December 24, 2010

Leaving home, 6:45 AM...

Getting to work, 7:30 AM...

The Sound Of Music

It was a concert, classical music, Sunday afternoon, students. There isn’t much to say about it. I walked over there, I listened, I went home, that’s it.

The temperature was around 5 degrees, the sun was shining, there was no wind, I was wearing a parka, and the world was a good place to be.

The ensemble is called Les Petits Violons. I’d only heard them once before, that was about 6 years ago.

“The hills are alive,” sang the Maria character, played by Mary Martin and by Julie Andrews in the Broadway and film versions of the famous musical, respectively, “with the sound of music.” I don’t know what kind of music one hears in the hills, but, unless we are auditioning new audio equipment, the sound of music isn’t what we usually focus on. What we pay attention to is the melody, the words, if there are words, the quality of the performance, the mix if it’s a recording, the emotional temperature.

The first time, though, that I heard this group play… Well they started with Mozart, a string orchestra arrangement of one of his quartets, and when that first note hit, the world changed.

That’s heavy, I know. This is not a world class ensemble, they are not famous, they don’t, as far as I know, record - not commercially anyway. They are students, “composé des membres les plus avancés de l'École” according to their website; some look to be as young as 14, most are older.

But what I’m saying is this. The sound they made was unearthly. The music was beautiful. They played Mozart, they played, if I remember correctly, Kreisler, and they played Britten. But it wasn’t the music itself that mesmerized me; it was the sound of it, a live string orchestra playing the world’s great music in a room optimally designed for acoustics. I can’t describe it.

So I finally made my way back there, this past Sunday, and it happened all over again. This time I was ready for it, so those first notes didn’t take me by surprise. Ha, I said, do your best.

And the music did its best, indeed. I was transported. You close your eyes, you’re not there, there is nothing but the sound, the notes, it’s everywhere around you, you’re not touching the ground.

The entire affair lasted an hour. They played Mozart, Kreisler, Elgar, Telemann. The last movement of the Telemann was entirely pizzicato, and I could not describe it without lapsing into purple prose. Words fail me.

And so I left there a bit after 17:00 and walked out into the still beautiful air, back into the world, which was dark now, this being the first day of standard time, back to the normal sounds of traffic and people talking and The Rolling Stones playing in my ears. But the world was different from how it had been an hour before.

They play again on December 12…

Moments

And I ain’t gonna let this big world get me down
I’m gonna learn to keep a hold of my head
and keep my feet on the ground.

From Moments by Ray Davies

This past week I availed myself of a rare opportunity to fall flat on my face.

I like writing, and I’m proud of what I write. I leave it to others to decide whether it’s any good, but I read it back to myself and it feels right. And if it doesn’t feel right I go back and fix it until it does, sometimes quite long after I originally wrote it.

So I had what I thought was a good opportunity to share some of my stuff, a networking evening, the occasion having been billed as an opportunity to “speak out about yourself… or do a magic trick, make a performance or simply nothing whatever you like. [sic] ”

Nobody did any magic tricks, nobody “made” a performance, and everyone basically did the same thing:

“Hi, I am John Trombone, I work for a drudgery company and I do some terribly uninteresting work that nobody here could possibly be interested in.”

“I’m Alice, I am a chemical engineer and I used to live in Botswana. Now I live here, I wear very expensive clothes, I take myself very seriously, and I don't talk to people whose surname starts with C”

“My name is Yitzchak Pimple and I have my own importing business, I am very boring and I have been looking high and low for a wife for quite some time. Oh, and maybe someone could lend me 5 bucks. “

So stupid me, I thought maybe doing something a bit different, something outside the box, would be a good thing. Wrong. It was a terrible thing. The organizer was embarrassed, thinking that maybe it would take longer than the allocated 3 minutes, thinking that I was bound to bore everyone (she was probably right about that, but that has nothing to do with me nor my writing.) And, assuming she was the one who wrote the promotion, literacy was not her strong point. So she wanted no part of this. Ok just read one paragraph she said, and it went downhill from there.

It was the wrong crowd, the wrong evening, the wrong stuff, the wrong idea. I sat down and I wondered if I’d be able to face this crowd again.

So that’s what it was, a moment of total humiliation. And I sat there under a cloud wishing I could make myself invisible and wondering how long I had to sit there before I could quietly make my escape.

