Have you ever thought that, since you had to sit in front of your workplace desk on a Saturday morning, that it'd be a great idea to bring—instead of a lunch, since your workday usually finishes pretty early—a few snacks in your typical Tupperware sandwich container, perhaps still filled with the crumbs of yesterday's sandwich (which was painfully bereft of peanut butter as your workplace is one of those nightmare, bizarro worlds known as Peanut Free [sadly not referring to the price you pay for peanuts here] Workplaces)? Well, I have!
And, well, let me tell you, let me provide you with a handy little tip; I'll give you a moment here—don't worry: I'll wait; go! grab your pen and your piece of paper or piece of fabric, scrap of cloth, receipt, bare skin.
Okay! Ready? Here it is, folks: don't take a cheese string. Have you ever eaten a warm, soft, shudder-inducingly malleable cheese string (I'm sure I can think of at least one person reading this who could probably answer yes to this question...)? It's so not worth it. It's so rubbery; I can't even properly describe the experience. I kind of expected it to turn to some sort of living, moving sludge in my mouth. It was almost horrifying. But, damn it, it was still tasty. But don't do it. For the sake of your mental health. Eat 'em cold. Eat 'em cold.
6.6.10
Who Needs Aeroplanes?!
Double rum 'n' coke and Doritos for supper?
Sure, it may sound like a great idea to sit at BAR:120 at the airport1 at the slick, too high, too far away, red bar on a slick2, wobbly white chair—spindly-legged, stream-lined, multi-descriptored, multiply hyphened—eating a bag of Nacho Cheese Doritos, staining my left forefinger and thumb a perfect, noxious orange, and sipping, through an incredibly wide-bored black straw, a magnificently pale rum 'n' coke while hockeycentral3 plays silently, subtitlelessly, on two flat-screen Toshibas above the bar and planes and luggage carts are visibly puttering about, framed by bottles of Beefeater and Bombay Sapphire, Grey Goose and Smiroff, Glenfiddich and Jack Daniel's4 and various jazz standards5 and classical and opera and Elton John6 flow from the speakers7 of some complex system which involves a screen with white scrolling text on a deepish blue8 background and periodically there's a deep, unsettling, thrumming vibrating going on, when I finally notice the three light fixtures shaped like airplanes—two jets9 flanking an old prop job.
But do you know what's an even better idea? A second double rum 'n' coke10.
And that's how my airport adventure begins11.
Coming soon: the Flight. Or, rather, me in relation to the flight. You see, I'm one of those people who hates flying, who starts shaking and sweating and imagining all sorts of violent and fanciful things happening12.
"Final boarding call for flight number OH MY FUCK WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING, bound for lying curled on the floor in a fetal position, streaming copious quantities of tears and streaming snot; mouth open; face contorted."
And Christ, my wrist is sore who even uses pencils and papers any more and I'll see you again soon, when I start documenting my reactions on the actual plane. Expect: Daniel represented by: Puddle.
Will I loose these two double rum 'n' cokes13 into the motion sickness bag, or will my ginger pills14 save me? Stay tuned to find out!
Oh shit—finally! I think the magic potion's starting to wear off, though15.
Oh god. I think Air Canada spelled flotation incorrectly16.
The lead-up to getting on the plane17 involved much pacing and excessive peeing18, so I'm actually glad to finally get on the plane and get this ordeal started so it can get finished.
I like that we get told to turn off our iPods these days19.
Like drinking the rum 'n' cokes, writing this is an experiment20. You see, I thought that maybe if I was focussed on something other than OH HOLY SHIT THIS IS UNNATURAL21 I'd be able to handle that whole being where no human has any right being thing.
I open my little air spray nozzle guy full-bore and, for some reason, there's an absolutely lovely, frigid draught blowing at my ankles22.
Don't get me wrong, though23: as much as the entire experience terrifies me, I love take-off. It's such a gigantic push, thrust, surge, force; it's positively awesome24; it's monolithic; it's hungry; it's angry; it's impassioned; it's damn near as sexual as a huge phallic machine can get. It's good. Until that sinking hits my guts and that damn primal terror hits and I feel that panicked rush of holy moly where's the ground are we allowed to be doing this why didn't I just walk and there's the sweat and I almost dropped my pencil25 from my instantly too-slick fingers.
Why can't we just fly along at around 100ft above the ground? Is 33 000 all that necessary?
Looking out the window26 is humbling27. And, at the same time, impressive. I feel a surge of misguided pride at the folly of humanity and our "development" fetish, our "development" idolatry. Damn, we mucked shit up, huh? But everything looks so SimCitily neat! Neat as in swell and as in tidy; all the grossness of humanity's tenure is all glossed over up here28.
But back to the simple idea of flying; I get this Ikarian29 thrill while my heart rate increases, while my breathing gets shallower and shallower.
I'll be back shortly before the descent for landing happens!
Changed my mind!—I came back early. Just to keep this YawnFest rolling30. I just wanted to talk about getting... actually, nevermind: I got bored just thinking about writing it31. So, landing time it is, then.
