big easy

The kids and I have returned to New Orleans, having spent a few days here last week, and then a couple of days travelling through Texas -- a vacation with a teeny bit of work involved. I like New Orleans and am glad to be back. It's a walking tolerant friendly city. But, you know, I don't love it here. Maybe because we've spent most of our time downtown, in the areas near French Quarter and Garden District, which are charming but incredibly touristy. There's certainly a vibe, a lazy dirty boogie thing, but it's hard to warm to a place where nothing seems real except the hangovers. Even the seediness is quaint, and the panhandlers all have a romantic soulful decrepitude -- as if, like the rest of Bourbon Street, they are on all the time.

I have never been in a place that parties so relentlessly. At 5:30 this morning the bars in the Quarter were still pumping out last night's beats and cocktails (and if you are wondering what I was doing out at 5:30, well, shut up). That doesn't happen in Paris or Manhattan because, for all their tourism, they are working cities. New Orleans is a party city.

No complaints about the food. It's as good as they say. If you like heavy earthy tasty spicy stuff -- and I do -- this is the place. I am still getting over last night's shrimp and grits. Tonight I'll be back home, and the Kraft Dinner or whatever is going to look pretty darn sad. But it'll be real.

what a drag it is

Such an interesting moment today at the YMCA. I'd finished my squash game, and was strolling towards the locker rooms past all these women, dozens and dozens of them, waiting outside the gym for the popular Zumba program to begin. (Zumba is the latest fitness craze, combining aerobics and martial arts and dance music in a workout that looks -- to me -- very much like every other fitness craze of the last decade.)

It being 9:00 ish on a Wednesday morning, the women were mostly of a certain age. Fit and feisty, chatty and jolly -- and well over forty. Gray hairs and neck wattles were bouncing up and down as their owners jogged in place, warming themselves up. (Does that sound grotesque? Heavens, I have my share of gray hairs. Anyway, as can see from the picture there, I do not mean to make fun of old folks.) There were greetings and catcalls as I walked past in my sweaty shirt. These were confident and friendly women, outgoing and collegial, strong in numbers and shared commitment to a better self. I smiled and joshed back.

And then I saw her. She stood alone by the door of the gym, a much older lady, thin as sticks and fragile as tissue. Her hair was white, her skin so pale the blue veins shone through. Her sneakers and metal water bottle were heartbreakingly stylish. She held her head slightly forward, looking down. She did not smile, but there was a sense of hopeful shyness about her. She was the new kid at school, hanging out by herself on the playground, knowing she doesn't belong and yet hoping against hope that one of the older cooler girls will notice her ... I thought about how we move up and then down the ladder of life, standing on many of the lower rungs for the second time on our way back to ground level. It's a sad business. Ask Samuel Beckett.

I said hello to the old lady. She smiled up at me, but I could tell that she was disappointed. Oh, hello, she said. Meaning, It's only you. And that took me back to my own playground years where I was -- so often -- not as cool as I had hoped to be.
Enjoy the Zumba, I said.
You should change your shirt, she told me.
And I went to the locker room.

gauguin daydream

Saskatoon is a dream. Not because the weather is warm, the sun is out, the muffins in the hospitality suite are bursting with freshness, and I am hanging out with helpful strangers and old friends I only see in hotels - though all these are true. Saskatoon is a dream because the house was a mess when I left, a litter of unpacked boxes and unworking phone jacks and junk on the front lawn, and I just walked out. Packed a knapsack, turned on the i-pod, and caught the early morning train. I feel like a deadbeat painter, leaving my wife and children to sail away and live in Tahiti.

Guilt is a funny thing. I should be enjoying myself here in the warm friendly mid-west. But I can't help thinking of all the things I have left undone back home. I hope Ed's buddy with a truck can get the stuff off the lawn. I hope Ed can empty the boxes, deal with the phone company, find something to eat, and get to and from school. I hope the car doesn't break down on him.

I wonder if Gauguin had any moments like this? Did he think sadly and guiltily of his family back in Arles, or did he blot all that out, and focus actively on enjoying his years in the sun, painting and infecting the native girls? I wonder how real Tahiti was to him?

If only I had Gauguin's talent, think what I could do in Saskatoon! The prairie, the potash, the fields of rippling wheat. So much raw material for art. (That picture there reminds me of the hotel sauna!) I'd stay here forever, slip into syphilitic old age, never go back east ... except that my flight is booked for Thursday evening, and I feel guilty.

I hope Ed remembered to take out the garbage.

day before moving

Tomorrow is moving day. I have put off packing long enough. It is time to begin. I could have started yesterday or the day before. I could have started last week. But the way I see it, the earlier you start packing, the longer your place is in an uproar. You don't pack better if you pack earlier. You just spend more time wondering where the cheque book is, or the corkscrew or the TV remote.

Am I looking forward to moving? I am not. But there are a couple of positive factors. One, Ed is excited. He saw the new house for the first time this morning, and ran around saying, Yup and, Bing and other youthly enthusiasms. I stood there and smiled. Two ... hmm. Now that I think about it, I can't quite come up with a second positive. All I see ahead of me is work. Specifically, packing, carrying, and unpacking boxes of reading material. Subdue your thirst for books that you may die not babbling but at peace, says Marcus Aurelius. (That's him there. Check the eyes!) Too late. Book boxes stack higher and weigh more than everything else I own put together, and that includes some pretty hefty debt.

