And the hits just keep on coming

You can’t always get what you want.

When we were children, my sister used to taunt me by singing this song.  I think she heard it on a K-Tel commercial, and so she only knew the one line.  She would sing it over and over, the same line.

You can’t always get what you want.

Love.  Excitement. Family.

Success.  Happiness. Security.

Money.  Adventure.  Glory.

Revenge.  Justice.  Peace.

We all want something.

You can’t always get what you want.

When the only thing you desperately want is to find the next handhold on the sheer cliff-face of life, you can’t imagine a day when you might be standing at the top of the mountain, wanting to scale the next peak up.

“Look how far I fell,” you think.  “Look how far I can fall.” 

Wait, that’s not my voice.

You can’t always get what you want.

I don’t want to climb because I want to reach the summit, I want to climb because I want to feel alive.

I fell, and I survived.  There is no time to ponder why, only enough time to try to find the next handhold up.

You see, she never seemed to learn the rest of the chorus.

But if you try sometimes

You just might find

You get what you need

***

If you wonder where I’ve been lately, I’ve been living life.  Work.  Attempting (and so far, failing) to purchase real estate.  I think it’s time for a content change, so hold onto your knickers, chickens.

Coffee break

While you were at home, taking care of your two young children, I had coffee with your husband. 

We talked about business, about politics, about his experiences in many of our fine Toronto adult entertainment venues.  Has he ever mentioned that to you?

Probably not.

You should have seen the look on his face the first time we met.  The fact that the boardroom was full of other people didn’t stop him from quite obviously checking me out from head to toe.  You would have noticed.  You would not have been pleased.

He sat down and complained to the assembled group about how the baby was keeping him awake all night.

“Come on, have another drink,” he cajoled at the industry function months later, clearly under the impression that he was the one getting me drunk.  I smiled and played along.  “So, are you partying tonight after this is over?” he slobbered.

Partying?

“No, I’m having dinner with a friend.”

“Just a friend?”

“A friend.”

“Well, have fun with your friend, then.”

“I will, thanks.” 

Have fun with your wife and baby daughter.

I decided not to inquire about whether he would be partying with you.  My hunch is that he did not.  What do you do on Thursday nights?

“Have coffee with me after your meeting,” the message read.

It was probably wrong, but I couldn’t stop myself from agreeing.  My curiosity had to be satisfied. 

I wanted to see it for myself.

It would have been a pretty good first date, you know, if it had been a date.  Maybe a 6 or a 7.

But it wasn’t a date, at least, not in my mind.   Luckily for you, I have no interest in fooling around with your husband.   However, I can’t speak for every other woman on the Street.

My interest?  I am fascinated by the interactions between men and women in the workplace, particularly in the Financial District.   Men who have young trophy wives at home, and older, administrative “wives” at work.  Women who will go to extreme lengths to prove that they are tough enough to survive.  Colleagues who spend sixteen hours a day in the office, six days a week, and a handful of hours at home with the people they supposedly love.

No wonder we’re all so confused and lonely.

And so, as I was sipping my latte and listening to him speak, I was thinking about you, and about how little we all really know about each other.

On writing

I had very good intentions for this little corner of the interwebs.  I still do.

I wanted to write more fiction, more creative pieces.  There is something cathartic about personal confession, but I had grown weary of cutting myself open and bleeding on the page.  After giving myself a transfusion, I built a new home, and opened the doors to everyone.   It was a liberating experience.

It was easier to write when my life was in tatters.  The one thing upon which I could always count, in a world where nothing made sense, was my ability to build something out of the fragments of thoughts clouding my brain and the emotions pounding to crescendo in my chest.  Build a blood-red boat, set it on the waters and let it drift away.

Then one day, a message came back.

“I hear you,” it said.  One voice, to start.  Then, more.   Thank you for giving me what I needed, when I needed it.

A lifetime ago, I wrote that a Writer is someone who lives to write.  Someone who wakes up every morning, as I did, burning with words, desperate to get them out of my fevered brain before they dissipated in a wisp of smoke.   Set them down before the fickle Muse leaves, pouting from lack of attention.

Lives that are in tatters tend to be chaotic.  They have no rhythm, no goal, no sense of purpose.  There is time to dwell on thoughts, especially dark ones.  There is time to write these thoughts down, during the hours that are so late that they can also be thought of as early.

Eventually, the jumble of thread starts to untangle.  One painful piece at a time, the tapestry of life is re-woven.  Connections are re-established, homes are re-built.  The big picture, long forgotten in the endless dwelling upon details, becomes clear.  Suddenly, the full life is worth living.

The passion and energy spent on the words, always the words, is suddenly spent on the living.   The passion is there, but it is spent on other things.

Does it mean that I’m not a Writer? 

Or, worse.

Perhaps it means that I’m only capable of writing when my life is a mess.

I desperately want to burn again with the words, to feel that overwhelming rush of thought that must be expressed.  There must be a balance between these two things. a safe harbour in which I can find my bearings and finally use this space in the way I originally intended.