Oh shit. I bet Ikarus didn't have to deal with turbulence32. I'm shaking like madness. We hit a big patch and the bottom dropped out of everything for a terrifying two seconds that lasted at least several hours. My fortunately empty Coke can went flying. As did my pencil. Through those fear-sweat slickened fingers again. I managed to find it, though, with the help of the kind woman33 sitting in the aisle seat beside me and held my book, journal and loose sheets of paper for me while I used my iPod as a flashlight to hunt down my hiding pencil. I found it jammed under my seat and hurry up and land safely you damn34 flying contraption.
I'm doing that scared breathing thing I do where I breathe in really shallowly through my nose and then let it out through my nose like it's a fucking tonne of bricks.
And oh damn I have to do all of this again on Monday. Why did I agree to this? I am some kind of fool. I really need to pee. But there's no chance that I'm getting out of this seat 'til we're on the ground.
There's the perceptible declension, felt long before it's seen; the increased drag on the plane: we're starting in on the final approach and it's time to stop writing before I vomit out my panic on the ceiling. More from the ground.
My guts are incredibly perceptive; every bank, every rise, every fall: they know about it before I fully register that some change in motion is happening. Upon landing, that primal, instinctual terror that's been percolating takes hold35 and it's all I can do to not scramble over the seats, pushing people out of my damn way before the plane decides to eat me.
And it takes my more feral, instinctual aspects a good long while to calm down.
The couple Dad-styled double36 rum 'n' cokes waiting for me certainly helped with the calming.
I can't wait to go through all of this again tomorrow37.
__________________________________________________
Sure, it may sound like a great idea to sit at BAR:120 at the airport1 at the slick, too high, too far away, red bar on a slick2, wobbly white chair—spindly-legged, stream-lined, multi-descriptored, multiply hyphened—eating a bag of Nacho Cheese Doritos, staining my left forefinger and thumb a perfect, noxious orange, and sipping, through an incredibly wide-bored black straw, a magnificently pale rum 'n' coke while hockeycentral3 plays silently, subtitlelessly, on two flat-screen Toshibas above the bar and planes and luggage carts are visibly puttering about, framed by bottles of Beefeater and Bombay Sapphire, Grey Goose and Smiroff, Glenfiddich and Jack Daniel's4 and various jazz standards5 and classical and opera and Elton John6 flow from the speakers7 of some complex system which involves a screen with white scrolling text on a deepish blue8 background and periodically there's a deep, unsettling, thrumming vibrating going on, when I finally notice the three light fixtures shaped like airplanes—two jets9 flanking an old prop job.
But do you know what's an even better idea? A second double rum 'n' coke10.
And that's how my airport adventure begins11.
Coming soon: the Flight. Or, rather, me in relation to the flight. You see, I'm one of those people who hates flying, who starts shaking and sweating and imagining all sorts of violent and fanciful things happening12.
"Final boarding call for flight number OH MY FUCK WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING, bound for lying curled on the floor in a fetal position, streaming copious quantities of tears and streaming snot; mouth open; face contorted."
And Christ, my wrist is sore who even uses pencils and papers any more and I'll see you again soon, when I start documenting my reactions on the actual plane. Expect: Daniel represented by: Puddle.
Will I loose these two double rum 'n' cokes13 into the motion sickness bag, or will my ginger pills14 save me? Stay tuned to find out!
Oh shit—finally! I think the magic potion's starting to wear off, though15.
Oh god. I think Air Canada spelled flotation incorrectly16.
The lead-up to getting on the plane17 involved much pacing and excessive peeing18, so I'm actually glad to finally get on the plane and get this ordeal started so it can get finished.
I like that we get told to turn off our iPods these days19.
Like drinking the rum 'n' cokes, writing this is an experiment20. You see, I thought that maybe if I was focussed on something other than OH HOLY SHIT THIS IS UNNATURAL21 I'd be able to handle that whole being where no human has any right being thing.
I open my little air spray nozzle guy full-bore and, for some reason, there's an absolutely lovely, frigid draught blowing at my ankles22.
Don't get me wrong, though23: as much as the entire experience terrifies me, I love take-off. It's such a gigantic push, thrust, surge, force; it's positively awesome24; it's monolithic; it's hungry; it's angry; it's impassioned; it's damn near as sexual as a huge phallic machine can get. It's good. Until that sinking hits my guts and that damn primal terror hits and I feel that panicked rush of holy moly where's the ground are we allowed to be doing this why didn't I just walk and there's the sweat and I almost dropped my pencil25 from my instantly too-slick fingers.
Why can't we just fly along at around 100ft above the ground? Is 33 000 all that necessary?
Looking out the window26 is humbling27. And, at the same time, impressive. I feel a surge of misguided pride at the folly of humanity and our "development" fetish, our "development" idolatry. Damn, we mucked shit up, huh? But everything looks so SimCitily neat! Neat as in swell and as in tidy; all the grossness of humanity's tenure is all glossed over up here28.
But back to the simple idea of flying; I get this Ikarian29 thrill while my heart rate increases, while my breathing gets shallower and shallower.
I'll be back shortly before the descent for landing happens!
Changed my mind!—I came back early. Just to keep this YawnFest rolling30. I just wanted to talk about getting... actually, nevermind: I got bored just thinking about writing it31. So, landing time it is, then.
