Concert, Tarot, Plum, Sex

At the outdoor opera concert last night, my posse were the only people under thirty in a sea of sixty-and-overs. It was nippy down by the lake and nobody was really in the mood to be sociable. We just wanted to hear the music and then go home. We killed time by drawing cards from my new Rider-Waite tarot deck, and since Mehgan kept drawing Death and the Devil, we decided to obey our meaner angels and engage our collective Evil by looking for the ugliest people in the crowd. Yeah, I know, we’re all going to burn in hell. But we forgot to bring anything to read, what do you want from us?

Since I had my trusty digital camera on hand, we captured images of what we believe to be the worst offenders of our aesthetic sense. One man, one woman. The male specimen appears to be a rejected clone of George W. Bush who contracted lockjaw during the replication process, while the full glory of the female is lost because the photo is from behind. One can clearly see the most terrifying upsweep hairdo of all time, but the violently painted on black eyebrows (shaped like so: /\ /\ ) are hidden from view, more’s the pity. I thought I recognized her as a stunt double for Goldie Hawn in the movie “Death Becomes Her”, but I could be mistaken.

Before heading out to the show, I made sure to follow my usual pre-concert ritual of listening to whatever style of music is furthest from what I’m about to see performed. Last time I saw opera, I threw Avril Lavigne on the stereo and let it blast. This time I went the route of Stereolab followed by a few tracks from the latest Squarepusher album. An unusual method of musical appreciation? Perhaps, but I’m hoping to convert more people to adopting this practice as a sensible way of getting prepped for a live music venue. Think of it as being like tasting a sharp sorbet dish to cleanse the palate between the appetizer and main course at a fine restaurant, or sniffing coffee beans to reset the olfactory sense when inhaling a series of delicate scents (common procedure with perfume vendors). Spinning a little Beck before going to hear Iron Maiden refreshes your audio sensibilities. Try it next time you go to a club: you might like it.

So far, it’s been a quiet little Friday. I nibbled my way through half a bag of peach, pear and kiwi flavoured jelly beans at my desk this morning, then decided to walk to the Grange to pick up the Chinese periodicals for work. The elderly gent who owns the newspaper shop looked nostalgic today. He was dusting the shelves very methodically and slowly. Not wanting to rush him I took a moment to flip through the art journals. When I looked up he was smiling and gesturing towards me with his Swiffer mitten. He said, “You nice girl. Remind me of wife when she young.” This struck me as odd, since I have seen his wife, and we don’t share much in the way of a striking resemblance. It’s not so much that I have flaming red hair, blue eyes and pale skin, while she’s more asian in her coloration — it’s that she never speaks. Sweet as pie, but in all the months I’ve been buying the Ming Pao from them, I’ve not heard one word from her, just quiet smiles, always. Whatever else I may be, I’m not quiet. Chatty, outspoken, loudmouthed, opinionated, loquatious, verbose – yes. Hushed – no. Undeterred, my shop owner continued with, “You nice. I give you tasty plum!” Except he pronounced plum “plooom-buh”, so at I wasn’t sure quite what to expect his gift would be. It sounded like maybe I was in for some sort of colonic flush. His warning, “Don’t forget; wash first!” did little to allay my fears and suspicions.

I’ve never been given a plum as a gift before. What a sweet and juicy present.

Man oh man, do I ever miss having sex.

Community Service Cowgirl

In my defense, it was very dark outside. I wanted to keep sleeping well past the second slap of the snooze button at 6:20am, but I knew I was already in the bad place where taking a cab would be the only way to arrive punctually at the office. So I got creative. I thought it would be easier to cajole myself out of bed if there was motivation. Dressing like a cowgirl seemed to fit the bill.

It didn’t seem too drastic: embroidered red leather boots, long denim leather-trimmed skirt, brown western shirt with lace trim and a long red duster. It’s not like I wore a Stetson to work. However, upon entering the Legislature to audit a press conference on racism and national security threats, the guard on duty waved and yelled, “Howdy, pardner!” It then occurred to me that I would likely be on national television tonight, and that my identification badge clearly marked me as a government-employed cow wrangler. Not very professional. When I entered the media studio, the press gallery turned and stared at me as one: there were some arched eyebrows. For the love of heaven, somebody get me a new job. Sadly, my interview for this one is tomorrow. If I win the competition, I get benefits, and thus new glasses. I may also commit seppuku within 2 months.

Interruption: I must keep a promise I made to my poor, abandoned Mum who hasn’t seen me in three weeks and is curious about the new, improved fiery locks. I will publish two photos of the latest dye job. Apologies for the blatant self-exhibition.

This is promising to be a busy week. I was originally planning on visiting my dear friend Dave at his hopping new pad in Manhattan, but circumstances changed and I’ll be putting off my trip to NYC for another couple of weeks at least (there is also a tentative Colorado trip to the Lock family ranch in the works, which may never come to fruition but man, what a great vacation that would be – mmm…. mountains).

Now plans include a trip to the Harbourfront Centre tomorrow to see the talented Peter McGillivray, baritone extraordinaire, kick-ass winner of the CBC Young Artists competition, and Polka King of my Heart. Peter and I go way back, back to the days when he was a lowly Poli. Sci. student, a mere shadow of the opera superstar he has grown to be, and I was a fickle young English major, with a wacky hairdo and a lot of pez dispensers. Our usual social interaction is limited to drinking beers on rooftops, but we’re branching out.

On a more community service-oriented front (the new hair really has turned me into a post-makeover Joan-of-Arc!), I’ve got an appointment with the CNIB to resume my old after-work position doing audio recordings for the blind starting next week. Christie’s new emergency ward volunteering position got me all fired up, and I think I am now on a volunteering binge. All volunteering, all the time. So much so, in fact, that I let Peter from the Beguiling strong-arm me into helping organize the 2005 TCAF street party. Oh, who am I kidding, I was ecstatic that he asked. While I was staying in France a couple of years back, my friend from Shakespeare & Co., Caroline Castanet, and I organized a comic book festival in Paris. I only helped out a little bit, but it was incredibly fun, despite my rather weak grasp of French illustration and design lingo which made getting posters printed a serious challenge. “Uh, le ‘font’? C’est… mal? Votre travail dans le Photoshop est comme un petit enfant? Vous… suck?”

Must leave work now. There’s blue shadows on the trail…