The Center of the Universe

I have a bit of romance in my life right now. It's rather delicious. There are restrictions that don't allow full expression of what would be lovely to have expressed, but it's a semi-complicated issue of being outside of one's area code.

I've always loved the beginning. But what often happens, for me anyway, is the first 6 months is spent completely in the company of the other. The other is the only person we actually want to spend time with. All the other relationships we have in our lives end up going to the wayside because we have this new love. This new joy. This new bit of life breathed into us.

And it's not just the other relationships we have that fall away; all the other bits of our life that make up who we are as individuals go too. We, and when I say we I'm really talking about me, give up the all the creative bits, the hanging out with friends, the personal growth. We succumb to the fine art of playing house. Keep in mind the Easy Bake Oven, still to this day, was my favourite present of all time. Playing house delights the little 8 year old inside me. With the added intimacy and romance redolent in the beginning, it also delights the 16 year old lurking within who's prone to hyper-romanticism.

I was raised on Disney.

I realised during the demise of my second marriage how I bought into the poor-girl-from-shit-circumstances-who-gets-swept-away-by-Prince-Charming's appeal. And they lived happily ever after.

With bills.
With doctor's appointments.
With too much alcohol.
With the accusation of flirting with others.
With despondency.
With mental/emotional abandonment.
With not being an effective support system.
With name calling.
With silence.

Slam. Once the door is closed no one knows anything, remembers anything... but you.

All of us are scared right now. Anyone who has been in a relationship absolutely, vehemently does not want to repeat the past. We learned our lessons; we want to move on. We want perfection. We want a signed guarantee that the next person will never fuck up. Never disappoint. Never give us reason to stray. That we would never give them a reason to stray.

Yesterday I visited Giuseppe, my ex-boss, and his wife, whom I both adore, at the restaurant I used to love working at. He hadn't left for Abruzzo yet. He's on a plane, probably as I am typing this. There was a meter of snow that fell in Italy. This hasn't happened since 1956. They brought in the military. Well, whatever dregs they could pull together who are not in Iraq. We had a nice talk, just like we used to. We talked about:

Life
Lessons
Marriage
Love
How the center of the Universe resides directly in the hearts of every man and woman.

Months ago, when even the thought of being with someone else made me physically ill, Giuseppe and I would talk about the outdated model of marriage. I told him that marriage simply didn't make sense anymore. He told me that he and his charming wife had not survived 25 years together because of a piece of paper. Exactly. But they were still together. Still laughing together. Still each other's best friends. Still an inordinate amount of love between them, even if they know they can't work together.

One night, when I still worked there, I was taking a dinner order at table adjacent to the open kitchen. Pen poised, straining to hear a customer order the caprese salad, the order was interrupted by Giuseppe and his delightful wife, within the open confines of the kitchen's line, screaming at each other.

You see? This is why I can't work with you!
Fuck you!
Yeah? Va fangul! (translation: go fuck yourself up your own ass)

The Comrade: Oh! Mom and Dad are fighting again.

Yesterday they were killing themselves laughing over this one Italian phrase, which neither could write out, otherwise I would have lovingly transcribed it. The translation would be: Eat the snatch of your aunt's dead sister. And The Comrade added: Who's been dead for 5 days in a warm room.

There are just some people that deserve each other.

Perfect?
To me, yes.

I love a boy
Who with the more I know about him,
The more I embrace.

He brings out the best in me.
He challenges my worst.
He understands my relationship with Ack, the ex-husband/ best friend.
Through making me laugh, he understood he has a sense of humour.
He likes to argue.
He's a yeller.
We have the same political views.
We have similiar musical bents.
He is beautiful.
He makes me feel like I'm 16 again.

And no one can give any guarantee that it will work out or not. That's not life. That's not living. We have to just relearn to allow our own Centers of the Universe to lead us. Into temptation. For thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory.

There are just some people that deserve each other.

Perfect?
To me, yes.

Where is There Hope on a Golden Mountain?

My very first love of my life was Sean. High school. God, I loved him. It was a crazy sort of love that was very experimental on so many levels, chiefly sexually. In a word: torrid. We saw each other for a year and a half. Then he went off to Ireland. Then I fucked someone else. I don't know why. Sean asked me to marry him. I think I thought about being 18 years old, finding The One and never being with anyone else again. This thought depressed me into an action. This action I regretted for 10 years.

When he badgered me enough to tell him, we were at a friend's cottage. At the time I was anti-drug, yet alcohol positive. I suspect it was a legalities issue. Not sure. After I told him and he reacted, a mix of utter disgust and outrage, I did my first and last attempt at hot knives. I didn't care anymore. I wanted oblivion.

I was absolutely devastated. I don't remember how I got home from the cottage. He'd already left. Hitchhiked. He left me. I remember waking up in my own bed. It was a single. Sunny room. Summertime. Air conditioner whirring in the background. Comfort. Cozy. I'd convinced myself I was dreaming the whole thing. It was just a bad dream. I really hadn't had sex with someone who meant nothing to me. I really hadn't betrayed Sean. He really didn't leave me for doing something that warranted abandon.

Nothing was wrong. Everything was fine.
Everything was wrong. Nothing was fine.

I had to leave Toronto to go somewhere else. It didn't matter where. I chose Vancouver. I figured had family there I could stay with.

My Uncle Al and his family chose Vancouver as their home after he and his wife emigrated to Canada. I don't know why. I don't know why my father chose Toronto while his close brother chose a city 4 rather large provinces away. I don't know. I was never told. I never asked because I was never encouraged to ask questions.

What do you mean you don't know? What are you stupid?

Uncle Al has 4 kids too. Just like our family.
Stock broker (male, favourite cousin): Ken
Anesthesiologist (male, once groped me): Glenn
Nurse (female, seems lost): Lisa
Government worker (male, sychophant): Kelly

Kelly needed a school book returned. Kelly's parents were far more generous with their time and their devotion to their kids than my father was with his. My Uncle Al and my Aunt Leung offered to return this book for him. Kelly seemed so busy in his studies. To run an errand seemed too frivolous of his time.

It was nighttime. Uncle Al was driving unfamiliar territory. A sudden decision was made at the last minute. On a lovely spring evening, Uncle Al drove up an offramp heading straight into oncoming traffic on a Vancouver highway.

Bright lights
Horns sounding
The screech of veering treads
The grill of a Peterbilt the last image seen
A sickening crunch
Blackness
An error in judgment

Uncle Al was fine, save a few scrapes.
Aunt Leung was not so lucky.

Aunt Leung was admittedly one of my least favourite relatives. She barked a lot. She didn't smile very often. I don't remember ever hearing her laugh. She did buy me a outfit that still to this day is my favourite. I was 8 years old with a red plaid polyester pantsuit, 2 tone beige and chocolate platform shoes. I lived and breathed the Bay City Rollers when I was 8 years old. I was in S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y night uniform.

Aunt Leung, like my parents, came to Canada in her early 20's. They came for the same reasons that all emigrés come: the metaphoric Golden Mountain.

Golden streams... running down my knees...

Money.

She worked tirelessly her whole life with the dream and philosophy that she would enjoy the fruits of her labour when it came time for retirement. She would have amassed quite a sizable nest egg by that time. Mother Hen.

Something people don't really consider: A person's life can be erased in a nanosecond.

The survivor can exist quite comfortably on the aforementioned nest egg and the quite sizable insurance policy once held in her name.

He bought cologne for the first time in his life.
He travelled extensively.
He had female suitors wanting to take care of him. They cooked and cleaned and ironed his shirts.
At one time he actually had 3 different women living with him, all vying for his attention (money).
One of these women actually threatened another houseguest with a kitchen knife. My brother was there at the time. He didn't go back to visit after that.

Her death was a valuable lesson to a 16 year old girl. My mother, whom I've said is always right, yet I fight her thought processes a lot, and in this case I think she's wrong, always wants me to "Save for the Future".

Why Mom? So I can die an early death and have my husband do the Charleston on my grave while he's entertaining a harem under the roof I'd sweat my proverbial bag off for?

Nope.


I'm alone. I fully realised how alone I am today.

I met most of my family today for lunch to celebrate my mother's birthday. Ack, the ex-husband/ best friend was invited and attended. My father actually doesn't know we're not married anymore. He's the only one who doesn't know. I'd been retiscent in telling him for these reasons:
1. He's never really made any real overtures in wanting to know about my life.
2. I don't have that kind of relationship with him.
3. He would judge me and call me a slut.

Bringing Ack was not a front. He is my best friend. He also really likes Dim Sum. Any chance he can get it, he takes that chance. He also really likes my mother a lot. My mother is incredibly wise, but not intelligent by society's eyes. She is not common people. She is not the common denominator. She is common sense. I love my mother very much.

In attendance were my sister, her twin adopted girls, both my parents, Ack, my brother Vince and myself.

Food is picked apart by the twins, unwanted parts flung right and left. My sister looks tired and overbooked. My brother is keen. He is still on the clock. He is in workmode. He is selling. He, in a second, becomes like my cousin Kelly. A sychophant.

Vince: I've been reading up on Chinese history.
Biological father: Yeah, so you got that link I sent you?
Vince: Yes. And I've been doing my own research.
Biological father: Well, all you really need to know is there. Don't listen to those other guys! Anything they say against Mao is wrong! You know, Tiananmen Square protesters?... They were all hired by the CIA.
I have just dug all the fingernails I have on my right hand into Ack's thigh.

At least a 1,000 dead from a protest of students and workers alike.
All facing the same fate. Repression.
All wanting the idea of democracy; the ideal.
Freedom.

