In This Still Life

Yesterday the count had been 2. Now there are now 3 movies I have found myself unable to watch until the bitter end.
In chronological order of difficulty:
1. A Clockwork Orange. I have tried watching this movie 3 times. Each time, I get to the part where McDowell's character scissor cuts the jumpsuit fabric from both breasts of a female victim. Whoa. Click... fade to black.
2. Requiem for a Dream. Drug induced mania is impossible for me to watch.
3. Brand new to the list: Straw Dogs. As recommended by Ack, the ex-husband/ dubious best friend.

Gratituitous, nay pornographic, in its depiction of violence. The worst editing job I've ever born witness to. The most confusing central characters who felt more schizephrenic than "complex", as I'm sure drunken, sicko Peckenpaw had originally envisioned.

You take the good,
You take the bad,
You take them both
And then you have
The Facts of Life.

As I don't watch television anymore, I wonder, has that desperate, famed-starved Tootie had any has-been reality show offers yet?

Bad's been covered.
Now for the good.

You know those rare moments in life where sometimes a thing hits you so hard, and by hitting I mean a harmonising resonation of the kind of orchestral magnitude that conductors must feel when keeping time to Beethoven's 9th? Being in the eye of a symphonic storm must certainly be one of the greatest places on Earth. I'm not talking about music, though, this time. Sometimes literature does this; the hit straight to one's core. There are so many ways to write and infinitely more ways to interpret the writing. Who knows if we get it in the way it was intended? Fatty, my magi of card tricks, always says the magic is sealed in the imagination of the one who is having the "trick" performed for him/her.

Sometimes, even rarer, there are objects, circumstances, situations or people that effect us so profoundly we can't help but think that thing was not just meant for us, but made for us.

Still Life with Woodpecker, by Tom Robbins.

It was given to me by my darling friend, Ryan. Thank you Ryan. He gave it to me saying, "You really need to read this book. You would really love it." It was the kind of book that I held off opening until I got all of my chores done first. It was something I was saving to savour. It was like coming home. It was like having the best bedtime story read to me, though this case, this bedtime story was like an onion; a story within a story, within a story that in the end made me burst into tears. The last time I felt this connected to a book was with A Catcher in the Rye. Salinger made me want to protect Holden. To shield him. Robbins, on the other hand, protected me. This book was like a salve; a balm. It was a soulmate. It was magic realism at its best.

In the beginning:
"There is only one serious question. And that is: How do you make love stay?"

It really is the only serious question.
Something I'd wondered the whole of my life. The answers he gives makes all the sense in the world.

In the end, he was certain of only 2 things:
1. Everything is part of it. Something that has made sense to me for years.
2. It's never too late to have a happy childhood. This made me burst into tears.

I'm really going to try to take the kid out more.

He Giveth and He Taketh Away

My coffee tastes like it was steeped in tar. And not the delicious tar in cigarettes.
Speaking of which...
Every place I lay my cigarette, the smoke heat-seeks me like a puny human target, a representation only in blobs of colour, just like in Predator.

Elapsed time: 3 minutes

Okay, I think I've momentarily shielded myself from its hungry envelopment.
There is a pain behind my left eye. The seeing eye.
My shoulders are elevated approximately 2" higher than their usual station.
2 new vertebrae have freshly fused.

See, this is the reason I choose to only drink beer.
Wine makes me feel like ass the next day.
Especially when there were 12 different wines tasted the night prior.

I blame the Doyenne.

Doyenne Kim, my sweet boss from the one night a week engagement at the Cheer's Equivalent bar, is also the part owner of a charming restaurant down the street. The well behaved sister restaurant. The restaurant that encourages shushing. The sister restaurant had become a regular brunch place for me when I would find myself alone on Sunday mornings. It is because I am friends with most of the staff. It is because of menu items like the 2 massive yet fluffy pancakes that each cover a 12" plate, topped with Chantilly crème and pure maple syrup or the truffled scrabbled eggs on a bed of baby spinach served with smoked salmon and homemade biscuits that have garnered this restaurant the title of Best Brunch in Toronto.

It's all really a little too much, a little too late.

I met the Doyenne about 12 years ago when we worked directly across the street from one another. West End Girls. She would visit my bar after a long managerial shift, seeking salvation from corporate bureaucracy in a funnel shaped vessel containing exactly 3oz of clear liquor and a dangled tendril of citrus zest. She would come in with a buddy. Most girls enlist The Buddy System at bars. It makes us look less whory, I guess. Sometimes she would complain about her day. Other times she wanted nothing to do with rehashing a 12 hour bout of irritation. She and I liked each other right from the start. The thing about the Comrade and the Doyenne is not everyone likes us from the start.

My friend Ian, the fella I used to make out with in public from time to time has worked for the Doyenne for several years. For the first 3 years he didn't like her one bit. Some people think she's a bitch. He was a Believer. But, then something cracked. Perhaps it was he. He realised how incredibly fair she is. He realised how incredibly generous she is. He saw how much time and energy she devoted to her restaurants. He realised just how much she cared for every single soul that works for her. Over time he became her confidante. She would cry on his shoulder. As tough as nails as she presented, there was a little girl inside who was very, very scared of ever failing.

She took on partners. How can I possibly start a business alone? Each time she took them on they were all very excited about the new project. Initially. Eventually the novelty wore off and they became less diligent in their end of the bargain. Sure it's my business, but I don't want to be working 14 hours a day. They wanted their lives back. This cute little dream was sucking up way too much personal time. Her time and energy never wavered. Fear of failure kept driving her on. She took on partners in hopes that some of the responsibility could rest on shoulders other than her own. And now, one week after a series of glowing reviews and months of legal fees which have accumulated to $50,000, one of her business partners has stolen her restaurant from her.

Initially he wanted to be bought out but she couldn't swing it. In the process he considered that perhaps she could be bought out. He could run this tall ship on his own. So what if all of his old staff thinks him rude and ineffectual? He could batton down hatches she not only created, but over the years had lovingly massaged, dressed and wiped the mouth of. She set a price that she thought he couldn't reach. He couldn't even pay his rent. How the hell could he buy a business? She didn't count on the deep pocketed friends he had accumulated. Effective Friday, tomorrow, the deed will be transferred over to someone who has had nothing to do with the restaurant in years, other than call the cops on her and sporadically issue out idle threats and the occasional harrassment. In a few more days there will be nearly a dozen unrooted souls with shaky pens writing out rent cheques where no money resides in fictious Swiss bank accounts.

Several Mondays ago, at my one night a week engagement, I found the Doyenne in the farthest reaches of the prep kitchen huddled in the corner. Scared, tired and bawling her eyes out. To her it's okay to be eating off of dinged plates with mismatched flatware. She doesn't cut her lip very often on the chipped glasses she imports home from restaurant castoffs. She doesn't need much. She gets by. Half the time she doesn't take a paycheque. It's part of the sweat equity, she reasoned. She wasn't scared, tired and crying for herself. She feels the ultimate responsibility for the staff which may be thrown on their asses effective Friday.

She found a tiny silver corona around the dark cloud looming overhead. Going through the corporate credit card statement she discovered that she had enough credit left for one fabulous night on the town with the men and women she's thought of as extended family for the last 6 years. A loophole. One last hoorah.

I don't work at the sister restaurant, the one stolen away. I really shouldn't have been there. It wasn't really my place. The Doyenne asked that I come for moral support and because I make her laugh. Il Pagliacio. Small price to pay.

My Fatty noted the other night that sometimes when there is no sound in laughter it can look like someone's crying.
Someone... please make a sound.
Most people stifle tears by consuming a shitload of booze.
The only way I know how to stifle tears in others is with misdirection.

I had a few people come over to my place prior to the fabulous night out. Cartman sounding Mike (who does double kitchen duty at both restaurants), my Robert, a gay Mensa smart male who is a damn fine specimen particularly to girls (creatures he wouldn't touch with a 10' pole. Strike that. He would if given enough of a sedative first) and Ian, the aforementioned previous maker-outer-with pal-o-mine who was a great friend of mine but kind of messed things up a bit when he launched into a 5 minute Fuck You session with the Comrade over a lecherous rogue who happens to be Ian's best friend.

Ian did apologise for his bad behaviour. Though forgiven, there is a bit of stale residue applied on the sweet detection area of my mouth.