When I finally did leave the place, about an hour later, things were different. I had gotten into a conversation with someone the details of which, and whom, will have to remain unreported for now. But it was pleasant. And it was promising. And later when I contemplated the ramifications of that, I had to admit to myself that there may be no ramifications at all, What it was was a moment, a good moment, and a moment to remember and be happy about, but not expect any particular long term (or even short-term) follow-up. Value it for what it was.

And so with the bad stuff. It was a bad moment, but that’s all it was. A moment. I’m allowed to make mistakes, right? I’m allowed to misread a situation, to misjudge the moment, to make myself look like a complete and total misfit. I’m allowed. Right?

Right?

Some of the moments in our lives are springboards to greater experience and opportunity, and sure, some can have long term consequences, but we never really know. And it’s best to remember that whatever it is, this too shall pass, and let’s just move on to the next moment.

But man, I sure felt stupid…

Walking Helps

My psychiatrist turned out not to be my psychiatrist after all. “I have to prioritize” he said, giving me some lame excuse as to why he could not take me on as a potential patient, two months after his representation to the contrary. That, so far, has been my personal experience with the mental health system. I could pursue this, and I may yet, but I know how difficult it is to get an appointment, how long the delays are, how flaky the services are, and how much easier it is when you have money.

I don’t know if anything ails me or not, but if it does, it’s not something they can give me pills for. I say all this because last Sunday I got to see and hear Margaret Trudeau up close, and whatever it is that ails her she does take pills for. Unlike Maggie, I never got to meet the Rolling Stones, but like her, I got to walk 5 km through downtown Montreal, along with several hundred other people who, red scarf clad, went to support the organizations that provide services to those (of us? Don’t know, the shrink wouldn’t see me) who have mental health issues, and try to make headway in the battle to destigmatize mental illness.

So… I listened to the speeches, I picked up pamphlets, I looked admiringly at people in groups representing organizations and holding balloons, I took a few pictures, and I walked. I got a red scarf, an elephant, a pair of headphone / earmuffs, a few dollars in donations, a good feeling, and good conversation (thanks, Chaya, wherever you are). Oh, and I got a picture of Maggie…

Of Loan Balances, Rainbows, And Chance Meetings...

The translation of tallit into English as “prayer shawl” is somewhat disingenuous. The truth is that non-Jewish culture has no concept of a “prayer shawl,” and the term was invented solely to provide a translation. Saying that a tallit is a prayer shawl is no different from saying that a tallit is a tallit. It tells you nothing. A tallit (pronounced tahl-eet), or a tallis (with the emphasis squarely on the first syllable), as we non-Israeli ashkenzik Jews tend to pronounce it, giving the word a Yiddish inflection, is a square piece of wool, with holes in the corners for tzitzit (that’s a whole other story, and I’m not about to start it now). Those of us who are (or who have been) married, and the unmarried among us who are Sephardic or yekke, wear one during morning services – hence its still somewhat meaningless English designation. The typical tallis is white, and it usually has black (sometimes blue, but usually black) stripes of various widths across certain parts.

Ok. I told you all that to tell you this…

I guess Hans was in his 30s, but then so was I. This was almost 20 years ago. He had a problem, Hans did, though not a terribly serious one. I borrowed money from someone, he told me, and I made all the payments on time, and I made the last payment, and now he says I still owe him some money. Not a lot, he said, but shouldn’t I owe him nothing? Well, I said, it’s a matter of arithmetic and nothing more. Take the opening balance, the interest rate, and the amount and date of every payment (easy, they were all on the same day of the month, for the same amount) and give the information to a data processing service. They will tell you if there is a balance. I gave him the name of such a service. Thank you, he said, and he went.

He called me, not long after. I did what you said, he said. And the creditor is correct, I owe him, exactly the amount he said. Ok, I said. How much do I owe you, he asked. Nothing, I said, I was only with you for 10 minutes. You helped me he said. I’m glad, I said, but I’m not charging you.

