack, the ex-husband/best friend. She's convinced we'll get back together one day. Everytime I see her she asks the same question, "Do you think, maybe after some time, you'll get back together?" She's always armed with an example of how it's worked in the past, in some remote friend pool, real or fictious, making for a good tale. Happily ever after. A tale of hope for a mother.

This is generally the answer I give, though the meaning's always the same, the syntax sometimes varies: "No, Mom... not gonna happen."

My mother's pretty old-school traditional. She was absolutely mortified the first time I announced I was getting a divorce 13 years ago.

Mom: What am I going to tell people when they ask where Stupid is? (Stupid = Husband #1)

The Comrade: I don't know, Ma... maybe you could say that finally too much sun, too much blow and too much booze finally got him. Tell 'em I was too vain to stay married to someone who'd inevitably end up looking like one of those hacking, pickled, iodine coloured Florida broads with the leather skin.

Always a bride, never a bridesmaid.

My second eldest brother has estranged himself from the family. He's completely incommunicato with all of us; flatly refuses to answer anyone's calls, emails, pleas. My mother worries about him all the time.

Mom: Hey, maybe we can go visit him!
The Comrade: Nope... not a good idea.

My brother, Walter and his wife, Linda split up a couple of years ago. Walter, at the age of 40, was chasing 20 year old tail. Snagged some. Shagged some. Got her pregnant and now he has a son, in addition to the marvellous creature I call my niece, Megan.

It's my father's 70th birthday next year. This is a very big deal in Chinese culture. Most just don't make it to 70, so there's this massive celebration in his honour being planned a year in advance. To me it's like a dark cloud looming overhead. I've already started conjuering up reasons not to go.

Mom: [panicked] I have to have invitations printed!

The Comrade: Yeah?

Mom: Well, all the spouses and children's names will be printed! Who's name am I supposed to put next to Walter's?

T.C. : Just put his name alone.

Mom: What will I say when people ask where the mother is?!

T.C. : Aliens, Ma. The aliens got her. Everyone will understand.

A dark expression has crossed her brow. Levity is not working. She goes to the bathroom. I am left to contemplate the cold just beyond a wall of glass. A cheesey fake flower arrangement trailing through a trellis left out on the rooftop patio looks gaudy, but I can't take my eyes off it.

Mom makes a beeline from the washroom to the bar, dips index finger and thumb into a glass and picks up exactly 4 unsheathed toothpicks. She walks her speedy gait back to the table, never once looking at me. She drops her prize on the white plastic tablecloth. She jams one into her mouth, shielding whatever may fly out with her opposite hand.

The Comrade: You know, those toothpicks are often picked up by people after they go to the washroom. Sometimes people don't wash their hands after... well... you know. Publically offered toothpicks and mints have the highest amount of fecal matter on them.

I am a shit disturber... dipped into a toothpick vessel.

My mother has learned not to pay attention to me. This is a mechanism she developed early on, near the conception of the Comrade. She gets me back in my relentless pursuit of all things that drive her crazy when I have moments of seriousness and want to discuss these matters with her: she's still not listening. She changes the topics to those that are completely unrelated to what I'm talking about.

Mom: Who are these people you're visiting in Chicago? Where did you meet them?

The Comrade: I met them on the internet.

Mom: WHAT??!!!

A very long diatribe of potential rape scenarios ensue. Drugs are part of the picture she's painting. The sale of individual body parts are already parsed out in her mind.

She launches into a story about my eldest brother's wife, Anita. Well... actually, her brother, Ernie.

Mom: Remember Ernie? Well, his wife met someone over the internet and she LEFT Ernie and their kids and moved in with this other guy.

The Comrade: Did he kill her?

Mom: No.

The Comrade: Is she still with him?

Mom: Yes.

The Comrade: So... the internet made her... happy?

My internal grandstanding is distracted by a woman with a massive cranium who has just dug her fist into the toothpick receptical and is walking, with huge gaping mouth, throughout the restaurant extracting matter from her deepest wisdom tooth. There was no shield up.

Mom: Are there going to be men there?

The Comrade: [lying through her teeth, imagining Jason and Worker with breasts] No!

Mom: They're all going to be women?

The Comrade: Yes!

Mom: Okay... women are safe.

She changes the subject.

Thank God, as I was starting to sweat and display 16 of the 21 signs of lying.

---

On my way home, taking the streetcar, I sat in my preferred station: one of the single seats along the driver's side. I like to sit there. I don't really like sitting next to people in that realm. In cabs I always sit in the back passenger side. I'm not alone on this, as that seat is usually fairly deeply imprinted with previous asses of rather epic proportions.

