Destined for Disaster

Since 1960

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The Man In Black

The man in black is me. Brown boots, blue denim jeans and everything else a version of black. On occasion the tee-shirt may change to something else in black - maybe with a graphic of some kind - or my brown Matt Nathanson tee, or the blue Nike one. They are however, always covered with a black denim shirt worn cardigan-like. The underwear that fits me best is black. And if black is popular because of its slimming properties, it is doubly so for my black compression socks. I am not diabetic - I just like everything below the knee to look thin. This has been my uniform, with little variation, for 3 years now. There are times I get ready for the day with the intention of wearing something else, but I can’t leave my room without facing the full-length mirrored sliding door on my closet. The sight sends me back for the black tee and black denim shirt. I have more than one of each - I bought a handful of the tee-shirts at a store clearance, and the jeans shirts on another occasion. Nobody would really know this to see me each day at work, or having coffee with my daughter. For all that anyone knows, I have but one of each and I wear them constantly. I am sure that my limited wardrobe has prompted comments, but in 3 years I have yet to hear of even one. From anyone. And this includes my mother who finds the smallest reason to critique my general comportment. Now, bear with me. We used to have a cat. A big cat, not huge. For all intents and purposes he wore black. He was much classier about it than I having a white bib front, giving him a very formal look. At one point the veterinarian determined that he was overweight, as evidenced by his inability to groom himself. He was put on a diet and in short order it worked. Before long, the patches of matted fur in hard to reach areas were gone. The parallel is - and I cannot stress this enough - a very loose one. Very. But the black wardrobe is the kicker, the similarity that stings. My hygiene never really suffers, and for a big guy, I’ve always been agile enough to be almost disturbing, like diving for tennis balls. Past a certain weight it’s impossible to look graceful when you do a shoulder roll. Your opponent starts coming over certain you’ve lost your balance, done yourself some injury and anyone in the bleachers has their cell phone in hand and is pounding out 9-1-1 before you can assure them it was all intentional. “Please put your phones away. The man in black is fine.”

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Jangle

I like driving. I like being in the car, that sense of freedom (mostly imagined), of possibilities. When my crew is on the night shift of our rotation, our work day ends at 1am. More often than not I will walk to my car and go for a drive, sit for a coffee, and wind up at home around 4am. I'll do the same thing on our day shifts, going for a drive a drive after work, my chance to enjoy daylight before ensconcing myself in the basement I call home. Thirty five years ago I would do the same thing in my first car, a used Toyota Corolla 4-speed. As a student, the math was against me most of the time - the price of gas versus disposable income, but $3 worth of gas in 1978 could take me fairly far. The numbers are no kinder now with new factors - disposable income minus (rent plus VISA). My current car is family-sized with an appetite for gas, and still I'm surprised at how far I can go. One of the few nights this summer that was truly warm - drive with the windows down, smell the humidity with its floral, grassy overtones warm - found me on the far side of the bordering municipality to the quasi-bedroom community I live in. Van Halen's "Dance the Night Away" came on the radio. Within a few kilometres the street I was on managed to transform from the trendy downtown of Oakville to as yet undeveloped farmland, and the vocal harmonies, Eddie's jangly guitar and a wistful, beat-up heart beat took me back: I'm 23-years-old, driving along the California coast to spend the better part of the day at the beach. I always wanted to learn to surf, but in all that time I never set foot on a board on water. I probably should have learned to swim - I would've been able to bring at least that much away. I suppose I can admit the Beach Boys put me there too, but in the early 80's it was more Van Halen. There's the smell of sun lotion. Fries that came in that big cardboard boat and the smell you get when the two interact, with ketchup, too. And the salt air, and sand if it has a smell. I swear it does. And the wood of the pier. Even the smell of gasoline, exhaust seemed cleaner then as it wafted in from the parking lot. It all came back when that cowbell counted in. It was an amazing experience, this memory, because I've never been to California. I've never been west of Chicago. Or Winnipeg. Yet there are the songs that do that for me. They create a memory of something I've never experienced. Out of air as thin as the one that carries that heavy, blossomed perfume in my car window on my night drive up the western edge of Mississauga. The cost of gas and a cup of coffee can take me far, alright.

