tout à coup

maybe my perception's just skewed by recent readings about the 1973 chilean coup (when Pinochet's military regime, in cahoots with the u.s. government, overthrew the democratically elected president Allende) and by the movie "no" (about the 1988 chilean referendum that finally sent Señor P packing), but it seems increasingly clear that we have something of a small-scale dictator on our coffeeshop hands.

he's the grouchy-gruff fifty-year-old whose face is knotted up in deep creases that puzzlepiece together a permanent grimace. he's the guy whose rare laugh reeks of maliciousness. the guy who loves to engage in "conversations" that see him barking at his table-mate about what is/shouldbe/shouldntbe, and ignoring his compatriot's (prescriptively meagre) contributions altogether. except, of course, when opportunities for ridicule arise: well, i don't know the answer to that -- "Smart-A**" is implicit -- so why don't yooooou tell me! 

Grouchy Gruff also decides where they sit -- sit, Ubu sit! good dog! -- and when they leave. abruptly, practically mid-sentence: let's go outside. Ubu, who'd just been about to meagrely contribute, pauses. bewildered. very tentatively he asks: why? (it's for another smoke break. but Ubu isn't dignified with a response.) Ubu follows. not like an eager, bright-eyed, panting pup. more like an oppressed pooch who knows better than to think he has much of a choice in the matter.

just then, a man who looks remarkably like Stephen Harper (with shades and a bit more of a gut) walks in.

and now back to translating...

fools

why hello there, April! your timing's impeccable given that, today in particular, the coffee shop is reminiscent of your mascot and my favourite tarot card: The Fool.

look at that sun shining big and bright. the warm yellow background. the figure's upward, outbound gaze. off he goes on his journey, with his traveller's bag in tow, a rose betwixt his fingers, and a colourful top draping his torso. he's a fearless romantic spirit, full of innocence, adventure and joy! and yet...he's also reckless and oblivious: perched on the edge of the cliff, deaf to that little dog's cautionary barking, unaware that -- as things stand -- his next step will send him plummeting into the abyss below(...ow...ow).

downtown ottawa is similarly shiny-bright and warm (albeit windy) today. people are journeying in and out of the coffee shop, a purse or satchel slung over one shoulder, a coffee cup pressed into the other palm, and vibrant hues springing (if you will) off of their clothes. all in all, a happy lot! (even the two curmudgeonly older men to my left have tossed a good dose of laughter into their bickering banter. hurrah!) but the dogs are here, too. leashed up outside. so no one inside can hear them yelping.

what are they barking about, you ask? now, i'm no dog whisperer...but it might be about how the room is currently populated by an unprecedented number of "fashion" (vs sport-related) stretch pants. indeed, something like what The Fool wears. but black, of course. (ps are those...*squinting*...yellow uggs®? such a trendsetter!) and with nothing else covering their behinds. so we're suddenly floating in a sea of puckered flesh, camel toes, underwear seams and -- where commandos and, especially, thin-skinned pants are concerned -- lines of many other kinds. and that's just what's seen from a distance. my neighbour, meanwhile, insists on also providing me with an up-close and personal experience. (*begins feeling nauseated*) so, as she shimmies back and forth between our tables to go to the washroom, and then grab some napkins, and then order a scone (and then...and then...), her back end is (re)positioned directly in front of my face. for the record, she's "got it going on" (please imagine air quotes and a robotic voice). and i suppose i'm grateful she hasn't opted to face the other way when passing by, since that would make me privy to an altogether different recurring view. but neither of these facts makes any of it ok, particularly since she has -- presumably unbeknownst to her -- fallen victim to The Stretch Pant Classic, whereby her butt has footlong hairs, a colony of dust bunnies, aaand basicallyawholefieldoftumbleweed stuck to and/or dangling from it.

mayday! (hmmm..."aprilday" just doesn't have the same ring to it.) m'aidez! enter the (symbolic) cliff. (The Fool is, after all and in part, a warning card.) what if this trend continues? makers of tunics and the swiffer® alike will surely go out of business. and we'll no longer need binge drinking or imaginations -- except, of course, for drinking and imagining away most of what we will have seen. but i guess the joke's on me, since i'm clearly and increasingly outnumbered. still, even a fool knows you should cover your a** before heading out.

and now back to translating...