Not long after I show up at work and there is a rainbow tallit sitting on my desk. A rainbow tallit? Such was the creation of Zalman Schachter, who had spread a few around my city during his tenure as professor at the university there, and I knew a few people who owned and wore such. The stripes on this tallit were not the standard issue black; they were coloured: purple, blue, green, yellow, orange, brown. The tallit is kosher, but somewhat unusual, and, shall I say, loud. But there it was on my desk. Where, I asked the receptionist, did this come from. That Hans guy dropped it off, she said, he said you’d know what it was. She was puzzled by this strange looking garment sitting on my desk folded up so nicely. I should have told her, wait a few decades, then read my blog.

I was in Jerusalem, he told me on the phone, and I studied Kabbalah with Shlomo Carlebach. (Those pieces don’t fit, but that’s what I remember him saying. Perhaps it was Schachter he studied with, and perhaps it was somewhere else…) He gave me that, and you know I’m not Jewish, he said, but I knew that one day I’d find someone special to give it to. You helped me, he said, and I appreciate it.

I’ve had the tallit ever since. I’ve had several others too, but it’s the only one that’s lasted so long. It’s as robust as ever. There’ve been recent times when it’s been the only usable one I’ve had.

So thank you, Hans, wherever you’ve gotten to. I hope you’ve gotten special things in your life too…

Offline...Online...Offline...

I have internet access, so I can get my email, and respond to it, and I can go online in the morning and see what the weather is like, and I can update my blogs, and can I can do all those internet-type things. Wasn’t so long ago, though, that it wasn’t the case. I’m not talking of a time before the web. No. I’m talking last summer, like just a few months ago. I was offline for a month. You have no idea what that’s like.

So here’s what happened. I give you the chronology:

· June 3, 2010 – I called My ISP. I will call them AEI Internet. I advised them that I’d be moving on June 10, and that I wished to continue my internet service at the new address. I gave them my new address and phone number, the latter of which I had acquired from Bell, the phone company. I asked the representative to whom I was speaking whether they had to arrange something with Bell; he assured me that they didn’t, and that my new address and phone number was sufficient. Are you sure I said. Last time I moved you guys had to arrange something with them. No, he said, this information is sufficient.
· June 10 – I moved to my new address After a long day of moving and organizing and unpacking and arranging, I set up my PC. I bravely plugged all the pieces together, the modem, the router, and I waited eagerly for all the lights to light up. Now, there are four lights on my modem. They are labeled: “sys,” “atm,” “dsl,” and “enet.” The last has to do with the router. Two are a complete mystery to me. But I know that the one called “dsl” is the one that tells me that I’m connected. Alas, imagine my disappointment when said dsl light blinked orange without ever settling into the comfortable green of connectedness. My modem would not synchronize. I don’t know exactly what that means either, but I know that it’s not good. Bingo, I had no internet access. I called Bell to report the issue. Bell instructed me to call AEI. It’s the phone line, I said, that’s yours. They wouldn’t talk to me. Call your ISP.
· June 11 – I called AEI tech support. They put me on hold, and then told me that a Bell technician would attend on June 16. They could not explain to me why I had to wait till June 16 when I had informed them of my move on June 3. I indicated that being offline for a week was unacceptable, but they were unsympathetic. It was obvious that whomever I’d spoken to on June 3 had screwed up. We screwed up, they said. I wish.
· June 16 – A Bell technician called me at work. He asked whether anyone was home. I said no. He said he needed access to my premises. No one had told me that. He asked if someone would be home next day. I said someone would be there. He said he would come between 8 AM and noon. Strike 1
· June 17 – Given that I had to work. I ensured than one of my kids stayed home to wait for the guy. Nobody came. I called AEI. Try your modem, he told me, maybe he fixed it from outside. I called home. Try the modem I said. It’s blinking orange I was told. So AEI called Bell. A Bell technician called that afternoon, and we arranged an appointment Friday, June 18 between 5 and 8 PM. Nobody at Bell nor at AEI offered an explanation as to why the technician failed to appear. I still don’t have the answer to that.
· June 18 – Nobody came from Bell. Strike 2
· June 20 – I called AEI. They said the issue was marked “resolved.” I said it wasn’t resolved. Their response to my reporting 2 no-shows in a row was to call Bell again. Nobody at Bell nor at AEI offered an explanation as to why the last guy failed to appear. I still don’t have an answer to that
· June 21 – A Bell technician called me and we set up an appointment for June 22 between 8 AM and 12 PM.
· June 22 - I could not be home in the morning, nor could I arrange to have anyone there, so I left the back door unlocked. The technician called at work, but he refused to enter the premises. I can’t come in, he said, if nobody is home. Why is it, I asked, that you can not show at all, and that’s ok, but entering the house with my permission isn’t. Are you home tomorrow he asked. In the afternoon. Ok I said. Someone will be there. Next batter, strike 1.
· June 23 – The technician came, replaced a jack, and left. I came home a few minutes after he left, around 6 PM. He left my kids a whole song and dance. If I wanted the interet to work, I’d have to unplug the phone. He said we had the wrong kind of phone, wouldn’t say what the right kind was though. So I’m game. I don’t care. I’ll unplug the phone. Just let me get online. But guess what. Blinking blinking orange light. The modem still would not synchronize. I finally got a technician into the house, and he left without fixing anything. And now my phone service was not working properly either. I was livid. I called AEI They were closed. It was only just after 6 and their tech support service is open until 9, but they would not answer. I called Bell. I got some tech support guy. I said send the technician back; he did not finish the job. They were not helpful. Said we’ll get someone down tomorrow. I said I want that guy back, now! They said tomorrow. So tomorrow it was.
· June 24 – AEI tech support was closed for St. Jean Baptiste day. The Bell technician came by, fixed the phone jack that the first guy wrecked, couldn’t fix the internet issue, said you need an internet technician, not a phone technician, and left in a huff. Meanwhile, I had now been offline for 2 weeks.
· June 25 – I called AEI tech support. They said, I wonder what that guy did. We’ll look into it they said. Later a technician from Bell called, and we arranged for him to attend my house on Monday, June 28 between 6 PM and 9 PM.
· June 28 – I came home precisely at 6, and I found a note in my mailbox from a Bell technician saying he’d been there and he had no access to the premises. Strike 2. I called AEI. Now I was foaming at the mouth. I insisted they do something. The technician I spoke said only that a supervisor would phone me next day. He couldn’t do squat. So I phoned Bell. I said I want to sign up for internet service. The lady that took my order, she said someone will be down Thursday night to hook you up.
· June 29 – The AEI supervisor called and put me in touch, yet again, with Bell, but I could not arrange a mutually agreeable time. I had been offline by this point for 20 days. They could not guarantee that the guy wouldn’t come before 6. Strike 3.
· July 1 – No technician from Bell came. I call Bell. The guy there put me on hold repeatedly, for long times. He said your order wasn’t taken properly. He said your account is screwed up. He made me repeat my name, address, and phone number about a million times. In the end he gave me a username and password and order number. He promised me on his mother’s grave that someone would be by on Sunday.
· July 4 – Guy comes from Bell, modem in hand. Amazing. I pinch myself. I tell him there’s a problem here, I can’t get online. He said don’t worry. Hooks me up in about 15 minutes. Voila, I’m online. I weep for joy.
· July 7 – I called AEI to cancel my service, and I asked them to ensure that I was not charged for any services after June 10 as I had been offline since then. The customer service rep promised to consult with tech support and get back to me. He did not get back to me.
· At the end of July I received my Mastercard bill and noted that AEI had charged me the usual amount for June and July. I called Customer Service. They told me that there was nothing they could do. I was supposed to have a Bell technician attend my house. It was my fault, in other words, that they had not been able to help me. I screamed at the guy, everyone on the bus was staring at me, some were laughing. How many technicians, I asked, would I have to entertain, how many would not show up, how many would come at times other than those agreed to, how many would come and leave without doing diddly squat, before we could admit defeat. Nothing, he said, they could do. I needed to have a technician down. I was having apoplexy. He promised to have a manager call, but no manager called.
· The Bell bill came and they had charged me $99 for the useless July 1 service call. I thought of selling the story to Hollywood - as a horror flick. After a few calls I got Bell to smarten up.

Mastercard is handling this for me. I’ve lost the will to fight. Let them fight. So far I got the money back. AEI, well, they were my ISP for 8 years, first dial-up, then high speed. And the service was always good, and they were always responsive. Then suddenly, the bottom fell out. I can’t say I’m impressed. And man, they could have done the honourable thing and given me the refund without all this hassle.

