View from a Wolf

For once, the sun didn’t have to peek through haze before hitting the skin.  For once, you could walk an extended distance without your shirt clinging to your back, like so much Saran Wrap. ©

For once, it was a joy to walk to work, and you didn’t need to have a backup shirt sweat-free and ready to go once you got there.

Not that there was ever any complaint.  I know enough not to jinx the summer by complaining about it.  And it irks me to no end when others do.  Are they completely daft?  Have they forgotten the ugly and decidedly unsexy experience it is to have to brace yourself against the cold wind as you work to avoid frostbite on your way to the corner store?

I sure as hell haven’t.  Let me tell you.

I, for one, am grateful to our sun-god overlord and will fully embrace the heat and the sweat and the head-swimming nausea that accosts us during the melting-asphault miasma that we call summer.  I will not ever complain, and I will train my thousand-yard stare on those who do.

Still, it was pretty enjoyable to walk to work without all the humidity.

After walking into the artistic foyer with the ceilings that vault off into space, I took the usual path to the escalators.  The ones that lead to the elevators, which in turn drop their passengers at their designated floors, with a cheery robot female voice that informs you that you’re “going up – DING”.  As if there was any other option, when you start from the ground floor.

This time, it was just me on the elevator.  I pressed the button for the seventh floor, and as always, it lit up in red immediately.

I let go of the button, and it turned off right away.

I pressed it again, and it lit up.  I let go and it turned off.

In the meantime, the elevator door shut.

So I pressed the “Open Door” button.

Nothing.

I pressed it again – thereby exhibiting the fact that I am indeed insane.  You know how that works, right?  If you keep repeating an action hoping for a different response, you’re supposed to be insane.  Of course I only repeated it once, so maybe I’m only half-mad.

Then, my insides turned to jelly.  I wasn’t sure why, until I hesitated, and listened.  There it was.  No sound.   Up until that point, there was always a background sound.  You get used to this white noise and you are largely unaware of it.  Until it’s not there anymore.

What I heard was the sound of the systems that support the elevator – including air conditioning, I think – shutting down.

I pressed the “Open Door” button a few more times – thereby removing all doubt about my sanity.   Although panic serves as a good excuse, doesn’t it?

I pressed the telephone button.  The one that’s supposed to allow you to call someone in case of an emergency.   No response.  No ringing sound, no “hello, may I help you?”.

Nothing.

I thought then about yelling and banging on the door, but wasn’t sure anyone would hear me.

“Well doesn’t this just suck” I said out loud to myself.

“Yeah, it kind of does” I answered.

“Who are you talking to?” I asked.

“Who wants to know?” I answered back, with a slight sneer.

“Shut up”

“No.  YOU shut up”

And then I saw it.

Another button not yet pressed.  This one actually had the word “help” on it.    Go figure.

I pressed it.

“This is security.  How can I help you?”

“I’m stuck on the elevator and none of the buttons work.  I can’t open the door.”

“Give me a couple of minutes.  I’ll get it open for you.”

Thank God.  I don’t know what I was worried about, really.   I was on the ground floor, and, as another security guard mentioned afterwards, if the elevator fell, it would only have gone two feet.  Kind of like splashing around and panicking in a pool that’s only two feet deep.  “Stand up, fool”

Still, the idea of being in an enclosed space that you can’t get out of hits you on a visceral level.  You panic, probably because you’re programmed to.  It represents a loss of control.  You’re entirely at the mercy of technology.   Not unlike that time when you had too much to eat and were lounging in your lazy boy chair, and there was that awful Jerry Springer show playing on TV, and your remote wasn’t working because the battery was dead, and you were too lazy to get out of the chair and change it manually.

Well, maybe it’s not like that.

The elevator bumped up and down a bit, and there was the sound of various systems starting up.  Finally the door opened and I escaped.

I told a few people about it, and they looked at me like I was nuts.
“How long were you in the elevator?”

“Must have been fifteen minutes.”  (But now that I think about it, it was probably no more than five)

“And you were scared.”

“No.  I was concerned.”
(Yeah.  It means the same thing.  I had a girlfriend once who was never ever angry, even when I forgot to pick her up after work.  “I’m NOT angry.  I”m frustrated”)

(She was angry)

(We split up)

(That got her angry too.  Go figure.)

Was the universe done with me?

Not quite.

Got home last night.  Got out of my clothes, and hung them.  Went for a shower.

Came back to the bedroom and, um, well, wouldn’t you know it?

The closet doors – both of them – were fused shut.  I know this because I tried to open one, and broke the handle off.  And then I tried to open the other.  And broke the handle on that one too.

Traipsed out to the kitchen to find a hammer in one of the kitchen drawers.  (What?  I keep some of my tools in the kitchen drawers.  Don’t all bachelors do this?)

Came back and tried to pry the doors open from the bottom.  Heard a big “scrrruuunch”, as the prongs of the hammer tore away at the wood at the bottom of the door, but do you think that sucker would open?  Not a budge.  Not even a hint of a budge.