In the Year 2005, with advanced technology, the Chinese government is systematically removing instant messaging chat-room discussions in an instant. Reading November's issue of Harper's magazine, I discovered that in China there are a list of blocked words that hackers had come across. In no way shape or form can any of the People write out:

betray the nation, brainwash, children of high officials, commie dogs, create turmoil, credit crisis, democracy, dictatorship, foreign affairs and the general plan, freedom, hold different political views, human rights, literary inquisition, mass movement, massacre, multi-party, old men's politics, public funds, public opinion is against the system, reading prohibited, real poeple and real events, real sentiments of the people, real situation, revolution, self-immolation, single-party, student unrest, tyranny, whitewashed peace and tranquillity, will of the people

There are people that I have met that look at the configuration of my face. My eyes. My bone structure. They ask, "So, have you been back to China?"

My voice is not heard. I haven't a trace of a Chinese accent simply because I was born in Toronto.

Given the conditions, I have very little reason to go back.

I am sitting at a table of strangers. There is a woman in her early 40's who is tending to her children. Her children are voraciously eating cupcake icing. There is an old man who is spouting off about a fantasised homeland who represses their people and he not only condones it, but is an advocator. Across from him is a salt and peppered man, who the old man addresses as his son. Together they bond over a bastardised version of history. History always being written by the victors.

My mother is my only true family. She and I sit in silence. The differences between us are age and the fact that my mouth is fully agape. I throw down a $50 bill and leave, fully disgusted.

No thanks required. It is a small sum for a larger piece of freedom. I want nothing to do with any of them.

I am not heard.

At any point of the luncheon, pick one:
Did you have enough to eat?
Where did you get the cupcakes?
How did the little one get the shiner?
Are you alright?
We're going to go.
We're going to go.
We're going to go.
Fuck you.

Not one thing was heard.

I posted a comment in a new friend's comment stream the other day. There was a thoughtful fellow who was repulsed by a woman who laughed too hard, was too loud, was too cheerful. It really bugged his ass. I responded.

I am the last child of 4 children. I was not heard. Everyone needs to feel present. We do it in the only way we know how. Look at me. Pay attention to me. But, the funny thing about attention, for me anyway, is once I get it, I want nothing to do with it.

Please avert thine eyes. They cause me great discomfort.


I love a boy who wants to marry me. I am surrounded by examples of how that construct cannot possibly work. Too much of self is taken away. There has existed too much repression in my life. I don't know if I can do it again. I don't trust myself with staying faithful.

At the age of 21, still broken hearted over Sean, I had married Stupid. He was 11 years my senior.
Rural
Alcoholic
Would lose his bearings during sleep and often piss in the hamper thinking it was the toilet
Drug abuser
Emotionally abusive
When frustrated, would punch holes into drywall
The day after a real bender he would come at me with a dozen long stemmed red roses
I can't look at red roses anymore


I don't know where I stand on the whole issue. Guiseppe? I know you're in Abruzzo right now. You promised to come to my next wedding to stand at the appropriate time. When the minister asks, "Is there anyone here who objects to this union," you promised to object.

As much as I revere love in all its denominations, I have only experienced the degradation of love. It's so fucking finite. It's so fleeting and impermanent. I want so much to believe that true love exists. But I can't say it does.

I haven't seen it.

But belief, true belief isn't like that, is it? One has to believe. To trust.

Trust.
I'll try to learn again.

Medic! Emergency Rescue Needed!

I finally called Kim, the owner of the Cheer's equivalent bar yesterday. The frustrated process prior to calling was reminiscent of a story Tim, a friend of Ack, the ex-husband/ best friend, had once told.

Tim has a cranium shaped not unlike a giant Mr. Potatohead. Balding. With the remaining dark strands, perhaps from wistful nostalgia, he's let it grow long-ish, a tad on the stringy side. He is sensitive and incredibly caring of the creatures near and dear to him. He has giant ET-like fingers, which he conjures stories from. Tim is one of the most hilarious people I've ever met.

Once upon a time Tim was a chronic pot smoker. He started over a decade ago. He had ingested one hit of acid that was laced with an unconscionable additional substance. I can't remember what that substance was. This substance placed a companion, he was on this particular trip with, into a coma. This substance made Tim prone to grande mal seizures. The only way he could stave off these terrifying bouts was if he smoked pot. The problem with chronic pot smoking is sometimes it leaves the user rather paranoid. Tim subsequently quit because of this, but during a time when he was a routine smoker, he ran with others who enjoyed the ritual.

Tim had a friend whom he lovingly refers to as 360˚Mike.

360˚Mike is autistic and happens to be a science genius. When Tim knew him, he was living in his mother's house. An entire floor of this expansive house was devoted to him. His mother had quite a lot of money. She spent some of this money having 360˚Mike's room professionally redecorated. New paint. New carpet. New wallpaper. New furnishings. New bar fridge. It became a luxury den in which to smoke the herbal remedy.

In a circle, within new lush environs, performing for 5 stringy haired, chortling invited guests, Tim was interspersing his usual banter with puffs from an Olympic-sized spliff. The roach had developed some ash at its end. A condition of autism often includes being a stickler for maintenance of a current condition or routine. In this case, 360˚Mike had a brand new room that he didn't want altered, abused nor sullied.

The joint had been passed to Tim. 360˚Mike shoved an ashtray directly under Tim's mouth, hitting his chin slightly, just as Tim had taken a deep inhale. With huge, bugged-out eyes and a dead-serious frenzy in his voice, 360˚Mike shrieked, "D-d-d-don't drop any cherries on the carpet!

Fact: Marijuana makes people laugh.

Cherries, or embers, ash and an upturned ashtray were spilled all over the new carpet.

360˚Mike went apeshit.

Full-Revolution Mike wanted nothing more than to hurt Tim. He looked around his room for something to throw at him.
A lamp! No... it was too new and it would break.
A chair! No... it was too new and the fabric could get torn.
He brought his hands close to everything that could physically be thrown at Tim, even his own fists. He realised, however, Tim was human. Humans shed blood. On carpets that now have little burn marks in it. He did the only thing he could without ruining anything.

With both hands, he grabbed his own balls, really, really hard and spun 360˚ on the spot.

360˚ Ball Grab.

The Comrade has no balls. Alas. I'll tell you what I'd do if I did have a penis, just for one day.

I would rent a minivan. I would get a very good friend to drive said minivan. Together we would travel the 400 series highways in this great expanse of Ontario. I would be in the back. There would be jugs and jugs of distilled water which I would force myself to drink. With a bendy straw. Sliding the side door open, while in constant motion, I would piss on all the cars running alongside us.

Good times!



It turned out that the conversation between Kim, the owner of the Cheer's equivalent bar and its companion sister restaurant, wasn't all that bad. Rarely is there anything anyone intensely dreads that is ever as bad as we imagine it. She has some ideas. She encourages ideas I might have. She's a very nice lady whom I like and respect very much. These are 2 essential qualities I look for in a boss. And she's very good to her staff.

Ian, my favourite wrestling buddy, whom I sometimes make-out with in public, works for Kim. Kim is notorious for giving outlandish Christmas presents to her staff. The first year Ian worked for her, he received a 16pc., 18/10 Lagostina pot set. Actual retail price: approximately $300. At the time, Ian didn't have a pot to piss in, let alone one to make spaghetti. Kim does it with all her staff. All different gifts catered to the individual. She has a scorching case of chicks rule.

On the phone, Kim asked about Kissy, my beautiful ex-work comrade who got her crotched grabbed by a Disgusting Pig of a Man. I once wrote about how my little neighbourhood feels like a small town infested with really cool people. What happens in every small town: There is a lot of talk. As I hate to repeat myself, I find it rather nice that people know about my circumstance of being fired for a lack of freedom of opinion. Most people in the neighbourhood know about Kissy's situation as well.

Kim, my soon to be new boss, told me a story of a young girl who had once worked for the Disgusting Pig of a Man. She was hired as a busgirl. Kim didn't fill me in on all the dirty details, but she did say the physical sentiment was quite redolent of the actions he performed on Kissy.

This young busgirl didn't go to the police. She didn't file charges. She simply enlisted one of the guideposts from childhood:
I'm telling my Dad!

Father's occupation: Fireman. Firemen work with other firemen. Firemen wield axes! These firemen paid a visit to the Disgusting Pig of a Man at the restaurant he owned at the time.

I said in a previous post that I don't like glory, but I like victory. Glory seems more personal, like there's only a small party affected. Victory seems to encompass all. Justice, the encapsulator. I get a strange sort of pleasure from Frontier Justice, particularly.

The firemen kicked the living snot out of the DPM. And, as Kim said, he got his face dragged all... over... the street. But, alas, the idiot still didn't learn his lesson.

I'd never really understood the appeal of firemen. Most of my girlfriends have a sexual fantasy involving at least one of these beefy charbroiled boys. I never got it. I understood the pants, though. I really like firemen's pants. I'd wear 'em. All the time.

Recently, I'd visited a local book and CD merchant along my neighbourhood's strip. I always like calling him to see if he has any of the books or albums I'm looking for. I prefer to give my money to small business owners rather than multinationals. It's a thing. In the last few months, everytime I've called, he always answers my requests the same way, I've never heard of them. Frustration on every level. The day I visited him I invited him to listen to the Arcade Fire.

After bobbing her head for a minute, the merchant's assistant had stepped outside. She looks not unlike Frida Kahlo. She thinks Ack, the ex-husband/ best friend is hot. Ack thinks she's nuts. I'm inclined to agree. She heard a strange sound on the street. There was a man in his 70's, stationary on the sidewalk, uttering a succession of grunts, in the middle of a seizure. His arm was spasming for a few minutes until he dropped onto the snow. Someone who was waiting for a streetcar across the street had noticed him as well. He ran over. I always find it fascinating how people deal with situations. Emergency situations, particularly.