Epiphany

“It’s hilarious that you laugh at your own jokes.”

“Is that a bad thing?” 

He looks over and smiles.

“No, I think it’s kind of cute.”

A ride on the 501 streetcar

So much for my TTC boycott.  Shouldn’t all of these people already be at work?

I should be at work.  The big cheese has been looking for me, sending me the frantic “come see me AS SOON AS YOU GET IN” (complete with red EXCLAMATION POINT!) emails that he bestows upon only the most favoured employees.

I consider it an honour to be so damn important.  Lucky me.

Let’s see how this response is received:

“Out of the office this morning for a doctor’s appointment.”

In my experience, excuses of a highly personal nature, especially ones that imply medical procedures of the invasive female variety, are 99% effective in ending any conversation with a male executive.

I make eye contact through the window with a woman sitting in the streetcar moving in the opposite direction.  We stare at each other with blank expressions before traffic moves.  Should I smile?  She is probably going to work.  No one is sending her emails with exclamation points.

And I am the Tin Man. 

You have to come back, they said.  You must come back, because there is probably nothing wrong with you.

Or not.  It’s a mystery.

The Beach looks different then when I moved away, less than two years ago.  The stores are different.  I see my old local, notice that they have put new red lamps in the window.  They are probably not new, but they are new to me.  I wonder if I should make a reservation.  Will they remember me?

Life has become busy.  My life is full, some people would say.  Others would say crowded.  But the 501 provides a small window of time for my mind to wander.

I think about the question I asked so many months ago.  I think about how similar it was to the question he asked me last week.

If the news is bad, who would you call?

“Who is your confidante?”, he asked.

“That’s a good question”, I replied.

Who would you trust with the most important information in your life?

Who would you turn to if your life were to fall spectacularly to pieces?

Is it the person on your emergency contact form at work? 

Will your instinct dial the number of the responsible person?  Or will your muscle memory kick in, out of shock, and call someone else?

I think you might be surprised.

I think you might be surprised by who answers. 

I think you might be surprised by who does not answer.

The 501 rolls onward, but I jump off into the cold, grey morning.

"This car will be short-turning at Greenwood. Don't worry, another car will be along...sometime within the next hour or so. Good luck."

Reality Monday

[Dramatic music plays.  The tribe members file into the Council area, looking dirty, malnourished and flea-bitten.  Our fearless author, A, is wearing the immunity necklace.]

If you think I'm a bitch in real life, you should see the way they edited me on the show. Source: MSNBC.com

PROBST:  Welcome to Tribal Council, Survivors.  [Insert profound comment about fire representing life, etc. etc.]  Since this season is all about A, she gets to wear the immunity necklace to every Council, and unilaterally decide which one of you is having your torch snuffed.   And no, that’s not a euphemism, so don’t get all excited. 

Let’s start with you, A.  Can you please explain to me why you let this band of jokers onto your island in the first place?  Are you some kind of sucker for punishment?

A:  Well, Jeff, I’ve never thought of myself as a particularly stupid woman…

[snickers and eye-rolling  from the rest of the tribe]

PROBST: It doesn’t look like they agree with you.

A:  [agitated]  Alright, alright, so I’ve made some bad choices.  Who hasn’t made bad choices?

PROBST:  Soul Patch, would you agree with that?  Did A make a bad choice by keeping you on the tribe?

SOUL PATCH:  Huh? [startled out of a daze]  Who me? 

PROBST:  Have you been smoking the jungle plants again?

SOUL PATCH:  Hey, I’ve only been arrested once.  Twice.  No wait, once.  What year was that?

PROBST:  Just answer the question.

SOUL PATCH:  A is definitely not making a mistake by keeping me here.  She needs my supersperm to re-populate this island.  Besides, I don’t have a job to go back to if she decides to kick me out.

PROBST:  Brilliant answer.  What about you, Playboy?  Why should you get to stay?

PLAYBOY:  Because I’m a well-endowed smooth talker.  And I like to wear a tie.  Isn’t that enough?

PROBST:  That may be the most… narcissistic…answer I’ve ever heard.  Don’t you bring anything else to the table?

PLAYBOY:  I’m good at making up stories that aren’t true.  Especially about my sexual exploits.

PROBST:  Charming.  And how about you, Cheater?  Is there any reason why A shouldn’t just feed you to the sharks?

CHEATER:  I swear, this is the only time I ever cheated on my wife.  Well, except for that other time.  And that incident last summer.  But other than those…three..well…four times…I’ve been completely faithful.

PROBST:  Ouch.  You’re so sleazy, I’m not sure a shark would actually eat you.  But, I think we’ve heard enough. 

A, can you give us any good, sensible reason why these creeps are still hanging around?  Isn’t it obvious that they should have gone a long time ago?

A:  Well, Jeff, I guess I figured that if I kept them around, they might eventually show some redeeming qualities.

PROBST:  Oh come on, really?  Didn’t your friends warn you?

A:  They tried, but… I voted them out so that I wouldn’t have to listen anymore.

