couples

a few nights ago, i arrive home to find a small, padded, canada-post envelope leaning up against my apartment door. as if the delightful bubbles of the packaging aren't gift enough -- *p-p-p-pop* -- the envelope contains a handful of items. among them, a gift card for the bridgehead coffee shop and a note from the friend who'd sent the goods: "y'know, fuel for blogging, thesis-writing and whatever else you like to do at bridgehead." hmmm, could this be a reminder to hop to it on the thesis front? pfff! that can't be right. surely it's more of a written nudge from the coffee-shop gods -- with my friend acting as the trusty conduit -- urging me to get back to blogging (or at least bloggery) after well over a month of neglect. (tsk tsk.) and since, as chance would have it, the past couple of weeks have proven to be quite the bonanza of café-based activity, here goes...

sunday july 13: the blues
it's the day after my very first bluesfest experience. Stars, on a sunny outdoor stage: outstanding! equally outstanding -- though far less predictably so -- is being at my usual caffeine-obsessed hangout today and spotting the couple who'd stood right in front of us (amid the sea of rather unfortunate back tattoos) at last night's concert. the guy's a spark plug of a Matthew Fox lookalike (hubba hubba!) and, therefore, decidedly memorable. but it's the girl i especially recall, namely thanks to the persistent ailment she seems to be suffering from: b*tchy resting face. ugh! when BRF's in the room, the festival of blues apparently never ends...

monday july 14: the heat
holy jeebus: it's hotter than hades, plus a helluva lotta humid! yet somehow i find myself working on the rooftop patio of a westboro second cup. and, not surprisingly, it's deserted. except, of course, for my new love interest and me. which raises the profound philosophical question: if a couple engages in public displays of affection on a coffee shop patio and no one's around to see it, are such displays still "public"?

wednesday july 16: the game
some great ideas are only "just fair" in practice. evidence suggests that -- despite the creative genius of its name -- monopolatte (ottawa's one and only board game café) is a case in point. first and foremost, their hot chocolate blows: wa wa waaa! second of all, since players need to concentrate on their moves, there's no background music playing. this is doubly problematic. any potential for ambience has been essentially nixed. (the space almost immediately feels clinical.) plus, you can hear everything the other groups of players are saying. if you've ever wondered what sound "ridiculous" might make, you need only overhear two people delving -- in absolute seriousness -- into the rules and objectives of a complex board game they've never played before. at one table: the player with a pig in his field will score x number of points for his city. at another: similar jibber jabber about how to play -- wait for it! -- zombicide. nuff said. nonetheless, there's hope for success over the long term, and i'll certainly be back in the near future, since, c'mon, who doesn't love board games! but today's rating = no dice.

saturday july 20: the nerve
thanks to the recent opportunity to complete an online starbucks survey, today has granted me a freebie hot chocolate. pure bliss! except that, as we all know, nothing's actually free. in this case, the not-free fee is enduring mother-daughter quality time in which thirty-something Mom -- who's rather preoccupied with the state of her hair and otherwise appears to be caught in the headlights, like a well-known antlered creature -- ignores her eight-year-old daughter, while Daughter bonds (via ipad) with Dora the Explorer. y'know, at top volume. as though this were their living room. in times like these, i wish i had the proverbial balls to walk over to their table and hand them my set of earphones. then again, i'm not quite sure Mom would understand what to do with them.

tuesday july 23: the boy
this morning, a duo of baristas are all a-tizzy over Kate and William's new bundle of joy.
barista 1, exasperated: it's just another baby!
barista 2, swooning: yeah, but Kate looks amazing!
as it happens, John Lennon's "beautiful boy" is playing in the background. could this be prophetic? despite the genetic influence of William's increasingly enormous forehead and horse-jawed mouth, Baby Royal really does stand a chance of being a looker -- which is, after all, the most important of royal duties. and yet such hopes are dashed only a day later when we find out what they've named him. forsooth, the parent who giveth his or her child a horrendous name sentenceth said child to ugly-dom! oh, boy George! if only your middle name were Costanza. then, at least, you'd be a contender for court jester.