Ack had told me about a bunch of girls who drove into a lake. I don't know how people drive into lakes. Anyway, they're encased in their SUV tomb, with cell phones, screaming. They dialed the entire contents of their cell phone's phone book, calling all their 17 year old friends for aid.

This happened to me once.

I knew this other girl Kim, not the new boss this time. Let's call her Kim2. Kim2 lived in a 2 storey apartment. She had just had a shower. The bathroom was located on the 2nd floor of her unit. After finishing her shower she walked down a painted wooden staircase towards her bedroom. Near the base of the staircase was a plate glass window. Kim2 had slipped on a stair. Her foot crashed through the glass, severing an artery.

With a new fountain springing from her ankle region, grabbing her cordless phone, she systematically went through her speed dial list. I was located at number 4.

She hysterically explained what happened.

The Comrade: Okay, Kim(2), you need to stop the flow of blood. Take your towel and apply a lot of pressure to the region.
Kim2: Okay.... Ugh! I can't! There's too much blood!
The Comrade: Okay... but, Sweetie, you have to try.... I'm going to hang up now and call 911.
Kim2: No! Don't go!
The Comrade: I'm going to call you right back. You have to hang up now. I'll call you right back. I promise.
Kim2: But the door's locked! I can't open it.
The Comrade: Don't worry. I'm sure there are very handsome men, who are very, very strong, who will use brute force to open your door. I'll call you right back, okay?
Kim2: [weakly] Okay.
911 Dispatcher: 911 Emergency.
The Comrade: [rapid fire] There's a girl. Here's her address. She's got a fountain for a leg. Door's locked. Fuck. Um... Really heavy door.
911 Dispatcher: We're sending people out.
The Comrade: Thank you.
The Comrade: Kim(2)?
Kim2: [delirious] Hi.
The Comrade: K, they're on their way.
Kim2: I'm naked!
The Comrade: I'm sure they've seen worse.
Kim2: I feel like an idiot.
The Comrade: You're fine.
After what seems like an eternity...
Kim2: Oh, I can hear them at the door! Wow, it's so loud!
The Comrade: It's a heavy door, young lady.
[ A male moaning in the background]
(I learned later that one of the gentlemen trying to bust in, tried earnestly with his shoulder. The shoulder was subsequently dislocated.)
Kim2: [crying hard]
Emergency Rescue: Hello?
The Comrade: Hi. Friend, here. I wanted to stay on the line until you guys came.
Emergency Rescue: Yeah, we're taking her out now. If you're her friend, you might want to do a little clean-up here.

I enlisted my old idiot friend Burt to help. Burt was mutually my friend and Kim2's. Really cute. Dumb as a stump. It was a horror scene. There was both runny and coagulated blood everywhere. The plasma was the worst. Gelatinous sacks grouped and pooled all over her hardwood floors. My stomach lurched several times at different intervals. Burt had taken a once sunny yellow towel, now completely crimson, asking if we should save it. I didn't think she'd miss it.

I now know what terror smells like. I wish I didn't.


The firemen were the first crew to arrive outside of the book and CD store. Though there was snow on the ground, a young fireman, very clean cut, wore only a standard firefighter's blue T-shirt and the aforementioned hot pants, suspended by broad shoulders. I never saw his face. He swept in knowing exactly what to do. He talked to the fallen man with dignity and respect. I liked the way he gently placed a thermal blanket on him. It seemed an action of endearment. It seemed like a young man caring for his sick, aged father. In the snow. Just for that instant, I understood what all the other girls saw.

Being saved.


It's my mother's birthday tomorrow. 3 out of 4 of her kids are taking her out for lunch. I called her today. I used to call her more often. I don't call her as much as I probably should.

Mom: Could I have one of your friend's phone number?
The Comrade: Why, Mom?
Mom: Well... just in case I don't know where you are.
The Comrade: So you want to call my friends to see if I'm still alive?
Mom: Something like that.
The Comrade: Do you want Ack's phone number?
Mom: Okay!

When I talked to her today, I confirmed plans for lunch tomorrow. She told me about a trip she and my father are planning to Cuba. They go annually. They've become friends with some of the natives there. Under a Communist rule, Cuba doesn't have many of the things we take for granted: decent razors, decent running shoes, workout gear, pretty party dresses for young girls. Mom is busy shopping for these items to take to these friends they only see once a year.

At the end of the conversation she said, "You know, sometimes a phone call can make me happy for the whole day."

I was on the phone with a friend today. No, you're not getting the name! I got another marriage proposal. It was the first marriage proposal that I'd received via phone and the only one I've actually considered accepting in many, many years.

As I've often said, my mother is always right.

Godspeed You Doctor Officer!

Last month I introduced my new friend Jamie, the first chair euphonium playing gay cop from Georgia, with a doctorate in French literature.

I met him at my old restaurant I was slinging veal marrow bones and French martinis in.
He told me my weight, height and age by giving me the quintessential cop stare.
He got my age wrong only. He thought I was 5 years younger.
We became fast friends, just like the kind kids make on their old familiar street, or in the playground.
In an email I sent to him, I addressed him as Doctor Officer.
I guess he liked it. The handle stuck.

The good Doctor has shown me much of his life:
The sweet, sweet joys he's experienced, then lost. He lost his best friend to a horrible disease. I wrote about this disease in my last post.
The horrible, crippling effects decisions that government and judicial proceedings make that affect individual life.

I feel blessed by meeting such extraordinary creatures that sometimes bring such awareness, express inordinate amounts of love, joy, hope and life seemingly everywhere they go.

Though sometimes they forget.

Dear friends, it is my great privilege, honour and delight to present to you: Doctor Officer

Having a Hope in Hell

I am staring at the phone number of the owner of the Cheer's equivalent bar. I've been staring at it for 15 minutes straight. And not calling it. I don't want to work yet. I know they only want me to work one day a week, but even that seems taxing right now. I think I'm in denial. I do have to work, but I really don't want to. But I suppose I can't play all the time. What the hell am I talking about? I play when I work. Oh, this is stupid. I should just call her. Get it over with. Start next Monday. BUT I DON'T WANT TO!! Oh, just do it. Ah, fuck! Fuck! Okay, I'll call... just a little later.


Over the weekend I was at the Cheer's equivalent bar, admittedly scoping. I was trying to make sure this was the place I wanted to work. I can't work in a place I don't believe in. Not anymore. It's too soul-leaching. I'd also really like it if I could just work with people that actually like what they do. There is nothing like seeing someone who's in the business, this business of hospitality, who is truly meant to be in it. Someone who is remarkable at service can become the single reason I will have a deep devotion to a place, visiting again and again.

Stratenger's, the fantastic bar/restaurant with the $10 smoking membership, allowing one to smoke until one can smoke no more, has a bartender who has worked there for 14 years. His name is James. He's approximately 35, decidedly Goth in styling, black ponytail that, with the humidity in the air, goes into a single Shirley Temple ringlet. James has a very noticable limp.

The first time I met James was at the Cheer's equivalent bar, with Ian, my favourite wrestling buddy, whom I sometimes make out with. I don't remember this initial meeting. Though James was allegedly very drunk, he recalls. I do recall the first time I walked into Stratenger's.

I was doing my rounds of visiting/bar hopping with my good friend Dirty. We had gone to visit Ian at the Cheer's equivalent sister restaurant. This is a place I will now only visit after dinner hour, once the Geritol set has left. I had dinner there once with my lovely friend Ryan. At one point I was saying "cock" rather loudly. Ian shushed me. I don't like being shushed. Dirty had ordered her favourite drink, a Bloody Caesar. It's like a Bloody Mary, but instead of tomato juice, it's made with Clamato juice. Clamato is a mix of tomato and clam juices. Most people outside of Canada find this combination rather disgusting. Canadians find it rather delicious. A standard Bloody Caesar is made with 1.5 oz of vodka. Ian, quite fond of Dirty, poured 5oz of liquer in her vessel. Dirty worshipped the porcelain goddess for an hour.

After fighting her for the keys to her rental car, I drove Dirty home. Heading back to retrieve my bicycle, which I'd left outside of Ian's restaurant, I remembered I'd inadvertantly left my bike's seat inside the establishment that encourages shushing. The place was deserted. Ian had mentioned he was going across the street to Stratenger's for a cocktail before heading home.

The Comrade pulls the door open and walks in. She breathes her first lungful of fully carcinogenic air. Heaven. I find Ian holding court at the bar. Ian introduces me to others. To James. James is bottomlit behind his post, the bar. His brow is primately pronounced. His large eyes are welcoming, yet sinister.

James: I'm James.... Welcome to Hell.
The Comrade: It is rather warm in here.

Fire and brimstone.

This is a preface: I am an idiot.

I was imagining all the reasons why James would limp.
He was a pawn in a mob ring where he couldn't offer up the required monthly installments. Baseball bat to the knee.
Some drunk old lady had kicked him in the shin.
Car accident.
Ski accident.
Wooden leg.
Gangrene.
Accidental firecracker explosion.
Love bite gone awry.

I asked him.

James: Cerebral Palsy.
The Comrade: That's awesome.

Curtain's close: I am an idiot. Another case of stupid shit flying out of my mouth. When will I learn? Luckily, James not only took no offence to my comment, he seemed to know exactly where I was coming from.

People who have lived with extraordinary circumstances were still at the top of their game.

There is a gentleman I know named Artillio. I met him at my old place of employ. He's in his 40's. Shaved head. Gucci eyewear. Deliberate speaker. Thoughtful. Gay. Lovely. I was outside of the Cheer's equivalent bar, smoking, as he stepped out of a cab. Both he and the cab driver were both noticably smiling. I waved to both. I love waving.