[buzzer rings]
[unlatch door]
[In walks a blonde haired, blue eyed, handsome young man wearing a pea coat, a light and royal blue striped button down shirt, and a shiny red tie with tiny flecks of blue creating a diagonal pattern]

The Comrade: Ian... You look like a Jehovah's Witness.
Ian: No! I look good!
The Comrade: You look like a good looking Jehovah's Witness.
Ian: Mike? What do you think?
Cartman sounding Mike: I didn't want to say anything, dude. Please don't make me describe it.

[another buzzer sound]
[re-opens door]

The Comrade: Robert!
Robert: Hello, darling.

Robert had on a taupe safari type heavy shirt, 3 buttons undone creating a plunging neckline revealing wife beater; his dark tie which bypassed the collar in its entirety, was done up simply around his naked neck like fabric jewellery.

The Comrade: You look fantastic!
Ian: His fucking tie isn't even around his collar! How does he look fantastic?

I change the topic by chugging my beer.

Ian: Robert, you'll tell me. What do you think of my shirt and tie combination?
Robert: Well...
Ian: Do I look like a Jehovah's Witness?
Robert: Well...
The Comrade: Truth, Robert. Truth.
Robert: Yes.
Ian: Fuck.

After an hour, like Old Mother Hubbard, my fridge had gone bare by the time of departure of the staging area.

We met at George, the new gorgeous dining room complete with open concept gleaming kitchen that one can press one's nose against large panes of glass and spy techniques of properly seared, forced engorged goose livers. The price points are so high that the clientele is mostly made up of aged millionaires trying to spend the last of the kitty before their precious offspring fights over the remains. No, no. Not the urn with Daddy's precious carbon matter. The rest... even before the body's turned cold and rigid, the game of tug of war will have begun. These millionaires still manage to leave a crappy tip.

At a vote it was decided we would have an 8 course tasting menu complete with complementing wines. Some of the pairings were genius. Some, I felt were a bit overrated. As for the food, some of the savoury offerings made me squish my face up to something on the same flattering scale as this.

Seated next to me was the lovely Doyenne. She wore a tasteful sequinned cream sweater and swishy black skirt.

Remember why you're here.
Right... make her laugh.

The Comrade: [beating a dead horse] Jehovah's Witness.
The Doyenne: I think he looks more like an encyclopedia salesman.
The Comrade: Ian! I think I'm missing the volume M-N.

Ian hates me now.
And that's okay.
It's misdirection.

Not enough toasts were given. Not as much appreciation was displayed to the fine young lady who gathered everyone together. I suspect a great deal of grace and gratitude was in everyone's heart, but it was unable to be expressed in fear of breaking down. Losing composure. Looking like a blubbering idiot at $150/head.

I looked down the long table.
Longer faces.
A couple of quivering chins.
Brave faces which when they thought no one was looking, had eyes cast down. I could see the reel played in their eyes. Their interpretation of This is as Good as it Gets.

I'd written about that state before. Working in an industry which is demanding of spirit, often leaching of soul, there are some wonderful yet rare moments of respite which are near perfect, when all the stars are aligned and all the assembled ensemble cast are chemically perfect in union. But nothing lasts forever, alas. Not in a frozen state, anyway.

The Doyenne, just as everyone who's worked for her, will be just fine. Already she's plotting her next strategy. Perhaps she'll make pies. I like pies. I like making pies too. Maybe I'll help. And just like everything she's done in the past, her initial ideas will mushroom into bigger, grander things that she could never have imagined without trying. She is a mentor to many. Myself included. Though it took her a half dozen years to receive the kind of reviewed recognition every restauranteur seeks, there will be a day in the future where this young lady, our Doyenne, will receive The Best Damned Pie award. Mark my words.

Waiting for the Real Family

I had the 2 most important people in my life over for dinner the other night. My Fatty, the old pal cum new boyfriend and Ack, the ex-husband/ best friend. Between the mock fights both physical and verbose, Fatty thinks Ack and I could charge admission to this exhibition. We don't tend to perform this routine as much when we are alone. Extra ham, the only time I really choose pork products, is for the benefit of outside observers. In the end I'm left with the same level of exhaustion felt after babysitting 3 year olds for 6 hours. Spent. We've reached that marvellous point in our relationship where, stifling nothing, with gaping maws redolent of a Nightmare Before a Dentist, Ack and I invariably end up kicking the other out of our respective houses at least at one point during an evening. The other night was no exception.

We have an understanding.
Sleeve = a slurred "just leave"

Fatty and I met while Ack and I were still married. When I broke the news to him of my decision to severe ties, he was earnestly sorry and wondered if maybe I wasn't making a bad decision. He'd never seen two people as well suited for one another. He, like many of our supporters, looked at our marriage as the model of what works. What should be. Once he got to know me better, he began to understand my decision as the only one I could have made. I'm happy that once he got to know me better he fell in love with me.

Fatty and Ack have an extraordinary relationship. Neither feels jealous of the other; it's quite the opposite, really. Both have a great deal of respect for one another. Fatty is always aware of Ack's presence, which manifests itself as There will be no touching of the Comrade in Ack's company. At first I thought Fatty wasn't much for public displays of affection. He's definitely not Italian, yet even though his roots are firmly steeped in British soil, he ain't a prude nor a soccer hooligan either. He's simply respectful of a friend's feelings and two shared histories.

Ack started a new job, a brief tenure, on the movie Saw II. As if the first one wasn't bad enough, they had to make another. Apparently the movie is worth it for the last scene. Personally, I couldn't get past the acting in the first scene. It was reminiscent of the kind of over-Method acting habitually found in the safety of an exorbinantly priced actor's workshop. The theory being: If you pay through the nose you can overact until the shroud of Pacino appears.

Ack was talking to a few new work cronies about me and Fatty.

Cronie #1: Whoa. You're still friends with your ex-wife?
Ack: Sure. Really great friends.
Cronie #2: And you like this new guy she's seeing?
Ack: Yeah. I like him a lot. He's a keeper.

Ack had once said that Fatty felt like family to him. His real family.

Early in our marriage, Ack had confessed to a childhood fantasy. It turned out to be one I had secretly held as well. The possibility of being abandoned by our real families, dumped on the doorstep of misfits and yokels. We, as children, were sitting on our respective front stoops. Alone. Waiting patiently. Back straight for a while. Adjusting our crayon drawn haloes. The state of seeming loveable and good, the presentation of momentary perfection in a child. Homelife was rancid and felt like deep immersion into a totalitarian state. With heads resting on fists, weight forced onto elbows through to torned knees on size 6x pants, we daydreamed of the day when a faceless family would rush out of a car, probably a limosine, full of tears and love, begging for forgiveness for their unconscionable abandonment. Don't worry, they'd say. Everything's alright now. We're taking you home.

To Xanadu.
A rollerskating heaven.
With streamer barrettes
And Gene Kelly.

You can't do that.
It can't be done.
That is audacious.
Who do you think you are?

What did they do to us?

Fatty's No Touching Clause didn't bug me as much as the collective ganging up on the Comrade. Friends ganging up on me is fine, funny even. But as soon as the equation involves a lover, things get a bit complicated. I get super-sensitive.

Fatty: Why?
The Comrade: Because it makes me feel 13 again. Judged, knowing nothing, treated like a second class apocalyptic mongrel.

Fatty's very concerned about walking on eggshells around me. I am incredibly sensitive in very strange areas and equally desensitised in others.

This Matters:
Not being heard.
Being stopped with someone else allowed to speak before me, even though I interjected at the same time or earlier.
Not being defended.

The massive turning point in my last marriage happened during a family function. My side of the family. In a restaurant my darling father was talking about the then current Cecilia Zhang child abduction case where the missing girl was Chinese in descent. He was convinced that even though she was 9 years old, her dyed hair was evidence that she must have been a handful, therefore the mother had killed her.

Oh yes! He's very rational!

My sister-in-law, Anita, was pissed off because the mother was accused.

Anita and my father never saw eye to eye on most matters. She always felt judged by him. He has that affect on people. He accused the mother and not the collective parents because he, as a father, could never admit to doing anything wrong.

