ch-ch-changes

settling back into the neighbourhood coffee shop, after being on the road for a couple of weeks (woo-hoo!) and sick in bed for a couple of days (doh!), reminds me that lots can change in a short period of time. oh, sure, some things stay the same: this no-whip hot chocolate still rocks (even in 35˚C heat), and Tumbleweed -- currently sporting the disturbingly popular white knee-high + brown sandal ensemble -- is still kicking around. but some other familiar things are noticeably different.

take the art on the back wall, for instance. whether featuring close-ups of peeved cockatoos or watercolours of trees on distant hillsides (*cue the violin*), the rotating artwork is consistently pretty. that's "pretty," as pronounced by a five-year-old girl who worships pink (the colour, not the "artist"). by contrast, this week's works are a series of distorted, abstract images. on the upside, perhaps they suggest that this clientèle isn't as mainstream as i'd thought! on the downside, nobody should quit their day job: this stuff's "pretty" ugly.

next: get a load of these Regulars! shouldn't they, by definition, remain unchanged? instead, they're over there behaving irregularly. for one, there are three of them here right now. (i've hardly seen even two in the coffee shop at the same time before. and, ps, would it have killed them to invite Professor FLQ and me to their little convention?) but far more notable is that each member of today's all-male cast has the same yellow short-sleeved golf shirt on. atypical, to be sure. plus, it's giving me painful flashbacks to a very bad date (not unlike an evening with the Snore Sisters...though with fewer opportunities to escape) with a guy whose own yellow golf shirt basically summed up his personality. (eek!) luckily, the shock of this "what not to wear" episode is tempered, albeit only slightly, by the fact that yellow is my favourite colour. (phew!)

finally, there is a definite shift in demographics: three mini-muscled, american eagle, swaggering twenty-year-olds have just descended upon the table next to me. ta-da! it's the coffee shop début of generation z! and -- oh, goodie! -- it's a double feature: a few minutes later, two of their female peers bounce in and over to the same spot. but the scene that follows proves more perplexing than entertaining:

Girl 1 giggles over to Boy 1, clearly signalling that they're "together" in some way. (Girl 2 looks on, mostly silent, occasionally giggling, and just a tad jealous...like any good sidekick.) B1's response -- some slapdash kiss -- indicates more or less the same togetherness. however, he's focused more on not looking like some kind of a "wuss" in front of his (awkward, chuckling) friends than on being sweet with G1. within moments, B1 and G1 have made vague plans to talk later on, and the Giggle Girls depart. as soon as the duo are out of sight, the trio morph into a 21st-century skater version of the wannabe boys from Madmen (aka Pete Campbell & co.): they begin roaring with laughter and, with broad smirks still in tow, rolling their eyes at G1 and taunting Pete.

as it turns out, Pete is totally uninterested in Giggles. as it also turns out, he can't let her in on this bit of information. why's he so tongue-tied? well, he's just in short supply of two round objects that would normally be found dangling loosely from his nether regions. ah, yes. unfortunately, current dating experiences of women of all ages keep pointing to a recurring phenomenon: that, regardless of the girl, many "grown" men are just as "mad" as young Pete. these are the cute/sweet/bright/down-to-earth/original thirty-one -- or forty-one or fifty-nine or seventy-six -- year-old guys who've spent three and a half weeks dating a woman, have initiated plans with her for two months down the road, and have then left for a work weekend in victoria, never to be heard from again. she's disappointed when it doesn't work out, i suppose. (though losing Mr. "Original" can hardly be considered a big deal.) but no notice? no short-and-sweet straight-talk? *sigh*

i guess, hot chocolate and Tumbleweed aren't the only things that endure the test of time, after all.

and now back to translating...

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...