The Earth's Banquet

"But have you tasted the whole of the Earth's banquet?"

I was reading Iain Banks's A Cold Stone on the sofa last night. Ack, the ex-husband/ best friend, called during the narrator's accidental spill of freshly killed finches; a proposed feast during a politically tumultuous time.

ring ring

The image of those yellow and dripping red, broken winged creatures, falling like waterfall, was bright in my mind.

Ack wanted to go to Stratenger's, the riotous place that allows fumez bien until one's lung collapses.

There was a threesome sitting in the booth behind ours. 2 young men and a lady. Mean age 28. The girl was pleasantly plump. Engorged breasts. Matching frame. A strange fear and desperation in her eyes. She had fine, stringy hair with a gradient pattern dye job that went, from from root to tip, a spurious sunlight to an oxidised corrosion.

We're just a million little gods turning every good thing to rust. [The Arcade Fire]

The boys had matching frames and complementing outfits. Late military. Both had the same walk; high school goth (very bouncy). Both were clear over 6'. Individual asses measured 1 1/2 axe handles across. Axe handles are the standard form of posterior measurement in certain circles of mine. Chiefly when I'm in the company of Ack. We here in Toronto are still in the midst of the dead of winter. In certain areas there are created snowbanks which stand higher than my 5'9" frame. And it's cold.

One of these lads was wearing a tank top.

This was not a standard issue wife-beater, if I may use this none too politically correct term. It is a term wildly used here in Toronto. This young man was wearing a loose, 1980's sweatsuit-grey tank top which looked not only like it was from that era, but had been washed repeatedly, and worn regularly and ardently since that time. The material had become thin. The Tanktopper moved around a lot, which at times created a peek-a-boo effect of the male mammaries.

Ack has this thing about where he likes to be positioned when he's out in public. He does not like his back exposed to main pedestrian thoroughfares. Just in case the shit hits the fan. Last night I vehemently did not want to sit on the exposing side either, so after a mock Thai fight, our new method of settling a dispute, he succumbed. With petulance. He was swayed only by my last statement on the issue.

The Comrade: Dude, if there is an emergency situation, I will be quicker to act.
Ack: Are you nuts, bitch? I'll be giving them the elbow so fast they won't know what...
The Comrade: Your elbow will only be used to open the door while you get your own skank ass out of here. Alone.
Ack: You don't even know me.
The Comrade: I know you far too well.

Where he was situated, on the exposé side, he was in full view of our neighbouring militia fashionistas and their one supporter. Every now and then he would pull a face as if someone had just fed him mice droppings covered in chocolate sauce.

The Comrade: What?
Ack: [curling his lip] They're making out.

Ack's lonely. He misses fervent kissing.

Martin Fry, the singer for ABC, a band whom I adored when I was 13, sang Poison Arrow. A lyrical excerpt is stuck in my mind right now:
"... so lower your sights. Yeah, but raise your aim. Raise your aim."

I couldn't tell, but there may have been some caressing going on under the loose fitting tank top.

I have a very small nose. Let that not fool you. I have a particularly annoying quality of having an acute sense of smell. This works out rather well when pleasure is derived from a pleasant fragrance. However, when an odour is foul enough it can make me gag and sometimes vomit. One of the gentlemen in non-parading fatigues had a definite smell of old person.

Ack had accused a lone, trivia playing young man, someone situated at the bar, of carrying this displaced scent.

Ack: It's that guy... the one with the lumberjack jacket on. Those things are notorious for carrying a mouldy scent.
The Comrade: That is not mould. Mould smells like basement. This has a decidedly sweet undertone.
Ack: Like embalming fluid!
The Comrade: Do you think that it's embalming fluid? Or do we associate the smell of old and death with that substance?
Ack: Hm... looks like a prime fieldtrip proposal.
The Comrade: I'm in.

Although...

While employed for the corporate restaurant The Courthouse, I worked with a co-comrade named Michael. Older gentleman. Very gay. Smart as a whip. He had a sense of humour which lay somewhere in the misty realm between rural Ontario and the pretentious urban elite. There was once a luncheon we'd worked together where a tourbus load of elderly folk were filing in to fill their reservation.