Lots of squeaking and grinding though.   Like mice on steroids.

Had to call the super this morning (after digging through the hamper to find some truly heinous and smelly clothes to wear.  Didn’t want to answer the door naked.  All that awkardness would be annoying).  He got the doors open.  “Don’t shut them though” he warned. “Not until winter.”

I nodded and thanked him.

The good news is that I’ve stopped talking to myself out loud.

Now I’m sending myself emails.

The well-dressed awesome-looking drunk (me) piled into the taxi cab.  It was either that or spend a half hour walking to a bus stop and perhaps waiting another 30 minutes for a bus that would take him to his home.  And that trip would be another 45 minutes.

It was all about time.

It took a little bit of time to get the seatbelt fastened.  Damn, those things are hard to manoeuvre.   Probably easier when you’re sober.  But… SHHH….let’s keep that it to ourselves, shall we?  By the way – I love you.   No, seriously.  I do.   Always did.

(Never been an angry drunk, like dear old dad.  I’m a happy loving drunk.)

(In your face, dad!   Oh, I know you don’t care, ’cause you’re dead but still…….IN YOUR FACE!!)

Seatbelt finally fastened, I opened my iPad to try reading a few more chapters of my book.  So hard to read when the damned words keep moving around…….

“So….that woman next to us is drunk”

“Huh?”

“The woman.  Drunk.  She drunk.  And she looking for someone to be with her.”

That got my interest.  I looked over at her.  Hmmm.  Very nice looking, too.

“Really?”

“Yah”

“Maybe you should slow down. I could invite her in.”

We were both in fast moving vehicles.  Evidently, logic takes a holiday when the wolf gets plastered.

The taxi sped up, leaving the lonely girl way behind us.  I shrugged and tried to get back to my book.

“therearesomanydrunkdriversyouneverknowwhosdrunk”

“What?”

“Drunk drivers.”

“Uh huh”

“Too many of them.”

“Well” I started.  “I never driver —”  I stopped and deliberately slowed down.  “I never drive drunk.  In fact,” I added “I never drive if I have even one drink.”

God I  was so proud.

“Good.  Oh look……they’re fighting”

The non sequitur totally threw me.

“What?”

“Look.  They’re fighting.”

I looked.  There were two guys and a girl standing together on the corner.  They all had smiles.  Maybe I was drunker than I thought.  Didn’t see any heat there.

“Um..”

But he had moved on.

“Oh shit.  Did they catch me?”

“What?”

“The police.”

I looked at the window and saw two cop cars sitting in an intersection.  They didn’t appear to show any interest in the taxi’s excessive speed.

“So whaddya got there?”

I looked down, realizing finally that he was referring to my iPad.

“It’s an iPad.”

“A Sony?”

“What?”

“Is it a Sony?”

I stared at him, puzzled, and through bleary eyes.  “No, it’s an iPad”

“Oh’

So hard to follow the conversation when you’re three sheets to the wind.  Worse when the guy you’re talking with can’t list English as his first language. Or his second or third.

“Yeah” I finally replied.

“I like that.  May I see it?”

I was too….um….flexible to refuse him.  “Sure.  Here you go” and with that, I handed my dearest precious treasure to him.

He looked at it briefly, and handed it back.

“I need to get one of these.”

I nodded.  Worried that if I nodded even one more time, I’d fall asleep and it would take an army to wake me up.

“How much it cost?”

“What?”

“The iPad.  What cost?”

“$1000.00”

“Oh”

“You know what I pay for insurance?”   Oh good.  Another non sequitur.

“What?”

“My cab.  Insurance.”

“Oh.  No.  A lot I bet.”

“A lot I bet”

“$6000.00”

“Gotta cover that liability, huh?’

“What?”

“Liability.  In case of lawsuits from passengers.”

“Yah.  Right.”

We drove on in silence for a while.  And then we came to my corner.

“Where you want to go?”

“Well there’s a bank machine over there.  Why don’t we go there; I’ll get some money out and then I’ll pay you and you’ll be good to go.”

“Ok”

And that’s what we did.

I paid him.  He drove off.  And I stumbled my way across the four-lane road and into my apartment building.

I stared blearily at the iMac screen.   Went to Facebook and wrote something stupid on someone’s wall, and then moved over here to write this.

Come the morning, I expect to be hangover-free.  That’s what happened the last time.  And now, since it took me an hour to finish this (in between the ad hoc naps), it was finally time to go to bed.  So I wrote this blog, and then I signed off and crashed.

Here’s where I open it up to you.   But first:

**********************************************

*flip*

“JER-RY!

JER-RY!

JER-RY!”

‘Thank you ladies and gentlemen.  Today’s show is about a mom who’s dating someone, and later finds out he’s her daughter’s boyfriend”

*flip*

“Oh my God!  That’s right, girls!  I’m representin’ y’all!  My name’s Sugar, and I just made out with both of my girlfriends.  We did it for $50 but now we’re in love!!”