I was pissed off because of the dyed hair = punishable by death comment. Evidence of dyed hair was a dig at me. When I was young and unruly with blonde hair. I lost it.

Just as I was revving my engines for an eardrum piercing gutteral retort Ack, seated next to me, grabbed my leg, pushed hard on it and said quietly but with force, "Let... him... finish."

Well, well... et tu Brute?
Here endeth the union.

It's my soft spot.

Things That Don't Matter:
Everything else.

What did they do to us?


Fatty was kicked out of his house at 16. His parents sat on the same side of the breakfast nook, having had their fill of him. If he couldn't get his shit together, together they would kick his shit out. Though he wasn't the model child, he certainly wasn't a bad seed. It was designed to be a lesson to their first born child. Something he'd never forget. The lesson ended up registering as What's the point?

Ack was gifted with the ability to create visual art right from diapering. With heavy Eastern European accents the induced mantra heard throughout his development was, "Nice hobby, but what are you going to do with your life?" I am happy to report that Ack did it anyway. Fuck 'em. What do they know? And he's making a living at doing it.


With Fatty and I, Ack was lobbing up a huge apologetic preface to a positive statement about himself. "If there was something I could say about myself that was maybe good...."

The Comrade: You know, it's stupid that we have to apologise and grovel before saying anything good about ourselves to others.

We were on the topic of glass ceilings. Some of ours weren't even glass, though. Some of our ceilings were painted black. There was no beyond that we could see, that we could bring hammers upon. The Applier's name came up.

What if:
You were raised with no "no's"?
You were want for nothing?
You never understood a glass ceiling?
You were never discouraged to try anything?

This was how the Applier was raised. Even making an attempt at making out with his best friend's ex-wife, this young man fears nothing in asking people for anything. He subsequently receives unbelievable opportunities because he is fearless in asking.

Case in point:
Sharing a ski lift with a stranger in Colorado, the writer/director/producer Applier asked his previously unbeknownst to him seated companion what he did for a living.

Director of New Programming at HBO.

The Applier: I have some ideas.
Director of New Programming: Here's my card. I'll be free to talk in 3 weeks. Call my secretary for an appointment.

For every Applier there is in the world, there are scores more Dwights.

Dwight works in the Art Department with Ack. Originally from St. Kitt's, he's a gentle man. Over the weekend he had broken his hand but didn't go to the hospital to have it set. 12 hours can elapse; a skyscraper sized stack of forms can materialise in a hospital emergency's waiting room without one bandage being produced. With broken hand on a movie set, though favouring it, Dwight did not waver in any of his duties. He was ever the CAD master, though slower. He was prompt, early even, for morning call. He would ask for no help. Ack had to fight him to forcibly remove loaded dollies from his hands. Had Ack not been there, Dwight would have continued with no assistance. He could have done further damage to his bread and butter.

What did they do to him?


Ack has discovered a new paradigm. It's along the same lines as Ask and Ye shall receive, but a little more planned.

What if:
You laid out exactly what you wanted?
And asked for it by name?

Not for anyone else, just yourself. No altruism. Beyond world peace. Beyond the cure for AIDS (even though there is a cure, they're just withholding; the sick, greedy bastards). This is not a money/ fame issue. What do you want?

Ack has been keeping a journal for as long as he can remember. I have been writing since Ack and I had married. He had introduced Julia Cameron's Artist Way to me. It's a 12 week programme designed to bust creative blocks, allowing a person to freely create, or at least create more than one had previously allowed for him/ herself. The greatest tool I learned from that book was Morning Pages.

Give yourself about an hour in the morning to write, freehand, 3 pages of 3 ring binder paper. Train of thought stuff. Brain dump. It could capture dreams, general malaise, epic euphoria or nothing. The point is to never let the pen stop. Even if the only phrase that comes out is "I can't think of anything to write", something invariably will come out.

It is because of Ack that I write. It is because he bought that book for me.

Ack is still keeping his practice of Morning Pages. They're more condensed now. The book is smaller. His writing more legible. His thoughts more cohesive. Because this book is only designed for his eyes, he has gained more of a sense of ownership within it. He has begun an experiment. He is beginning to write out exactly what he wants. Audacious! For now it is relegated to the business realm. To his astonishment everything he is putting mind to paper on, he has received. He's not asking for trivial wealth or fame. He is asking for earnest specific requests like who he sees himself working with, the environment in which he optimally wants to work and the style and subject matter. And he's getting it.

I had begun asking too, weeks ago. For me I don't care about the matter of the World of Business. My concern is with the World of Goodness. Ack thought me foolish when I said to him that I am only allowing good and righteous people to share my life with. He thought my days would be lonely.

The Comrade: But there's you.
Ack: Yeah, but...
The Comrade: And everyone else that's in it.

And it may not be enough for some people. I do not have thousands of supporters. For me they're enough to fill a limosine that pulls up to the side of a curb. As all the occupant's eyes target a young girl sitting on a porch-step with holes in knees, holding a piece of paper with a multicoloured series of crayon circles over her head. Each are happy to report: It's time to go home.

Upstream to Spawn

So far, in this year of our Lord 2005, I have attended 2 concerts: Ireland's The Frames and France's M83. In that order. Last night M83 played at Lee's Palace, that second tier venue featuring bands whose futures will eventually fill stadiums. I had written nothing about The Frames mostly because it had been the 3rd time I'd seen them and I no longer had a thing for Joe Doyle, the bassist. I have a staunch 4 month sexual fantasy time limit before it ticks past expiration. Ack, the ex-husband/ best friend, is the first to accuse me of being a groupie. And he's not incorrect in that assessment.

At work talking to Cartman sounding Mike, the new chef of my one night a week place of employ, I was trying to dangle a jealousy carrot in front of him.

The Comrade: Dude.
Cartman sounding Mike: Dude?
The Comrade: Did I ever tell you about my meeting Interpol?
Cartman sounding Mike: You did? What did you say?
The Comrade: Oh, you know... stuff like how their music changed my life, etc, etc.
Cartman sounding Mike: You are such a loser! Did you hear Matt's Interpol story?

Matty, my ex-work comrade, who didn't see eye to eye with me for the better part of a year, but finally let go and let me in, met the band at a private loft afterparty.

Cartman sounding Mike: He thought they were waiters and he asked them for a scotch... neat.

I had introduced Interpol to Cartman sounding Mike. As part of his continued gratitude, he has introduced Dreamend, Explosions in the Sky and Japan's Mono to me. A fair trade.


I was introduced to M83 by last year's Boy with Kaleidescope Eyes. Last month, in a moment of weakness, a locale somewhere between the districts Stupidity and Curiousity, I ended a near 8 month period of silence by way of email communiqué. As ugly as the break-up had been, as much as I wanted nothing again to do with a person as capable of deception as he, I realised he had opened a couple of paint sealed windows in realms of beauty that I could neither ignore nor deny. He had introduced both Lars van Trier's Dogville and M83 to me. He had made a difference. Even though there was a mountain region's terrain of hurt left, he would be remembered as a contribution during one point of my growth.

In the return correspondence he stated he was both fine and he would also be attending the show. Fair warning.

The opening act was Ulrich Schnauss, a lone man with a pageboy cut sitting in profile liberally massaging both a Mac G5 laptop and updated Millennial Bontempi. This Ger-man delivered a TKO to The Comrade. It was awe-inspiring über-electronica.

A lone, shrill voice from the standing-room only cheap seats behind me bellowed, "Herr Schnauss! Ich liebe dich!
Followed by the English equivalent.
Elephant shoe.

After a brief Dunhill punctuated intermission, I returned to my listening station, the 2nd stair on the short staircase bridging the bar and the dancefloor. Standing next to the mixing board operator, I was imagining what it would be like modifying sounds and creating rhythmic lightshows for those who encourage an altered universe by way of resin filled inhalation and soundscapes. I felt a tap of familiar green glass against my right arm. A Stella Artois bottle. The tap was followed by a leaning nudge which sent me closer to my mixing operator's daydream.

The Boy with Kaleidescope Eyes.

The Comrade: [like a cucumber] Hey.
TBwKE: I saw you come in. I was looking at your profile... How are you?
The Comrade: [not too much, not too little] I'm good. How are you?

He looked at me with the same quality he had when he reeled me in last summer.
Shy, sheepish, silently appreciative.