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Which Time Is It

Everybody remembers their first. Isn't that what they say? Everyone remembers their first time, even though it's all rose-coloured through the warm, hazy glow of nostalgia. Even though aneurism-inducing nervousness is remembered as youthful anticipation, downright clumsiness is now just raw skill lacking experience. As our first time it is set, our memory of it unassailable by the facts. I remember my first time. Both of them. Yet circumstance has dealt me a few low blows, some real nutshots, and when it comes to sex I find something else is more important to me now. Something else is occupying my memories. I remember my last time. It, too, is coloured by nostalgia: surely 7 years qualifies it for wistful recollections. Every encounter was filled with nerves, excitement beyond a tolerable level, and that last one certainly so. And I'm not convinced I ever achieved that particular confidence that outweighs an inherent awkwardness. It surprises me (and at the same time, doesn't) that it's 7 years this month. That, folks, is the definition of anticlimactic. For me, there is something different about such a memory. When we recall our first time, even recount it to someone close perhaps, we control the narrative. We have hold of the memory. In my humble and panicky opinion, I'm too young to be in this position, reducing the most intimate of human physical encounters to a mental exercise. Nonetheless, this memory has hold of me. My faculties are too clear to shift the narrative to ensure a favourable recounting, an awesome tale for the ages. There is no need. I can't speak for her - I doubt she remembers the day let alone the date, and upon review I'm almost positive the evening meant little to her, even at the time. For me the story plays out perfectly as is. Bodies are graceful together. We are both wanting and wanted. There is no need to embellish, or to lie to myself. And so I am held, haunted by a nearly ideal last time. Maybe this is all for the best. Perhaps it's wisest to take a cue from various professions - like an athlete or a comedian, or a tv series - it's best to go out on top. So to speak.

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Home Les

A few months ago my son moved back to Toronto, his hometown, and one day shortly after, as I was dropping him off at his apartment, then to drive to my own, we started a conversation about “home”. He said, “it seems like we shouldn’t be leaving at the start of this conversation.” So we went for a beer. It turns out we share the same problem, the same feeling. We feel like we have no home. In his case, his mother and sister live in the house he grew up in, in which he lived until two years ago when he moved to New Brunswick, ostensibly to figure out the next phase of his life. Each time he leaves that house in East York he feels like he’s leaving home for the place where he keeps his stuff and lays his head at night. In my case I have lived in basements for 6 years now, trying to figure out the last phase of my life in the converted underground floors of other people’s homes. I’m helping them pay their mortgages. And 3 years ago I left my hometown. I have left the familiar for the slightly less familiar, and while in making the move to the suburbs I was surprised at how much I knew of my new neighbourhood, it doesn’t mean I’m home. The goal has become rather simple – I would like to live above ground again. Sometime before I can’t tell the difference or actually kick off this planet, I’d like a window that looks out at other houses, or trees, or sky. Or all of the above. I’m not sure how, or when, this will happen, but to move my furniture, my clothes, my books, my toiletries and boxes filled with accumulated ephemera to a new apartment, or condo, or house will only mean I’ve changed addresses. Finding home, however, is a completely different matter.

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Lo Resolution

So, for the 53rd time since I arrived here, let’s forget everything that’s preceded in the last 365 days. Wipe the slate clean so we can start over again. In our heart of hearts we all know it’s not going to work, despite our iron-clad resolve to make it happen. Some of us know we’ll just wind up back here in another year, bent and broken, yet somehow ready for another go-round. If someone asks, scoff. That’s good. Laugh and roll your eyes. “Surely I’m too old for such nonsense. Who makes resolutions for New Year’s anymore?” Let me ask you, why don’t we do this on our birthdays? It would make more sense to do this on the start of our very own, very personal year. But why spoil the taste of cake with words inaugurating a year avoiding pastry? Besides, who wants to fail alone? We all share the start of a new year, so let’s do it en masse. We’ll all dive in to our annual epic fail like it’s a polar bear swim. A girl in the office confided her aim to stop smoking and when I saw her freezing in smokers’ corner outside 3 weeks later, I tried to be as supportive as possible about her success for 19 days, as it turns out. See? Never say it out loud, for we – the standers-by – will hold you accountable. The truth is it’s a conflict between higher aspirations and lower expectations. I’d like to lose weight, write and sketch more, and get my finances in order. Lord knows I would have been a resounding success if a year ago I had resolved to gain enough weight to balloon in size like a puffer fish, avoid almost every creative impulse like the plague, and decimate my credit score to powder. It occurs to me as I write this I have the opportunity for a head start over next year. If I try to write anything relative to the beginning of the new year, I resolve to have it done anytime in January, rather than 31 days later. Yeah. We’ll see.

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Places I Can Write (And Places I Can't)

I cannot write at home.  Not growing up, not in the house where we raised our family, not in my current bachelor apartment.  For some reason I can’t make a space conducive enough to overcome the fact that I can’t create, can’t write unless I go out.  I don’t know why.

I can write at Tim Hortons, the quintessentially Canadian franchise patisserie.  It’s a donut shop.  They dot the face of Canada like that of an acneic 13 year-old, so I’m never more than two blocks from one.  They are open 24 hours a day, so I can write any time.  Years ago I weaned myself from sugar so my coffee comes with only milk, but lately my writing has been going well, so I’ve gained 30 pounds on Blueberry Fritters and Maple Pecan Danish.

I cannot write at the pub on my corner.  The waitress asks what I’m doing and telling her makes me feel stupid.  I can immerse myself in the Irish-ness they’ve tried so hard to mass produce for their locations, but in the end I just feel too affecté to accomplish anything.