PROBST:  Smooth move, Little Miss Smartypants.  Love is blind and dumb.

A:  Watch it, Probst.  This is still MY show.

PROBST:  Good point.  Time for you to cast your vote.

[A walks around the fire to the voting area.  The music plays.  She writes and deposits the slip of paper.]

PROBST:  I’ll tally the…uhhh…vote.  The tribe member who is voted out must leave the Tribal Council area immediately.

[Probst opens the container, unfolds the paper and starts to laugh.]

PROBST:  A has decided to vote herself off of the island.

A:  Can you blame me?  What are you doing tonight, Probst? [wink]  Wanna grab a burger?

[Cue closing music and credits.]

Nobody snuffs a torch like Peachy. Isn't he dreamy? Source: MSNBC.com

Random, random, 2010 style

Oh baby, don’t look at me with those big, watery eyes. 

Mama had to take a little break over the holidays, that’s all. 

Here, take this tissue and blow.  That’s better.

If it’s any consolation, I’ve been neglecting my other work, too.  It’s all just sitting on my little bar table, begging to be read and reviewed and highlighted and…whatever it is that I do for a living.

The email’s been piling up too.  And don’t even ask about that book I’m supposed to be reading, lying by the side of my bed.

Now, now, you know that I can’t promise you that I’ll write everyday.  I can only write when the Muse visits, and goodness knows, she is an even more fickle woman than I.

But, I can see by the state of neglect around here that I need to pay you a little more attention.

2008 was the annus horribilis, the year of the flood, the hurricane that swept away life and home, leaving only tattered remnants, scars and bruises.

2009 was a meandering journey on a life-raft, a search for a light in the darkness, glimpses of land without ever reaching the shore, a twelve-month long question mark.

2010 is a new world.  Anything is possible.

Don’t worry, I’ll do my best to send you a postcard on a regular basis.

How is your 2010 so far?  Leave a comment and let me know.

Holiday visions and dreams for the future

A gal can’t just sit around the office, going through old unread back issues of the Economist, tearing out the now-inadvertently funny Accenture ads featuring Tiger Woods.

“At a time when it’s tougher than ever to be a Tiger…”

What a hoot!  But even this gets old after a while.

***

The other night, while I was walking up Yonge Street to the Terroni’s near St. Clair, I had a vision.  A mobile home, decorated with a Menorah, was driving up the street, blasting Yiddish music from a loudspeaker.*

A young fellow, fully bearded and donning the traditional black hat, was hanging out the back window of the vehicle.  He was grinning from ear to ear, and I must admit, so was I.  I had never seen anything like this before in my life.

“Are you Jewish?” he called out, clearly implying that if I was, I could maybe join the mobile celebration.

I shrugged sadly and shook my head as I replied in the negative.

He waved goodbye as the vehicle kept driving down the street, the happy music fading into the night as quickly as it arrived. 

These are the moments in this city that I would not trade for anything in the world.

***

Whether you light the candles,

or trim a tree;

Whether you celebrate with family,

friends,

or prefer to spend time by yourself -

Have a happy and safe holiday season.

2010 is our year, I can feel it.  The year when all of our dreams come true – even the ones we don’t know about yet.

*I was raised Catholic, so I’m probably getting it all wrong.  But I know all the words to every song in Fiddler on the Roof, so that should count for something, right?

***

PS:  This is for you.  Yes, you.  But for me, it will always be Bay.

The Last Goodbye At Summerhill by Anne Douris and Dan Busheikin.

The shallow end

I was very excited to see a message on OK Cupid that included capital letters and punctuation:

“You seem like one that appreciates humour and laughter. You mention red wine – any recommendations? I’ve been enjoying the Fuzion and Croc Crossing Malbec lately.”

I deleted the message without even looking at the profile.

Civic heart disease

Muddy York.

Hogtown.

Toronto the Good.

Hollywood North.

The T-dot.

The City That Works.

Does it still work?  I’m not so sure anymore, and I haven’t been for a very long time.  It seems to me that Toronto has been resting on its laurels for too many years, working despite a severe lack of care and maintenance. 

Toronto is the heart of an obese man trying to run a marathon.  A steady diet of deficient and misplaced funding has deprived the country’s most important muscle of what it needs to pump the blood.  The arteries are hopelessly clogged.

Every time Toronto collapses, the team of three doctors hover over the body, contemplating the wisest course of treatment.

“I am afraid that if I operate, I will get blood on my hands,” says the local doctor.

“I will provide a transfusion, but only if your operation cures the coughs of  these other three neighbouring patients,” says the provincial doctor.

“He’s faking.  Put him back on the track,” says the federal doctor.

And so Toronto keeps running, pumping capital into the economy at a slower rate, pushing people through its streets more slowly.  Struggling to survive. 

It’s a testament to the strength of the city that it has been able to function; but oh, what could it be if only someone could give it a heart transplant?  What if it was fed and nurtured and given a clear vision? 

The patient is ready.  Who is ready to heal the city?