Michael: Do you smell that?
The Comrade: Yeah, it smells like old people.
Michael: [coyly smiling] Do you know what that smell is?
The Comrae: No. Is it a fragrance they choose?
Michael: No... It's a combination of 2 things: Depends undergarments. And decay.
The Comrade: Oh... God...



Back at Stratenger's, the satellite fed soundsystem is playing derivative cock rock. Successive hoarse voiced, screaming men full of manicured angst replete with heavy chugging guitars and decent rhythms. Of the 20 or so songs we sit through only 2 are worthy of rotation... in my humble opinion:

Interpol's Narc
The White Stripe's I Just Don't Know What to Do with Myself

We talk about musical throughlines. Bents that lead one from one band and genre to the next. I recalled a discussion at work the other night.

I was talking to my buddy Mike, the Cartman sounding chef, at my new place of employ; also present was Yau See, the part owner/ part-time sous chef who married a woman from China, not for love, but for a sum of $30,000. Cartman-sounding Mike is a music snob. He believes that everything he likes is precious gold, whereas the tastes of others is questionable, at best. Mike and I have many tastes that run parellel, but both of us veer off-road following musical curves that make little sense to the other.

We were listening to Cursive, a band who is on the fine Saddle Creek label. This label is made fine by having The Faint, Azure Ray, Bright Eyes and Son, Ambulance on their roster. Cursive is decidedly cock rock.

Cartman-sounding Mike: And I suppose you like Keane?
The Comrade: Actually, I do.
He leaves, shaking his head, holding his stomach, turning back once with a look of disgust in his eye.

Cartman-sounding Mike was ripping into Yau See about his "lack of musical taste".

Cartman-sounding Mike: How many Ashanti albums do you have?
Yau See: None.
C-SM: Yeah, but you know all the words!
YS: So do you!
The Comrade: Who's Ashanti?

Mike and I were talking about the process of discovering music, which we actively sought out in our youth, that helped define us; that helped us express the things we felt, but hadn't yet developed the acumen to articulate. Yau See didn't know what we were talking about. He merely listened to whatever any of his friends were playing in their cars or bedrooms.

The Comrade: But don't you think it's an issue of broadening one's taste?
Yau See: No. I don't really care about it.
The Comrade: [shuddering] ... don't... care? Well, what about really great wine... or Illy espresso? Foie gras? You can exist on cheap plunk or Tim Horton's or chicken liver påté, but once you taste these things, the really good things, one tends to develop a well honed palate, no?
Yau See: I can't tell the difference between an $8 or $200 bottle of wine. And the other stuff just doesn't matter to me.
The Comrade: Oh.

He ate everything on his plate; not for pleasure, merely for sustanance.

Ack was recounting a memory of a recent trip to Prague. He had entered a beautiful bar. The room was tiny but well appointed. On a makeshift stage was a single man with an amplified guitar; no amplification for his accompaning voice was required. He had the perfect combination of decent pitch, a resonant timbre, a massive vibrating cranium, and a well exercised diaphragm. In Czech, the young man sang the blues. From seeing this performance, something that was reported to be quite moving, a renewed love for this musical genre was reignited in Ack.

Throughline: The Whites Stripes.

I've tended to operate purely on a gut response throughout my life. It has served me well approximately 80% of the time. I am fully wrong 20%. And I do admit it when it happens.

I never used to like The Whites Stripes. I've never liked the blues. It's simply the kind of repetition that doesn't cotton well to my inherent cell structure. Kind of like hip hop. Something that took a long time to like was Led Zepplin; their roots are steeped in blues. I was forced to listen to Jack White further, upon Ack's insistence. The more I listened, the more it attached itself. Not like a probucus. More like a gently cloying, persistent lover. Earnest. Begging.

