detonating a nuclear bomb
They're planning on detonating a nuclear bomb in some small town outside Calgary.
I shouldn't say they, I mean we, I'm in on it somehow. There's the guy assembling the bricks around the reactor core, and there's a bunch of co-workers sheltered in a cave somewhere, trying to stay out of the line of sight of the blast ("and so the roof of the cave will glow in the dark when this is done?" J is asking....) and there's the helicopter, it has the remote control, it's going to fly close to the bomb - well, a couple of KM away, then detonate it and duck to safety behind a hill...
The timing of this is important, you don't want to be in the air when the blast hits...
I'm trying to understand the reasoning behind this bomb, but there's no reason, we're just a group of disparate strangers out for a good time, "It has to be done...." they tell me, and I'm to understand the damage will be minimal...
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- Category: Dreams
WURST & Blithe Spirit
A surprisingly warm day, the warmth, however, tempered with stong 90-120 km wind gusts.
The boy and I have our unfixed plans, driving for lunch we decide to try and get rush tickets to Blithe Spirit, a Noel Coward play at the Vertigo. Now I've seen some press for it, but not particularly paid any attention to it, not my sort of think, nonetheless Noel Coward does have a certain reputation and I shouldn't perhaps be so judgmental, at least not until I've seen it.
We talk about his week, my week, no news to report, more details about the Nephew's drunken night out - Nephew and the 7 Samurai, apparently caught groping a rather large girl in another dire NE bar, was confronted by her boyfriend who attempted to pick a fight, Nephew, however, had been treating a group of 7 Japanese business people to shots and so when the boyfriend started a scene the Nephew erupted into a rage, wherein the Japanese businessmen felt obliged to defend their most drunken and magnanimous host, more surreal stories from the crypt, I miss out on an awful lot of fodder by going home sober...
I ask the boy if he's seen "Into the wild" yet, my film recommendation for him, he makes excuses, he knows he's in the shit...
I ask him what he's reading, nothing at the moment, he's been wanting my advice...
Out of the shit.
We stop at Fair's probably not even slightly fair, I mean to get him a copy of Celine's "Death on the Installment Plan" if they have it. They don't. But - and here's the highlight of the day - a first edition of "Lolita". This is a great book, Nabokov, that I've noticed principally in it's absence from bookshelves in Calgary. A find, $15.00, and a copy of Moby Dick for the boy.
This will be my reading day tomorrow, kicked from the house at 8:00 for the car servicing and by the contractors, I can pass the day reliving one of the greatest books I've ever read....
Lunch we take at WURST - somewhat fashionable new restaurant in Mission - on 4 ST SW. Bright, summery inside with giant silk trees and an attractive staff, we eat quietly and eavesdrop on the table next to us. A large, obese in fact, 40 something man with his slender 40 something Japanese wife, their 5 year old child, and her aged parents. The man is a boor, talking loudly at them as if they don't speak any English, their English is perfect, they're probably 3rd or 4th generation Canadian. He repeats things, louder, he tells them about himself, about what he doesn't like at their house, what he does like, he has a surprisingly small vocabulary for someone with such a well trimmed goatee....
It's painful, eavesdropping on this, and we're too close to comment but I catch the boy's eye and he's thinking the same thing, "Meet the Parents" I whisper, and he turns his head, doesn't want to discuss it, refuses to acknowledge that possibly I might not be as bad as all that....
"A special case" he assures me when we walk to the car...
From here to Cafe Beano, we have an hour to kill, Sunday at Cafe Beano is people watching paradise, they're all here, the hipsters, granolas, Academics, hippies, courier bike riders, women on guitars singing bravely in the face of 100 km wind gusts that threatens to topple trees upon them, Bollywood film directors, it's great.
Then the play.
The Play. This is the play Homer Simpson was thinking of when he said "A Play, A Play, what could be more boring than a play?".
The audience should have been a big clue.
Now, it was well done, and the abundant grey heads and woolen shawls all laughed merrily at the jokes. I got the jokes, they weren't particularly funny. Maybe in 1941, but not now. But it's well staged, acted, the Vertigo does polished productions, but everything else about it was simply not even slightly amusing. The boy sat through it numb as well. Someone should go back in time and kill Noel Coward.
It takes stuff like this, once in a while, to make you appreciate The Grand, appreciate the fact that they're at least taking risks, presenting theater that's relevant, novel, this play, it was everything that everyone who's never returned to the theatre expects. Generic, awful, mind-numbing....
Even the boy struggles to find something positive to say, finally he just agrees that we need this to appreciate the great theatre we sometimes stumble into....