I can write at work during my breaks, but only if I put in my earphones, put on a severe look of concentration and a “go thither” aura about me.

I cannot write in the library, not since the incident over the Dewey Decimal System.

I can write in those little notebooks from the dollar store, as long as no one ever reads them – even she to whom all the pages are written.

I shouldn’t write on the commuter bus.  Since I moved to the suburbs two years ago I’ve come to terms with the regional transit system in order to get downtown, where I grew up.  When inspiration whispers in my ear I occasionally ignore common sense and take out paper and pen.  While much can be accomplished during the 40 minute ride, little can be read afterward.

I can write in the hospital, or at least I did that one time when I broke my collar bone, but it hurt like a son-of-a-bitch.

I cannot write outside.  Too much wind.  Or sun reflecting off the page.  And twice, bird poop.

I can write in my mother’s apartment, but only when I have her pass key and she’s in Florida.

I can write on scraps of paper – receipts, envelopes, those pages that print out at the end of a document with only one line of near meaningless information across the very bottom.  I cannot, however, write on a computer.  I can edit, not compose, and I'm not sure why.

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Get Trimmed

Merry Christmas.

I should be more precise - Happy Belated Holidays.  I'm sorry.  I've always been bad at this.  There was only one year that I was ahead of the curve on this seasonal stuff.  I think it was somewhere in the mid 1990's.  Gifts were all bought weeks if not months in advance, giving me a leisurely amount of time to wrap. Never before, or since.

And again this year, I can't get my wishes for the season out in time.  The wreathes have been hung for a week now, garlands across the mantel piece.  The tress are all lit, some trimmed to excess.  And I'm only wishing everyone Merry Christmas now.  I mean geez - Hallowe'en is already in sight.  I even caught a break this year.  Last year the studios at work - Canada's only 24-hour shopping television channel - were decked out by the last weekend in September.  This year all the Thanksgiving left-overs were long gone by the time this festive assault on the senses began.

When I was growing up I got just as excited leading up to Christmas as any kid. It's called Advent.  It's a civil four weeks (give or take a day).  At work, this holiday mirth and decor takes up a quarter of the calendar year. Even for the (arguably) happiest day of the year, dragging it out this long is unseemly.  And I freely admit I have no objectivity here. After all, I spend 8 hours a work day surrounded by this Clausian nightmare.  This makes it difficult to get in the spirit when I clock out and I'm on my own time.  In the five years I have lived alone, I have never put up any kind of decor accessory that could even mistakenly be considered a Christmas decoration.  A tree?  Be serious.  Hell, the only glitter that crosses my thresh hold is whatever I happen to carry home after brushing up against something at work.

So shopping for gifts gets put off.  My Christmas experience has fallen victim to the kind of desensitization I think they talk about kids suffering from when they play too much Grand Theft Auto.  I don't know how my parents did it.  They created a magic about Christmas that was unlike anything I have ever heard from anyone else.  I'd like to think that even if they had jammed the area around his printing presses with trees and lights, and reindeers and little village scenes in snow three months before December 25th, my dad would have managed the same energy to create that unique experience for my brothers and I.  But I may be wrong - he was only human.

I fear this makes me less than human.  I want to enjoy these things, but it starts to seem like such a chore.  It seems too much like - work.  My children are grown up, although being in their twenties doesn't dampen their enthusiasm for Disney World, animated movies, and Christmas.  Nothing ever should.  I want to believe.  I want to be able to let a little magic take over at least once in a while.  And maybe even have a hand in creating a bit myself.

So, we're counting down.  Two months to go.  Hallowe'en, American Thanksgiving, a family baptism, and a few birthdays sprinkled in between.  I think I'll just have to take it one hour at a time, keep breathing, and let a little of the season's charm work on me.  Not all in one go.  Just a little at a time.

Maybe this year we'll try a sprig of evergreen, a bit of tinsel and a red glass ball ornament.  Next September we'll see how I'm doing, and maybe we'll add a star.

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The Thing

My brother made off with a plate of desserts that my cousin gave me - various pieces of pie and squares, and a nice portion of strudel - when he dropped me off after our family Thanksgiving gathering.  A paper plate imprinted with fall colours, and wrapped with cellophane.  If this was mine, he wondered, where could his share be?  But my cousin gave it to me, and it was resting on the tub of salad she insisted I take at the same time. 

The important thing to remember here is his generosity, I thought to myself.  Truth is, I really don't need any more sweet stuff.  I manage to ingest more than I should as it is.  Besides, it was little price to pay given he drove me from the western side of the Greater Toronto Area, to the far eastern side and back again.