Inside, nursing my Becks beer and Americano coffee combination, I learned that Artillio has been HIV+ for 20 years. 20 Years. In those 20 years he'd cared for and subsequently buried most of his friend base. That night he told me how lucky he was.

Artillio is on the Cocktail, the multifarious and innumerable drugs dispensed to maintain levels which stave off viruses that could kill him because of his body's deficient immunity to disease. The Cocktail is saving his life, with no real adverse effects.

My ex-co-worker Gary, also HIV+, is less lucky. He has deep facial pitting and a barrel chest, symptoms often redolent in Cocktail users. Also, the combination of all these drugs often causes havoc in the gastro-intestinal system. It's not pretty. And it's very painful.

In the 70's, Gary was the prettiest one in Studio 54. Everyone wanted to have him. Or wanted to be him. One night after work, after telling him how beautiful he was, Gary had said to me,"How can you say that? Look at me! I'm a monster!"

Gary and Artillio have been friends for a very long time. They survived all the others. They cared for all the others. There were times that Artillio got tired and too depressed to continue caring, but Gary kept at him. He told him that they have a responsibility to take care of their friends. For as long as they had to. That was the thing sustaining them. Love. Buck up. Artillio bucked up.

Gary is on a particular cocktail involving him to self-administer injections into his own stomach. His monthly drug bill is $6,000.

Every month, to stay alive, he needs to pay $6,000.

I understand R&D, but $6,000/mth? To sustain life?

Who are you people? You sick pharmaceutical fucks. Medical professionals? I know you have the cure. I just know it. You've withheld this vital information because there's more money to be made if people don't think there's a cure. Millions are infected. Sure, millions can't afford $6,000/mth, especially not the Third World. But certainly a million can, say, in fat North America. Where money talks.

$6,000
x 12 months
x 1 million sufferers
x as long as those people live...

Why would they give up the secret?

Of course I don't know for sure but, judging by the state of the world these days, it's not unplausible.

Artillio was happy and smiling as he got out of the cab. He had just finished composing a eulogy for an old friend who had just died. He was quite proud of his accomplishment. The fellow in question was an 80 year old man from Estonia, who had once been shot in the head by Russian soldiers (perhaps a ricochet, certainly not point-blank), who had lived a very full and happy life.

Last night, Ian and I were between wrestles that knocked over 4L of beer and spirits during 3 separate intervals. Through massive tickle and make-out sessions, preceding a marriage proposal by him to me, Ian told me the chances of James living past the age of 50 were slim to none. His damned disease. James remarkably has zero negativity. He embraces life unlike most others. He lives completely in the moment, whenever I've seen him, anyway.

I don't know why 30 years makes that much of a difference to me, but 80, full of joy to the very end, seems like a much better year to die, I think.

[Sigh] ... I have to make a phone call now...

It's Been Working It For 28 Years

Happy Birthday, darling!

The Crown of Thorns

I was out with my awesome friend Ian a couple times this weekend. He works for the sister restaurant to my favourite bar; the Cheer's equivalent. After picking up some more coffee, this time relatively incident-free, I dodged traffic travelling a mean speed of 20kms, popping in to see how he was. The restaurant, though in peak dinner hour, was inordinately deserted.

The Comrade: Care for a union break, darling?
Ian: Yes!
The Comrade: Shall we go to the club?
[This is Stratenger's, the delightful bar/restaurant which has wonderful food, charming staff and with a one time membership of $10 one can smoke one's brains out in this town of smoke-free dining]
Ian: Order us a round and have them put it on my tab.
So you can see why I love Ian so much.

Ian is many things to me.
Ian is my favourite wrestling opponent.
Ian and I occasionally make out, though only in public. Everyone's hands are visible.
Ian loves women too much and loves to argue with men too often.
Ian got sent into awesome category when he told Kissy about her rights in Canadian judiciary proceedings.

Here in Canada, when one wishes to press charges because someone's grabbed her crotch, say, it really doesn't matter if you're a waitress with no money, often finding only moths flying out of the old purse at the end of the month. We have the Crown court.

When charges are laid, the Crown, as appointed by the Queen of England, represents the plaintiff. The bad guys wearing the 5 gallon black Stetsons have to hire lawyers. Because the Crown is a right to all Canadians, the attorneys are all paid with Canadian taxpayer's money. Ah... I don't mind ponying up for that! We don't tend to take advantage of the court system here. It also takes forever to process suits. For reasons of restrictions or timeline, we don't tend to have outrageous lawsuits like they've had elsewhere.

Outrageous Court Case #1: Once upon a time McDonald's coffee was too hot. Someone sued. Shockingly, to me anyway, the plaintiff won. Millions. And McDonald's had to put a warning on every coffee cup.
Outrageous Court Case #2: Some woman left her very young child in her car with a lit cigarette in the ashtray as she went to go buy a couple of things. When she came back she found a shrieking child with only 2 remaining fingers left. The rest were so badly burned from the cigarette, rendering the child maimed for life. I think, and I could be wrong here, she sued Phillip Morris... for making cigarettes? God, I hope I was dreaming this instead. But then again, what the hell does that say about my subconscious?

I told Ian I write about him from time to time.

Ian: Did you mention the size of my cock?
The Comrade: I've never seen your cock.
Ian: Yeah, well... you could say you felt its sheer size rubbing against you one night.
The Comrade: But that would be a lie.
Ian: [begging] Could you please write that it's big? Please?

Okay... well... it's ENORMOUS! It's like a baby's arm holding a MASSIVE apple. No, no, scratch that. A MASSIVE and horribly disfigured pumpkin. That throbs!

Well... if I'm going to lie...

Ian and I have a few things in common: We hate restrictions. We hate authority. We don't follow rules that inherently make no sense to us. The difference between Ian and myself is he's still employed.

Ian wanted to come out for a drink with me for 2 reasons:
1. To try to woo me into working at the Cheer's equivalent bar.
2. To find out about the status of Kissy's situation.

I found out that my buddy Mike, whom I often hang out with at concerts, and Jimmy the bartender, whom I've made out with, both work in the kitchen of the Cheer's equivalent bar on certain nights. I was asked by Ian to work one of those nights.

Interesting.

I love working with friends. It's good times. Also, if I worked there, I'd effectively be receiving drinks at staff prices.

I'm considering the pot sweetened.

The thing I like most about the Cheer's equivalent bar is that there is zero pretention there. There exists mostly, truly thought provoking/ evoking, very real folk that inhabit the place. Staff and patrons alike. It's the only place I'm considering to work right now. I'm in no real hurry. I'm not crazy about working. Ack, the ex-husband/return-to-best friend, as he's now given me back my poor cat, always says, "Work's for Jerks. Testify!

Over cocktails I tell Ian about my conversation with Kissy a few days ago.

The day after I was supposed to hold her hand and accompany her to Police Precinct 55 Division, she'd called asking me what I thought she'd done that day.

The Comrade: What?
Kissy: I went to the police station.
The Comrade: With whom?
Kissy: All by myself!
The Comrade: Miss Kiss! Look at you!
Kissy: Helloo!
The Comrade: How did it go?
Kissy: They were really, really nice.

The Comrade knows how nice they can be if you're a victim. I once had my bike stolen. The kid who stole it was knabbed by my high school's art teacher. With his weeping mother in the courtroom, it was discovered the kid had an excess of 200 bikes in the garage. The mother had no idea they were stolen. He must have received more than the $5/wk allowance I got when I was 15.

The Comrade also knows how guilty uniformed officials can make you feel when you're a suspected criminal.

En route to Chicago, a Customs officer sits at her post. She can be no more than 4'11". She is younger than I. With zero warmth and less expression, she initiates the standard form interrogation process:

Customs Officer: What is your purpose of travel?
The Comrade: Pleasure. [That's right, Comrade... keep it short and succinct]
I learned to not mess with Customs officials.
Customs Officer: Who are you visiting?
The Comrade: Um... Friends.
Customs Officer: How long have you known these friends?
The Comrade: (fuck) Oh! Yeeeaars!
Customs Officer: Where did you meet them?
The Comrade: (ready to just get hauled out, shot in the head) [In a very small voice] On the internet?
Customs Officer: SO YOU'VE NEVER MET THESE PEOPLE?
The Comrade: [squeaking] No.
She flips through my passport for what seems an eternity. She gathers boarding pass and passport, hands both back to me.
Customs Officer: Have a nice day.
The Comrade has just messed herself.

I walk shakingly to the metal detection area. I am wearing high boots. There is a woman of Eastern European decent, 30's, who has a very strong accent which resembles my EX-mother-in-law when she's very, very angry.
Metal Detecting Agent: BOOTS!
The Comrade: Sorry?
Metal Detecting Agent: BOOTS! TAKE OFF BOOTS!

I hadn't been on a plane since 2000. This new security at airports was confounding and a bit terrifying. The process felt really violating. All I kept thinking was, "I hope I don't have any holes in my knee-highs."


Kissy walked to Police Precinct 55 Division on a cold winter day. It was sunny out. She got up and made brave for breakfast. She had run many possible scenarios around and around in her mind. She weighed all the pros and cons. She stepped out into the day.

She was spoken kindly to by 3 different officers, all with separate ranks. She thoroughly gave her statement of the events. She was then asked to repeat her account. This time her testimony was filmed on video, in front of a live uniformed audience.

Josh, my old favourite work comrade, is the only good man standing in my old employ. He feels lost without us. No Kissy. No Matty. No Comrade. At the bar one night, Josh overheard the Stupid Disgusting Pig of a Man express certain things about Kissy that Josh didn't feel comfortable hearing. Josh told him that Kissy is his friend and he didn't want him talking about her that way. At another juncture, trying to get a rise out of him, Josh had stated that the Disgusting Pig of a Man's daughter would be hot when she grew up.