I don't wear a musical device: Walkman, iPod or the like. I own a cell phone, but I never use it. It collects dust near my entry way.

I prefer to listen.

Every city has a sound. No two cities sound alike. New York sounds vastly different than San Francisco, which sounds vastly different from Vancouver, which sounds completely alien compared to Toronto. I love the sound of everything. I love the sound of this city and its inhabitants.

I eavesdrop.

Not intentionally, not pointedly, I just like to listen to things.

There was a woman sitting behind me who fielded a call on her cell phone. It was her lover. Her tone was even throughout. Her rising passive aggression was a slapping hard reminder of how I do not want to have a boyfriend... more than likely ever again. My heart was slightly broken for her when the last statement she made, full of disappointment, was, "Why did you have to say that? Fine. Don't ever call me again." Click. Sigh. Sniff.

---

Fatty came over last night. He's just moved back home with his parents. He's trying to save up some dough to go on an extended trip to Africa. He'd been there with his family before and loved it so much he was planning his next trip while being there the first time. Being 27 and moving back home, even for a short duration, was making him a bit crazy. He'd also just quit smoking 10 days ago, but came over to smoke some pot.

Smoking fatties with Fatty.

I have had a little tiny bag of weed since last year. I just discovered it last week. I hadn't smoked it yet because I didn't have any rolling papers. I live right across the street from a place that sells them, but I'm one of those people that is quite friendly with shop owners and truthfully I don't want them to think I'm a drug addict. So the aged pot just sat there keeping my cell phone company.

The Comrade: Fatty.... could you buy me some papers, please?

Fatty was going to bring his secret pot stash over, but was having a rather slapstick episode alone of heightened Attention Deficit Disorder where he kept forgetting things up in his room while preparing to leave the house. He had gone up and down 3 flights of stairs, 6 times, remembering new things each time. He had placed himself in a cab and was halfway en route to my place when he realised he wasn't packing any herb.

Luckily I had the very dried up buds from the year past. I didn't know how potent it would be. A year is a long time. Still, Fatty was into smoking anything.

Another cool thing about Fatty: He's the best joint roller I've ever met thus far. Very professional.

It took us 3-4 intervals to smoke this thing.

And we got FUCKED.

This was very intense pot. I liked it initially as I got that lovely sensation reminiscent of having little duvets wrapped around my eyes. Soooo soooothing.

Like Fatty, I have A.D.D also. Since I gave up television 9 months ago, I've felt the symptoms dissipate. I'd never noticed this as pronounced before, but last night the two of us couldn't keep any conversations remotely tangible. I would have a major point, lobbing up a huge preface. Midway through the introduction, I completely forgot what my original point was. This kept happening to both of us. Frustration on every level.

I think I resigned myself to not doing pot for a while, not regularly anyway. I like it, but I just don't feel as much when I'm on it. Nothing's heightened other than that *stoned* feeling. I like my natural states of feeling.

I love experimenting with altered universes. An iPod does that, I think. Your landscape becomes altered by a soundtrack. I don't do this habitually. It's more of an occasional occurance. One's potential interface with the world becomes exclusionary because one of the senses is completely cut off from reality. Or an induced reality seeps in. It's isolating, headphones. Sound others can't fathom.

I'll always remember an epic solo bike ride I had in high school. My Walkman on. Simple Minds blaring through my own simple mind. It was magical. But I don't do it anymore. Most times I prefer to live in this world, a world outside of my control.

Heaven and Hell Exists as Work

I generally like to play, particularly when I'm at work.

I find out fairly quickly who's game and who isn't. Some encourage it. Some want nothing to do with it. The ones who have been in very long term relationships are looking for an outside interaction, an intervention. The on-the-first-date-ites look for a distraction from the new set of eyes across from them. The occasional veering adds comfort. Looking into eyes is extremely intimate. And sometimes it garners a memorable story.

"Do you remember me," asked a pretty blonde girl of about my age, maybe slightly older.
The Comrade: Please refresh my memory.
The 5'0 Blonde who's dating a guy who's 6'4": Well, I was on my first date with my now boyfriend, whom I'm in love with, and you asked us whether we'd exchanged spit yet, and he thought you said "Does it fit yet?"
The Comrade: Well, does it?

---

Two older gents sat in my section. Within the first 2 minutes one of them announced they were both from Australia. I feel if a person needs to patriotically wave their native flag, particularly within the first few bars of interaction, I feel I'm dealing with a Nationalist. I like to make fun of Nationalists.