The important thing was the medium sized take-out tin she stuffed with left-overs from the family feast.  I'm not even sure what's in there yet.  The buffet was headlined by creatures from land, sea and air, representing the fullness of God's bounty that we are thankful for, I suppose.  As I took a modest amount of white meat I could only think what a poor representative the turkey made for Air, stupid delicious flightless bird.  On to a ridiculous choice of vegetables.  I pass over the traditional sweet potatoes in favour of the broccoli/carrot/cauliflower combo which sounds like the prudent choice, except most of its virtue has been smothered in a flow of cheese you wouldn't believe.

The important thing to remind myself is I'm basically healthy, and I don't always eat like this - the cheese/veggie casserole I mean.  So the one or two times I delude myself into seeing the plant in the dish and not the dairy, I can forgive myself.  I've had to walk to work two mornings in a row anyway, so it balances out, right?  It's a universal conundrum we all face at times like this.  We'll only take a small serving of each thing, giving us a little taste of each of the many dishes laid out before us.  And by the time you’re two-thirds of the way through the line, your plate is overloaded.  And more than food, or anything you can measure on your plate, or the bag you’re taking home, is the generosity of the family that manages to keep doing this.  Feeding everyone?  A side-benefit, and never overlooked for the magnanimity.  The real gift is staging such an opportunity for our family to stay a family.

The important thing is we keep coming together.  I wondered when I was younger if the closeness of my family would continue when our generation was the adults, the parents.  It’s not a huge family, but it’s bigger than most, so I could imagine that it would just become a huge headache for anyone who tried.  We never hosted such a gathering, not at our house, anyway.  When there was something we wanted to share, when pulling our family together was the only way to celebrate we did, but our house wasn’t conducive to such an endeavor, so we would rent space.

The important thing is we did it.  We came together.  We still come together, and I see my children greet my cousins’ children like they saw them last week, like they bump into each other all the time.  The cousins from Buffalo, the cousin living in Botswana.  It’s easy, and we’re eager to have fun, to laugh, and awkward is only a word to describe how a huge bird with wings and feathers is reduced to walking and hopping, no majestic loops in the sky, yet the king of this holiday.  As we drove home, we talked with mom, about how we managed to do this, to stay a family, the what - thirty-five, forty of us?  We’ve stayed a family in the way we were raised to, and that’s a testament to our parents, the ones that brought us together so regularly our cousins are more than just cousins.  We knew them.  They weren’t those kids we visited every once in a while, but didn’t really have a clue about, especially the odd one.  There was no odd, no strange, no ill-at-ease.  And while we can trace lines back through different branches of the tree, different names, this tradition starts with Mary.  My grandmother who was widowed too early with five children in a new country.

The important thing to her seemed to be that we get together.  We did every week after church, at her house.  Whether we had plans to meet at this aunt and uncle’s house later, or plans that involved no other family, we always went to her house for coffee after church.  How did she instill this?  How has it lasted this long?  The larger a family gets, the more spread out, the less frequent the get-togethers, I suppose.  But at Thanksgiving, at Christmas, a wedding, a confirmation, even a funeral sadly, we all walk into the same place and greet each other, and any new members, have a beer, try the Guinness cheese, and laugh ourselves silly, especially when the call goes out to stuff the staircase for the inevitable family portrait.  We were marveling at it, but so happy that this is how our family works.

After all that driving, I got out, thanked my brother for all that he did, offered a "see you next week at the baptism," and left the dessert in his trunk.  And it’s okay.

The important thing is I’ve got dinner for most of the week.

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Sick Transit, Gloria

I miss my car.

To be precise I miss any car.  I live too far away from downtown Toronto, where my family, doctor, dentist, optometrist, and a really good Hungarian restaurant are, to comfortably commute, and yes, I know there are people - I know people - who make that commute every day for work.  I admire them because all I can think of in the face of it is “why?”

In the period I’ve owned the Charger, I think I’ve actually driven it about half of that time owing to license suspensions after two separate seizures.  I did get used to public transit and commuter buses, and I’m anything but anti-social, yet…

The time of my commute by car is, at the least - if buses and connections are good - one third less of that by transit.

The cost if I, say, visit my mom involves payment on two transit systems and one commuter system making it around $23 round trip.  Even as big as the Charger is, it doesn’t use $23 worth of gas for the same trip.

I’ve had a nosh on the bus before.  Who hasn’t?  But who are these characters that have an entire meal during the ride?  Once you open a container (or two) with chicken, rice and vegetables, I have to wonder if $3.25 really entitles you to turn the conveyance into your dining room.

It would seem I still emanate that potent animal pheromone that scares women (and men for that matter) to such a degree that the seat beside me will remain open until the last possible moment.  A guy bleeding out his eyes will have someone sit in his lap before the seat next to me is taken.  More room for me.  This does not apply if someone gets on who is mumbling to himself but shows no visible evidence of a phone.  Or if he has a full meal to eat.