Oh shit. I bet Ikarus didn't have to deal with turbulence32. I'm shaking like madness. We hit a big patch and the bottom dropped out of everything for a terrifying two seconds that lasted at least several hours. My fortunately empty Coke can went flying. As did my pencil. Through those fear-sweat slickened fingers again. I managed to find it, though, with the help of the kind woman33 sitting in the aisle seat beside me and held my book, journal and loose sheets of paper for me while I used my iPod as a flashlight to hunt down my hiding pencil. I found it jammed under my seat and hurry up and land safely you damn34 flying contraption.
I'm doing that scared breathing thing I do where I breathe in really shallowly through my nose and then let it out through my nose like it's a fucking tonne of bricks.
And oh damn I have to do all of this again on Monday. Why did I agree to this? I am some kind of fool. I really need to pee. But there's no chance that I'm getting out of this seat 'til we're on the ground.
There's the perceptible declension, felt long before it's seen; the increased drag on the plane: we're starting in on the final approach and it's time to stop writing before I vomit out my panic on the ceiling. More from the ground.
My guts are incredibly perceptive; every bank, every rise, every fall: they know about it before I fully register that some change in motion is happening. Upon landing, that primal, instinctual terror that's been percolating takes hold35 and it's all I can do to not scramble over the seats, pushing people out of my damn way before the plane decides to eat me.
And it takes my more feral, instinctual aspects a good long while to calm down.
The couple Dad-styled double36 rum 'n' cokes waiting for me certainly helped with the calming.
I can't wait to go through all of this again tomorrow37.
__________________________________________________
1 Ol' Pearson International.↑
2 not as in slippery, but as in cool, hep, et cetera. The red bar, however, hits on both points.↑
3 showing three men in front of an unknown—to me—statue which is wearing a Chicago Blackhawks jersey
(red) and a helmet (white), leading me to reminisce about the days when I cared
enough about hockey to choose the Blackhawks as my favourite team.↑
4 as well as, for completion's sake—as I feel troubled at not including them; feel a pang—Dewar's, Kahlúa,
Grand Marnier, Bacardi, Canadian Club, Crown Royal, Rémy Martin, Tanqueray, Hennessy and
Courvoisier.↑
5 "Mack the Knife," anyone?↑
6 "Someone Saved My Life Tonight." Who doesn't love butterflies, right?↑
7 beside the Dewar's and Grand Marnier at opposite ends of the bar.↑
8 cerulean, maybe?↑
9 which look more like wingèd: rockets, ballistic missiles, unidentified translucent and glowing space
sausages than they do like jets.↑
10 which is, if possible, even more magnificently (or, as I prefer, magnificentlier) pale than the first.↑
11 other than the transitting there and the post-TTC trekking across (and up) vast expanses from the TTC
drop-off point.↑
12 overpasses crumbling under the bus; lightning striking the plane and somehow making it explode;
the plane somehow imploding, me getting to feel the compaction and then, again somehow—demigodly,
I guess (because I don't even understand how I'd otherwise make it this far in some sort of state of
sensation)—experiencing my own implosion within the plane: a microcosmic repetition; or, simply,
running out of air, feeling my lungs fail with each attempt and, painfully obviously, just
crashing. Which is, of course—even in its unlikeliness—the likeliest disaster I dream up.↑
13 which were totally drunk as an experiment in fear-subdual.↑
14 organic Gravol is kind of a stunning thing. (Mostly the) Same stomach-calming skills without the sleep
for weeks side-effects.↑
15 lesson learned: don't ingest the fear-subdual potions too far in advance of the need of fearlessness.↑
16 I just used our old friend dictionary.com to discover that floatation, AC's idea of the word, is an
acceptable variant. This is unjustifiably, unreasonably, comforting.↑
17 that'd be the waiting, of course.↑
18 which, I'm sure, can mostly be attributed to the two double rum 'n' cokes but, also, whenever I'm
nervous, my urine tends to generate exponentially more quickly.↑
19 when I went to Iceland in 2005, I turned off NOTHING! That's right: I didn't have an iPod. I was listening
to mix tapes I'd made. Yeah. Mix tapes. On one of those good ol' yellow Sony Walkmans. The
kind with that handy little flip-lock thing that closed over the buttons.↑
20 why did I wait 'til now to tell you this? 'Cause this is where we start to find out if it worked.↑
21 speaking of, have you seen the X-Files episode "The Unnatural"? It's probably one of my favourite TV
things. And do you know why? Baseball, inexplicably. I've discovered that, in an interest that
can be traced back to Field of Dreams, I have a keen passion for things that romanticise and
mythologise baseball. Why is that, exactly? I have no idea. I find the game dull, boring, and an
absolute pleasure to watch. Wait. What? How does that even work? I can't explain it. All I can say
is that it does. Work, that is. I thrill to the idea of baseball. I yawn to the practice of
baseball. But I can't stay away. I think, though, on the most basic of levels, that my interest
in it comes from the investiture of emotion in its mythologisation; the characters in these things
love baseball as though it's the only thing they've ever encountered that's worth loving. And
feeling that passionate about something is something I can support, understand and feel. Recently,
in contrition for not having bought Kinsella's Shoeless Joe that time I saw it for under $10
and felt a skip in my heart beat's pattern and then somehow talked myself out of buying it, I bought
Malamud's The Natural. I look forward to reading it and going to more Jays' games. I'll let
you know how that works out for me.↑
22 I need as much cold as possible in this flying situation; I sweat like mad. And, usually, end up
ridiculously stinky: the sweat of fear has such an awful, acrid stench. Or is that just