friday july 26: the heart
this evening, for the first time in a while, i'm at the coffee shop alone. there are lots of other people here, actually; it's just that i don't recognize them. with the exception of one person. a guy with a charming smile and demeanour. the close friend of the man i'm now no longer seeing. i notice Friend only as he's exiting the coffee shop and passing by the large window on my right. what i want to do is hurry over to him, just to say hello and talk about nothing much at all. some brief friendly banter that allows me to reconnect vicariously with our mutual friend. but he doesn't seem to see me and, more importantly, probably wouldn't want to. fair enough. so i remain still in my seat, suddenly and once again wondering a number of things. like how it can be that even very short relationships can leave an indelible mark, compelling you to feel and learn so surprisingly much. or how it can be that, despite knowing a decision is right, you still don't have answers to all sorts of legitimate questions. my mom, i suspect, would tell me to start with some smaller, more manageable pieces of the puzzle. those that have simple, constructive solutions. so i'm starting with comfort: wrapping one hand around a venti mug of hot chocolate and using the other to begin writing; one of my very favourite couplings. sometimes, hot chocolate really is a hot date.

and now back to translating...

dada

some dads speak and act like their adolescent offspring. like latte-loving Roger Sterling over here on my left, chatting with his 19-year-old shorty-shorts-blonde-bombshell of a daughter about binge drinking, tossing in the occasional yeah, like, seriously! (*hair flip*). but i say: kudos, Rog'. because mastering this particular gift of the gab requires some serious dedication. (i mean, c'mon: being up to speed on the latest "hangover" movie quotes when you're nearly sixty? that ain't no easy task, man.) and because, in addition to responding to his rather desperate need to assert his supercoolness, this dedication mostly signals Roger's interest in connecting with his daughter. and, to his credit, it seems to be working: she's opening up to him like a disgruntled canadian on cross country check-up (oh, Rex...you do have a way with people...). besides, particularly once you've encountered truly disastrous father types, you know that such attempts are ultimately what matter. (even despite your discomfort in overhearing this wannabe silver fox refer to one of Shorty's friends as smokin' hot. i'm sure he hadn't quite intended it to come out that way. but, ew -- keep it in yer pants, Daddio!)

at the same time, people get used to what they know. and then, at least sometimes, come to believe that what they know is also what's best. so you'll forgive me for thinking that my dad kicks Roger's sweet little behind. sure, maybe Rog' can correctly use "then" and "than." (show-off!) and he probably doesn't inadvertently crush his opponent's (aka brother's, niece's, neighbour's) fingers when offering a friendly handshake. (yowch!) but Dad VB manages to redefine "cool." so that even his kids eventually buy into and feel liberated by it all. he's the guy belting out repeated, loud Bob and Doug McKenzie calls during our ball tournaments. KOO-rookookoo-kookoo-kookoooo! busting out shamelessly large step-touch/step-touch moves on the dance floor, accompanied by overhead hand-clapping and an ear-to-ear smile blazing across his face. designing marble games and shuffle boards for us with bits and pieces of wood and felt that were lying around the garage. telling elaborate bedtime stories about the ooooold (fictional) woman in moncton who was buried alive and could be heard clawing at the lid of her six-feet-under coffin with her long gnarly nails. spontaneously picking up and driving non-stop from toronto to thunder bay: more than twenty-four hours, with that same grin still ablaze.

once in a while, i picture in my mind the day (still quite far down the road) when i will defend my thesis. a very formal event, full of anxieties and expectation. Shorty's dad would, no doubt, arrive perfectly pressed, polite and poised. mine, on the other hand, will be the guy in the back of the room with his thumbs perched conspicuously on his temples, doing an antler hand dance, and waggling his tongue out as far as thunder bay. mark my words: i will want to kill him. yet, at the exact same time that i'm plotting his demise, i'll know he's awfully proud of me. and i'll be thinking to myself: damn, he's cool!