The good news is that I've done this before, so I know what I am in for. Or is that the bad news? Anyway, I have no time to spare for chit-chat like this. Nice as it is to talk to you guys, I have back muscles to strain. Next room: kitchen.

really?

The courtroom was low ceilinged, carpeted, with bright lights and a lot of wood accents. Kind of like a basement in a nice suburban house. I was dressed in clean clothes that matched pretty well. I was shaved, gargled and combed. I was ready for my battle with the law.

We rose. We sat. The clerk read the charge. On or about the 16th of March the defendant -- me -- was found to not be wearing a seatbelt in contravention of Section something or other of Statute this and that.

The prosecutor shook his head sadly. (Seatbelt crime is tough. You hear some pretty grim stories.) The judge asked if I had anything to say. Did I? You bet I did. I stood up, shot my sleeves (no cuffs on my sweatshirt) and addressed the Bench.

My original thought had been to go with the stout denial defence, to maintain that I had been wearing a seatbelt all the time, that I always wore one, never took it off, not even to get gas, was in fact wearing one now ... but the case on the docket before me had attempted such a defence (I don't even own a cell phone!) and the judge had shut him down pretty hard. So I went with plan B.

I held out my hands, palm up. I raised my left eyebrow and cleared my throat. I was attempting the "C'mon, really?" defence. The idea is to make the crown feel bad for prosecuting such a silly crime when there are rapists and murderers and drug kingpins out there who are much better targets for legal stricture.

Yes, Mr Scrimger? said the judge. I maintained my pose. No words are uttered in the "C'mon, really" defence. It's all in the attitude. The prosecutor asked a couple of questions. The judge too. After a few painful minutes I was led off over to the window to pay my fine.

What were you thinking? the prosecutor asked me as I passed his table.
You mean about how stupid the charge was? I said.
No, I mean what were you doing, not wearing a seatbelt? This isn't BC, you know. There's rule of law here. This province prides itself on being tough on seatbelt crime.

don to dusk

Some pleasures are for rich folks only. It's like the sign at the amusement park: YOU MUST BE THIS TALL TO GO ON THIS RIDE. Poor folks don't fly first class. Nor do we drive Lambos, sit courtside, wear cashmere, eat truffles, or own anything haut.

But there are just dozens of genuine pleasures that rich and poor can share. And I don't mean the big obvious ones -- love and kids and ice cream, sleeping in late, and the smell of rain on hot pavement. I am talking socks. Is there -- I put this to you in all seriousness -- is there a better below-the-ankle feeling than putting on a new pair of socks?

Quick side-bar here. I wrote putting on just now because that's what I do to socks. I put them on. Most people do -- until they get inside a book. Bruce Jay Friedman, the American humorist, enforces what he calls the "2 dons" rule of literature. And it has nothing to do with the Mafia. When I come across a scene where someone dons a coat, says Mr Friedman, I sigh and keep going. But if it happens again, I close the book. 2 dons and you're out.

Back now. Really, what is not to like about new socks? Apart from the crisp, clean, freshness and overall good vibe, there is no pressure with socks. If you spend a lot of money on new shoes, you feel compelled to like them (unless of course you are rich; which is the point here). If the shoes start to pinch, or if on second thought they don't look as cute at home as they did in the store, you're stuck. You have to wear them or feel guilty. But if you change your mind about your socks, so what? For 8.00 you can get another dozen pairs.

The reason why new socks are on my mind is that they are also on my feet. I am wearing a pair of virgin grays right now, ankle length, cotton poly lycra blend (I am totally making this up) a gift from Imogen. Happy Birthday, Daddy, she said, holding out a plastic bag and smiling shyly. I got you some socks.

I thanked her and donned a pair immediately.

there was this dyslexic Nazi ...

I feel so grown up. Here I am twitting away about food and traffic and noise outside my window, even deep stuff on music and feelings. And all in 140 characters, like I'm a poet or something. Who is this guy in the mirror? When did he put on his big boy pants?

And now I have an official announcement. Mostly I use this blog to chat casually. I amuse myself and a few others, I stay out of bars, and no one gets too worked up. But I have been asked by powers that be (her name is Joy) to act like a professional blogger for once. So I am going to talk about a cause. Not global warming. Not earthquake relief. Not poverty. I care about these things, but can not imagine what active good any words of mine are going to do, especially since I am talking to you guys. Hey, global warming is bad! I'd say, and you'd say, Yeah, so?

I am going to mention a reading camp for dyslexic kids (would you believe I typed kdis -- weird or what?) this August. It's my scale of good cause, because you might actually know a dyslexic kid who is interested in reading and writing and has a free day or two this summer. And if you mention the camp to the kid or the kid's parents, and the kid goes, the kid might have a good time. There's a link I am supposed to include ... hang on while I find it ... here we go ... www.canadianstorycamp.org ... Good folks are involved here (Joy, for instance). I'll be showing up at some point too. I'll try to watch my mouth. There's lots of dyslexic jokes.