Aussie #1: So, since we're from Australia, we don't want to have any wine from there. We'd like to try something else.

The Comrade: Oh, you don't trust your palate to winemakers who come from a long line of criminals? Nor do I.

Just in case you don't know: Once upon a time, long, long ago, the Queen of England decided to give options to the convicted criminals of the land, as its prisons were full to capacity and she didn't want any dark stains on her ruling.

Her Majesty's Option #1: Death
Her Majesty's Option #2: Banishment

The Monarch conspired with some other European countries, to bring out their worst. Collectively they shipped whores, thieves, swindlers and swine alike on boats destined for Australia, this huge, desolate island, with no supplies, just the shirts on their back.

This is the thing about people who don't operate conventionally within the parameters of the law: they're very resourceful.

As soon as I detect an accent, particularly stemming from the Queen's Commonwealth, I put on a pouncy, very posh, reputedly bad (according to my British mates), though sounds completely right in my head, accent from some fictious area in England, that green and pleasant land.

Aussie #1 = Nick, 60's, dyed black hair, vain, a tad closeminded, slightly paranoid, bad breath.
Aussie #2 = Don, 60's, long in the tooth, white hair, father of 2, deliberate, careful, earnest.

Many people are very interested in what I do outside of my work at the restaurant. They think I must have something of a greater pursuit than that of being a conduit between need and sating of oral gratification.

Nick: So, besides being a comedienne, what else do you do?

My standard answer is, "I do other things, but I do them for myself and don't make any money off it. It's purer that way."

Nick: As in...?

So we start talking about blogging and I launch into what a potentially powerful, liberating, community driven, and meritful opportunity this is for the People. Nick then launches into a paranoid diatribe of how my vision is limited and why can't I see the negative ramifications of this insidious thing.

Nick: Can't you see that with all of this traffic it could tie up lines of communication placing us in jeopardy?

The Comrade: What are you talking about?

Nick: Our homeland security!

The Comrade: Criminal... Are you, fucking mad?

Nick: Well, what about all the advertising the agencies would put inside of the individual blogs, effectively clogging up engines?

The Comrade (still keeping the stupid accent) : I am versed in a bit of code, sir. I would simply rip the code for the advertisement out. It's all html based.

I try to explain it's an independant server issue and that governments make sure that there is more than one mode of communication, if immediate and urgent messages and information need to be conveyed (which governments still ignore), streaming in from wholly independant conduits.

Nick: Bah! You still don't see the negative ramifications!

The Comrade: [looks to her right, acknowledges a table who is in need of her attention] Good Lord! [leaves]

Three women, ages ranging from late 30's to mid 40's. Three boys, ages 2-9. The boys were looking for amusing interactions with the staff, as their mothers were losing their edge.

Boy #1 = 8 years old, looked like a young Edward Furlong, the kid who played John Connor in the Terminator 2: Judgement Day. Adorable. Ruckus. Little shit disturber. I loved this kid.

Boy #2 = Jack! 2 years old, graduated baby speak, wanted to know if the staff was going to abuse them. Drew me a Christmas card, currently on my fridge, with ringed notepaper, a black marker, yellow highlighter and pencil mediums dedicated to me, lovingly signed by him. I loved this little fucker.

Boy #3 = 9 years old. Brother to Boy #1. Totally brazen. Actually ate, on a dare, a piece of lime that had fallen on the ground. Was calling all the girls "ugly" and "stupid". He was awesome.

Boy #2 (Jack) : Do you want to sing the Santa song?

The Comrade: Gee, Jack, I'm not sure if I remember the Santa song. How about you start and I'll sing along?

Jack: Santa, Santa, Santa...

The Comrade: -ta, Santa...

Jack: S-A-N-T-A

Jack and The Comrade in unison: S-A-N-T-A. S-A-N-T-A... and Santa was his NAME-O.

---

I go back to the Australians. The last bottle of wine wasn't "jammy" enough. I suggest another. A Syrah from California. This time it is jammy. By glass number 5, Nick is starting to slur.

Nick: So, what what type of after dinner liquer would you suggest we have, on the house?

The Comrade: On the house?

Nick: Yes [grinning]

The Comrade: Let's recap, shall we?

Nick: Alright.

TC: How was the food?

Nick: Very nice.

TC: Was tonight's service arguably the best you've ever had?

Nick: Yes.

TC: How did you find the environs?

Nick: Very pleasant.

TC: The music?

Nick: Catchy.

TC: And yet you still feel we owe you something?

Nick: Yes, that would be nice!