Since my last car-less period the transit systems that ply the 3 kilometre DMZ between my apartment and work have changed their routes.  Now, when I’m on nights, there is only one bus (I think) that can get me to my corner when the shift ends at 1am and Sunday mornings at 6am I remain S-O-L.  Eh.  I try to stay positive.  The walking will do me good, even better after the shin splints I developed from my first three nights go away.

I remember what it was like when 95% of all I needed was within walking distance.  Public transit being what it is in Toronto, this covered quite an area.  It made me feel like a New Yorker.  It’s why I felt I was home my first trip to Manhattan.  But that’s the advantage, the beauty even, of its compactedness.  And if I kept my dealings within that golden corridor our home was the very eye of, all was neat and exceedingly convenient.  Now, some inexplicable centrifugal force has flung me off into the sprawl.

I miss that house on MacPherson Avenue.  I miss the comfort of “around the corner” and “down the street” where it can be measured in yards, not miles.  Perhaps that seems too nostalgic.  Let’s be more practical.

I miss my car.

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Nine Ten

Monday morning (yes, anything before 12 noon is morning) I heard a noise, something falling.  I thought it was my messenger bag, so for the most part paper would be spread over an area of the kitchen.  Turns out it was a small frame in my salon, falling face down, but bouncing tiny splinters of glass on the only rug I own, unless you count my bath mat.  I don't.

Time to rise.  Time to sweep up the minute shards.  Time to shave and wash and take my car to the autobody shop so that they can tell me exactly how far out of my budget the repairs will be.  Last week a tractor trailer sideswiped my car and managed to rip off my passenger side mirror.  I got a license plate number and a photo of the cab, the name of the company clearly written on the door.  They still may not find him.  Apparently I failed to get a DNA sample while driving in the rain at 90 kph on the busiest highway in Canada.  I'm not sure how important any of this will be since I will not be renewing the plates on the car, the cost being prohibitive, and the explanation for that being embarassing.

Aside from the lovely dinner Sunday night with my daughter, brother and mother, this is how my birthday played out.  Oh, and a day at work.

The point here is it's just another day.  My daughter turns 21 in December.  That's the last birthday worth marking.  That's the last threshold to pass.  Otherwise, your birthday is a convenient day for the government to use as a marker - we renew our license this day so the DMV isn't overrun on January 1, for example.  Beyond that I don't see much reason in marking the day.

It's nice that Boston Pizza treats me to a free pasta or dessert, two things I need the least right now.  Bitter?  I like to think not, but I'll admit to it a little.  In a year and a half, when my son turns 25, we all - including him - start officially marvelling:

"A quarter century?  Oh my gosh."

"Hitting 30?  40?  Gettin' up there old timer."

Our birthday eventually turns into a big clock marking our decay.  A bit strong?  I know their are plenty of people that look forward to birthdays.  It may sound a bit hypocritical, but I look forward to some birthdays.  In fact I'm not averse to the concept of a special "me" day for everyone, once a year.  I know in a lot of European countries they celebrate your saint's name day.

In the end I think the most important thing is that you celebrate with someone.  Some One.  Not to sound ungrateful, but you know meals come and go.  Those days I remember, year after year, the ones that mark the passage of time - usually happily - involve that some one.  They don't have to be significant on the calendar because there are other reasons to remember them.  And you do.

I do.

In the meantime, I had a great time Sunday night.  The walk we took up and down Ossington Avenue after our meal at Saint was the event.  And as for September 10, Happy Monday to me.

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Borderline

Crossing the US/Canada border has never posed any kind of an issue for me.  For years I simply went where my parents were going - to Cheektowaga, to the home of my aunt, uncle and cousins.  We made the trip four, five, maybe six times a year.  Mind you, in those days, it was about family, not shopping, not NFL football.  Perhaps this is why I feel most comfortable using the Peace Bridge when crossing into Buffalo.  It's the route my father always took.  I have heard any number of modern horror stories about the wait, about hours in line, about people reverting to cannibalism just to survive the queue.  Most of these occur when Ontarians make the pilgrimage to Orchard Park for one of a handful of Bills games, although some happen during those cross-border shopping trips.  A few years back when we weren't allowed to bring Canadian beef across in any form, I heard quiet, dark rumblings of human sacrifice at the tailgate parties in parking section B6 of Ralph Wilson Stadium.

In more recent years I've felt a bit irresponsible for not making the trip more often.  I'll plead my work schedule as a weak defense, but my cousins (two of the original seven still live in the area, their children and now even their children as well) find the will and the energy to make the trip north, usually for Canadian Thanksgiving, which puts me to shame for not making more of a reciprocal effort.  The elder of my generation and his wife were in the area - which could mean anywhere within 250 miles - all the way from Georgia, and that my, brothers and sisters, is cause for a get together.  No, I really mean brothers and sisters (in-law).  Labour Day is rarely a cause for such a gathering, but why quibble?  There's a new cousin,  born in June, twice removed or third cousin or whatever.  We've never really made any such distinction.  Once you're in the Gyulay family, you're in.  You're a cousin.  Three years ago, some poor fellow was walking his dog and managed to get in the background of our annual Thanksgiving picture.  He now gets the newsletter, and is the contact person in at least two of our personal data sheets at work.