The Disgusting Pig of a Man: She's going to have to learn how to suck dick well to get ahead in this world.

The Comrade actually really likes his daughter. A lot.

The scene is my old place of employ. The decor is deconstructionist. Save a smattering of decent gorgeous folk, it is now inhabited mostly by soulless, money hungry personnel. Gone are the days of debriefs over dozens of cocktails until the sun comes up. Gone are the high fives, the ass-slaps, the ruckus laughter.

This is the new scene. A silver haired man in his 50's sits slumped at the bar. He is drinking Molson Canadian beer and shooters of Peppermint Schnappes in frequent succession. He gets drunker and drunker. In his hand he is clutching a subpoena. Next to him is his lawyer. He tries to dispense advice. In the open kitchen is the silver haired man's wife. The chef. She stands with smeared stained apron, freshly applied vermillion lipstick, head too heavy to keep high anymore. She wants only to cut onions to give her a cover for her tears. Wanting the music to be louder to cover her sobs.

Kissy was asked by one of the officers how she felt after coming in and making her statement. In her small, beautiful voice she said, "Well, a little proud of myself."

And so am I.

Reunited And It Feels...

Well, he's back to kneading the crap out of my knee.
Yelling at me to throw him his due treats.
Sleeping on my head.
Shoving his cold nose in my ear,
While purring madly.

He's back to being The Comrade's Constant Companion.
Her partner in crime
... or at least the documentation of other's crimes.

Thank the sweet Lord! Oh, and Ack, the ex-husband/ best friend, for taking care of him.
I missed him like mad.

We really slept in today, neither one of us wanting to let go.

The Reactionary Trigger

[Heine's Osteotome: For cutting deep seated bone, with preservation of surrounding soft tissue, 1889]


I mostly had an extremely happy childhood. I was want for not much. String. Crayons. Newspapers folded into boats and hats. I was delighted with what I was given. The best thing I was given was what I understood as freedom when I was a child. In the summer I could play outside, way past dark. I set up the tent, my sweet mother had given me, and had sleepovers. My invited guests and I would sneak out and run to my school's playground in the middle of the night, hanging upside down on monkey bars. Dark and barely tethered, night-time is my time. I love it. It's quiet. The noise of the world is at a minimum. Freedom to me meant being happy and scared at the same time.

They don't have monkey bars anymore.

I was the last child born in a family of four children. My mother was exhausted by the time I was pushed out. I was a "mistake". Sometimes, especially as I got older, they didn't let me forget it. All of them.

I couldn't figure out by the age of 12 what I wanted to be when I grew up. I wanted to be so many things. None of these things ever were important enough for me to pursue for longer than a month's stretch. In my mind. Coming from immigrant parents there were very few viable career choices they could actually visualise for me. They were informed by the fairly affluent neighbourhood I grew up in. Pick one: doctor, lawyer, accountant, banker. 4 choices. That's it. I couldn't wrap my head around any these.

I remember I could draw. Nice dream. I remember drawing on the front porch of my neighbour's house with all my friends. Peggy, the matriarch of the porch sat drinking sun-steeped iced tea, smoking Rothman's Special Mild cigarettes. Sitting directly on the porch, my preferred station always being the floor, I was at eye level with her stubbly thick pale legs. I loved Peggy. I was drawing a picture of my house. Peggy thought it special enough to show my father. "Look, Quinn! Look what she did!"

Meh.

It was the last real thing I drew.

When I started physically developing, my darling father kept hammering the mantra that became my own:
You're stupid and ugly and will never amount to anything.

So a kid can do 2 things with this.
1. Believe it in fetal position.
2. Believe it in attack mode.

I chose Door #2.

I am highly reactionary. I need to fully learn not to respond to things for 24 hours. At least. I need to gain perspective. I need to think before I speak. I needed this more a few years ago but, as I discovered yesterday, there are triggers that send me back to the place I was when I was 12 years old.

Yesterday was a very hard day for me. I have no cat. Ack, the ex-husband/EX-best friend, wants to keep Chicken at his house longer. Chicken is so freaked out about going back into his cage/jail to come home with me that he hides everytime I go over to Ack's house.

And I'm caught in the eye of a shitstorm.

When I first started blogging the reason I started was to just put thought on a site that could upload pictures. It was for me and no one else. Sure, technically the world was able to see it. Read it. But, honestly... who would? After 6 weeks of consistent uploading, someone commented; someone outside of my friend base. Someone I didn't know was commenting on something I'd written.

Grumblecakes. Grumbli.

Grumbli's a sweet, quiet, lovely and supportive friend. The friendship happened naturally. As naturally as it could happen in this realm. She shared her life and I shared mine.

Jason was also sweet, generous and really expressive in comments. He challenged my thoughts at times. He simply supported in other times.

Worker was tragic. Is lovely. And supportive. He has a gift in decifering my tone.

Sarge initially was caustic and sarcastic. As she knows, I didn't like her from our first interaction. Well, for several interactions subsequent to the first. But eventually we found a truce. A lovely, lovely truce. She gave me some advice, from a very loving standpoint. That, I will never forget.

Collectively they became a huge part of a support system I didn't realise was lacking in my life. It is very difficult to find that kind of synergy in the world. In our individual towns or cities. The small little pockets we feel comfortable inhabiting. To me, they became a new Dream Team. But as I'd said in a previous post, Dream Teams don't last forever. You can't hold on to perfection because it's so fleeting.

Someone very wise once told me, "Nothing really, really good or really, really bad ever lasts for very long."

And that's the thing.

I am guilty as charged.
I. Was. Ridiculous.
I was insulting.
I am not without my condescension.
And I am protecting them. I protect everyone I love.

But I am not embarrassed. Not over Chicago. I am embarrassed how I handled yesterday's comments stream. I will be removing none, as I need this as a constant reminder just in case I forget this lesson. I am earnestly full of regret in handling it the way I had.

I didn't start this thing with a readership in mind. Yes, it is public. Yes, I can disclose what I want and save what I don't. And that I have done. I cannot be accused of lack of disclosure. Not when it comes to my own life alone. If these people, people who didn't choose to comment on any other post I'd made before, save Jessica, were actual readers of my thoughts, I simply wasn't aware of them. They'd never made their presence known to me before.

They never asked why I'd want to accompany my friend to the police station to file for sexual assault.
They never asked why I would cry everytime I had sex in 2004.
They never wondered why I would rather go to concerts alone than with someone else.
They never asked why I was so fascinated by how something grew.
They never wondered aloud how I could be best friends with my ex-husband.
They never wondered why I like making custom commemorative T-shirts designed for me and important others.
They never travelled with me down the road as I tipped my hat to drunkards.
They never expressed concern about my loss of employment.
They never made themselves known when I hailed Blogger as Humanity's gift.
They never asked why I think too much money is inherently evil.
They never wondered why I love Interpol so much.
Or why I stay sober when everyone else is a mess around me.
They didn't say anything when I said I hate numbers.
They weren't with me during Christmas 2004 when I cried for 48 hours straight over a 24 year old chronic and potentially fatal Crohn's sufferer, alone in California, too sick to get on a plane.
They weren't there when I was nearly hit by a car or was a witness to a car accident.
They didn't cry with me when I told stories about the injustices in some people's lives.
They weren't there when one of my new friends held a 2 year old's freshly decapitated head.

They were absent, or just onlookers.

My relationship with the aforementioned 4, started as real as it possibly could. There were introductions. There were experiences shared. Virtual strangers, and I mean that, are coming to me now asking for information, that for nearly all the reasons and more that Anonymous had so thoughtfully written out, I am unwilling to disclose. I do thank you, Anonymous, for putting yourself in my position. And I only had to read it once to get it. [she giggled]

Touché.

My mother used to say to me, "You could do all the good in the world, but as soon as you do one wrong thing, that's the thing they remember."

My mother is always right. 36 years later, it still makes me scratch my head.

I've always maintained that one really has to understand where a person came from to understand where he/she may be at this present time. Through other's thought/comments, I realised where I came from.

Thank you.

I used to be more concerned with product vs. process. I wanted to arrive at the point. I wanted something tangible to hold as the end result of labour. Sometimes process is so completely intangible, even to the one experiencing it. Maybe especially to the one experiencing it.

I woke up this morning thinking: Maybe I should give it up. This Blog thing. There is a responsibility as I'm discovering. I've historically shirked all responsibility. I've always hated restrictions and authority. I wanted ultimate freedom without responsibility.

But, as I'm discovering, freedom has a price. And I'm not sure if I can ante up.

There are things said in comment streams that, depending on the mood of the reader, it could be taken in completely different ways than it was intended. That happened to me yesterday. I regret that happening. That also happened to Grumbli some days ago. Through this process, this very short blip in the grand scheme of things, this World Wide Web has lost Grumbli. And Jason. Each for their own reasons, of course. Though, I don't think that what's happening right now is helping them come back anytime soon. Their missing presence is felt by me. I feel the loss.

I wanted this blog to be about love and comraderie.
I wanted this blog to capture the lessons that I learned on any given day.
I wanted this to be a place that I could revisit in years to come to help me remember who I was if one day I forgot.
I wanted to remember beauty.
I wanted to document it.

Life is full of surprises. Some are wonderful and some are not. This is a lesson that I will not forget. You all have helped me in bringing me closer to myself. Seeing the stuff that as much as I thought wasn't there anymore, still is a bit. But I can see it now.

So, thanks again.