TBwKE: [slightly deflated] I'm okay.

We talked briefly about das opening act until the first few bars of a familiar passage commenced. It was M83's definitive sound: tension pulled heartstrings attacked with a French horsehair bow. I made a dog pitched sound while bandying between clutches to my heart and laughing while clapping my hands like a 2 year old discovering, really discovering, Christmas. The Boy with Kaleidescope Eyes remembered all of my inflections, all of my little "quirks". All those moments when I would surrender to absolute delight. In that moment, he smiled while looking at his shoes. The same quality of smile that reeled me in last summer.

Shy, sheepish, silently appreciative.

I wasn't about to create any small talk. Not then. I don't like talking during shows. I don't go to shows frequently, so when I do it is a reverence displayed for longtime or newly discovered beloveds. I realised that seeing live music alone, particularly involving organ sounds, feels like being in church for me. It is nothing short of a spiritual experience. Though Lee's Palace's venue walls are festooned in matte black, I can easily imagine the pious scenes in colourful stained glass beneath.

More reasons why I go alone:
I hate waiting for others to get ready.
I hate having another precipitate my exit strategy.

The Boy with Kaleidescope Eyes suggested we talk after the show. He suggested this as his eyes and head were volleying up and around to look in the direction from whence he came.

The Boy with Kaleidescope Eyes: We're sitting over there.
I didn't ask who "we" were.
Too late for such questions.

Alone, four songs into the headlining act, at the point of my face nearly cracking from smiling too hard, I was touched on the shoulder again.

TBwKE: I have to go.
The Comrade: Why?
TBwKE: Brian doesn't want to stay. That's who I'm with. Brian. I came with him, so I guess I have to leave with him.

Hm.

The Comrade: Reason #1 why I go to shows alone.

He was simultaneously stuttering while stammering.

The Comrade: Well, it was nice to see you.
TBwKE: Yeah. Um... well... maybe... you can...

And then he made the symbol of a phone call next to his ear.

I have a terrible inability to hide the expression shock and horror. I felt that sensation rise, fan out in peacock's plummage and fall within a second's time. Even the blind would have been able to register it.


Yesterday after a brief mention that my barbeque worked as effectively as an Easy Bake Oven for grilling meat, Fatty had taken the entire mechanism apart, diagnosing the issues and cleaning the whole unit. Ajax was enlisted. A laundry list of new parts was created. Supplies were purchased. At the end of the day, after a veering to market for fresh salmon steaks, the barbeque was reassembled and made new again. It burned bright, hot and even. Like us. The smoke from the grilling salmon perfumed us.


Last week, on his birthday no less, Fatty was found happily helping me with the some-assembly-required series of cardboard boxes that promised to turn into our new bed. Apparently the childhood proficiency of Lego aids in the accumen of IKEA assemblage.


I didn't know how I'd feel when I would see the Boy with Kaleidescope Eyes again. When I saw him he looked like he'd lost more hair. He looked paler. Skinner, if that was possible. He looked unremarkable. Though the lighting was dim, I could still see his eyes. The effect was gone. In the place of kaleidescopes were twin grey marbles, made dull from constant deception.

Brian?
I don't think so.

Maybe someone wanted to leave because he never could hide guilt very well.
Maybe someone wanted to leave because someone noticed him talking to a girl who doesn't hide any delight she experiences.

Brian?
No.
Bryanna?
Maybe.

TBwKE: Maybe...
The Comrade: Goodbye.


During the drive home, I had an M83 bridge stuck in my head. It was gently nestled between one of my brain's grey matter crevices. Cradled there. In a hammock. I walked softly up the stairs and penetrated the lock with the key in my first attempt. Sitting at my desk, Fatty's beautiful face was illuminated by my monitor.



I hope the salmon knows his sacrifice was that of a worthwhile cause.

To the nth Degree

Sometimes things grow exponentially.

The day after the escort home by Mark, someone Fatty had full knowledge of, Fatty came over to pick me up for dinner. I was so happy to see him but I sensed he was keeping things close to his chest and me at bay with extended fingertips at the end of a fully hyperextended arm. He kept things light. Surface. I wanted to pull him closer, but he didn't RSVP my invitation. My face registered disappointment. My eyes began to water even though my pride normally had a full time salaried bathroom attendant on duty armed at the ready with super absorbant towels. At that moment I realised my pride has nothing on my heart. My heart would always win the thumb wrestle.

"I feel I'm happier to see you than you are me," she said through a salt water fisheyed distortion.

I learned that Fatty was exhausted from not being able to sleep the night before. He had lay in bed, wide awake, continuously churning the possibility of another man taking me away from him. In the moment of realising that it didn't happen there was a seismic shift in Fatty's expression with me. And in that same moment there was a similar shift in me. All the fear of exposing too quickly went by the wayside. In an instant, Fatty was a great, big fine meshed net in which a little girl in a pink tutu could fall from great heights, at oblique angles and always be safely caught. Home.

He said: "Everything you feel, I feel. It's just been harder for me to express it."



My eyes are burning. I don't know exactly why but I'm looking suspiciously at a new 70% organic face cream I bought at my favourite health food store in the Beaches. Why would they put only 70% as a selling feature? What about the other 30%?Reading the box it states:
100% Vegetarian Ingredients
We have not tested this product or its ingredients on animals, nor have we asked others to do so.

Nor... have we asked... others to do so.

What the hell does that mean? Does that mean that when I've purchased materials specifically because they've promoted a no test pledge, they surreptitiously sent it off to other labs to have it tested? The bastards?!

It reminds me of the ad exec I'd dated once.

Though he was a great cuddler, I couldn't imagine a worse way of earning a buck. Advertising. And I told him every chance I got. He gave me the advertising skinny on Stella Artois, my preferred pour while saddled up to a 2' depth of shellacked hardwood or any other flat surface full of rings and misplaced coasters. His version was that the date inscribed on the bottle suggested that masters have been brewing this golden delight since 1366. His version stated that it was a random number the company came up with, a selling creature feature. My golden elixir, this latin star, was no different than the mass produced swill he chose to pour down his throat.

How could they put a number, any random number on a label and get away with it? Well, it turns out, and if anyone's interested in the history of the stuff it can be found on their website, that 1366 has a modicum of significance, but really... it's stretching it. This ad exec is the same dude who tried to defend his chosen industry by stating that advertising was a form of information.

Fear not, between myself and Bill Hicks, he was set straight.

For God's sakes, tell us the truth.
I feel slightly better about the face cream.

Continental marketing is an interesting beast though. In Canada, Stella is marketed towards those who feel they have distinguished taste. In England, England, Stella Artois is only drunk by belligerent thugs wearing stained wife beaters. This belligerent thug has taken to wearing bibs.


Fatty's up at his family's cottage with his guy pals, a handful of fellas whom I adore. He and his buddy Jeff wanted me to come up because I'm just as much a guy in thought, if not more crude, as any guy they know. Even though I received an open invitation to go anytime by his mother and an earnest and loving request by Fatty, I opted out for 2 reasons:

1. It's nice to miss them.
2. His dad couldn't go. The Comrade has a slight crush on the dad. Even though he was the fella who cracked open a conspiracy not unlike Russell Crowe's character had in the Insider, and we're talking proportions of the magnitude that tears families apart, I still managed to shove my size 10 foot in my mouth when I gently patted his stomach at lunch the other day and said, "Well, you've got a lot more room in there than I have."

Way to score points with the family.
God, I'm an idiot.


Fatty is the King of Stupid Hats. Luckily this is something he pulls off well. He has a massive cranium. At his family's cottage there was left an inheritance of previously loved, if not ridiculous looking, hats from bygone eras preceding the Paris Riots, the year the Comrade was born. In the summer, with a becoming royal purple velveteen track suit, Fatty will often don one of these caps to finish off whatever effect he is trying to create. He then goes to local northern bars befriending the yokels. Successfully.

Thursday was his birthday. During the day I went to Value Village, the second hand boutique, and purchased a canary yellow visor which had been once given to all the bluehaired shuffleboard-on-the-Lido-deck players on a Royal Caribean Cruiseline cruise. Above the cruiseline's logo read: I'M SHIP-SHAPE

The best $1.50 I've spent in a long time.
Fatty promised to wear the visor all weekend.

