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.