Curiousities and Revocations

I'm caught with the sensation midway between absolutely delighted and terribly somber, if there is such a locale. I'm discovering I am a rather unusual type of person. Unusual, in this sense, meaning atypical and sometimes contradictory.

Atypically:
Doesn't buy stuff, including food, on a regular basis. Sometimes I have to force myself to eat if the opportunity doesn't present itself.
Doesn't watch television.
Loves specific new technology (fast processing Mac's, internet, digital cameras, iPods)
Hates specific new technology (cell phones, Palm Pilots and the like, iPods)
Can justify all of my own behaviour, but can also easily be made to feel guilt over the same justified behaviour.
Loves to argue.
Loves to help.
Doesn't like glory. (Though loved the movie)
Loves victory.
Hates competition.
Is cheap with herself, but generous with her friends.
Would rather live in her head quite often.
Is not afraid of people.
Absolutely trusts her gut.
Is attracted to minds, rather than bodies; character, rather than money.
Knows when to shut up.

When I first started posting, back in the summer, I was a very harsh critic of myself. Usually the standard process went like this:
Write out what I'm thinking.
Edit it.
Adjust the time for posting.
Re-edit it.
Readjust the time.
Shudder and wince while pressing the "Publish now" button, all the while saying, "This is complete shit."

The only thing I don't do anymore is the "This is complete shit" portion.

I don't get a lot of comments on my posts. I get some, and I'm grateful for those comments. All of them. Good or bad, it really doesn't matter. I value opinion. I consider everything. I don't agree with everything. That's what makes it helpful when I ignite that little facet in me that loves to argue.

Last night I got a comment on my preceding post. It was posted by Anonymous. Basically, it started off accusing me of being too vague in my description of the events of a trip to Chicago involving fellow Bloggers. It then launched into being too non-specific, bogus, pretentious and thus infuriating to read.

At the time I was talking to my friend Kissy on the phone. Laughing, I read it aloud to her. I was not offended by the comment. As I said, I value opinion. What I do, in general, is actively listen. Quite often when I'm engaged in conversation I hear everything that is said, but believe maybe 60% of the content. It's not that I'm a pessimist or that I'm paranoid. I just don't think people are very honest with themselves. "I'm fine", say, rarely means just that. I do the same with other's writing.

Subtext.
What do you really mean under all of that?

Anonymous had sent me an email after writing the comment. I suspect he created an anonymous Hotmail account specifically for his correspondence.

Dear Comrade,

I need to make an apology to you.

A few minutes ago, I anonymously posted the first comment on your most recent blog entry. I attacked it for being bogus, pretentious and infuriating to read.

I had no business making the comment I made. It's your blog and your life and the way you wish to express yourself is your own business, not mine. I'm not even a regular reader of your blog (or of blogs in general) and I don't know what compelled me to comment in such a hostile way. In fact, on top of that, by doing so I have made myself a total hypocrite (it's a long story that's not worth detailing).

I humbly request that you delete my comment from your blog as soon as humanly possible. While I realize that I cannot erase the comment I made from your memory, I don't think the shame center in my heart will allow me to sleep well knowing that I threw a virulent chunk of negativity into your world and into the world of your readership that will stay up there forever for many to read.

The internet is a strange phenomenon. It can bring out the very best in people and it can bring out the very worst in people. Tonight, it brought out the worst in me and I am embarassed and ashamed of myself. I pray that you can accept my apology and that you will delete my comment.

Sincerely,

Someone You Don't Know

So, you see, I had to delete his comment. I believe too much in humanity. I believe too much in lessons. I believe too much in beauty not to have granted this poor creature, who felt genuine remorse, this earnest wish.

But, I disagree, young Someone I Don't Know. I think you should begin your own blog (Life) and document exactly what it is you don't think is worth detailing. The thing is, I suspect it is. And I would love to get to know you. You seem to have a lovely depth of character. And I suspect you'd be a hell of a writer.

I received young Jessica's comment this morning. Comment(s) rather. Understand I don't know Jessica.
"I'll just say what everyone else is thinking...wait, so what happened between you three?
I'll just say what everyone else is thinking....what happened between the three of you?"

Two comments. Both alike in inquiry. In fair Blogland, where we lay our scene.

It made me think.

Boys and girls, gather 'round! It's time for question/ answer period!

Who chooses:
To fight for what he/she believes in?
To love, to the best of one's ability?
To say anything that pops into one's head?
To act? Not thinking about the consequences, just behaving in a fashion that feels right?

I do.

Who chooses:
To sit in front of the television and watch Reality unfold?
To not say anything in fear of potentially offending someone?
To do nothing because it doesn't seem "correct" or "proper" or "appropriate"?
To keep talking about the same thing, often making the same plans, but doing nothing to further them?
To stay stuck... in the same place; life repeating itself day after day after day?

I stomp my feet and vehemently refused.

I'm thinking of George Michael's old band, Wham, right now. They had a T-shirt, back in the 80's that said, in big, bold lettering:

CHOOSE
LIFE

I don't think he was talking about Life vs. Death. I think he was talking about Living. Living fully.

To those who were brave enough to ask, or curious enough anyway, I thank you for the obvious interest in my life. Though perhaps too subtly, one should have gleaned by my last post that I'm not going to disclose anymore information than I have. Aside from it not being any of your business, it simply wasn't the point.

The point was none us sat placidly watching strangers lives unfurl. We didn't stay tuned next week for the epic conclusion. We didn't identify with this character or that. We were our own characters. At every point, there were choices to be made. Some were great choices, some were not so great. But that's like Life, isn't it?

My concern is the overriding wanton need for result. The conclusion. The end of Act III. The curtain's close. The Final Countdown (God, I love that song). As a fictional story concept, the need for closure is quite endearing and understandable. But as for individual lives, the need to know seems rather voyeuristic to me.

I suppose what I'm trying to say, or rather pose to you, whoever you are, is: What is it about your life that is lacking enough drama or excitement or interest that the result of my trip is fascinating enough for you to want to know about my actions? My choices.

Allow me to beg this time:

Please, turn off your televisions.
Please, turn off your phones.
Please, stay in a conversation fully.
Please, stay in the moment fully.
If your head is louder than the person across from you, or next to you, please go home.
Please choose to say "yes" more often than "no".
Because even if it's "not right", and you have to ask yourself whether it's fully your own conclusion, or whether someone along the way has told you so, you have an opportunity to gain massive amounts of insight by doing, not just thinking about it.

Live your own Life.
Fall down.
Document what is necessary.
Learn as much as you can about yourself.
It is a lifelong process.
One that is worth living.

Three: The Evolution of Change

Well, well... What to say? It was the best of times. It was the worst of times. There were times spent well and there were times absolutely misspent. Like youth. Like you.

What happened?

Well, I guess it was kind of like Life. Fully Life in all its intricacies. Take the highest high and dangle it on the end of spit. As the high plummets subterranean, jump up and down on it a few times. Go on. Make sure there's a big smeared piece of dog shit in there.

Three people converged. Not just three random people. Three people who were at once not helped nor hindered by their physical projections, as it does in Real Life. We'd only seen each other briefly in celluloid. Snapshots. Frozen in time. One blinking millisecond of our lives, reduced to a few single images that couldn't possibly encapsulate an entire being. Take these same three people who grew to understand the other's minds only. Blogs. Just the mind. It was a nouveau Vulcan Mind Meld. A Blogmeld. Once read and fully digested there was an understanding, albeit subjective. There is a definite love that grows when people are honest because through true honesty there is a compassion gained.

All of us are fully immersed in the Electronic Age. None of us are luddites. We see this thing as a tool. I've only seen this thing as humanity's gift. We became friends. We became very good friends. By not having a physical being hinder us, the only barrier was distance; but with the invention of flight all of that could change within a matter of hours. We no longer let distance hold us back. We leapt.

Though we were technically physical strangers, we were not strangers at all. There are things that have been read by all of the participants that not many others know about. In this realm, we can be a little braver. We can expose a bit more. Some were more ready to flash than others. Some were flagrant, bawdy streakers. Some were shy. Some were taught that the world was a stage of cold, potentially unforgiving elements. What was entirely in common with all of us was an undeniable passion. It projected in different ways, of course. We are all individuals after all. We all have different backgrounds, habits, safety nets. Our routine.

Humans, as much as having a routine is comfortable, not unsettling, need and crave change. Need to take things to the next level. We are curious by nature. We want desperately to have more connection with other humans. Like dogs, we are very social creatures. It's just that these days of insularity, busyness, time restrictions and a government hell bent on fear generation, it's very difficult to truly connect. Well, one thing is for certain; our routine was definitely mixed up.

Jason had pointed out how magical vacations could be because you could become anything you wanted to be. There was no one there who had known you for a very long time reminding you of who you are. On a trip, you can be anything you want to be.

I used have control issues. I used to have a spotless house. I used to be the perfect hostess. I used to plan everything. I used to be selfless and accommodating. I used to sacrifice myself. This time I had no plan. This time I just went with everything, seized moments and simply basked in the presence of each of these creatures who, through time, became divine beings to me.

What I felt during the 5 days I was there, in no particular order:
Gleeful anticipation
Nervous
So fucking happy
Offended
Angry
The only place I wanted to be, so much of the time
Shame riddled
Despondent
Aroused
Numb
Neurotic
Sad
Hot
Lucky
Spent
Frantic

On my last night there, weepy and alone in my hotel room, I was watching a movie on HBO. I figured I'd check out what I'd been missing for the last 9 months of no television. I remember once, when I was married, I used to get completely sucked into movies, berating my existence, because it really didn't have the level of drama or intensity that these stories conveyed. I lived vicariously through actor's lines. Writer's stories. In 5 days I'd felt the kind of drama that happens within the timeframe of a very intense 2 year relationship all folded and condensed into that minute amount of time. To have called the experience surreal is an understatement.