In the evening I took him to my buddy Harrington's restaurant in Kensington Market, the area once inhabited by Jewish street sellers of live chickens et al but the cloven hooved oinking varietal. Back then all the Little Piggies were able to go wee, wee, wee, all the way home. La Palette is a french inspired bistro that has a lovely consignment beer menu as large as any decent wine list. It's broken up into categories of origin and style. I love the idea of sharing a bottle of something. Wine is, to me, often over-rated, certainly overdone and often overpriced. Sharing a selection of beers while ordering off the regular menu seems a little espionage and extra delicious to me.

La Palette is home to Quack and Track.
Surf and Turf= lobster tail and filet mignon, say.
Quack and Track= duck confit and grilled horse

Paired with Unibroue's 10th anniversary commemorative ale in a lovely sharable 750mL bottle, it was quite quite.


I spent the weekend without him. I spent most of the weekend with Ack, the ex-husband/ best friend. He was supposed to be hanging out with his new young lady, a grade 5 teacher in a special languages school. Unfortunately she was down for the count with a travelling bug that snotnosed kids pass onto each other. Transluscent, infectious viral matter smeared onto written assignments, scrutinised and marred (graded) with red ink, the young teacher had an induced weakened immune system by the combination of being overworked both by the school's and Ack's I-haven't-had-it-in-a-long-time demands. Or is that worked over?

She is tattooed, but they remain hidden under the concealment of an educator's traditional drab garb. She is French Canadian. Latin based. Ah! A freeing type he could benefit from. She has a sweet face and a written profile that I liked instantly. I have never met her, but was shown all her accoutrements on the mega online dating site, the shopping centre where they'd met. Ack had thrown her in the shopping cart as he proceeded to the check-out lane restricting one to 8 items.

He's fond of her, but he's not ga-ga.

The Comrade: I don't think we're going to feel what we felt when we first met. I don't think it's possible again.
Ack: But isn't that what we're supposed to feel?
The Comrade: It makes sense to, since that's how it's been, but I don't know anymore. It's not really real, is it? And boy, does that not last.
Ack: But you should be able to know right away.
The Comrade: But what if you don't know. What if love and ardor grow, as someone once said, like a fungus? Its root system, its clinging device being trust, something that's only gained through time.

I didn't feel ga ga when I first met Fatty. I didn't feel it when we first started seeing each other. Shock was more apropos. Strangely I'm feeling it now. Ga ga. And it feels like it's grown exponentially.

Innocence: There is No Special Pill

Last night at the Cheer's Equivalent, my once a week work engagement, an army's batillion could have shot Roman candle fireworks every which way without hitting a single soul. Luckily I'm always armed with protective eye gear saving me from blindness from such an occasion. Having to deal with an emergency, any emergency, would have been a welcome respite. I like to stay busy while clocked in.

My darling boss, Doyenne Kim, actually apologised to me for the restaurant's ocean of emptiness. There was no need for an apology. It's not like she'd told more people to get the fuck out her restaurant. That only happened one time, weeks ago. That was only one individual and one night only in her 20 year career. And that fella really did ask for it.

A brief conversation at the bar involved a national rag's restaurant review of the eatery next door which panned the food, but lauded the service.

Truism: Great service is completely subjective.
Thus spake Doyenne Kim.
Subtext: Bad food is universal.

Kim said this to disarmingly charming chef and writer Mark, Adjudicator 8 from several weeks past. Though he is part owner of the restaurant directly west of my once a week engagement, I haven't seen Mark since the evening of the tempestuous snowstorm that swirled us into a cyclonic mass joined at the mouth.

Oh, look! ... An emergency.

There must be those who learn valuable lessons gleaned solely from the oral teachings of masters or parents. Why else would there be professors? Why else would parents keep harping on us trying to dissuade any potential harm that may come to us from the greatest Master, Life? I, stupidly, don't learn this way. I have to dabble. To try. To just check things out. 90% of my life has been spent as an agent on reconnaissance missions.

After my second marriage failed my mother took me aside and said, "This marriage thing doesn't seem to be working out for you. Don't do it anymore." She gave me the green light go ahead to co-habitate with another man, but she is not an investor in the 3rd time's a charm philosophy.

But like the Little Engine That Could... what if
I think I can, I think I can?

Sipping a glass of Australian sauvignon blanc, Mark told me the inspiration of the thumb and index finger held at a 2" gap denoting life is only this short. Over a very short period of time 3 important figures in his life had recently died. All 3 went rather inexplicably and somewhat unceremoniously.
1. Aneurism
2. ? But he was Jewish so there couldn't be an autopsy.
3. Self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head.

Mark is 33 years old. The Magic Year, in my opinion. The age Jesus was when he was nailed to the cross, dying for our sins. At 33 I promised myself I'd be a better person.

Mark was most affected by #3. Gunshot wound to the head. So many ways to end one's life. Why that way, he wondered. Apparently she'd asked an arms supplier of the film world for the last object she'd ever handle in her life. She said it was to be used as a prop for an upcoming photo shoot. Standard issue.

The Comrade: Was she on medication?
Mark: She was on the same stuff I'm on.
The Comrade: Why are you on anti-depressants?
Mark: I'm bi-polar. I need it.
The Comrade: Get off it. You don't need it.
Mark: No, I do. I could spend days in bed.
The Comrade: Maybe you're tired.

The Comrade: Do you feel anything?
Mark: No.
The Comrade: Do you feel you're missing anything?
Mark: Innocence.


Last week I drank a six pack of beer and pissed all over the idea that innocence is lost with too much wisdom. Innocence is something we all want to keep, but knowledge is something that rips the toenails off of that little creature. One by one. Last month, perched precariously on a thin gauge of vulnerability I succumbed to innocence in my dealings with Mark. He felt that innocence and was taken by it. Last night he wanted to relive it.

He asked to borrow a pen as he grabbed a stack of cocktail napkins.
He began scrawling genuine professions of want, need and desire, which all culminated into a severe case of like.
Like was the bottom line.
Words, he said, were just words.
Words, I said, were pure weight.
And why would I settle for like, as genuine as it was, when I succumb to love?
Something I have right now.

He still wanted to walk me home, he wrote.
He asked nicely, though had poor penmanship.
I agreed to his escort.

Mark: I am so attracted to you... and I feel you understand me so well.
The Comrade: I do understand you, Mark.
Mark: And I feel we have so much in common.
The Comrade: In many ways we not dissimilar.

Passing by the legendary strip club, Jilly's, Home of the C-section section, he said something that made me spew 50 "whoas", each louder and italicised with every fresh utterance.

Mark: What if you're the One?

I had to stop to catch my breath.

He said that what could happen between us would stay between us.
He said that no one needed to know.
He wanted desperately to explore my body.
My head asked my body what it wanted to do.
Both were in agreeance.

When I closed my eyes and imagined the sensation of a man's caress, I only wanted one.

Green light: Fatty
Red light: Mark

In the preceding years I have been unfaithful in relationships. I have dishonoured and have been dishonourable. I had justified my actions every step of the way. I don't want to be that person anymore. If things don't work out with Fatty, I want to be the one to state why, without having my body do my bidding elsewhere. I want to live more truthfully. I want to keep targeting the GPS at the destination Better Person, country code 33. In years past I could feel good about saying "no" to someone like Mark. I would feel as if I was being true to the person I was seeing at the time. This time, saying "no" to Mark was being true to me.

I really want to see where things go with Fatty and me. Though there have been no professed expectations of exclusivity, I am treating this relationship with the honour it deserves. It started as a kinship, which turned into a dear friendship, which turned into love.

And this time, unlike all the reconnaissance missions in the past, I didn't feel that saying "no" to Mark would be akin to missing out on something. Saying "yes" to Mark might entail me to be missing out on something much more. And I guess that's wisdom, something that brought me closer to innocence.

Ugh

Now I close my eyes and see him.
This is the first time, so early into a relationship, that we actually make a point of going out accompanied with friends.
And I like all of them.
This is the first time, with anyone, that we both realise when it's time to go our own ways for a bit.
Faith, one of my oldest and best friends said, "That's great; you don't risk burn-out too quickly."
Something I have a habit of doing.

What if
I lose interest?
He leaves me?

He wants to meet my family.