something my olfactory factory cooks up? It's true for my mind and its close friends,
though, so whatever. My sweat after a hard day's work at Vesey's—as a for instance—always
smelled so—not good—but wholesome, pure, deserved. My plane sweat just smells like
excreted fear.↑
23 and here's the snag.↑
24 in the traditional sense of the word.↑
25 even with its rubberised little grip.↑
26 when I can stomach it.↑
27 I always seem to get the window seat. Is it punishment for something I don't know about? But I love it,
god damn it. Being the masochist I am.↑
28 apparently, fearing, from the very depths of my guts (which seem to extend pretty deeply), for my life,
turns me into a philosopher whose profundity rivals that of your profoundest university freshman
smoking pot for the first time.↑
29 as in, "of (or like, really) Ikarus," obviously.↑
30 and to keep my mind occupied, of course.↑
31 in all seriousness, I was going to talk about getting a can of Coke. Yeah. See what I do when I'm reaching
for something? Clutching at straws? Except the can only comes with a plastic cup. No straws.↑
32 apparently having your wings' glue melt and subsequently plummeting to your death in the sea is better
than being bounced around a little bit. Oh, Deimos and Phobos.↑
33 who's reading Alice Munro's Runaway and seems to like doing this about as much as I do and who
screamed out "Jesus Christ" and "Oh holy God" when we hit the large pocket of turbulence.↑
34 and by that I mean absolutely wonderful please don't hurt me.↑
35 even though I by now recognise that I'm on the ground and that the plane won't win this time (the battle,
certainly, but not the war).↑
36 equivalent to a more than generous triple or a stingy quadruple from less discerning tenders of bar.↑
37 added by the calmed representation of your humble writer while transcribing his scribbles to electronic
posterity.↑
3.3.10
A dinner? A supper? A meal.
I've been reading DFW's A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again collection of essays + arguments the past week or so, and it's inspired me, which is, really, pretty impressive; I've been in such a lengthy drought that I wasn't certain I'd pull myself out of it with any degree of success (though I guess I can't really weigh in on the success of this venture or not; maybe just getting something written can be considered success enough? This time: sure). But yeah so this collection sort of pushed the write buttons, if you'll allow that. What to tackle, though, right? What can I put this reawakened writerly zeal to work on? It had to be something new, though, I felt, before I started writing things out. Why not the supper that my partner g. and I enjoyed in celebration of our third anniversary? Sounds good to me! (and don't worry: I know I don't hold a candle to the hurricane that was DFW, but inspiration is inspiration and the inspired are not chosen by the inspirer. But writing is good; it's such a primal urge that after having been depriving myself of such an outlet [simply because I just could not write anything; nothing would come out of me], the feeling of its return is such elation; to such a degree that I'm like a mindless fool here [an out-of-practice mindless fool at that!]. So, keep this in mind, I guess: I'm just having a good time.)
Tonight, we went out to a Fancy Place (well, fancy in my eyes) for a nice, celebratory, lengthy, full meal. The place: The Rushton; a place of candles in frosted glasses on tables; metal-tiled (brass? tin? I don't really know these things. And after several seconds of intense research: pressed tin.) ceiling (it really is a lovely ceiling); an ornate chandelier, of some sort of impressive origins, I have faith (again with the intense research: bronze, vintage piece from 1920s France); original artwork on the walls (and for sale! Of much of the stuff that's been there in the past, there have been several pieces that, were I gifted with any amount of disposable income, I would have loved to have provided with a good home); dimmed lights, a requisite in this sort of place, I think—something inspiring hushed talk (which, as the place fills up, doesn't really work, but oh well: the atmosphere still hovers), implying some sort of privacy; curtains outside, in the pre-entry vestibule—lush curtains which hint at something—again—secret, secluded, private; an intimate place, well-suited to just such a celebratory, lengthy, full meal.
First off, of course: the wine course. Kicked things off with a bottle of Tawse Winery Chardonnay. 2006, if I remember correctly. Is it all right to say that ordering wine by the bottle makes me uneasy? That whole server coming to the table and displaying the bottle, cutting the foil, pulling the cork and then? oh, and then: the tasting. Does it make cold sweat pop out on anyone else's back? (just for posterity's sake: I've never been the actual taster; that privilege has always [by always, I mean: both times {which were both at anniversary suppers, incidentally}] fallen to g. Oh, brave g.; I shudder at the very idea of being the responsible party.) I look at that splash of wine in the bottom of the glass, the server (Rob, according to my receipt [who was pretty great]) waiting patiently for the verdict and I feel like a cringe. Yeah, that's right: like I'm some sort of full-body cringe, like I am cringe personified. What happens if we don't like it? Do they take it back? Do we still have to pay for it? What do they do with the opened bottle of undrunk wine? Deep, ponderous, metaphysical. The sort of stuff that keeps people awake at night, to be sure. Fortunately, g. accepts the wine. A breath (apparently I had been holding my breath? Who knew?) escapes me, but I'm left wondering: does g. actually like it? I think, if I were in the same position, I'd probably tell the server that, I don't know, gasoline was acceptable if that's what they poured for me. But to the wine itself: it was really quite tasty, with this interesting full smokiness and, like, a very clean taste. Like I was rinsing, sanitising, sterilising my insides. In the best way possible (though the sediment in the wine was a bit offputting [I thought the first chunk was a bread crumb]).