The day ends on this note, the downtown core blocked off due to high winds, empty inside, driving home to a house filled with dust...
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- Category: Theatre
The Bartender's Birthday
We've been invited, the staff at the restaurant, to come on down to our favorite local and celebrate the bartenders birthday.
Now G, he's had a thing for this bartender for a while, she's a thirty-something cute blonde, he's been pursuing her and I have an plan to throw a slight wrench in his plans....
The night at work is long, the two new older waiters we've hired - one a reformed alcoholic, the other a Muslim, are fighting, we have to separate them and keep them on different sides of the restaurant. The owner's in a foul mood, and the restaurant has finally had news of the talking waiter, he had to flee to Tunisia "for his daughter" (but he told me his daughter's in France?), excuses, the owner wasn't in the mood and told him to fuck off.
The nephew's convinced that the owner will hire them back, true, he wasn't a great waiter and he was completely full of shit, but the nephew derived great enjoyment from watching his antics, G knows nothing of it, but this situation with the feuding dwarfs, it should end as well, and I'm not sure the nephew's not right.
A long night when finally we get to the bar, the party's well underway, the bartender has already had a few too many, G, with typical Italian class and style, orders her a couple of shots. This is his birthday gift to his love interest.
And when she comes over, hammered, to sit with him and say thanks, I give her my gift.
A nicely wrapped box, pink tissue paper, a sheer black baby doll with matching transparent thong.
She's thrilled, G's embarrassed, and despite knowing that it was I who got her the gift (G apologizing "I didn't know he got you lingerie...") she's showering him with kisses. Then she announces that her fiance will be thrilled, the big black guy sitting over there, from Chicago, they're going to have a hot night - and G and I are both surprised, this is the first I've heard of her boyfriend - not that I've ever spoken to her other than to apologize for drunken coworkers and order drinks, but I would have expected G to mention it...
G looks equally surprised.
The bartender, she's wasted, leaves us after a few minutes to go socialize with the other patrons, G leans over to me "You're such a cock-blocker" he says.
The bar, it's full, the regulars we all know, others celebrating their early Christmas party, the hundreds there to buy the bartender her birthday drinks, me and G sitting quiet on the bench. It was a long night.
The bartender's sister comes over, as well completely drunk, she sits beside me, a tall, slender, angular redhead. And now she starts..."So you told ... that I was a slut..." She slurs it in the friendliest way, I'm quick to refute it:
"No, no, I merely asked if that drink you always buy us..."the redheaded slut"...was named after you...." It was an innocent question, I was curious.
- "You thought I was a slut...."
"No, I was asking, curious, it wasn't an accusation....we have things at our restaurant named after staff and customers...."
I'm not winning here, still, she's not holding a grudge, sits close beside me for a couple of minutes, then goes to find her sister, a second later there's a fight, they're pulling each others hair, slapping, being pulled apart by patrons of the bar.....
The nephew shows up, I'm done, 2 drinks, we split the bill as always 3 ways, $40.00 is my share, 4 more weeks until Christmas.
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- Category: Miscellany
Contractors
They're in to do the bathroom, at the behest of the landlord.
It's a small bathroom, easily improved with some cupboards and designer fixtures and maybe some tile, not a big job, 2 or three days at most I think.
Ha.
24 square feet, and they've now been in 4 days. Days off I leave the house to give them access, those rarest days off and I'm not home, an orphan on the street in the hopes they'll hurry up and finish and I can begin the long cleanup that will accompany their departure.
Friday they were in the entire day - I worked 11:00 - to 11:00, changed the faucets on the shower.
Saturday they cut a 36"X18" hole in the drywall.
Today they installed a 2X4 in the former cupboard behind the bathtub.
There is no measurable progress, and I need to compare the state of the bathroom each day to the photos I took the day before to see just what got done. This is fast becoming the job from hell.
I survey the work, I have no sink, have to shave, brush teeth downstairs in the kitchen, there's no electricity in the bathroom, just a spot lamp connected to the towel rack, and everywhere there's an increasingly thick film of dust, a few hours laundry, swiffer, dusting will be needed to make the house livable again. I'd shut the doors, but the cats would be creating their own mess. Another day off gone to rot.
Still they're working, when not here they're calling to see when they can next have access, I've given them my schedule, they wrote it on a pack of cigarettes and threw it away, they need to know it again. They have an unerring knack for knowing when I'm napping.
I've heard the stories, contractors from hell, thought they were making them up, they can't all be that bad, but I'm now living the dream and can say without qualification that if you can turn on a drill or saw you're now worth $45 or $50 an hour in the trades and can officially call yourself a contractor.
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- Category: People
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