stout denial

Two topics today. First, to my sorrow, I am no longer brother to the lady at the laundromat. She has started calling me sir. What a come down! Yes, sir sounds more North-American "normal," more idiomatic, but brother was way more friendly, way cooler. I am saddened at her cultural assimilation.

I am also angry. Not about the brother thing. A week ago I was stopped for not wearing a seat belt. Waiting at a stop light a block from my place, and a cop motions me over and writes me a ticket. Come on, I said. He shook his head, said nothing. Really? I said. He handed me the yellow form, told me to have a nice day. And this was not just any ticket -- this one is for 240.00 and two points on my licence. I don't have that many points to spare. Two points to me is like ten pounds to a supermodel -- the licence is getting awfully tight around my hips.

I have decided to fight the ticket. It's such a big penalty for such a small infraction. I called the court house and arranged a date to talk things over with the prosecution. I wonder what my defence will be? I must think on it. PG Wodehouse, the British comic novelist, used to recommend stout denial as a defence. Maintain your innocence in the teeth of the evidence, he said. No proof, no punishment. I may try that.

tweets and murmurs

I have been chatting on this blog for years, but I am not a real blogger. I am happy to share bits and pieces of my life with a charming and select community, but I am not part of the larger blogosphere. I don't use this forum to talk about my work or publicize my upcoming appearances. I only recently -- like, yesterday -- learned what a blog tour is.

I am not knocking those who use their blogs for publicity purposes. Far from it. These people are, without doubt, acting in a more savvy and professional manner than I am. I should be less diffident, more web-aware. I should say, I'll be on Letterman tomorrow, make sure to watch... Thank you, Amazon, for making my new book pick of the week ... The problem is that I am too shy. And, well, the statements aren't true. And saying that I'll be at such and such a library, or this and that elementary school, or that I'll be talking to teachers in Saskatoon or dyslexic kids in Vancouver -- while true -- would surely result in little more than a shrug or raised eyebrow among my blog readers. So, you would all think, what? And you would be right.

So why would I open a Twitter account? ( I know. I know. Close your mouths, okay? You are embarrassing me.) I can understand the popularity of Twitter as a way of connecting to strangers without having to follow them around. With a few clicks of the mouse you can find out what Charlie Sheen thinks about whatever it is he is thinking about. And he is a weird and funny phenomenon. I have to say, I find the whole thing kind of creepy -- like authorized (indeed encouraged) stalking. And when it's not creepy, it's dull. But that's our society. We invite the cameras into our homes. A few years ago I watched a scene -- there may well have been more than one -- of The Osbournes where Ozzy was sitting on the toilet, and I remember thinking: the only thing stranger than going to the bathroom in front of umpty million people is watching someone go to the bathroom. At least he's being paid. These days Charlie Sheen might (indeed he might) tweet about his bowel movement.

He would be at the top of the Twitter tree right now, I guess. With all the one-named stars nearby, and the B-listers and C-listers lower down, and the specialists -- well known in their field but not prime-time popular -- lower still. And at the very bottom of the tree, drooping into the humus of the forest floor, me.

I opened an account a few days ago and have posted some half dozen times. I have -- I confess it -- no idea what is going on. The caption in the picture up there sums it up. I feel like a teenaged driver taking the family car up and down the driveway. I'm having fun, but not going anywhere. 140 characters disappear in a flash. My tweets emerge sounding like haiku, or shopping lists. I should take lessons. And then, who knows -- I might even get around to using Twitter as a publicity tool. (Thanx Amazon!) My next book will go on a Twitter Tour.

dismember me ...

Sam opened a bank account of his very own the other day. It's taken a long time, but all that talk about financial responsibility is paying off. I congratulated him on entering the nineteenth century.

Thing is, to the average idiot like Sam -- or me -- the keep-your savings-in-a-sock school of banking almost makes sense these days. (If you are a savvy commodities trader, you will know better. Mind you, if you are a savvy commodities trader what are you doing reading this? Go back to your ticker.) I remember checking the interest payments in my first bank book. Kind of a Norman Rockwell glow to that picture, isn't there? Simpler days. My kids have grown up in an age where bank interest rates hardly stay ahead of their service fees. With all the compound interest in the world it'll take most of a lifetime to double Sam's investment. His best chance for financial success might be to become a savvy commodities trader, but for that to happen he'd need to start working on it eight years ago -- and he'd need parents with different genes to pass on.

The good news is that if he loses a limb, the bank will pay him. Apparently Sam's new account comes with a penny-a-day insurance package. And what kind of insurance is most appealing to a college kid? Of course: dismemberment insurance.

Dad, I just had to get it, he told me on the phone. I laughed. No really, he said, do you realize that if I lose a finger the company will pay me 5000.00 Just for a finger! Isn't that awesome?
Awesome, I said.
So if I lost, like, three fingers that'd be 15,000.
I told him that I understood the concept. What do they give you for a leg? I asked.
There was a pause.
Dad, get serious. I don't want to lose a leg, he said. And then, Dad? Why are you laughing again?
No reason, I said. No reason at all.

All during the rest of our conversation I was picturing this smooth-talking dismemberment insurance salesman, oiling his way into college dorms and frat houses with his slide show and his box of props ...

tant pis pour moi

So I was having a marvelous conversation in French the other day -- and by marvelous I mean that I understood what was going on. The topic itself (local rental properties, their location, cost and availability) was pretty dull, but I was working hard and catching on and basking in the radiance of my own linguistic competence ... and then it emerged that my interlocutor was an anglophone.