A bread crumb from that wonderful thing: meal-prologue bread (don't you love when a meal has a prologue of fresh bread and some sort of wonderful spread comprised of chick peas, red peppers, garlic, spices and who knows what else?), which, thankfully, was not responsible for the bottom-feeding wine glass flotsam (I was unreasonably placated when I discovered the true source; I can't really explain [honestly flabbergasted here {as an aside within this aside: is it odd—atypical, perhaps?—that, when I look up words at dictionary.com, I don't first go to the mainpage, but rather go directly to the word's page?}] why wine chunk is better than bread chunk), was a great Whetter of Appetite.
In retrospect, I imagine that whetted appetite would've been better served with something a little more upscale, a little more high-falutin', than fish 'n' chips (though it least it bore the more adultly coded name of "fish fry")—something like the pasta, maybe (or the swordfish special, like g. got). But whatever: I love me some good fish 'n' chips. Oh, yeah: and the chip part of the equation: totally sweet potato. Always a good time.
G.'s swordfish special also looked like a good time—big ol' fish-block! And collard (g.: "oh, C—O—L—L—A—R—no E—D") greens that were tastily plant (plant as adj.). The swordfish also was tastily something (though not plant).
Interlude! (aka: bathroom break):
As with most of these shoebox-sized restaurants, the bathroom is in the basement, which is nice: no chance of getting the table by the bathrooms here. The railing to the basement? Holy moly: it's bigger around than I am; it's like a banister exemplar. Solid. Comfortingly so. And a word of warning (well, several words, really): there is a mirror at the bottom of the stairs. A full-length, floor-to-ceiling sort of affair. To your right. You can't see it until you reach the bottom and then bam! there you are and your peripheral vision is telling you that someone is tailing you, that someone is sort of coming toward you and it's mildly frightening in an atavistic sort of way. The men's bathroom is an interestingly laid-out awkward failure: there's a toilet and a urinal (speaking of: why do so many urinals have their drain holes aligned in such a way as to suggest no other image but a penis [REALLY!]? [This one, however, did not; it moreso resembled the Y that happens in drawings of a female crotch. Urinal drain holes, man. No idea.]), separated by about half a foot, with nary a divider. It's very unlikely that both are ever used at the same time. Anyway, the sink's really cool. It's a rectangular prism, with a smaller rectangular prism cut out of it. There's a lovely fake orchid, too.
Back to the food! Know what comes after the main course? Yup. Exactly. Dessert. What a wonderful thing. I have a sweet tooth that is verging on the ridiculous, that could outfight the sweet tooth of any kid ever. I still (sometimes, when it's available) will eat spoonfuls of sugar. Just like that. I'm a fan of dessert-time. I got a chocolate pecan tart, which was more than suitably delicious and came partnered with a blackberry. I love blackberries. Smooth (I love fuzzless, redless raspberries [though I also love fuzzy, red raspberries—and those coppery "autumn gold" ones, too]), less tart and so yummy! I love the look of them, too: all those little berry-balls stuck together... G.'s chocolate torte was also tasty (perhaps... scrumptious?) and came partnered with something that looked like some sort of combination of plum tomato and cherry that also happened to be orange and that tasted like some berry that I am entirely familiar with but that I couldn't tell you the name of.
So, that was the meal. Not even the best part, though. The best part was hanging out with g., celebrating us, just having a grand old time. Talking and laughing and being all anecdotal.
Bizarre admission time: at work I was really excited about this and, quite unexpectedly, nervous. Yeah. Nervous. It was like a first date, or something; it was like discovery, learning, meeting again. And, another admission: I loved that. Every day is beginning, continuance, culmination.
A final note (finally, huh? I mean: come on, this went on for ages! I really didn't expect that.): I had a lot of unabashed fun writing this. And it felt so good to write again. To put words into sentences into paragraphs into a full thing. Whether it'll even be interesting to anyone else: I don't know. I hope so, of course, but if not: that's all right, too. It fulfilled its goal for me: affirming that I was still (sort of) capable of writing. I feel better, clearer. And all it took was a little food, a little wine, a little celebration and an amazing partner.
Tonight, we went out to a Fancy Place (well, fancy in my eyes) for a nice, celebratory, lengthy, full meal. The place: The Rushton; a place of candles in frosted glasses on tables; metal-tiled (brass? tin? I don't really know these things. And after several seconds of intense research: pressed tin.) ceiling (it really is a lovely ceiling); an ornate chandelier, of some sort of impressive origins, I have faith (again with the intense research: bronze, vintage piece from 1920s France); original artwork on the walls (and for sale! Of much of the stuff that's been there in the past, there have been several pieces that, were I gifted with any amount of disposable income, I would have loved to have provided with a good home); dimmed lights, a requisite in this sort of place, I think—something inspiring hushed talk (which, as the place fills up, doesn't really work, but oh well: the atmosphere still hovers), implying some sort of privacy; curtains outside, in the pre-entry vestibule—lush curtains which hint at something—again—secret, secluded, private; an intimate place, well-suited to just such a celebratory, lengthy, full meal.