Destiny? Is there such a thing? Was I supposed to meet these people and only be with them? I think so. Would we have met if there was no such thing as Blogger? No, I don't suppose so.

I'd said to Worker during the trip that even if we did live in the same town, chances are we'd never meet. And even if we had physically met, under the regular conditions in which people meet, we'd never have the kind of connection we've felt for each other. But we did meet. There was enough beauty in our characters to inspire a meeting which turned out, through circumstances out of our control, to not be four, but to just be three.

Three.
The Holy Trinity.
The Triad.
The Pigs.
The Furies.
The Graces.
The Past, Present and Future.
The sum of human capability: Thought, Word and Deed.
The kingdoms of matter: Mineral, Vegetable and Animal.

And I think I like Pythagoras' musing the best. Three is the perfect number. It expresses it all: the beginning, the middle, and the end. These are the essential components of everything, especially a good story. We met by writing. We wrote to no one but ourselves in the beginning. Or an imaginary somebody. It turned out that some people were listening. It turned out that these people became very important to me. It turned out that I loved these people.

When you share intimate ideas and very personal stories, there is a bond that develops. These people have helped me through difficult times in my more recent past. I will not forget their aid. No matter what bad things happened during the trip, I will take with me the lessons I learned from them.

From both I learned a greater sense of optimism.
From both I learned a greater freedom of loving.
I learned to not be so afraid of being with someone again, just from seeing how much they were looking forward to further adventure with another.
I learned to forgive myself because even though my actions are often hasty, my intentions are pure.

My behaviour was a bit on trial during the weekend. I am complicit in the eyes of most of society. Admittedly I shame spiraled. But looking back at it now I regret none. I probably would have had regret had I not done everything I had. I felt responsible for someone getting hurt. But that was a lesson learned too. Through the hurt, someone eventually felt brave enough to be more honest. This was something that someone couldn't express before. That someone eventually freed himself to gain more of an emotional outreach.

Ollie Ollie Oxen Free.

All of us took something home that didn't fit into carry-on luggage. We couldn't claim it at customs. It was locked deep in our souls. Some of us are still fumbling for the keys. All of us took something back with us that was completely personal, which in the end was the best souvenir we could take home. We were all changed by the trip because we were all changed by each other. We took a risk that not everyone would have taken. We went on a whim. A dream. We took a chance. We had no guarantees it would pan out one way or the other. What we imagined would happen, wow... didn't happen. Not in the way we thought, anyway. But, I will maintain, things are for a reason. Though there were hard and bitter feelings at times, I have the greatest hopes that things will be just fine. Just different. And that's okay because change is good. Change is necessary.

One thing is for certain: We are all changed by the process. We are changed simply by the act of not just talking about it, but by fully actuating. We had experienced the most extraordinary moments of Life, running the full gamut from misery to bliss.

We lived.

It was an experiment in a chemistry lab. Three very powerful chemical components were stirred gently within a beaker, heated rather quickly over a Bunsen burner. Each was highly reactive to the other elements, but in very unique ways. Every chemical reacts differently when introduced to another. When observed, no two things react the same way to the same stimuli. The reaction was as explosive as a birthing process. Blood, gore, placenta and euphoria.

And was it worth it?

Every... single... second of it.

I miss them already.

An Interlude on a Cold Rainy Day

Last weekend Ack, the ex-husband/best friend, and I were heading back from lunch when he noticed there was barely any gas in the car. He loves playing the Czech martyr, a little character he lobs up when he feels strong enough to poke fun of his mother. He noticed a cube van slowly passing us on the right.

Ack: Meh! You might as well jump in the back of that van. It'll probably get you home sooner. We're just going to run out of gas and you'll have to push.

I was considering the leap, Matrix fashion.

We made it to the gas station. He still frequents the old gas station which was a stone's throw away from the threshold of the last house we shared together. A long-time employee pumps his gas. He is an older gent, Hungarian in descent; grey, weathered, a tad weary; Snap-on tools jacket ever fashioned.

I used to buy cigarettes from this gas station once upon a time. I don't go there to buy cigarettes anymore. It's a little of out of the way now. But the long-time employee still remembers me. I had always been kind to him. In turn, he always tried to give me a little treat; an expression of his kindness.

When I was 6 years old I used to go to the market with my mother. She and I were inseparable. Butchers would always want to give me a little sausage or something. Something kid's sized. Something tasty. Apparently I was very cute. The long-time employee of the gas station was knocking on the driver's side window... with a Kit Kat candy bar. Another treat for a 36 year old little girl.

I was listening with rapt attention to CBC Radio One. When I was little, every now and then I would go to work with my father. My father was a taxicab driver. I nestled in the front bench seat with him. The radio dial was at eye level to me. In the afternoons the CBC rotation would include music, news, discussive banter and storytime. I loved storytime. It was theatre of the mind. I stared fixedly at the radio dial during those half hour excerpts, seeing a whole world in front of me.

Ack was paying for the gas by debit. Interac. He needed to go inside to perform the transaction. I stayed in the car and listened to a segment from the programme Definitely Not the Opera, or DNTO. Performing live from Winnipeg, Canada, was Christine Fellows, a native Canadian who was performing a song from her latest album, which has yet to be released.

She had a tenuous voice. There was a tremolo which was not designed, but created from her central nervous system. She sang accompanied with a grand piano and a sweeping cello. With a Kit Kat bar knocking on a pane of tempered glass, I was bawling my eyes out.

The song is titled Vertebrae. This is what she sang:

A photo essay of a family in mourning.
Perforated ever so slightly to better let the light seep through.
Sunday traffic clears a path.
We float inches above the road,
close our eyes and drive so slow.
Like we never need to get home to clear the doorstep of flowers,
throw open the blinds in his empty room, avert our eyes from his fingerprints. 
Is there something I’m forgetting?

Fall to my knees in the hospital parking lot on the way in,
arms full of branches. I am deadfall.
Deadfall.
Last time I came here to visit him
I ran sunburned through the halls with my arms full of tiger lilies.
I don’t remember this.
I was told to go home.
Clear the doorstep of flowers.
Throw open the blinds in his empty room.
Avert my eyes from his fingerprints.
Is there something I’m forgetting?

(Why, when you know you should go, is it so hard to leave?) 

Came this far to say goodbye, to set things right.
Instead I fiddle with his blankets,
fetching coffee no one will drink.
I am not prepared.
Through the hush of debts and the roar of engines we’ll struggle to recall.
This is how it ended.
This is how it ends.
Home.
Turn the key in the door and pause for what seems like an awfully long time.
There’s something I’m both remembering and forgetting;
a name on the tip of my tongue.

I had emailed her to tell her how I was affected by this song. I asked if she wouldn't mind transcribing the lyrics. She obliged the young girl. She also attached a quote in the body of text:

"To remember is to triumph over loss and death.
To forget is to form a partnership with death and oblivion."
– Charles Baxter 

Here, here.

Capturing the Bloom*

*The result of a constant vigil lasting weeks.

The Appraisal Process

I didn't go to Police Precinct, 55 Division, in the seedy east end district yesterday. Prior to notifying the authorities, Kissy wanted to talk to Giuseppe first. She had considered every good thing that Giuseppe had been to her during her tenure. When she presented this idea of a meeting, Giuseppe had asked that Matty and I accompany her.

For very good reasons, for flimsy reasons and for no reason at all, Kissy wasn't always able to work the scheduled shifts she garnered. She was rendered unreliable at certain points. Though he was frustrated, she stayed on board because Giuseppe loved her.

Before I had quit in the beginning of last summer, Matty had tried to get away with as much as he could. I caught him doing things he shouldn't have been doing. Giuseppe knew, but he remained on board, regardless. By the end of his 2 1/2 year reign, Giuseppe had given him the most responsibility of anyone else considered general staff. Matty was given this responsibility because Giuseppe loved him.

Giuseppe has an enormous heart which sees. It sees a person's essence and forgives the rest. Every single person who has received a paycheque signed by him has gotten away with action or behaviour which would garner our skank ass fired anywhere else in this city. Mine included.

The Comrade's First Night
She is working behind the bar. She has been clocked in for approximately 5 hours. Sitting at the bar is a young man who looks not unlike Howdy Doodie, replete with neckerchief and pink gingham button down shirt. Sitting next to Howdy Doodie is Gorgeous Specimen of a Man.

The Comrade: [bellowing and pointing at Gorgeous] Are you fucking him?!
Howdy Doodie: [beaming with pride] Yeesss!
The Comrade: [still bellowing] I am so jealous!
Everyone stops what they are doing, open-mouthed gapes abound. I skip away. Tra-la-la. Giuseppe continues to sip his drink.

Giuseppe is the best parent I've ever seen. He never tells his children what to do. He allows them to make their own decisions. He guides, he doesn't lay down the law. He truly believes that failure is the ultimate teacher. The important thing is to try. He is wise. I have learned much from him.

When we first heard that Giuseppe wanted all three of us to convene at the restaurant last night, all three of us were dubious. What was this all about? Why all three of us? This was Kissy's issue with Johnny K, the Police Man, the Stupid Disgusting Pig of a Man. How were we all implicated?

I write a blog which Giuseppe routinely reads.