TC: Nice try, you conniving, thieving Australian bugger! [cackles and leaves]

---

While trying to convey the evening's specials to a table of 2 women, one of whom chooses an appetizer of roasted veal bones, with crostini, an interactive dish that requires scooping out the marrow from the bones and spreading the goo on toast, I am distracted by the young punks at the adjacent table who are systematically driving my comrades crazy.

The Comrade [yelling from one table to the next] : Hey! This is NOT Chuck E. Cheese! Shut up and stop harrassing people!

When I asked that woman how the marrow was, she said, "If I wasn't in public, I'd be sucking on bone!"

The Comrade clears her throat and goes back to join the matrons and the little dudes.

The Comrade [pulls up a seat] : Hey, punk! Wanna thumbwrestle? Or are you not MAN enough?

Boy #3: [giggling] Okay!

Josh (my favourite at work Comrade): [leaning closely into Boy #3] : Kid... you're so dead.

T.C.: Okay, let's do this bad thing. [opens right palm, spits in it]

Boy #3 horks in his hand and offers it to me.

T.C. : Dude, that's disgusting. [taking the kid's little wrist and wiping the hork reside onto his pant leg]

Locking fingers while releasing thumbs, thumbs jumping back and forth side to side, collectively:

T.C + Boy #3 in unison: 1, 2, 3, 4... I declare a thumb WAR. Bow [thumbs crook and bow at the other's thumb]. Kiss! [thumbs lightly touch each other, while making a giant smooching sound] And... BEGIN!

This is how you win a thumb wrestle:
1. Intimadation. Go in very cocky. Maintain cockiness throughout.
2. Insults. Hurl "girlie-man", and "puny thumb" comments at your opponent.
3. Patience. Get them while they're tired and distracted. You only need to pin it down for a count of 3.

The kid wasn't a bad contender. I only broke out in a brief sweat. I still remained victorious, completely kicking his ass. I did 3 full victory laps around the restaurant. And contained myself to only 2 "in your face" comments.

Boy #3: [to the Comrade] You're soooo ugly! And you're sooo stupid!

The Comrade: [gently stroking his hair] It's obvious you're totally in love with me. Stop embarrassing yourself. I'm sorry, I'm too old for you.

Boy #3: Arrrggghhhh!

Aussie #2, Don, after paying the bill wanted to talk to me. He took a very long time, but I stood, eyes locked on his, smiling supportively as I know words sometimes come easily, sometimes are the hardest to come by. And I paraphrase, as I was and continue to be completely stunned:

"Continue to work on your self-confidence. As I have two daughters, it's something I worry for them much of the time. I believe in the work you do and I believe in what you're trying to achieve. In short, I believe in you. You have a magic quality. Did you see Star Wars? I didn't understand the phrase, "May the Force be with you" for 10 years. Then one day I understood. I say this to you now: May the Force be with you. I don't know why I'm telling you this, but I know I was supposed to meet you and I know this interaction was suppose to happen. Does this make any sense to you?"

This made the most sense in the world to me. With blurry, teary eyes, I hugged him and thanked him profusely. That statement couldn't have come at a better time.

You see, I've been dealing with something at work lately. The chef is making my life a living hell and trying to have me extricated from the restaurant. The reason, you may ask? She is the wife of the Police Man. She's looking for a reason to can me. She's frustrated because she doesn't have the power to fire me, as Guiseppe is effectively her boss too. Luckily Guiseppe adores the Comrade just as much as the Comrade adores him.

I was making a lot of mistakes with the kitchen this weekend.

To perform optimally, we need a safe environment to flourish. A person cannot work effectively with a gun to the head, under constant scrutiny. If you look at a thing under a microscope long enough, with ill intent, the subject will change to the side of whatever the intent is. That's a scientific fact. Loving support is constructive. To be calmly counselled works. A little empathy and understanding go a long way. Being yelled at in a shrill manner, focussed on and ostricized in front of the staff, and then complained about behind my back to whomever has ears does not make for effective workers. Complaints to Giuseppe alone would have been fine but, in addition, those made to suffer her shrill, hateful diatribe of all things me were bussers, bartenders, kitchen staff et al.

Apparently, the Police Man will not step foot into the place if he knows I'm working. I have not seen him since the incident. It's not as if he hadn't personally heard these repeatedly expanded upon hurling insults from me in the past .

The Filthy Law Enforcer is Guiseppe's oldest and best friend, though this relationship bears no reflection on the boss whom I adore, as they don't share any real similarities at all. The second interaction I ever had with the cop, prior to his tenure with us, went like this:

Police Man: [with diabolical, shit eating grin] I want to fuck you.