So, cousin Mark summons us for Labour Day, I am free, and I am willing to forge headlong into the uncertain.  The drive down has its moments but no more than usual, really.  The line up at the Peace Bridge is wider than it is long, or perhaps longer than wide, but in any case it is almost peaceful.  The one thing I can say for it - in the twenty-five minutes it took me to get through, people actually stayed in line.  It's a rare thing to see these days.  Simple order.  So not four hours.  Twenty-five minutes.  Totally worth putting up with to see my cousins, who in turn seemed quite pleased to see me.  It doesn't always work that way with everyone, but my cousins never fail me.  And after the ten minute wait coming back, thanks to the grilling the mini-van ahead of me got, I turned the drive back into a pleasant cruise along the river through Niagara Falls to Niagara-on-the-Lake before hitting the highway.  All in all a lovely day.

I like this idea.  I'm thinking it should be more of a thing.  We'll always have Thanksgiving (yours and ours), but let's look beyond the Christmasses, and the Easterses.  We've got Simcoe Day, so can you have a cook out for Arbor Day?

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Main Street Dogs

I have this memory of a Friday night.  It was late summer, I imagine sometime in September, although it may have been earlier.  I had just spent the better part of the day working with my brothers and my dad on a colossal heap my father was somehow persuaded to lay out $600 for.  It was a Checker, most notable as the taxi cab you see in New York in a lot of older films.  It was big and boxy, and we immediately fell in love with it when we went to New York on our first trip.  Perhaps it was the fact that all five of us could fit into it, and the driver was still alone in the front seat.  Maybe it was just the image it conjured for us of Manhattan.

The Checker we bought was in sorry shape.  The passenger side floor, well, there was none.  The sills of the back seat triangular windows were rusted right out, similarly the trunk.  And the hood was held on with three pieces of rope.  Of course that only made it easier to reach under and re-attach the battery when you wanted to start the car, which you did with a screw driver since the ignition had been ripped out when it was stolen once.  We were able to source a new hood, steering column and gauges fairly easily.  The rusted out parts were repaired by pop-riveting metal in place.  At the end of this particular day, we cleaned up and headed down to see Springsteen.  My brother Paul is the truest fan, but even my mom appreciated his music and she came with us.  Classic.  Everyone knows what a Springsteen show is like.  Legendary.  If only for the length, but this is the rock n roll show that can save the world.  It's what all shows should be like.  And when he sang "The Promised Land" I practically screamed the lyrics.

"Working all day in my daddy's garage      Driving all night chasing some mirage"

How perfect was this?  In our case, that day, it was biographical.  Last Friday my brother invited me to see Springsteen again - about the fifth or sixth time I've seen him.  Twenty eight years later on a Friday night we went down to the dome to see Bruce and the E Street Band put on that show that everyone should see - 4 hours this night - and to let everyone see what it's like when you're doing something you really love to do, with people you love (and miss).  And when he sang "The Promised Land" I screamed out the lyrics so loud it kind of surprised my cousin who was seeing him for the first time.

My dad died a little over a year later in 1986, the Checker lasted a little longer than that before we had to sell it, and the garage is gone as the new owners of the house have remodelled our past enough to make us take a second look when we pass by.  Isn’t that what music does?  Takes us back.  And in this case, watching the Boss perform with such energy and joy, if I didn’t know better, I could’ve mistaken this for that summer Friday almost three decades ago, and maybe for a moment imagine that dad was home waiting for us to get back to work on that beautiful hulk the next day.

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Bad Habits: Blank

I have a weakness.  Whenever I go into a bookstore, I'm lured in by the covers, not that it's how I judge a book.  I slowly leaf through the pages.  I know I shouldn't.  I've got more than enough to keep me busy at home.  Still, I'll always get sucked in.  At the bookstore.  Or the business supply store.  Lately, thank goodness, I'm a sucker at the dollar store.  If they've got my current favourite in stock, I'll usually walk out with another blank notebook or two.

I have far too many blank notebooks.  They sit there on my shelf, mocking me.  Daring me.  Some are plain pages, a promise to myself to draw, to sketch more.  When I see my brother Matthew's sketch book I see what's possible.  When I see what I've done in the not totally distant past, I can see what I should be doing.  I'm more than capable.  But I'm not sure that I'll ever get into that groove.  Most of the books have ruled pages in anticipation of my words spilling out over the margins, scooting up the side, or at an odd angle, with carefully cross-hatched boxes redacting rethought words or entire passages.