But hey, at least I’m online…

The Spice Of Life

There was a kind of spice rack in the Canadian Tire flyer (hey!) this week, actually more like a carousel, and it showed 2 versions, one with 12 spice capacity, one with 16 spice capacity. 16 isn’t enough. I know. What I needed to work out was whether 2 12 bottle units would cover me. That’s 24 herbs and spices maximum. Colonel Sanders, eat your heart out. Thing is, though, I don’t want to get stuck with spice number 25, and no place to put it. What would I do then.

So I took inventory. 21 spices, or quasi-spices. This is too hard for me. I need backup. So I called my friend, the spiciest person I know. Hey spicy person I said, I need to know whether I’m covered for all the major spice groups. What do you have, asked my astute friend, cutting to the core of the issue.

So here’s the inventory, in no particular order:

· Salt
· Pepper
· Garlic powder
· Onion powder
· Chili powder
· Cumin
· Thyme
· Bay leaves
· Basil
· Oregano
· Parsley
· Cayenne pepper
· Bacon bits
· Cinnamon
· Paprika
· Barbecue spice
· Montreal chicken spice
· French fry salt
· French fry seasoning
· Cajun spice
· Venezuelan Beaver Spice

I bought french-fry salt because I like to put it on my frozen vegetables. I actually cook the vegetables first. So when I put the ff salt on, they’re not actually frozen. But the first time I meant to use it it was gone. Nowhere to be found. I called sis, who’d helped me put the groceries away. (when I say “help” I mean she did it all herself). She didn’t remember the French fry salt. All she could remember was how sad everyone was discovering the following day that no one had put away the drumsticks, which were still in a bag dripping themselves all over the kitchen floor. Maybe we could salvage them she said. No she didn’t. She just ate them then and there.

Seeing as how the French fry salt had gone AWOL, I picked up a small bottle of French fry seasoning, which may or may not be the same thing. Then I found the missing bottle, which had found itself together with a few other odds and ends at the bottom of a pile of empty cartons, all of which were in the process of being discarded, one by one. Hence, redundant seasoning.

What about sweet spices, says my friend. Like nutmeg or ginger. I don’t intend to bake anytime soon. What about sage or rosemary. Who are you, I said, Paul Simon? What do I need rosemary for? Well, if you’re stuffing anything it’s key. Ok, I said, no stuffing. Well, she says, sounds like you have everything you need, humouring me, realizing that if I haven’t got it, I’ll make sure not to need it, so this whole inquiry is pointless. The tail wags the dog.

I didn’t buy it in the end, the spice rack. Sold out. But beyond that, I came to realize that it came with spice bottles full of spices, one of which was rosemary. I don’t want their spices, I have my own. And what do I need rosemary for? Who am I, Paul Simon?

Not Pastry, Just.... Ok, Pastry

Ok, I like cinnamon buns. They’re not buns really. They are “danishes.” La de da. I’m not entirely sure what the difference is. Perhaps danishes are fancier; perhaps they cost more. I think, though, that if you’d walk into a bakery and request a cinnamon bun, they may look at you funny.
I know what a croissant is, that’s easy. You can tell by the shape. I don’t mind croissants, especially if someone else bought it; if I buy, though, I prefer a Danish, especially one with icing. I don’t think the icing makes it taste any different, but I think it makes me feel different. I makes me feel like I get icing.

So cinnamon danishes. And pecan buns. I really like pecan buns. But I don’t think that they are danishes at all. They are just buns. And they have pecans and they have artificial cherries. That’s really decadent I think, artificial cherries, and I wouldn’t go eating them out of the jar or anything. But on pecan buns somehow they work.

Now let’s talk about the black and white. I use the singular because the plural makes me uncomfortable. A black and white is just a cookie that’s half black and half white, no magic. Very rich they are. There are big ones and small ones, and I can’t eat a big one in one sitting. Now remember, I have no trouble ingesting a pecan bun. But a black and white...

Ordering them is awkward. People generally say “black and whites;” “I’ll have a dozen black and whites”, but somehow it doesn’t sound right to me, like you’re getting many whites, but only one black. I thought of blacks and white, (you know? Like brothers-in-law) but that doesn’t work at all. Blacks and whites might be okay; I’ve tried that: “I’ll have 6 blacks and whites” but then they look at me funny. So I just buy them where you don’t have to ask for them, or in extremis I’ll say give me 7 of those black and white cookies, acting like an out-of-towner who’s never seen them before. (I was introduced to, ahem, blacks and whites after living here about a month, I’ve never seen them anywhere else). One time I asked for 6 whites and 3 blacks, but they threw me out of the bakery.