When I announced I had to go to the loo once, an announcement induced by the need for others to watch my section while I was away, the Dirty Cop offered his opened mouth as a repository.

Right from Day One I've told him exactly what I thought of him. The opinions expressed in my post were an abridged, less graphic version of the comments I've made throughout the year of interacting with him. His real problem isn't my opinion of him. His problem is with other people having read my opinion. He's afraid of being the laughing stock, the voodoo doll with inserted flaming spears and pointed fingers mocking him.

John Q. said the most hilarious thing after witnessing

The Events of Saturday Night:
1. A half dozen 20 year old girls in slutwear, drinking girlie cocktails they couldn't afford, thus in the end not paying for. Some poor chump had to.
2. The same young ladies taking their clothes off in the vault cum wine cellar (as the restaurant is a converted bank building). Having topless pictures taken of themselves by a very horny, shaky handed Josh, as an "artistic" contribution to our decor. (There are many naked shots of various people, sexes, preferences and sizes adorning our walls.)
3. These models of tubetops, recycled into skirts, stealing bottles of wine after rounds of shots were bought for them.
4. Blow being snorted in one of the bathrooms.
5. One shrill, caustic chef repeatedly LOSING IT in reference to me.

John Q.'s Holy Roller Statement : This was a house of SIN on Saturday night.

I learned last night that John Q. is a recovering drug addict. He needed extra help in getting him off the stuff. He found God. That sounds good to me. Whatever's needed. He's mostly turned into a peaceful, loving fella, but one that is a bit repressed and sometimes judgemental.

John Q: You know what, Matt? You'd do really well with the ladies. Why do you like men? Women are so much better! They have curves, and are hairless and soft. Really, all you have to do is just *decide* to like women!

The Comrade: I've been with women too, but as much as they were soft and hairless, there was always something missing...

The Comrade and Matty [in unison]: The cock.

We also learned last night that John Q. has had homosexual interactions with boys when he himself was a boy. It became something that wasn't right for him, but he discovered it honestly by living it. Now he was judging Matty. He was taught that this behaviour is wrong and sinful. He really liked Matty and earnestly wanted to save his soul.

Matt: Don't recruit me... especially when I'm hungover.

---

I got "macked" on by no less than 3 men on Sunday... God's Day!

1. Stuart McGregor. Adorable. Prolific DJ mixer who makes many of the compliation mixes for the restaurant. He says, "I've had a crush on you for weeks! I am trying to seduce you. You're the smartest woman I've met in a really long time. You're like one of those really hot, cool Moms." Good... fucking... Lord.

2. Brian Stiegl. Born Italian. Adopted by Jews. Cute. Left Kissy, John Q. and the Comrade $2 on a $34 bill. I went over to the table, sat beside him, smilingly and quietly said a round of hellos to the rest of the table. When my gaze reached Brian Stiegl, my smile faded.

The Comrade: Brian. Did you just leave $2 on a $34 bill? What the fuck's wrong with you?

Brian: Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't know how much to leave.

TC: Oh, so you figured $2 was a good number? That's okay, none of our cats have to eat.

Kissy and John Q. are looking horrified and delighted at the same time, wondering how in God's name I get away with this behaviour.

Brian Stiegl shyly approached me later and offered his phone number. Shuddering, it was tossed.

3. John Q. Who did dazzle me a bit when he told me, after witnessing one of the tyrades the chef had of me, to keep my "God Shield" up, as there was a lot of "sinful" energy directed at me. As he told me this, he held my face. I said to him later that I was glad he saw my goodness. He said, "That was the highlight of my evening."

When I told the story about my initial interactions with the Police Man to the small group consisting of Kissy, Matty and John Q., John Q. said, "Fuck him. He deserves this. This is God's intervention. This was meant to happen. Maybe it will change him." I allowed him a prolonged holding of my hand while saying, "Thank you John Q... I'm still not going to be your girlfriend, though."

John Q. : But I keep trying.

The Comrade loves that he keeps trying because sometimes she's a vain little thing. Still the idea of being with anyone right now sends a bolt of panic through her. She runs away. Arms not flailing this time as she doesn't want to attract too much attention.

The three young, delightful punks and their mother figures have donned their jackets, just about to leave. They call me over. They collectively have created a Three Cheers and a Hip Hip Hooray song just for ME! I was so tickled pink I felt I might explode. I said goodbye to each of them individually and saved the most obnoxious, irreverent one for last.

The Comrade: Goodbye, Sweet Pea.

He turned to me, with a slightly twisted face, and threw his arms around me for exactly 3 seconds and ran away.

You know something? I am one of the luckiest people in the world.