The idea of the blank page has always been kind of intimidating, and I'm not just talking about me.  There's the famous saying about writing - "Just open a vein and bleed."  It used to be a blank page.  White.  Monolithic.  Intimidating.  Now it seems to be the computer screen - white pixels with a blinking cursor, counting, waiting, like drumming fingers or a tapping foot.  I'm still stuck on paper for the most part.  It's easier to carry around a notebook than a computer, as convenient as they make them.  Typing on my phone is ludicrous.  I've tried it.  Besides do you know how many years it's taken me to get my handwriting to this point?  Take my signature for example - I sign with all lower case letters because I gave up on trying to find a capital L and M that I liked the look of.  True story.  I still have days where I'd scrap a whole page just because it didn't look right.  I mean LOOK right.  I have standards, but I am older and more philosophical.  It's about the writing, and that page is just one step.

I have been writing for five years now.  A pathetic and ridiculous exercise of writing letters to someone who will never read them.  Still, writing is writing.  It's only in the last few months that I'm grateful to have been writing those letters.  Perhaps with something more to say I can set to the task of filling those notebooks.  They're sitting there.  They're very patient.  It's time to dust them off (no joke - they've been there a while) and open a vein.  Oh, and avoid buying more blank notebooks.  I'm glad I'm writing, but it's still easier to buy a book than fill it.

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Father-Daughter Dance

There's this thing we do, when we - my daughter and I - get together.  One way or another it will be me that initiates our meeting, usually just a trip for coffee and a nosh at Tim Hortons.  But there are times when we make it a bit earlier, and it becomes a legitimate brunch.  The first question as I turn the key and start the car - "Where would you like to go?"

There is no answer, in as much as the answer is "I don't know," or, "Whatever you want."  It's a soft lob back to me, but rather than put it away down the line, out of reach, I simply lob it back.  I've always asserted that I'm fairly low-maintenance - I can find anything on the menu.  And as I am extremely grateful for a reason to be out of my basement apartment where I would invariably sit, watch tv all day, and eat out of boredom, anything after that is bonus, so I leave the decision to her.  She is self-admittedly terrible at making decisions, of any kind.  So this is what we do, in lock-step with each other, this weekly waltz sitting in a parked car.

I'll take any hint as a solid demand, and it doesn't have to be about food.  "Well, I have that jacket in case we're near a Bay store."  With that the car is in gear.  Down town.  This makes things quicker than usual.  The lobbing will, and does, go on longer than that.  At times I may even have the car in drive, slowly idling toward the stop sign at the end of the block, hoping one of us gets inspired, or just brave enough to come out and say, "I've been wanting a corned beef sandwich from the New Yorker deli all week."

It's a family trait.  The lobbing used to go on between the four of us, but rather than an organized match of mixed doubles, it was the four of us individually trying to keep the decision-making in someone else's court, doing the Chip 'n Dale routine - "After you."

"Oh no, I couldn't possibly.  After you."

"Oh please, I insist, you first."

It's part of our upbringing.  There's the fataly polite Canadian strand in our DNA, and then there's the "first shall go last" Catholic strain.  Geez, it's amazing we ever left the driveway, ever fed ourselves.  It could have degenerated into a feedback loop of mutual consideration. And the thing is a little selfishness would have been just enough to break the cycle and start a discussion.  When my daughter declines to choose, I just smile.  It's now a familiar part of our time together, and in fact it just means we have a little extra time.

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MCMXXII

Admittedly I was lazy this week.  I missed my deadline.  But my laziness was born of distraction.  I have at least 3 drafts I could've used as my post, but it seemed like I should make mention of Wednesday's significance.  My family acknowledged what would have been my father's 90th birthday.  It's more than unfortunate that he didn't come close to marking it, dying at 63.  But of course, he's always here.  Mostly in the sense of humour that lives around the table when his children and grandchildren gather.

It's perhaps the greatest gift he had for us.  When I was 21 - making him 58 at the time - we had a routine on Saturdays of taking the subway downtown, usually to College Street, where we would then walk the rest of the way above ground to Kresge's at Richmond and Yonge to buy Polish sausage.  Walking in Toronto with my dad was to see my home town as if I were in a city I had never visited.  One Saturday as we waited for the light at Dundas and Yonge, Dad noticed a variety of performers and panhandlers and evangelists plying their offerings outside the Eaton Centre, the best place to do so given the heavy pedestrian traffic.  As we crossed he could see one gentleman target him.  He approached with an intimidating book in his arms.  With little movement or speech to give himself away, my father whispered to me, "Don't say anything.  Just go along with me."

The man made a bee-line to intercept my dad, and wasted no time in launching into his offer of enlightment.  Pehaps he was made for this kind of work, or he may have just met with far too many brush-offs this long day, but he knew not to give much of an opening for his mark to interrupt or leave.  I can't remember much of the pitch, but it was religious in nature.  Dad stood there making no effort to evade or to excuse himself.  Instead he seemed quite interested in what the young man was saying.  He would nod, look at the book when the man referred to it, then look back at the man with even more interest.  This went on for a good three or four minutes.