Last night he threatened to throw me over his shoulder to take me to a party;
But if I didn't want to go, he wouldn't either.

We didn't go.

After he barbequed a chicken burger for me at 4:00am
He asked me to sit on his knee
I asked for a pony
As I grabbed a tuft of hair
And kissed Santa

Ack, the ex-husband/ best friend, said, "You could marry worse."

I'm hooked.

Ugh.

Ask and Ye Shall Receive

The only thing wrong with the beginning of spring is the first couple of days the bike is taken out, hard, and I'm left with bikeass. The bones traditionally used to sit with are bruised by way of bouncing and constant jostling on concrete, fallen branches, gravelly bits, pot holes. I mean not to complain; it's just difficult to get back on the saddle after a 2 hour run the day before.

Layers... tons
Water bottle... check
Rain jacket... check
Mittens... check

It was overcast, but mild-ish. Fatty had never been on the bike path that runs alongside the Don River. It certainly wasn't old hat to me, but I'd been along there before. About 5kms north of my house there is a fork in the path that allows the outdoor enthusiast to either ride an additional 5kms to the rather large forested Sunnybrook Park, or veer east to Taylor Creek which brings charming wooden bridges, each unique and good to lie down on, bike paths both asphalt and dirt which both were either wet or muddy or both, all within an escarpment encased in woodlands. I'd never been to Taylor Creek before. It's good to explore something new together. Sometimes there was an option to either take the high road, using a bridge to bypass the creek, or the low road which allowed the cyclist to ride through 2-6" of the creek's water. We chose the lowroads. Neither of us have fenders. Everyone's pants were freezing and soaking wet.

Flecked in mud, water logged underwear, soaked to the bone, the two of us were very happy. Riding bikes with someone who is one of your best friends and someone you sleep with is pretty much up there in the greatest things of all time.


At Dirty's birthday dinner the other night she didn't tell me what she'd wished for, though I could guess. I asked her to make a very careful wish when she blew out the candle. After the first blowing, I'd lit it again saying she had another wish coming. Why not 2? She deserves it. I know she wished for someone special. I know she wants to be a mom.

There was someone who had called her the day after her birthday. Someone from her past. Someone who is still technically married, who still shares the same address as the mother of his child, the lady who lives upstairs from his basement accommodations. Bad choice, albeit. She knows it, but there are no real prospects in sight, so for now she is deliberating on this. Chewing. She's a spitter, not a swallower.

No decent prospects.
Maybe you should ask for help now.

The week before I met Ack, the ex-husband/ best friend, I was perfectly content in being alone. I was out for dinner with a friend, perfectly self-sufficient. Happy, even. This is great! I don't need anyone! And then I watched A River Runs Through It with Brad Pitt. Weeping sobbing. Sobbing weeping. That night I prayed for someone of significance. The next day I had a date with the man I was to be married to for 7 1/2 years.

A couple of weeks ago I realised that having someone in my life would be better than to not have someone in my life. Friends are lovely, but it's not the same as having someone love you, kiss your forehead, stroke your hair and back until you fall asleep. It's not. A couple of weeks ago I said I was ready to receive real love again. I asked the Universe for help this time.

Thank you for giving me Fatty.

I feel excitement in my heart, but I don't feel dizzy with the loss of myself. I realised how right I am with him because our relationship is love and comraderie. Heads close in bed, killing ourselves laughing last night, we two felt like we were at a summer camp sleepover.


Today with a bruised, sore ass I rode a different bike path, this time on my own. Along Lake Ontario, pairs of waterbirds are everywhere now. Swans, ducks, seagulls, our geese. All in pairs. Flying together. Floating together. Preening for one another. One guards, the other feeds.

Couples.
It's spring, goddammit!
Everyone should be in love.

Is There Choice?

I hope you don't mind, Ryan, but I loaned Fatty the Tom Robbins Still Life with Woodpecker book. For some reason I can't read much of anything right now. I don't think spring's my season to read. He couldn't sleep that night. He'd read 3/4 the book while I was trying to fall asleep in the other room. I'm the kind of empath who can pick up other people's headaches. That night I shared Fatty's insomnia. Sometimes it's a curse caring too much for someone.

In the morning Fatty was recounting a passage in the book. He likes that Robbins flips reality and makes the reader consider the alteration of things we normally take for granted. Flipping.

CHOICE

Take this word. Write it on a full sheet of paper with a fat marker. Capital letters please. Turn it around and hold it in front of a mirror. In its reflection, upside down, you still have CHOICE.

That just blew my mind.


Wednesday was Dirty's birthday. She turned 36. For 5 months every year we are the same age. I took her to the sister restaurant of the Cheer's Equivalent, my place of employ, for 2 reasons: 1) I get a deep discount 2) everyone on staff is our mutual friend.

Dirty's Impromptu Birthday Crew
The Comrade
Dirty, the birthday girl
Ack, the ex-husband/ best friend
My Robert, a Mensa smart, very hot, young gay male who has had great difficulty finding a suitable partner in crime
Doyenne Kim, our sometimes fearful, sometimes fearless leader of both establishments
Ian, whom I used to make out with but like much better at a distance
Rob, Ian's best friend whose daughter is Ian's godchild

Dinner was fantastic from start to finish. It was made even more extravagant with Doyenne Kim's gift of cracking a $100 bottle of wine. Dirty was surrounded by 4 men. 4:1 is a good ratio at this stage of her life; she needs the attention of men right now. She's missed having a significant other in her life. There is something about the vying and the ridiculousness of men falling all over themselves that delights us girls sometimes. The Doyenne is with Militia Man, the fella who hates, more than anything in the world, to be shot at. I am with Fatty, but my Fatty wasn't with us that night. It was Dirty's night. He was still deep in my heart though.

After the birthday candle had been blown out, there was a suggestion our next station should be the out of district bar called Laide. It's an overtly sexy bar done in masculine greys; the runway entrance is flanked with headless body moulds in bas relief; the bar is horseshoe shaped with photo negative sized pictures of pornographic images collaged in black and white, a theme which continues onto projected Betty Paige skin flicks on the wall and the look of pre-cumming on the mature bartenders. There are semi-private make-out booths where it is not unusual to find random cavity searches. I kept my arms folded and my legs closed.

At the bar was another Ryan. Super Tall Ryan. Super Tall Ryan is the ex-boyfriend of Paula, the one who said on the topic of oversized areolas "bologna belongs in a sandwich, not on a girl's chest". Paula the one who received 14 bunches of daisies by my friend Ian with no word of thanks, but one word of lambasting. Paula. Paula. Super Tall Ryan? I told everyone he was 6'5". He asked me to instead say he was 6 and Sexy. Can you shed some light?

Super Tall Ryan: There are 2 sides to every story.
The Comrade: True, true.
STR: Apparently he was calling and texting a lot. Like 50 times.
The Comrade: I suppose the truth lies somewhere between 3 and 50.
STR: And she's nuts.

Super Tall Ryan recounted a night when he had come home rather late. Paula Bologna Tits had stuffed all of his earthly possessions into black garbage bags where they laid stacked, patiently for him, in the lobby of his mother's apartment. One night only. Then there was the time when she attacked him with the vacuum cleaner. He still hasn't forgiven her that one.

STR: Any little thing will set her off.

In the background, various conversations were had at the bar and the surrounding examination booths. Rob, Ian's best friend, with wife and child safely tucked at home, was bouncing from girl to girl, jumping unannounced and uninvited into conversations. Close talking. Inappropriately touching. Just the girls. Me.

I've never met Rob before.

The Comrade: Rob. You're going to have to back the fuck off me.
Octopus Rob: What do you mean?
The Comrade: What do you mean, what do I mean? Stop touching me.
Octopus Rob: I wasn't. I was just rubbing your back.
The Comrade: That's not my back, dude. Now fuck off.

He bounces underred to Dirty.
Then forgets and bounces back to me.
All members erect.
By this time I was by the entrance flanked in body moulds.
Ack was on his way out.

The Comrade: [as the Octopus is draped all over her] Ack! Can you take this guy out, please?

Ack mock slaps the Octopus with a stupid hat, made stupid by logos covering 90% of its area, I'd received from an event once worked. He wears it everywhere. A cranium billboard. 5 mock cloth slaps and he's gone.