Quoi? I said, my bouche hanging open.
But it is the truth, he said.
You are making a blague, I said.
But no, he said, his sourire illuminating his visage.
And you speak Francais so bien, I said.
He shrugged.
He had a French name. He came from Montreal. And he looked French, if you know what I mean -- kind of darkish, with a hidden lazy power. Like Jean Reno. When he shrugged he looked more French than ever.
So we could have been speaking Anglais all this temps? I said.
You betcha, big guy. He punched me on the shoulder.
Merde, I said.

My words flowed more smoothly in English, but the thrill was gone. The conversation was dull, not marvelous. After a minute I shook Guy's (I wasn't pronouncing it Ghee any more) hand and left the rental property office.

I should not have been surprised. This has been a personal Catch 22 for me going back to a high-school band trip to Quebec City, where local girls dissolved in laughter and my initial confidence turned to blushes and stammers. I can speak French -- but not to French people. Any francophone over the age of about six is going to go too quickly and idiomatically for me. And most non-francophones have English as a second language. So my French is adequate only when there is no need to speak it. I've been invited to join a club that never meets anywhere. Merde indeed.

so I guess december is a midnight snack ...

Sam's random texts are among my favorite moments in the day. His choice of topic ranges from Aqua Velva to 100 Years of Solitude to his latest, somewhat puzzling question: What month is brunch? I took a moment to ponder this one (which goes to show you how easily distracted I am -- happy to shelve a story outline problem to contemplate something utterly ridiculous) and the pondering took on a life of its own, and here we are.

So, if the year is seen as a waking day, and if brunch is between breakfast and lunch, but tending towards lunch, then I suppose that brunch would be somewhere in late spring. May, let's say. Does that work?

What other connotations does brunch have? There is a festive quality to it, I think. It's a weekend thing, so no work is associated with the day. And it's a bigger than usual meal, with foods you do not get regularly. Bacon, pancakes, maybe roast beef and pie if you go out to a restaurant. You look forward to it all the way there. You might even dress up for it -- a colorful sweater for no real reason. Sounds like May, doesn't it -- at least in southern Ontario. The first really warm day is one of the true treats of a 4-season climate. No day in the San Diego calendar makes as many people happy as the first really warm day up here.

And this is where the May-brunch analogy breaks down. Brunch, like all festivals, has a downside, a dark aftermath stemming from excess. The day after your birthday finds you hungover and grumpy and a full year older than you were the day before. You wouldn't want another birthday any more than you want a fourth plate of roast beef. But who wouldn't want more May?

And now, if you'll excuse me, I have an outline to finish before Sam texts again.

stolen

There's a difference between free time and time out. One seems to be more valuable than the other. As an example, take the crossword puzzle. I am not an addict (I can quit any time, really. I do it because I enjoy it, not because I need to do it), but I find it a pleasant way to start most days as the coffee perks and the bathroom waits.
But part of the appeal of the crossword -- I am frightened to think how large a part -- has to do with the fact that I should be doing something else. Instead of playing silly little word games I should be doing something worthwhile -- writing or reading or working out or phoning my mom or paying bills or making Ed's lunch or trying to solve any one of the dozens (who am I kidding -- hundreds!) of problems with my life.
It is the lure of holiday. The fifteen minutes of mental gymnastics is a tropical island away from trouble -- a place of near tranquility where only I and the compiler exist. When the puzzle is done, the day begins in earnest. And pretty darn earnest it can be. Especially at the beginning of the month when the bills come due.

I wonder what would happen if I did not have these other duties pressing on me? If I were actually on holiday, with nothing in front of me all day except self-gratification? A walk on the beach, a movie, lunch, a nap ... (Gee, this is sounding pretty good. Add a glass of wine and a couple of giggles and I'd never come home) . In this idyllic scenario, would the crossword appeal as it does now? Probably not. Which makes me wonder how much of any pleasure comes from its being stolen from things more "important"? And yet what an odd idea that is, for what could be more important than pleasure?

Sorry, this discussion seems to have got a little earnest. Time to go pay some bills.

brother up

Just back from my new laundromat and I am smiling. Not because of the clean clothes -- or not just because of them. I get a huge kick out of the lady who runs it.

When my old laundromat went out of business a couple of months ago, I was disappointed. The place was handy to my house and the liquor store, and over the last couple of years I'd enjoyed chatting with the people who worked there -- the wide-eyed superfriend, the tattooed demon, the tough old denture-smacker ... all of them. Laundry staff seem to be different from other types of service worker. More personable, somehow. Fewer boundaries. Maybe because they spend so much time with other people's intimates? Anyway, my disappointment at the ending of these relationships vanished the following week when I drove uptown to the new place, and was greeted at the door by the lady in charge. Good afternoon, brother, she said.

I've been called lots of things in my day. (Twerp a couple of weeks ago, but I am not talking insults here.) I don't get Mister or Sir very often, thank heavens, but older guys will call me Buddy or Pal. (Older ladies -- especially if they work in a diner -- call me what they call everyone regardless of age or sex : Dear.) Younger women will call me nothing or You, men will call me Man or Guy. My kids' contemporaries have been known to call me Ed's Dad (Seriously -- Hi, Ed's Dad, is Ed there?) But I don't think I have ever been called Brother. Bro once or twice, in a dim light, thinking I was younger (Yo, Bro, pass the -- oh, hi) but not the full fraternal.

I like it. The laundromat lady has a regal bearing but a warm friendly face. She speaks excellent English with a faint accent suggesting that it is not her first language. But whether she has uses brother as a slightly wonky piece of idiom, or whether she has adopted it consciously as her own greeting, it suits her well. Have a wonderful afternoon, brother, she said to me today. And I did.