all the world's a stage

...and all the men and women merely players:

two days ago, an elderly woman, dressed head-to-toe in emerald-city green (egad!), bursts onto the scene barking at one of the customers for leaving her puppy outside (for two and a half minutes) to die a gruelling -- *cough* fictional -- death in the sweltering heat. after shouting fatty! at the dog owner (the entire coffee shop gasps), Esmeralda is dismissed from the premises by one of the baristas. (imagine a very angry vaudeville hook.) and the crowd goes wild!

taking centre stage yesterday: three new Gen Zeds -- one guy, two girls. he's a mute wallflower and blends in well with the current conversational wasteland. but the girls -- one PippiLongstocking-meets-SideshowBob; one SinéadO'Connor-circa-nothingcompares2u -- are in a perpetual state of wigging out. it's loud-speaker voices, oversharing, and exclamation marks absolutely everywhere. a sampling... Redhead Zed: my mom was engaged seven times before she got married! Skinhead Zed: i'm trying to be seductive, but it's not working! Deadhead Zed: ...  (shhh, i think he's sleeping. zzz...) eventually, heckling from the peanut gallery (aka the forty-year-old ordering his mocha somethingsomething): HEL-LO!? but the Zeds are oblivious. and, since the show must go on, the audience learns that Red's dad was forty-two and had braces when she was born, and that...

today, it's a one-man show, starring my favourite character, Professor FLQ, who's popped by for a "brief" (it's never brief) chat. today's monologue revolves around the flying squirrel, the 1972 munich massacre (how had i not known about this? *crawls out from under rock*), his ride-along with the ottawa police, his love of country music, his aversion to all things internet. then, he offers to set me up with a sixty-five-year-old man. excuse me? upon recovering from the initial shock, i threaten to defriend him altogether if he does this. and to leave him sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything. he promptly changes the subject.

and now back to translating...

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...

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.)

traps?

hmmm, it's possible this blog will soon require some editing (read: deleting), as Professor FLQ strikes again, unofficially offering me translation work:

1. he boasts that he will "personally" ensure my name appears on the translation publications currently underway (imagine proud dad-like har-har-harring)
2. explains he will have articles about Ignatieff + separatism coming out soon -- and that, by the by, Iggy never should have said what he said yesterday!
3. i, half-jokingly, offer to translate said articles
4. he says there will indeed be some in french, so "why don't i get your contact info"
5. two thoughts simultaneously cross my mind: 1) this could be really interesting work, 2) thank goodness for cryptic university email addresses -- as, still unsure of this guy's true intentions, i'm loath to relinquish my anonymity. and, before that transaction will take place, there's gonna need to be some proof of identification on his part: i'm talking about official, university-approved business cards.

mini conclusion #1: coffee shops are, apparently, hotbeds for potentially nabbing contracts.

in other news: this starb*cks has just witnessed a bit of drama. sorry, let me rephrase: that should be "drama". there's a trapdoor in the floor among the chairs and tables, and a worker has just discreetly opened it and dipped inside the cavern, nowhere to be seen, to do something or other. enter middle-class chic-ster: 60-year-old who screams "wannabe artist", with her ginormous dark-rimmed glasses, long trenchcoat, upswept hair and flashy fashionista scarf. for some reason, the trapdoor scene makes me think of those thirty-some chilean miners trapped underground for days in 2010. however, when Artista spots the open space in the floor, she's caught off-guard, and -- without the slightest hint of irony in her voice -- exclaims: "isn't that just everyone's nightmare!"

mini conclusion #2: sometimes i'm terribly embarrassed to be middle-class white folk.

luckily, i'm quickly able to forget about our "traumatized" latte-sipping fool, as the current café playlist track is Rilo Kiley's "Silver Lining".

mini conclusion #3: art is usually what makes a day a little bit better. three cheers!

and now back to translating...

"read"-handed?

Professor FLQ's legitimacy has become even more questionable. literally thirty seconds after i post the last entry, he pops over beside me, with an all-knowing grin on his face. the conversation goes something like this:

-pro(f)lq: *enthusiastic* you look like you're a journalist! 
-me: *slightly awkward laugh* no...
-pro(f)lq: oh! i could have sworn you were just working on your column for tomorrow.
-me: *more uncomfortable laughter* my thesis advisor sure would be thrilled if i wrote something for him tomorrow! but, no, i'm translating.
-pro(f)lq: *excited* oh! traduction? at the university of ottawa? well, *encouraging tone* there's going to be a lot of work for you! and i look forward to reading your work in *uses hands to draw some impressive banner in the sky* The Translator! you are going to be great. i can tell...

the fact that he pounced so quickly, was clearly trying to be charming -- the oldest manipulation trick in the book! -- and (i can't deny it) was doing so very successfully just may suggest that he's as "undercover constable" as i'd suspected! the question now (aside from: what might he have read off my computer screen?) is: what exactly is he "undercovering"? perhaps, just like me, he's wondering why there are so many cops in the coffee shop today...

and now back to translating...