Reason #1 why I am no longer married to Ack.

I pushed the Octopus off me and headed back to sit with Dirty and my lovely Robert briefly. Robert felt icky. Dirty was visibly shaken. Everyone had his/her own experience with the surrounds. With the Octopus. Each of them was unique, but thematically equal. Lude, overtly sexual and slightly terrifying. We'd decided the best course was to leave. Just one more cigarette, though.

Sitting in one of the open booths, no need for semi-privacy or otherwise, Ian, my excellent friend approached me, drunk.

Ian: What is your problem with my friend Rob?
The Comrade: He's a letchy fuck and I think you should take him out here now.
Ian: Fuck you! He's my best friend!

Fuck you's flew for 5 solid minutes. My voice came straight from the bowels of the Earth. I was gutteral, juggular, booming. The rest of the table was silent. Silent night. Holy... crap.

Zero back-up.
Again.
Though received expressions of earnest love and appreciation from Dirty later.
Nobody wanted to rock the boat.
Everyone else understood Ian's relationship to his best friend,
His relationship to his god-daughter.
Others had to work with him.
Best to maintain the peace.

Fuck that.

After Ian and the Octopus left I burst into tears, adding, "It's hard loving somebody." An hour prior to the 5 Minute Fuck You Workout I had expressed to Ian how important he had become to me. Of course I understood protecting a friend's honour, but my understanding stops when that friend is behaving like a uncivilised, lecherous beast.

The next day Ian called for clarification.

The Comrade: You didn't understand so you launched into a fuck you session with me?
Ian: [with lightness] I was really drunk last night, sorry.
The Comrade: I will not accept that excuse, Ian. I get drunk. All my friends get drunk, but we don't turn against our friends selectively.
Ian: Honey, Rob didn't understand why everyone turned against him.
The Comrade: Well, I kept telling him that night, Ian. If this is some behaviour he has, he should really check that.
Ian: No, this is really weird. Rob's not a touchy guy. I think he must have felt really comfortable with you guys.
The Comrade: Oh, he was comfortable all right. Sitting at the booth at the end of the night were 3 other people you trust. 2 out of the 3 have never complained about the attention nor the affection of men. You have never seen me lose it, but you made your accusations without any knowledge of any fact.

I was in the middle of my tirade, reinvigorating gutteral and juggular, when Ian got called off with work-related duties. He promised to do a follow-up call to both myself and the Octopus.

I'm still waiting.

Fatty: I wish I'd been there. I would have turned his body into one of those bas relief bodies in the entranceway.
The Comrade: You're the one for me, Fatty.


Dirty: I wish I could have said something, but I couldn't. Don't you ever change.

I don't think I could if I tried.
You can flip me, reverse me, turn me inside out and my choice is never anything but the same.

The Inauguration

I was out with my good friend Josh, my favourite ex-work comrade, yesterday inaugurating the first patio day of 2005. Granted we had to sit under a heat lamp, but it was nice to share pints in the open air again. Ah, the little things. During the 4 1/2 hours we spent together, sitting on ice blocks once known as our asses, his phone must have rung 25 times. Josh=50% Mr. Popularity 50% Mr. Congeniality.

Something that happens to many people I know, both boys and girls, is for some reason there are name patterns that occur in dating scenarios. For me, there have been 3 significant Seans in my life. For Joshie there have been 6 Claires. Sitting on the elevated patio in the Beaches area Joshie had spotted Claire version 1.0 and 3.0.

Joshie's dating a lot these days. His last Claire, version 6.0 had done a horrible disservice of having an affair behind Joshie's back. 6.0 has fully realised, much too late, what she had in Josh. Her phone invitations to dinner sometime have gone unreturned. The last person I heard Josh was dating was a very lovely redheaded actress.

The Comrade: And are you still seeing her?
Josh: Yeah, I'm seeing her on Saturday.
The Comrade: Is this an exclusive thing?
Josh: Hell no. She's only in town for the next month or so. Both of us know this is just for that time.
The Comrade: Is there ever an exclusivity clause even when no one says anything? Do you have to say it, or is it a given?
Josh: Well, yeah, if you have history, then it's a given.

I had a friend
Who turned into a great friend,
Who turned into my lover,
And now it's changed.

I suppose it had to. Next level stuff. I'm reminded of first person shooter games, an old addiction, where I would take my assassin armed with optimum health points, fully armoured, caches of ammunition and über powerful weapons onto the next level. There was a sense of duty, of accomplishment, of righteousness. I don't feel that now. I feel scared and vulnerable and extremely fragile.

Things I really never noticed about Fatty was his ability to deflect things by using humour, adding a couple of bars of humming, spontaneous laughter for no apparent reason and mumbling his words. Actually I have noticed these things before, but there is an entirely different context now. These are ways for him to pull away when my scruntising gaze becomes too intense for the lad. Too exposing. When a man pulls away from me I've learned to cut the cord, hurling back whence I came. I don't want to, but it's my self-protective nature to need to.

If I give all the love I have, it will be squashed.
Like a girlfly on a mirror in a pink tutu.

It reminds me too much of my past marriage. It reminds me too much of last August with the Boy with Kaleidescope Eyes. With them I gave freely. Naturally. Honestly. And got burned. I can't afford that anymore. We cats with 9 lives have died several times already and can't afford haphazard slaughters. Each death has promoted a rebirth, true, but not always have I come out better. Wiser, yes, but not necessarily better.

The better would be to still have all the trust and wonder in someone new. The better would be to forget the hurt that ever happened. The better would be to take things one day at a time, something I have great difficulty doing.

It is still so new.
Wash, rinse, repeat.
It is still so new.

He had to remind me this this morning.
It's just the beginning.

I told him what I was scared of.
And as I told him it was the first time he'd seen me cry.
I told him I'd try not to hold back as much.
He told me he'd do the same.

Scream Part III

I don't like screaming. Well, that's not true. There are times I actually really like screaming. Interpol screaming good. Running down the street with friends screaming - good. Coming out of delicious sleep screaming... bad. I'm not talking about night terrors, something poor Fatty's mother gets in the middle of the night. I'm talking about the reaction to a sound a loved one has made, which I've never heard before; screaming just because it was the first thing that came to mind and I hadn't yet figured out what to do.

Falculties: none.
The night before, I had been out for dinner with my lovely Robert, whom I tried to set Fatty's brother up with, but neither Fatty nor Trist could come, and Matty, the ex-work comrade whom I didn't see eye to eye with for the better part of a year.
3 courses, vodka, Errol Flynn, 4 glasses of red wine (the courses denoted food, by the way, not the liquor portion. I wasn't counting that).
4am initial wake up, tail end of REM sleep I recall vaguely as lyrical contents to a song which I now cannot remember.
With the deftness of a Parkinson's victim, she downed a shaky glass of ice water
Briefly refreshed
Stumbled back to pass out
6am: pillow jostles
Chicken: Aaaaarrh! Aaaaarrh! Aaaaarrh! Aaaaarrh!

Chicken!

The Comrade: [matching] Aaaaarrh! [not matching] AAAAAAAHHHHHHHRRRRRRRGG!

I flipped and cradled him on the floor, light switched on to see what was causing this strange muffled, yet piercing sound.
Examine...
Open wide...
...What?

He had been in mid licking chest mode. Evidently his manly chest hair got stuck on his velcro tongue. Stuck. In my life... I have never seen this. Running it through my mind consistently for 45 minutes, I was still left perplexed by how the hell this could happen. I had just seen Garden State with Fatty. I was reminded of the silent velcro, though while ripping Chicken's hair from his extended tongue it sounded more like the original noisemaking adherer. He immediately resumed cleaning procedures, but was more tentative in his next attempt.

Screaming awake, I don't like. Awake and screaming is not much better.

My Fatty had invited me out with a couple of friends to catch an art show hosted by a selection of student artists from our University of Toronto. I had no idea the U of T had an arts programme. I saw no evidence of any young Kandinskis. It looked like there were some disciples of Rorschach's. Hark! I see dead people in indelible ink! Inspecting the content I thought the school should have stuck to the original plan of creating doctors, both medical and lettered.