That’s it, really, for pastry, except for those apple things. I get them sometimes for breakfast at the hospital. I’m not sick, I just go there for breakfast because I like the pastry. The apple things, they have this spiral shape, and the apple goo in the middle, and I like to eat around the spiral, but then I’m left with just the goo, which is tasty but not all that easy to hold, and so I have to eat across the spiral, but we all have to make sacrifices…

No Time...

I’ve learned to live in a timeless world.

I removed the clock from my taskbar. I did that not long after I started working here. I did that because I was sitting there looking at the time all day. Not good.

I didn’t know you could do that – remove it from the task bar I mean. I knew you could stare at it. But a guy I work with, let’s call him Lawrence, though I’m not sure why we have to call him anything given that his role here is done, I sat with him at his desk and noticed that his PC screen didn’t show the time. That’s what gave me the idea – that plus the fact that I was staring at it all day.

My watch strap broke, that’s another thing. I took it to the kiosk where I always get watch batteries. I can’t fix that! He said. That’s a Timex! It has a special strap! I don’t sell those! I thought about buying some exclamation points. So I tried a different kiosk, at a different shopping plaza. I can’t fix that! He said. And on we went. So I popped into Zeller’s and picked up a Timex strap. Here I said. Put this on. Wrong kind! He said. Sure it’s Timex! He said. But it’s not the right kind!

So I’ve stopping looking at the time. That’s not to say that I never know what time it is. I’ve got an alarm clock that rings in the morning – well it doesn’t “ring” exactly, it’s a clock radio – and it’s set to one time for Sunday and another for Monday – Friday. No alarm on Saturday, except this discarded strapless digital watch that sits on my night table and beeps every morning just after 6:30. It’s losing time, that one, slowly, and eventually it’ll be 7:00 for sure. But I hear it (beep beep beep) unless the fan is on, because the fan is louder than the beep, though usually I’m up already. Yes I’m up at 6:30 Saturday morning.

Beyond that I have reminders that Outlook pops up all day long.
· 8:00 AM – start working
· 8:30 AM – you’ve been sitting at your desk for 30 minutes; time to really start working [sic]
· 9:30 AM – get coffee
· 10:00 AM – Have some water
· 12:00 PM – Have more water
· 12:30 PM – have lunch
· 1:30 PM – Lunch is over
· 2:00 PM – Aren’t you thirsty again?
· 3:30 PM – go grab some fruit from the kitchen
· 4:00 PM – it’s 4:00 PM
· 4:55 PM – Think about leaving
· 5:00 PM – bye

And places that I’m in have clocks, and if I look at them well then I look at them, that’s not my fault, I didn’t put them up there. And sometimes I have to be somewhere at a specific time, and I can’t be late so I have to figure out what time it is, and sometimes the bus only comes once every 40 minutes or so so I have to know whether to wait or find another bus or walk, and if I arrange to meet someone at 7 then I need to know when it’s 7, I even need to know when it’s before 7 so I don’t make him wait, and if I put something in the oven then I must keep track of the time to know when it’s ready, and if I want to get enough sleep then I have to set a time to go to bed, and I have to know when that time comes around...

Man I’m obsessed with the time...

The People On The Bus

The people on the bus go up and down. So goes the song we sang to our kids. I never understood it. It’s the people on the elevator that go up and down. People on the bus, they just sit there. Some read, many listen to music, or something, I assume it’s music, I can’t prove it. A healthy minority of passengers yap on their cell phones. But most just sit there. They don’t even open the window.

I take what I call a commuter bus. That’s a bus that runs to an outlying area, has limited service, and on which one sees the same passengers every day.

And what a bunch of interesting people. There’s Lenin. I call him that because he’s a dead ringer for the guy that led the Russian Revolution. Same beard, same eyes. He wears small round metal glasses, reminiscent more of Beatle John, so perhaps I should call him Lennon. From his dress I’d guess that he’s a blue collar worker. The problem, though, is that I haven’t seen Lenin in months. So I worry about old Lenin. I hope he’s ok. Maybe he’s in Zurich.