I'm reminded of a lesson I learned in grade 8. During assembly, Ms. Caplan had told the class that tastebuds change every 8 weeks. "If you don't like something, try again in time. Eventually you might grow to love it."

One word: Cilantro.



It snowed quite a lot over the last few days. My outdoor patio furniture looks like soft furnishings for an arctic cousin of Fred Flintstone. The first night the snow began was Monday. Slow and steady it fell for hours straight. Huge, luminous bits of crystallised precipitation that adhered, bouncing on eyelashes; that burst around the edges of boots like bombed desert explosions upon every laboured step.

Monday was also my first introduction to Mark, Adjudicator #8 from my preceding post.
He answered all of my questions correctly and smoothly.
His approach was not unlike my repeal of Jack White's appeal, as Mark was like a gently cloying, persistent suitor. Also earnest. Ever begging.

Mark: Please let me walk you home, he asked for the 4th time that evening.
The Comrade: [repeating herself] I don't think that's a very good idea, Mark.
Mark: I think it's a very good idea.

After some time, he indicates with his right hand a 2" gap between thumb and index finger.

Mark: Do you realise that life is only this short?
The Comrade: Yes, Mark. I do.
Mark: [unrelentingly for the 5th time] May I walk you home?
The Comrade: [after much deliberation] Yes, Mark. You may.

Leaving the building I noticed that Militia Man, my boss Kim's boyfriend, had removed the 6" of snow that accumulated on her little 4x4. I thought that was a very kind gesture. As I've said, Militia Man is gruff by nature with a concurrent heart of gold.

Mark is delighted by the gentle snowfall.
Mark: All of this snow... Walking in it. It's rather romantic, isn't it?
I look at him dubiously. Warily.

Mark: Let me look at your face.
The Comrade looks at him briefly, adding: There's nothing to see here.
Mark: No, of course not.

Militia Man has joined our promenade. Along our route, his is the first stop. Mark has forgotten his wallet, his phone and now is considering the misplacement of his keys.

The Comrade: What do you mean you don't have your keys?
Mark: It's okay. Don't worry. If I don't my keys I'll sleep in the Eaton Centre.
The Comrade: You're not sleeping in the Eaton Centre. You'll go home with Militia Man.

Mark found his keys.

My nervousness increased with Militia Man's departure. I didn't know where to look. My eyes remained cast down. Hood shrouding any expression. By the time I looked up I was directly across the street from my apartment.

The Comrade: Okay, well... this is my stop.
Mark: You live there?
The Comrade: Yes.
Mark: Do you think I could cross the road with you?
The Comrade: Mark.
Mark: Because I will only cross if you allow it.
The Comrade: You may cross the road with me.

With tempest swirls of snow herding us closer like an act of ordained sheparding, we cross the wide street for me to bid him a good evening.

Mark: Well, I guess this is goodnight, then.
The Comrade: Yes. Goodnight, Mark. It was very good meeting you.

We kiss at the corner of our mouths. Mouths closed. I walk the remaining 20' of duned snow to my front door, pressing the code to enter. Mark calls out.

Mark: [indicating with his thumb and index finger again] Understanding that life is only this short, may I kiss you once more?
The Comrade: [after some deliberation] Okay. Once more.

Mark trudged the 20' to reach my place at the threshold. He took his right hand tucking it inside my white down-filled hood while cradling the right side of my face; kissing me deep, wet and full of passion. It was a Top 10 Hollywood kiss. Jeremy Irons would have approved. It left me a little weak in the knees.

I cut it short. Bid a final "goodnight" and shut the door.


The Comrade: Kissing is great.
Ack: I know, you filthy bitch! But I'm picky! I want to be able to taste the whole of the Earth's banquet.
The Comrade: Yeah, but you're assuming that banquet has to be filled with nothing but culinary delights.
Ack: Yes!
The Comrade: Just because it says banquet hall on its exterior, does not mean that everything they serve will be gourmet. Sometimes it is. Sometimes... wow... it's not. It's a banquet.

[Indicating with her thumb and index finger] Life is only this short. Raise your aim. Taste it all.