Why do students insist on making Shock-value art? A partially opened coffin with a radiating monitor tucked inside where the heart should be. 6' of auburn hair cascading along the ground. Wavy. I screamed and hid behind Fatty's shoulder. But ART is supposed to evoke feelings! Yes, it made me feel something. Fright and irritation. Who the hell would put that in their living room?


I was with Ack, the ex-husband/ best friend, food shopping at the low end of the bling scale grocery chain the other day. Ack likes to push the cart. This is how good a friend/ ex-wife I am: he is in possession of our car, he made off with Flanigan's Neurophone aka the Neuroliser aka the Smart Helmet, and he still gets to push the damned cart. He was ahead of me about 10'. In some cultures, Chinese and Indian spring to mind, there is an ethics code which entails the woman to walk about 3 paces behind the man. I think I'd just finished yoga for the first time in 9 months. 3 paces behind, at a slug's pace, was all these old bones could muster. A young girl had stepped out into the queuing area by the check-out lanes. She was about 7 years old, Asian, developmentally disabled with the most adorable smile and expression of wonder on her face. She looked and smiled at Ack, who glanced at her sideways and kept on walking. I kept my eye on her. All I saw was her pure joy, her essence.

I'm the Shroom Guru. I believe that this particular drug allows a person to truly see one's own unique powers especially if one can't see these on a daily basis. This is mine: I can divine one's pure essence. I see all the potential in the world. And all the hate. And all the love.

Her father went to collect her, bringing her closer to his protective side. As he was pulling her away her eyes locked onto mine. I smiled at her. She smiled back. Tilting her head she said, "Mama?"

I had to throw my hand up to cover my radiating heart, trying desperately to stuff love back inside.

Of course I was not her mother. I've never wanted to have children. The greatest reason being I really think I'd fuck it up. In that instant when she looked at me and called me that name it made me feel all the fright of ever being a mother. It made me feel all the explosive love of potentially being a mother. It made me want to scream. And I think I did silently, if that's possible. But the way she looked at me was as if she had all the vested powers of seeing like I've had when I'm either on shrooms or relaxed enough to not let the world make me second guess myself.

Yuck Acceptance

About a week ago I made the decision to step up work again for the summer. Working for pay only once a week has hacked large chunks out of my tiny nest egg. Also, as I've stepped out of my weird, ill fitting depression, I finally feel ready to interact with the People again.

Last year I took the summer off. I was going to do the same this year, but Life kind of has a way of shifting one's original course. The unceremonious firing which happened at the beginning of this year, the one which did not include a gold watch, left me unpreparedly without a regular wad of cash in my George Costanza wallet. But as I'm not crazy about work, as a concept, it really didn't matter. I'd saved nothing, but as I was going to take the summer off anyway, what's a few months earlier? I would just live leaner. I don't really need that much.

Cat food, certainly. We here at Love and Comraderie H.Q. get quite surly when our blood sugar drops. Silica cat litter crystals to reduce the el stinko factor from my loved one's hind quarters. Lilies, orchids and rosemary plants to feed our souls. Food. Pay rent. Cocktails. Cigarettes. Looking at this list makes me think my dear friend Fergus knows me so well. This is lean for me. Lean is proving to be rather costly. Time to engage the course change again.

I never thought the words: "Fuck it, I don't care; I'm just going to make as much money as I can this summer," would come out of my mouth. But they had. I have a tendency to inordinately care for a place so much so that my heart and soul is deeply entrenched in it. When something happens, like it had at my last place of employ, there's a piece of me that remains there. I suspect I placed this personal belonging in a cubby somewhere, but I forgot where. I can't afford to do that anymore. If there was one lesson I learned last year, and there were many, the nasty one that remained was: Business is Business.

Sigh.
I'll readjust.

In the last few years I'd done work blitzes. I'd work like mad, taking all the shifts they wanted to give me until I mentally and physically exhausted myself. I believe work blitzes are good for people. Work like stink for a portion of the year and then take another portion off for oneself. Do nothing. Nothing isn't really nothing. It's hanging out with friends, skipping off to patios with 60 SPF just in case you have too much to drink and pass out in the sun, riding bikes and other hooky playing events. This formula seems to work for me.

It's time to go back.
Create a resumé.
Done.
Pound pavement.
Ugh.
Target choice establishments.
Four.

I vehemently hate looking for a job. Mostly I hate dropping off my resumé, asking to see the manager. Hate, hate, hate. Eventually I end up saying, "Hi. Could I leave my resumé here for anyone who might not have anything to read in the washroom?"

Out of the four, I heat sought one specific place which resides in one of Toronto's historic areas. It is zoned pedestrian, though I have done birds of prey circles with my bike in there.

Fatty was an assistant manager at the Courthouse, the place where we'd met, that place I'd said, "Fuck you. Fuck this place. I'm out of here," to the General Manager on the night of Blackout 2003. Lying in bed the other morning he slipped on a mock managerial tone asking, "What do you think you can contribute to our organisation?"

You'd think after slinging food at and on people for 20 years would be sufficient. Most people who have been doing service for as long as I have think that doing time is good enough. I don't. I believe I'm good though. I'm only good because I earnestly care about food, drink and mostly about taking care of people.

An Interview with The Comrade
Thursday March 31, 2005
2:20pm
Arrives 10 minutes early after having walked to new potential. That is what I'm talking about.
Tick tock. They make her wait.
She caresses the rough hewn 60' bar and drools a little.
A bald man in his 30's, donning club shirt, most appreciated by Ginos, approaches with a smile and extended hand.
She returns the smile; says "hello".
Bald man's smile fades. He looks sideways at her and says, "Oh, God."
Shit.
We've met.
I've served him before.

The Comrade: Please tell me I was nice to you.
No answer.
The Comrade: Okay... Um... Well... could you please refresh my memory? Where did we meet?

2 weeks ago at the Cheer's Equivalent bar, my one night a week place of employ. He came in with a bunch of new Monday night regulars of the male, grunting cook varietal; my favourite. Collectively they are an overdose of testosterone coupled with sexual frustration. They are lovers of the brown liquors who beat the crap out of each other then black, blue and a bit bloody, they go off to see the Sideshow Strippers down the street. The Sideshow Strip Club has a designated smoking room where the lads like to sit. It is the C-section section. Mommies grinding for pablum. Occasionally, if one was born under a lucky sign, one can catch a special act which features a midget and a goth girl.

He hardly said anything to me when I'd met him 2 weeks ago.
I noticed tiny stolen glances he'd occasionally dart my way, then embarrassedly looking away quickly afterwards.
Oh... what's that? A slight crush on The Comrade?
This will be a C-A-K-E-W-A-L-K.

We walk towards a beautifully minimalist canteen style area where the furniture has been made entirely of reclaimed antique wood from the original prerestored structure. When I sit on the bench my feet don't touch the floor. The Comrade is 5'9". Her feet always touch the floor.

The Comrade: [swinging her feet] This is fantastic! I feel like I'm 5 years old!

Both swinging now, the 2 us look like a couple of marionettes under the table.

Bald man with the striped shirt as seen at clubs that play House music: My name is Fabio, by the way.
The Comrade: Of course it is.
Fabio: [reading the resumé] So, tell me about yourself.

I hate this question.
I've been in this industry for 2 decades.
It's not that I find the question insulting; I just don't find it very interesting.

In my favour:
I am friendly with the ex-executive chef who is now in the midst of court proceedings induced by an "improper" termination.
I am old friends with the sous chef.
He's seen me work and liked what he saw.

As much as I hate the process of finding work, I really enjoy casual interviewing. Lots of laughs, a fair bit of swearing, a smidge of gossip and at the end my absolute favourite part is the sweet sentence, prefaced first with a slamming of an opened right hand directly onto harvest table:

"I'm hiring you on the spot!"
Atta boy.

I don't start for a month, which is just fine. For weeks I'd been steeping in a vat of yuck. On my glorious walk home, after being handed the reins of a new gorgeous bar, the sun was shining. It was so mild I only had a light spring coat on, a favourite. Before putting it on I had to brush dust off the shoulders which had gathered from months of sitting in an open closet. Hello old friend. Walking in the sunlight I felt so happy. So lucky. New job. Best friend is my ex-husband. The other best friend is my new lover. Cat Comrade at 100%, optimal health. If the universal design is to feel yuck for a few weeks, just so I can feel this good, I accept the yuck.