After an intense barrage, the man seemed confident that dad wouldn't bolt.  So he stopped long enough for my dad to look down at the book and with his hand gently padding on top of its open pages, asked, "Yeh, um... you gat dem in Greek?"

The young man's face registered his disappointment.  "Er, sorry.  No."

Dad shrugged his shoulders, smiled and continued down the street.  It's funny to think of my dad playing this little game, and I never saw it as cruel.  In fact, it was probably one of the easier let downs the guy had that day.  Not a brusk wave away.  Not a terse "No thank you," like my mother probably would have done.  He gave the man his time, and if only for a Greek version of the tome he was offering, he might have had a sale, or a convert.  I liked that about Dad.  I hope I'm like that now that I'm in my fifties, although I suspect I'm less mature than he was, even in his young sense of humour.  Still, I can see it, in his sons, and his grandchildren.  Dad's still there making us laugh, and laughing along every time we gather around the table.

Happy Birthday Dad.  We miss you.

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Tone

I take issue with Alexander Graham Bell.  He set a nasty precedent the day he made that historic first collect call.  By all accounts - and by all I think it's three accounts - his first words were "Watson - come here - I need you."  When Watson came into the next room, Bell promptly charged him for the call.  Mr Bell seemed oblivious to the notion that what he said might set the timbre for all phone calls to follow.  Where's the "hello?"  Where's the courteous "Is Mr Watson there?"

His first words were a rather terse command.  Didn't even ask after his health, or the wife and kids.  If Neil Armstrong had taken a similar lax attitude in 1969 his immortal words might well have been "Buzz, get your ass down here."

Sometimes I feel like I fall prey to Bell's thoughtlessness even more than a century later.  If the inventor of the stupid thing doesn't worry too much about form on the phone, why should anyone else?  So I constantly have phone calls with people who have less phone etiquette than AG Bell himself.  I have a brother who perpetually sounds like I've just woke him up, another family member who usually sounds like his puppy just got run over, and my mother.  My mother still doesn't get the concept of waiting a second or four before talking, just to allow for the electronic lag in her phone.  As a result, I can't remember the last time I heard a full "Hello" from her answering the phone.  At best it's "'lo," and at worst I sit there waiting like a dummy because she's already volleyed the greeting into some communications void before her handset is ready for it.

One of the first things we taught our kids as social beings, right after "please" and "thank you" was how to answer the phone.  They wanted to so badly, every time the phone rang, so we laid down some ground rules.  Rule one: begin with "Hello, who is speaking?"

Their mother suffers from the opposite affliction.  She can't turn off her good phone form.  Whenever she calls in sick from work, like when she had pneumonia, she sounds as perky and pleasant as ever.  I'm not asking for that, but seriously, if we're going to have phone numbers assigned to us at birth and a backlit little devil of technology constantly at hand, can't we inject our conversation with a modicum of grace and good humour?  It's not too late to be saved from the Bell, you know.

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Saint Hubbins

A good pair of boots - or any quality footwear in fact - is worth its weight in New York Strip Loin.  Is this an appreciation I’ve gained with the wisdom of age, and the through the pain of callouses and corns?  Well, yeah.  But more than that it’s born of the sudden realization that comes with actually owning a great pair of boots.  You reach an age where you can indulge yourself.  The kids are grown, the mortgage is paid, and now it’s time to treat me.  While convention would have me commuting in a Porsche or a muscle car (those two extra doors always seemed like such an over indulgence) I have my Blundstones. These are like perfectly worn in jeans (as it were) for my feet.

I can count on one hand (or foot) the number of really good shoes I’ve had.  The pair of Nikes I bought for all the walking we did at DisneyWorld.  The pair of shoes I bought in Manhattan when we arrived in a downpour, and the pair of shoes I was wearing disintegrated I had had them so long.  I made a desperation buy and my choice turned out a great surprise.  But the Docs?  My youngest brother had a pair of black Doc Martens, and eventually I decided I deserved a pair, but not the cost.  I went to an outlet, and the only pair I could find that were close were a pair of blue Docs, that despite their prominent placement near the door, couldn’t seem to sell.  It took me a while to finally take a chance on them, like adopting a St Bernard puppy whose cuteness is unparalleled but the whole time you’re aware of the larger issue you’ve let yourself in for.

The blue was enough to throw me off, but the comfort and the quality couldn’t be argued with, and I shortly came to realize how awesome a choice these shoes were. It taught me that men’s shoes, except for sporting footwear, are somehow legislated to three colours: black, brown and grey.  Now, I am far from stylish, but even for me it seems much too limited a palette.  In fact, I am in search of green shoes.  I saw them in a movie, just a second or two, a low shot of someone walking through the frame.  I want those green shoes.  I’m hoping they live up to the legend of the blue Docs, and maybe I can get these wonderful boots off my feet every once in a while.  But of course, those are pretty big shoes to fill.