loonie bin

you know that busker-type who stands frozen on the sidewalk for what seem like eons and moves only after someone tosses a couple of loonies into the upside-down, gold-glitter-spraypainted top hat on the ground in front of him? well, imagine that, instead of one busker, there are two. and instead of standing in crisply held mime-shapes on the streetside, they're sitting face-to-face lethargic right next to you in a coffee shop. and instead of surprising you by mr. roboto-ing when you drop loonies into the hat (which, of course, doesn't actually exist in this scenario), they talk. and instead of enchanting you with their impressive stillness and concentration, they bore you stiff (causing you to begin inadvertently resembling the mid-freeze busker) with their debilitatingly dull topics of conversation. and, even though you've stopped throwing your "loonies" into the "hat" (truth be told, you've yet to throw even one because you'd never been all that interested to begin with), they always find something else to say (usually monotonously) after their long pauses, so you can never make it stop or make them go away.

well, this is pretty much what's happening here right now. these two 50+ sisters (i guess?) launch into something about how lipstick melts. (long pause. would-be loonie toss.) then, on to how chemicals break down the spandex in bathing suits. (pause. loonie.) later, it comes up that some mutual friend named Marla has lots of stuff. gripping. even their rants (so-called) are a snore: you know what i hate? kitchen stuff. (what that could possibly mean, i will never know.) or how about: you know flip flops? that thing between the toes? i can't wear those. they're not realistic for walking. on a scale of boring to BO-RING, this is a bazillion times worse than any bridgehead hot chocolate. i'm on the verge of falling into a very deep coma. and of gouging one of my own eyes out. possibly with a loonie.

forty-five minutes into the Snore Sisters' conversation, a glimmer of hope. Sister 1: do we need to get going? i mean, what time's our show at again? (oh, if ever there were a god...) but then, Sister 2: 7:30. current time: 5:45. oh, eff.

some time later, at the same table -- now occupied by a 20-something woman who's wearing her black Jackie O sunglasses indoors (which i understand about as well as i get "hating kitchen stuff") -- there's another freeze-busker moment. a 30-something man-on-a-mission enters the coffee shop and makes a beeline for Indoor Jackie. he kind of reminds me of the stapler guy (aka Milton) from office space, except thinner, with darker hair and less ridiculous eyewear. anyway, he stands behind the chair that's facing Jackie and remains there, completely still, mute and erect (no, not like that) for a solid sixty seconds. it's awkward. Jackie's very busy texting, and (reminder) she's wearing sunglasses. indoors. so, this whole time, she doesn't seem to see him. when her eagle eye finally does spot him, she throws a question (instead of a loonie) dryly his way: are you looking for someone? he doesn't even answer. instead, realizing Jackie's clearly not the blind date he's come here to meet up with, he does a 180˚ (like they do in the military) and takes a seat at a neighbouring table to wait for his real date. frozen again for an indefinite amount of time. until the next loonie drops.

and now back to translating...

girl, interrupted

over the past few days, spring has sprung me out of the coffee shops -- er, and away from work -- and into the parks for tossing around the softball and renewing an annual addiction to lilacs, nectarine blossoms, and (a whole festival of) tulips. so, being back at work today means being a bit out of sorts: not quite in the groove yet, and distracted by all kinds of things.

let's pause here and rightfully call "spring" (Glorious) Interruption Number One.

next is music. it's a mostly Marley kind of day here. at one point, though, "everybody wants to rule the world" chimes in. 80s junkies know this song's by brit band tears for fears. but, for some reason, i've mistaken them for aussie group inxs -- as in, the original; not the one partially constructed via reality tv (pfff!) -- and so my mind wanders 25 years back in time and 600 kilometres southwest of here to the giant inxs posters on my cousin Erin's bedroom walls, to that big beautiful creaky-floored waterfront house, to the backyard volleyball net, to that (now defunct?) supercool suspended wicker chair in the quasi-patio, to --

bah! ok, back to academic analyses already.

except that then the creepiest guys -- ever -- arrive. three 30- and 40-somethings who are brand-named to the max, have their hair gelled and waxed to a shiny-stiff mass, and always sit cocky in the café for hours, barely talking. instead, they text (i'm pretty sure they're spies) and deliberately turn their chairs away from each other in order to ogle any and all female guests. yikes -- avoid all eye contact and pray they sit nowhere near you! but what's this? they're opting for the patio today. (i guess they'll want to soak up the direct sunlight to optimize their "hair glare.") *sigh of relief*

return to readings on migration flows.

what next distracts is a full-on boob. (the Oglers should've stuck around.) it's not necessarily what you'd call a sexy b(r)east: it's a large, heavy number, with the nipple pointing 45˚ downward. but it is absolute perfection. Mom lifts the right side of her blouse, and Baby instantly becomes a happy-latcher. very likely looking like a pervert, i'm completely entranced -- loving (admiring, even) how she's lifted her shirt and exposed her entire, giant mammary without ever glancing around the room to see who might care. and i also think of all the (riveting!) controversy over Elisabeth Badinter's recent writings on "modern motherhood" and, in particular, on the repercussions (for moms, dads and kids alike) of current pressures on women to breastfeed. i'm intellectually titillated! (that's right: i went there.)

now playing: radiohead's high and dry... but i digress. where'd that quote about exile get to?