Matty lives with Kissy. He is finishing off his last days at the restaurant as he'd given notice just over a week ago. What happens to people once they realise they can no longer work in a place, for whatever reason, is they become beyond ineffectual workers. They become toxic. All the injustices felt, the rationale behind the reasons for leaving, bubble up. Matty was caustic last Saturday night. Throughout his tenure, Matty had seen bad behaviour rewarded and good behaviour punished. He saw people come and go who never cared an ounce for the place, getting away with proverbial murder. They not only remained on board, but received choice shifts. He saw people who put their heart and soul into the place who were systematically let go. Myself included. Matty, once upon a time, was a Bad Behaviourist. Forgetting where he came from to be who he is today, he gave one last ditch effort at a great big fuck you to the place. He'd done it before, never being released. His mantra became: No man is more dangerous than he who has nothing to lose. He was going to go out with a bang.

[ A hand strikes a wooden match. Camera pans down as the match lights a fuse. Camera follows the snaking fuse to the source] BOOM!

Matty was incredibly hostile and defensive. He didn't know why we were asked to be there. Understanding Giuseppe fundamentally, I understood he needed time to arrive at the point. He needed time to gently remind us who and what he had been to us. Matty didn't give him this time. Frustrated and feeling rushed, with Kissy and I present, Giuseppe had asked Matty not to come in to finish the notice he had given. Tears welled up. He had just been unceremoniously let go. No watch. No lunch.

I've always been a huge proponent of debriefs. Post mortems. All three of us became synonymous with the Dream Team. Giuseppe was worried that we three, who had become his friends, could now potentially be hatching a plan to wound him. To ruin him and his beautiful family.

Because he's been as fair and as forgiving of everyone who has walked into the place as potentials; because he's been a sensitive ear, soft slumped, hairy shoulders to lean against when the world has been less than (seemingly) fair; because he is chiefly good and demonstratively consistent; there is absolutely no way we would ever bring any harm to him. We love him. He was never to be involved. This is not his battle. It's Kissy's.

He realised he's made mistakes. He lives the lessons he teaches his children. He fundamentally understands that we have to live and die by the decisions we make on any given day. In his past he had fought for something he believed in. Though it was taxing to his soul and his good name, he fought and won.

In no way trying to dissuade Kissy in her fight, Giuseppe, as a friend, wanted her to understand how taxing a process this fight would be. There would be no guarantees she would come out the victor. "Would it be worth it," he asked. Kissy, ever thoughtful, considered all angles. As hard as this will be, she realised for her to not do something would be soul's corruption.

At another place and time, the universe had given Giuseppe another fight to consider. Basing his decision on the torment from his past trial, it was something he learned that in the end would have cost too much time, too much effort and too much money. He chose not to fight that time. But was it worth it? That is something he has to live and die by.

Yesterday, I received an email from my new friend Jamie, the euphonium playing Georgian cop. He had just come back from a trial. He was placed on the stand as a witness. He was the reporting officer during a DUI investigation. Another case of another drunk had been on the road.

Eight years ago.

Eight years ago Jamie went to a horror scene.
Eight years ago he witnessed a driver who was "shitfaced drunk".
Eight years ago that drunk driver left a legacy.
Eight years ago Jamie had picked up a little 2 year old's decapitated head. The legacy.
Eight years later, a criminal lawyer put Jamie on the stand. His eyesight and hearing were under scrutiny. Under examination. He was treated like a criminal.

I've met Jamie twice in person. Each time, from some distance he recognised me. Each time he never asked me to repeat anything I said. I believe he had substantive enough ability through all his senses to properly assess the situation and to report it accurately. But that's just my opinion and I wasn't there. I just understand character. This Shitfaced Drunk will have to live and die with the decision he made going behind the wheel of his car and killing that little 2 year old girl.

Eight years later it went to trial.
Eight years later, a person whom I feel is another of God's special creatures, was on trial too.
Eight years later, the Shitfaced Drunk won.

Post post mortem, stepping outside, Giuseppe sighed,"Ah... fresh air." While he was driving me home I asked if things were clearer, if there were no misunderstandings. When he said "yes", I hope he was telling the truth.

I know you're reading this. I know you know I'm a woman of her word.
I've got your back.
But regardless of the outcome, there are things worthy of a fight.

The Police Man Revealed

Last year, when I was introduced to him by a very excited Giuseppe, the ex-boss whom I adored, I politely said, "Hello, John." Without looking in my eyes, without shaking my hand, he said, rather indignantly, "Uh... it's Johnny?"

Johnny K. as he is know around town.
Johnny K. aka The Police Man.
His real name is John Katsuras.

Why did I decide today to disclose his true identity? It is because on Friday night, he finally felt unencumbered enough by my missing presence to show his true colours again.

Giuseppe felt under duress when Johnny K. had come to him demanding my immediate removal from the place. It was me or him. I wasn't prepared nor willing to do the required work involved in overseeing the place full-time. I came in, did my thing, left. I promised Giuseppe nothing other than loyalty to him and him alone. Johnny K. promised him freedom. Like a dog with a bone full of marrow and strings of flesh still attached, Guiseppe heeled.

For the last 9 hours this is what I have been doing:

I purchased a membership at Stratenger's, that delightful bar that allows anyone to respectably smoke indoors, for a one time fee of $10.
I drank 9 beers and I am as sober as a judge.
I sat and listened to Kissy, my old work comrade, as she explained that she, too, had quit.

I was released. Matty quit and now Kissy.
Dissolved is the Dream Team.

Kissy had given her notice to Giuseppe last week. The reasons she gave was, though she was committed to him as a decent employer, he did have a tendency to drop sudden bombs on the staff. For example, if things weren't working out with someone, he had a tendency to simply remove that someone from the schedule. He would never say they were fired. He simply said, "There's nothing for you do this week, but try again next week."

He doesn't make it a habit to confront and dismiss. My termination was a rare occurence. Nobody's received a parting lunch before. Also, he decided at the last minute to close the restaurant down for 10 days without giving the staff a respectable amount of notice. He gave us a one week notice prior.

A few years ago I invested in real estate. When Ack, the ex-husband/ best friend, and I dissolved our marriage, we split the proceeds. He went on to buy another place. I decided to rent until I decided what I wanted to do with it.

Thus far, this is what I've done with this money:
A) Took last summer off.
B) Loaned a rather large sum to a co-worker to build his dream cottage.
C) Loaned money to Ack to ease the transition.
D) Loaned money to 3 other friends to help pay their rent.

I don't ask for interest. As stated in a previous post, I'm not in the business of usury.

When I was 23 years old, after leaving my first marriage, I had $20 to my name. I had an apartment, a Jeep I needed to make payments on and a family that refused me any help. I worked 70 hrs/wk and within a year the Jeep was paid off and I had $10,000 in savings. Though I learned to rely on my ability to survive, it would have been nice to have had help.

I am not on Easy Street, by any stretch of the imagination, but I'm not going to get kicked out of my house this month because I don't have any money. However, there are people that I have worked with that subsist from paycheque to paycheque. To have a 10 day stretch without any advance notice doesn't give anyone time to make provisional plans. Everyone needs to eat. Everyone needs to pay their rent.

Last Friday night, in an attempt to offer an extended olive branch, Kissy, my dear, sweet ex-work comrade, who is the embodiment of goodness, fairness and graciousness was on her way out of the restaurant. She did her rounds dispensing her signature hugs. She realised nothing bad had ever been done by Johnny K. to her, not really. I mean, asking whether her tits were real wasn't really all that bad. She embraced him as a kind gesture. She does it to everyone. That's part of her immense charm. As she was pulling away from him, he laughed and grabbed her crotch.

He hadn't been in the restaurant for a while. He hadn't been in any restaurants he'd had any stake in for quite some time, mainly because they don't exist anymore. He stayed clear away from Giuseppe's place if he knew I was working. He effectively had me removed. I was the source of his shame. My ever smiling visage was the constant reminder that he is, was and always shall be A Disgusting Pig of a Man.

What? You don't like that, Johnny? I've always said it.

For 7 1/2 hours I allowed my good friend to purge every ounce of what she felt across a formica table. I validated every point she made over the course of the day/evening. The table accumulated countless rings on its surface, though didn't resemble a tree.

She'd made the decision to not finish her final 2 weeks, the notice she'd given.
The only compensation she wanted was an equivalent in pay for the 2 week duration.

After news got out, Johnny K. had called Kissy. At first he denied it. Then he said, "If I had done something like that, which I don't know why I would, I'm sorry."

He was very, very sorry... for something he didn't think he did.

He wanted her to come by the restaurant so he could talk to her about it. Just him. Just her.

Allow me to add Stupid in front of Disgusting.

I offered her money for a decent lawyer.
I offered to take a half page ad in a local newspaper trying to find other victims.
She refused twice.

She didn't want to press charges. She, like I, adore Giuseppe and his family. She didn't want to ruin him.

She laughed at one point at the expression I had on my face.
Seething rage is rarely funny to me, or her.

I asked her one question: Prefacing first with never wanting to force her hand in any decision she was going to make, I asked: "When you look back at this when you're 60 years old, will you say you did the right thing?"

By the 8th hour, after rounds of drinks were bought for us by lonely men with enlarged muscles pulsating deep within chest cavities, she started to get mad. She finally understood that this behaviour was wrong when she could attach proper language to it. It can only be called sexual assault. She got a little madder. When my extraordinary friend Ian, who happened to come into the bar and offer his advice, and it's interesting to note that people who have been on both sides of the law are quite knowledgable of legalities, he told her her rights. He validated her further. He fanned her fire. Madder got even madder.

This is what I did yesterday:
I drank 9 beers.
I held my friend's hand.
I watched her cry for herself.
And I watched her learn to love herself.

This is what I'm doing today:
I am going to hold my friend's hand.
Together we will walk into Police Precinct, 55 Division.
I will sit silently supportive as she presses charges for sexual assault.

He once asked Giuseppe,"What have I ever done to her?"
It's got nothing to do with me, Johnny. You wouldn't understand that, though, would you?
You'd have to understand love first.

Madder gets even.