and now back to translating...

cheers!

coffeeshopping has taken a temporary hit since a few weeks ago when Luigi and Creepy descended on my usual haunt. (*shiver*) it's seemed like a good idea to keep away from there for a little while. so, in addition to working more frequently at home and in the office (what a concept!), i've been travelling around a bit. sometimes to places relatively far from home. today's feature off-site office, for instance, is aaaaall the way over on the other side of the ottawa river, in the main lobby of the canadian museum of civilization, in gatineau, québec. there's a café in here, actually. but lingering apprehensions keep me at its outskirts, several metres away from the glass wall that separates the smell of java from the aroma of artefacts and hand sanitizer that otherwise pervades the museum air.

still, from this table, the view of the espresso machine is crystal clear. and, before long -- despite my continued lobbying -- i'm ordering a chocolat chaud. and then the phone rings. guess who? it's the Professor, of course. jovial as ever. checking in from our coffee shop headquarters with the usual set of questions -- are you happy? are you working hard? -- and a less usual comment: the nice man who does the crossword puzzle tells me you haven't been here for a while. learning that i'm across the border for the day, he launches into a game of outlandish and hilarious guesses as to my general whereabouts and activities. the last of which particularly hits home: i'll bet you're out on a giant boat, sailing with Jasper! holy Hannah: has he really remembered that (fictitious) character's name? and then, with a kind smile in his voice, he adds: now promise me you're wearing a life jacket.

it's good to have been away. but equally good is knowing when to return home, where everybody -- or at least a handful of baristas and your good friend the Professor -- knows your name. see you in the morning!

and now back to translating...

the jitters

thursday, may 9.

it all takes place at the usual hangout. i'm anticipating a catch-up with Professor FLQ, who's been snowbirding in florida since november. shortly after arriving, he -- who useth not computers -- launches us into a(nother) debate about technology. tell me, tvb, do you think facebook is good or bad? yada yada. i'm with the people who think Steve Jobs has contributed to the destruction of civilization. blah blah blah. people die because of the internet. etc. as i attempt to temper his rather black-and-white take on the world wide web, we are suddenly interrupted. hollering from the wobbly table in the corner is a middle-aged pot-bellied figure, whose sagging man-breasts are toppling out either side of his loose, white, sleeveless shirt, his nipples pointing towards the behemoth tattoos on his darkly tanned arms. his hair is electric; his eyes are alarming; his raspy laugh immediately sends chills up my spine and then right back down again. if you don't mind, i couldn't help overhearing what yous were talking about, and i wanted to put my two cents in. the monologue that ensues is, for the most part, unintelligible, and -- what's this! -- even the Professor can't get a word in edgewise. but the initial bit is perfectly clear: a tale about how, thanks to technology (there's the link!), the cops had hunted him down when he was (not so long ago) on the run, and how -- when he finally "let" them find him -- he flipped them the bird. at this point in the story, wearing a cheshire grin, he proceeds to recreate the moment for us, using one hand to crank the middle finger on the other hand slowly toward the sky. this is when i notice that his fingers are trembling. and that there's relatively fresh blood lining the edges of his raw digits. then, more raspy laughter.

after gingerly removing ourselves from the café, the Professor and i are unsure whether Luigi (he'd introduced himself) is under the influence of alcohol, narcotics or perhaps ptsd. meanwhile, my mind is wandering off, though maybe just down an offshoot of the day's technology path. i'm flashing back to a brief incident from shortly before Luigi's and the Professor's arrivals. when a thirty-something man -- whom i vaguely recognize from previous visits to the coffee shop but definitely have never spoken with -- sat at the table beside me and, just before leaving (roughly twenty minutes later), uttered, kind of under his breath: "did you finish your phd?"

and now back to translating...

i see london, i see france

i see Cougar's underpants.

and now back to translating...

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...