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...

it takes two (androgynous voices)

so, today i'm transported back to 1988. *time travel music*

remember the calgary winter olympics and the Battle of the Brians? and, in politics, the battle of the Brian (Mulroney, that is), with his second, majority win as PM? (no comment.) also, it was a decent year for movies: "Big", "Rain Man", "Naked Gun". but it's another 1988 film that comes to mind this afternoon in this downtown café...

enter the androgynous, animated, two-packs-a-day voice from three tables over. i don't even need to look. can close my eyes and see her perfectly. fifty-something. white. rotund. buxom. self-induced leathery tan. jet black hair (dyed, naturally. <-- get it?). unintentionally clownlike make-up. garish nails. chunky-cheap jewellery. and a real penchant for gossip -- generally of the "celebrity" variety. (perhaps she'll leak the news on whether Aniston is really preggers.) yes: it's Lainie Kazan as overbearing, atlantic-city mom from "Beaches". (you know this flick: with Bette Midler, Barbara Hershey, and something about wind?) well, it's her double, anyway. when i do glance over (who could resist!) and see her with her friend, it's all confirmed. i'd missed only a couple of details: the white sun visor (not just a stylish choice; also very useful when indoors) and the hint of Anjelica-Huston-as-Morticia. shiver.

an hour later, the androgynous voice s(t)ings again. strange, since "the Beaches" have already left. but, as it turns out, this is a new coffee-shop dweller: bleach blonde, wiry and, overall, far less frightening than her counterpart. what i learn -- through what is clearly becoming a compulsion to overhear neighbours talking, despite how quiet they might be -- is that this blonde belle used to be a he.

so, i start thinking: in light of Blondie, there's surely something über-important to be said here, perhaps about how sex and gender are, in many ways, just constructs (acquired, accepted or rejected constructions and reconstructions), or about how cool it is that Blondie can nonchalantly talk about her transition, in the public domain of a coffee house. maybe something or other about the Charter? celebrating 30 years? but, nah. we know this already -- after all, it's not 1988 anymore! and, to be honest, it's Atlantic-City Mama i can't stop thinking about. she's like exhibit A in a case for making something all too clear: simply that, despite all the (however necessary) hubbub over cancer, the big C really isn't the only potential outcome of a bad smoking habit and too much time spent baking in the sun. yikes!

and now back to translating...