it's at this moment that an increasingly familiar figure enters: professor FLQ. and here's where "interruption" takes on a capital "i." after the initial delight of running into each other again (i can't deny it: i was also happy), he engages me in a 60-minute dialogue on various hot topics: the quebec referenda (of course!); prime ministers who have made a difference, "good" or "bad"; feminism and abortion (male profs who teach courses on feminism, like i did, are hard to come by! -- at which point i remark to him on how humble he is); Pierre vs. Justin Trudeau; fund management and left-wing politics at the CBC, ... it was all such a whirlwind that, were it not for the charisma and momentum of his upbeat personality and for his great conversational skills, i might have felt like the victim of a Pixie drill! interspersed between these back-and-forths, he explains that he feels like we're interviewing each other. evidently, this is something like xmas for him, as the mere idea of an interview sends this small-framed man into hearty Santa-like laughter. who's your favourite interviewer? mine's Diane Sawyer. i feel like you're Diane Sawyer!

and then onto psychology. after mentioning he has an oncology appointment in a few hours, he declares that -- insert important hear ye, hear ye voice -- attitude is the key to life: never once during my career did i wake up and say to myself: 'i don't want to go to work today!' then he pauses and begins his analysis. you know what i want you to do? look at yourself in the mirror everyday and say to yourself: "TVB, i like the woman i've become." the guy to the left of the Professor has been witnessing the whole interaction. he cannot wipe the smirk off his face. and particularly enjoys what follows: promise me one thing, says Professor, promise me that i get to make a speech at your wedding. i point out that, in order for that to happen, i'd have to 1) have a wedding (insert something-or-other about how the average canadian wedding costs $23,000 -- oh! and about how i'm single) and 2) still know him whenever said wedding occurs. these strike him as insignificant details, and he proceeds to foretell the future: his name will be Jasper; the wedding will be 2014. mark my words! and now, i've taken up enough of your time. get back to work.

and now back to translating...

(oh, who'm i kidding! this day is shot.)

nightmare on elgin street (or "csi ottawa")

one über groovy, ultra popular toronto coffee shop is the (in)famous Jet Fuel. the pastries -- think buttery, pear-and-chocolate danishes (now pause to drool) -- and ho-cho are the only things that are sweet there. the music's loud, hard rock. the staff are irreverent. and, yes, the coffee (so i'm told) is powerful enough to fuel a large aircraft.

right now i'm in a familiar golden-triangle chain café where, by contrast, everything tends to be über status quo: the music's mainstream (unfortunately including a few jazz standards -- how did Diana Krall not come up in earlier discussions about androgynous voices?), the staff are bubbly (remember Musical-Theatre Genius?), and the coffee is, i assume, as addictive as most others. yet, today, the brew here must be at least as powerful as at the Jet, because what else could be fuelling all this palpable, out-of-character frustration?

crime scene #1
act I: two 60-something regulars -- one: a tall, spry man, bald like a friar; the other: a pale and dreary mr. potato head, sporting salt-and-pepper tumbleweed for hair -- gab for more than twenty minutes and exit the coffee shop, leaving paper cups and thickly strewn newsprint behind.

act II: some five minutes later, another man -- an elongated kind of Jerry Seinfeld -- enters and, after surveying the room to be sure no one's occupying the only available table, quietly clears away the newspapery mess, sets down his things (keys, pen and paper, etc.) and gets in line to order a shot of caffeine.

act III: suddenly, Tumbleweed returns. (uh-oh.) he's solo. sees new look of table. flicker of red rage through the eyes. begins grumbling. low, intense: i was sitting here! who moved my stuff?! aggressively pushes keys-etc off "his" table. Jerry walks over. gentle, sincere: sorry, i didn't know anyone was sitting here. shifts things to newly available table. Tumbleweed growls at Jerry once, twice. Jerry, shocked but calm and firm: hey, take it easy! Tumbleweed growls a third time. loud. crowd on edge. Jerry slinks over to new table. wants to leave. but will not be bullied out of the café. five more minutes of Tumbleweed thrashing about. barking at staff. (what'd you do with my newspapers? where's my bic pen?) glaring at Jerry.

tick...

crime scene #2 
an hour later, exasperated 50-year-old woman and her silent, feeble mother are getting ready to leave. very audibly, Daughter says to Mother: well...(*heavy sigh*)...i guess ya better go to the washroom now so we can get in at least a FEW hours in the car without having to stop...

tick...

crime scene #3
sitting at the table next to me, 10 minutes later, is a 30-something woman wearing -- get ready! -- pink patent-pleather platform shoes. (that's at least three inches of "formed plat.") this is a very bossy ladder-climber who -- not to quote from the zodiac or anything, but... -- must have her sun, moon or something else in Leo, as per its "loud/proud/be-the-focus-of-the-crowd" qualities: she spends thirty minutes talking on the phone at top volume with a contractor-colleague, barking orders at him à la Tumbleweed and -- due to a bad phone connection -- routinely bellowing "speak up!"

Pinky's the only one who doesn't notice that every other java sipper is ready to pounce on her and pummel 'er to a patent-leather pulp.

tick...

crime scene #4
Pinky and the friendly young guy at the table next to her realize they both need to use the outlet near him to recharge their computers. as it turns out, her battery is much lower than his. and, besides, successfully saying "no" to this lady is about as likely as Daughter managing to mind Mother's dignity. still, when Friendly yields the outlet to Pinky, i think to myself: aw, how nice! that is, until he throws in: ladies first. nothing against Friendly. obviously, he's still very nice. but how is it that this "ladies first" thing endures? Pinky has a vulva; ergo, she goes first? bogus logic, on all imaginable levels. no, this tagline and all it represents need to go. let's make a deal, Mister: you don't have to open the door for me because my genitals go in and yours go out. instead, you could do it because you get there first, i happen to be walking through the same door right after you, and it's a nice (not to mention really easy) thing to do. and these are the exact reasons why i could, should and will do the same for you, or any vulva-toting passer-by. yeah?

BOOM!

(and i don't even drink coffee.)

and now back to translating...