First off, of course: the wine course. Kicked things off with a bottle of Tawse Winery Chardonnay. 2006, if I remember correctly. Is it all right to say that ordering wine by the bottle makes me uneasy? That whole server coming to the table and displaying the bottle, cutting the foil, pulling the cork and then? oh, and then: the tasting. Does it make cold sweat pop out on anyone else's back? (just for posterity's sake: I've never been the actual taster; that privilege has always [by always, I mean: both times {which were both at anniversary suppers
A bread crumb from that wonderful thing: meal-prologue bread (don't you love when a meal has a prologue of fresh bread and some sort of wonderful spread comprised of chick peas, red peppers, garlic, spices and who knows what else?), which, thankfully, was not responsible for the bottom-feeding wine glass flotsam (I was unreasonably placated when I discovered the true source; I can't really explain [honestly flabbergasted here {as an aside within this aside: is it odd—atypical, perhaps?—that, when I look up words at dictionary.com, I don't first go to the mainpage, but rather go directly to the word's page
In retrospect, I imagine that whetted appetite would've been better served with something a little more upscale, a little more high-falutin', than fish 'n' chips (though it least it bore the more adultly coded name of "fish fry")—something like the pasta, maybe (or the swordfish special, like g. got). But whatever: I love me some good fish 'n' chips. Oh, yeah: and the chip part of the equation: totally sweet potato. Always a good time.
G.'s swordfish special also looked like a good time—big ol' fish-block! And collard (g.: "oh, C—O—L—L—A—R—no E—D") greens that were tastily plant (plant as adj.). The swordfish also was tastily something (though not plant).
Interlude! (aka: bathroom break):
As with most of these shoebox-sized restaurants, the bathroom is in the basement, which is nice: no chance of getting the table by the bathrooms here. The railing to the basement? Holy moly: it's bigger around than I am; it's like a banister exemplar. Solid. Comfortingly so. And a word of warning (well, several words, really): there is a mirror at the bottom of the stairs. A full-length, floor-to-ceiling sort of affair. To your right. You can't see it until you reach the bottom and then bam! there you are and your peripheral vision is telling you that someone is tailing you, that someone is sort of coming toward you and it's mildly frightening in an atavistic sort of way. The men's bathroom is an interestingly laid-out awkward failure: there's a toilet and a urinal (speaking of: why do so many urinals have their drain holes aligned in such a way as to suggest no other image but a penis [REALLY!]? [This one, however, did not; it moreso resembled the Y that happens in drawings of a female crotch. Urinal drain holes, man. No idea.]), separated by about half a foot, with nary a divider. It's very unlikely that both are ever used at the same time. Anyway, the sink's really cool. It's a rectangular prism, with a smaller rectangular prism cut out of it. There's a lovely fake orchid, too.
Back to the food! Know what comes after the main course? Yup. Exactly. Dessert. What a wonderful thing. I have a sweet tooth that is verging on the ridiculous, that could outfight the sweet tooth of any kid ever. I still (sometimes, when it's available) will eat spoonfuls of sugar. Just like that. I'm a fan of dessert-time. I got a chocolate pecan tart, which was more than suitably delicious and came partnered with a blackberry. I love blackberries. Smooth (I love fuzzless, redless raspberries [though I also love fuzzy, red raspberries—and those coppery "autumn gold" ones, too]), less tart and so yummy! I love the look of them, too: all those little berry-balls stuck together... G.'s chocolate torte was also tasty (perhaps... scrumptious?) and came partnered with something that looked like some sort of combination of plum tomato and cherry that also happened to be orange and that tasted like some berry that I am entirely familiar with but that I couldn't tell you the name of.
So, that was the meal. Not even the best part, though. The best part was hanging out with g., celebrating us, just having a grand old time. Talking and laughing and being all anecdotal.
Bizarre admission time: at work I was really excited about this and, quite unexpectedly, nervous. Yeah. Nervous. It was like a first date, or something; it was like discovery, learning, meeting again. And, another admission: I loved that. Every day is beginning, continuance, culmination.
A final note (finally, huh? I mean: come on, this went on for ages! I really didn't expect that.): I had a lot of unabashed fun writing this. And it felt so good to write again. To put words into sentences into paragraphs into a full thing. Whether it'll even be interesting to anyone else: I don't know. I hope so, of course, but if not: that's all right, too. It fulfilled its goal for me: affirming that I was still (sort of) capable of writing. I feel better, clearer. And all it took was a little food, a little wine, a little celebration and an amazing partner.
30.1.10
2009? 2009.
I thought I'd give this a shot. Why not, right? It'll pass a little bit (a lot, as it turned out) of time and it's writing. Which is something that, despite my recent lack of it (the veritable dearth of it), I still really enjoy doing. Writing is such a great release/outlet/exhalation, that I wish it would still come readily to me. Maybe it'll return. I certainly hope so. Sooner rather than later, of course. I feel sort of unfinished without it. Incomplete.
So, here goes nothin', I suppose.
1. What did you do in 2009 that you'd never done before?
Most importantly, in relation to the progress of the rest of the year, I sliced my right ring finger open at work. It required seven stitches to close. That's quite a story. Not really one I feel like telling right now, though. Sorry about that. Let's leave it at the thought that my hands seem like strangers now. Unfamiliar.