Now Betty Bigbum, she’s interesting. Blonde, totally a bimbo, not quite up on how best to dress to flatter her rather idiosyncratic figure. Usually she’ll sit and stare straight ahead, but occasionally she will be engrossed in a phone conversation throughout the entire 30 minute ride, and it’s an even bet whether she’ll be talking in English or French, for bimbo though she may be, she sounds equally adept at either language. Perhaps I should call her Bilingual Betty Bigbum.

Bilingual Betty Bigbum the Bimbo.

Then there’s Pineapple Head. Now PH, she’s a young dark–haired woman, maybe early 20s, with an air of jaunty self-confidence like I’ve rarely seen. It takes a certain self-assurance to wear your hair in a pony tail coming straight out of the top of your head, every single day. Somehow, PH seemed to get away with it. Then I didn’t see her for a while, mostly because I changed my schedule. But after a bit, there she was, on the home ride this time, and hey, guess what. No more pony tail. And that’s ok, only I had to take a second look to be sure it was her. Not that I stare or anything. Honest, I’ve developed people watching techniques that’d be the envy of the best PI.

But stare or not, there was good old Pineapple Head sitting next to me the other day, on the same bench with an empty seat between us. And Pineapple Head was in meal mode. She had some kind of take-out, and was eating with relish. Not relish, but relish. You know what I mean. Relish. So me, being the impetuous type, I pulled out a bottle of water from which I had not drank, tapped old Pineapple Head on the shoulder, and offered her the water. She’ll be thirsty, I reasoned. OH no! She said, smiling, I have, she said, in a heavy French accent (“I ‘ave”), pointing to her big white purse. And sure enough, a minute or two later, she pulled out a water bottle identical to the one I’d offered and I looked at her and I said Perfect! And she responded Ya!

And so I ride the bus, and continue to interact with the world in all manner of odd ways, and I may continue to report my adventures, if I don’t get arrested…

Westward Ho...

I work on the west island. Funny that they call it the west island, because it’s exactly the same island as the east island. What they mean when they say “the west island” is “the west part of the island.” Too many words, so it’s the west island, and that’s that.

It doesn’t matter that I work there, except that it’s mostly English, the west island. The east island, which, as I said, is the east end of the island, is French. Wanna learn French? they say, go to the East Island and get lost. You’ll learn French fast. That’s what they say. I’ve never done it. I’ve not much been to the east island at all. The Olympic Stadium, around there. I’ve not been much beyond that. St. Leonard (pronounced Lee-o-nard). I don’t know if that counts. I never know around here.

Anyway, the west island. The street is called Des Sources, which means springs. Spring water is eau de source. The Des is just to confuse you, like Des O’Connor. It takes me a while to get there. There is no direct route. I have to take a bus to the Metro station, and that’s east, more or less (less, it’s really northeast). Then the Metro goes north (north west on a map) and another bus takes me west, which is southwest. You see? It’s confusing.

That last bus, it takes the autoroute. That’s another French word, “autoroute.” It means freeway, but nobody here says “freeway.” Ever. It’s an autoroute. Period. Anyway, it gets on the autoroute until Sources, then takes a right. But there’s this one driver, he keeps missing the turnoff. Then everyone starts yelling at him. “Everyone” in this case means one person. And no, it’s not me. But he comes back round, and he doesn’t miss any stops, and it only takes an extra 4 minutes or so, so we all forgive him.

I’d like to tell you more about the west island, where I work, but I hide inside because it’s winter and I don’t feel like going out in the cold. So far I’ve discovered the pharmacy across the street (kind of pathetic for its franchise) and the bank, because I use the ATM. And there is a service station next door, and I get coffee there sometimes, and glossette raisins. Down Sources and to the right there is a kind of mall that I’ve been to, and not far from there is a place where I got my hair cut a while back. There are parks in the area that are waiting to be discovered, and who knows what else.

Inside, though, is where I usually find myself, and when I’m not actually working, then I’m in the kitchen, which, believe me, isn’t too exciting. My employers, they are nice, and they supply us with fruit – apples, oranges, grapes, midget pairs, bananas. So there is fruit on the table, and a newspaper, The Globe And Mail, and that’s where I spend my lunch hour.

So, to sum up, the VSL Poltroon is back, and he will be giving seminars on how to write about absolutely nothing…