What else happened this year that had never happened before? Let's leave the shitty stuff alone (I think that last one's good enough) and focus on some of the good things. Met LeVar Burton. Went to FanExpo. Both of these were really fun events. Celebrated our second anniversary with my absolutely outstanding partner, Gabrielle (this was happening the day after we met LeVar Burton; we told him, and he sang for us). Visited Niagara Falls. There's a lot of water there, huh?! Saw Isis and Skinny Puppy (separate shows) live, which was something I never really expected to happen. Started a blog about wine-drinking and wine-appreciation and wine with Gabrielle.
2. Did you keep your new years' resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
I don't even remember if I made any resolutions last year. I guess this year's would be to find a job that doesn't make me [redacted] on a regular basis and to start writing again. Being less of a selfish pail of turpentine.
3. Did anyone close to you give birth?
I don't think so. Not that I can remember, anyway.
4. Did anyone close to you die?
No, fortunately.
5. What countries did you visit?
Work, house, work, house, work, new house, work
6. What would you like to have in 2010 that you lacked in 2009?
A positive sense of self. A job that i enjoyed for at least a single reason.
7. What dates from 2009 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?
January 10th: Sam and Hailey joined the family.
July 17th: sliced open my right ring finger.
8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?
[redacted]
9. What was your biggest failure?
Oh, dear.
10. Did you suffer illness or injury?
I don't know if I've mentioned this yet, but I sliced open my right ring finger.
11. What was the best thing you bought?
Maybe the complete series of TNG? Food was pretty all right, too. I like that stuff.
12. Whose behaviour merited celebration?
Gabrielle. For being so damn supportive, patient and there. Sam. For being so much fun (for the most part). Hailey. For being such a silent, crazy beast.
13. Whose behaviour made you appalled and depressed?
A couple people at work. Mine.
14. Where did most of your money go?
Rent, food, booze.
15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?
Skinny Puppy. FanExpo (particularly Avery Brooks and Bruce Campbell). Sam and Hailey. Gabrielle.
16. What songs will always remind you of 2009?
"Sincerely, Liza (Bucket Song)" by Richard Laviolette. It was in my brain almost constantly throughout the year.
That's the only one I can think of. I've been working on listening through my entire CD collection from A to Z (currently on O), so there's not really much I've listened to over and over.
17. Compared to this time last year, are you:
a) happier or sadder? Probably sadder.
b) thinner or fatter? Roughly the same.
c) richer or poorer? Richer, I guess, considering that I have my credit card balance back to zero and more of my student loan paid off.
18. What do you wish you'd done more of?
Writing, playing music, working at things I enjoy, being posi.
19. What do you wish you'd done less of?
Damaging myself, brooding, being negi.
20. How will you be spending Christmas?
I spent it with the M. family. In a mostly relaxed sort of week. Eating a lot.
21. Did you fall in love in 2009?
Sam and Hailey. Gabrielle still and again and again and still and
22. How many one-night stands?
23. What was your favourite TV program?
DS9.
24. Do you hate anyone now that you didn't hate this time last year?
I don't think so.
25.What was the best book you read?
Looking back at my reading list for 2009, I discovered that I read almost 100 things, so I'm going to list my top ten, in the order in which I read them.
Love Is a Mix Tape by Rob Sheffield
Finnegans Wake by James Joyce
House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski
The Gulag Archipelago by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn
You Remind Me of Me by Dan Chaon
Local Anaesthetic by Günter Grass
Contact by Carl Sagan
On Beauty by Zadie Smith
Bone by Jeff Smith
White Teeth by Zadie Smith
26. What was your greatest musical discovery?
I don't think I discovered any new bands, though, in relation to listening through my CD collection, I reawakened my love for Darkthrone and Nasum.
27. What did you want and get?
Cats.
28. What did you want and not get?
A decent job.
29. What was your favourite film of this year?
Synecdoche, New York, Wendy and Lucy, and Aguirre: Der Zorn Gottes (I really enjoyed watching it yet again). Pretty sure that Synecdoche, New York pulls out the win. Big time. Wow.
30. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?
Drunkenly and untunefully played a guitar and sang loudly (just to clarify: the singing was just as drunkenly and untunefully done as the guitar playing). Drank more than I should have.
31.What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
Finding a job that offered something.
32. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2009?
Not caring, probably.
33. What kept you sane?
Gabrielle, Sam and Hailey, weekends, booze, video games (video games!), books, music and coffee.
34. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?
35. What political issue stirred you the most?
I've been much too apathetic of late. Need to work on that, to be sure.
36. Who did you miss?
Some PEI folk. Josh & Erin. My family.
37. Who was the best new person you met?
Gabrielle; many times.
38. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2009?
39. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year:
I can't really think of anything right now. So many songs are struggling for the top spot in my brains right now. It's like a rumble that is royal up in there. Maybe mix a little Darkthrone, a little Xasthur (always a little Xasthur), a little combatwoundedveteran, a little Skinny Puppy, a little something else and WHIZZ-BANGO!: there it is. 2009 in a few lines.
So, here goes nothin', I suppose.
1. What did you do in 2009 that you'd never done before?
Most importantly, in relation to the progress of the rest of the year, I sliced my right ring finger open at work. It required seven stitches to close. That's quite a story. Not really one I feel like telling right now, though. Sorry about that. Let's leave it at the thought that my hands seem like strangers now. Unfamiliar.
What else happened this year that had never happened before? Let's leave the shitty stuff alone (I think that last one's good enough) and focus on some of the good things. Met LeVar Burton. Went to FanExpo. Both of these were really fun events. Celebrated our second anniversary with my absolutely outstanding partner, Gabrielle (this was happening the day after we met LeVar Burton; we told him, and he sang for us). Visited Niagara Falls. There's a lot of water there, huh?! Saw Isis and Skinny Puppy (separate shows) live, which was something I never really expected to happen. Started a blog about wine-drinking and wine-appreciation and wine with Gabrielle.
2. Did you keep your new years' resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
I don't even remember if I made any resolutions last year. I guess this year's would be to find a job that doesn't make me [redacted] on a regular basis and to start writing again. Being less of a selfish pail of turpentine.
3. Did anyone close to you give birth?
I don't think so. Not that I can remember, anyway.
4. Did anyone close to you die?
No, fortunately.
5. What countries did you visit?
Work, house, work, house, work, new house, work
6. What would you like to have in 2010 that you lacked in 2009?
A positive sense of self. A job that i enjoyed for at least a single reason.
7. What dates from 2009 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?
January 10th: Sam and Hailey joined the family.
July 17th: sliced open my right ring finger.
8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?
[redacted]
9. What was your biggest failure?
Oh, dear.
10. Did you suffer illness or injury?
I don't know if I've mentioned this yet, but I sliced open my right ring finger.
11. What was the best thing you bought?
Maybe the complete series of TNG? Food was pretty all right, too. I like that stuff.
12. Whose behaviour merited celebration?
Gabrielle. For being so damn supportive, patient and there. Sam. For being so much fun (for the most part). Hailey. For being such a silent, crazy beast.
13. Whose behaviour made you appalled and depressed?
A couple people at work. Mine.
14. Where did most of your money go?
Rent, food, booze.
15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?
Skinny Puppy. FanExpo (particularly Avery Brooks and Bruce Campbell). Sam and Hailey. Gabrielle.
16. What songs will always remind you of 2009?
"Sincerely, Liza (Bucket Song)" by Richard Laviolette. It was in my brain almost constantly throughout the year.
That's the only one I can think of. I've been working on listening through my entire CD collection from A to Z (currently on O), so there's not really much I've listened to over and over.
17. Compared to this time last year, are you:
a) happier or sadder? Probably sadder.
b) thinner or fatter? Roughly the same.
c) richer or poorer? Richer, I guess, considering that I have my credit card balance back to zero and more of my student loan paid off.
18. What do you wish you'd done more of?
Writing, playing music, working at things I enjoy, being posi.
19. What do you wish you'd done less of?
Damaging myself, brooding, being negi.
20. How will you be spending Christmas?
I spent it with the M. family. In a mostly relaxed sort of week. Eating a lot.
21. Did you fall in love in 2009?
Sam and Hailey. Gabrielle still and again and again and still and
22. How many one-night stands?
23. What was your favourite TV program?
DS9.
24. Do you hate anyone now that you didn't hate this time last year?
I don't think so.
25.What was the best book you read?
Looking back at my reading list for 2009, I discovered that I read almost 100 things, so I'm going to list my top ten, in the order in which I read them.
Love Is a Mix Tape by Rob Sheffield
Finnegans Wake by James Joyce
House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski
The Gulag Archipelago by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn
You Remind Me of Me by Dan Chaon
Local Anaesthetic by Günter Grass
Contact by Carl Sagan
On Beauty by Zadie Smith
Bone by Jeff Smith
White Teeth by Zadie Smith
26. What was your greatest musical discovery?
I don't think I discovered any new bands, though, in relation to listening through my CD collection, I reawakened my love for Darkthrone and Nasum.
27. What did you want and get?
Cats.
28. What did you want and not get?
A decent job.
29. What was your favourite film of this year?
Synecdoche, New York, Wendy and Lucy, and Aguirre: Der Zorn Gottes (I really enjoyed watching it yet again). Pretty sure that Synecdoche, New York pulls out the win. Big time. Wow.
30. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?
Drunkenly and untunefully played a guitar and sang loudly (just to clarify: the singing was just as drunkenly and untunefully done as the guitar playing). Drank more than I should have.
31.What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
Finding a job that offered something.
32. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2009?
Not caring, probably.
33. What kept you sane?
Gabrielle, Sam and Hailey, weekends, booze, video games (video games!), books, music and coffee.
34. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?
35. What political issue stirred you the most?
I've been much too apathetic of late. Need to work on that, to be sure.
36. Who did you miss?
Some PEI folk. Josh & Erin. My family.
37. Who was the best new person you met?
Gabrielle; many times.
38. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2009?
39. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year:
I can't really think of anything right now. So many songs are struggling for the top spot in my brains right now. It's like a rumble that is royal up in there. Maybe mix a little Darkthrone, a little Xasthur (always a little Xasthur), a little combatwoundedveteran, a little Skinny Puppy, a little something else and WHIZZ-BANGO!: there it is. 2009 in a few lines.
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