*flip*

“Ladies – now you too can have long luxurious hair.  Just snort more cocaine.  Come on.  We all do it – so you should too”

*looks at TV guide – realizes it’s Mad TV*

*flip*

“Hey Mom.  Thanks for ordering this awesome pizza for us!”

“I didn’t order it, Jimmy.  It’s Delectable Pizza – from the store!”

“It is?  Awesome!  You’re the BEST MOM EVER”

*turns TV off*

***************************************************

I don’t know.  Seems like there’s an awful lot of crap on TV.  And you will never (well, hardly ever) hear of a guy following the antics of someone on Survivor or Big Brother and making a decision to be “just like him*.    We won’t ever make out with other guys for $50.00 either.

Admittedly, my observation isn’t empirical.  Maybe there are some who would but by the standards of my small group of buddies, hangers-on and ne’er-do-wells – the answer is an emphatic “NO!”  (Such a question would usually be followed up with a homophobic comment, casting doubt about the questioner’s sexuality.)

We don’t judge our clothing styles by what we see on TV.  About the only peer-based fashion impulse amongst guys – that I’m aware of – is the requirement to wear jeans.  In fact, the only other fashion-pressure we experience occurs when women tell us what works and what doesn’t.   And you girls are so subtle about it sometimes too.

“You know what really makes me smile?    When a man wears a long-sleeved shirt and rolls it up to his elbows”

Honest to God, ladies – we’d have never even thought about that, had you not mentioned it.   I mean, who in their right mind buys a long-sleeved shirt anyway, when they really want their arms to have unrestricted access.  Why bother with long sleeves?  Just get a short-sleeve shirt and be done with it.

But no – we have high hopes for you, and so we’ll go to the bother of getting that shirt and contort ourselves appropriately until you nod your heads in approval.

The other day I bought a pair of sunglasses.  I put them on and walked over to a girl in my office.   “Whaddya think?”

She frowned.   “No.  Not working.”

There was nothing wrong with them.  But she had an innate sense about things, and her response was unequivocal. There was no hesitation.

She called one of her friends over.   “Suzy” (not her real name) “come here and take a look at this.”

At “this”.   Not “Wolf”.  “This”

Suzy came over, took a look and started laughing.  Her critique was a bit more startling and even less unambiguous.

I took the sunglasses back.

Sorry – I’m drifting away a little bit from the topic at hand.

People (mostly women) complain about what they see on TV and worry about “the message it brings to young girls”

Messages like: “if you make out with other girls, you’ll be cool and boys will like you”

Or: you can be the best woman of all if you find a way to put great food on the table.

Or: you need to be as openly sexual as possible if you want to succeed in the world.

This is where you come in.

To what extent does TV have an effect on women in general?  Do you think it affects men as well?

Men:  do you worry about what the women in your life see on TV?

Should TV producers and story writers be more responsible in what they portray, and in particular – how they portray women?  (You can feel free to define what “more responsible” means)

I’ll share my thoughts on all of this in the comments.

(“HEY!  WOMAN!  WHERE’S MY PIZZA???”)

The first thing you see when you enter the place is wood.  Lots of wood:  the floors, the pillars, the wood panelling on the walls.   And you notice that around each pillar is a little ledge where you can place your drinks.  Or elbows.  Pretty handy if you’ve had too much to drink and holding your head up becomes a bit of a challenge.

I handed my ticket to the guy at the entrance and asked about the seating.   Don’t laugh.  The ticket indicated a seat number, so I wondered where mine was.

He looked at me, puzzled.  “Well, there is seating up on the balcony but …you’ll have to go up there right away if you want to score one.”

I went up, and found a bunch of cushions, some of which were pushed up against the wall.  After grabbing a glass of wine, I plunked myself down on one of them and waited for the band to hit the stage.

The main attraction was a group called “Cat Empire”.   It has nothing to do with cats.  I have no idea why they chose that particular name.  Maybe because it’s distinctive; hard to forget.

I had seen these guys on one of our early morning TV news and variety shows in Toronto.  They were outstanding:  they had a beat that wouldn’t quit, and the band played a variety of instruments, and there was just so much joy you couldn’t sit still while watching them.   It had been a long time since I’d seen a band that good.  After watching the show, I purchased as many of their albums as I could and downloaded them to my iPhone.

So when I heard they were playing at the Phoenix in Toronto, I jumped at the chance to buy a ticket.

Sitting there, in the dark at the back of the balcony with my wine in my hand, I wondered at the lack of enthusiasm and atmosphere in the place.   There was music playing over the speaker system but it was nothing special.  I even recognized a few of the songs from years ago.

Finally, over the sound of the music came the sound of a live guitar.  The guitarist strummed the strings from the bottom to top – and that seemed to catch everyone by surprise.  The dull murmuring stopped as everyone waited to hear them start up.

I didn’t recognize a single one of their songs.

Plus, there were only three musicians on stage:  a guitarist/singer, a bass player and a drummer.

I thought to myself:  “what the hell is this?  Are they ripping us off?”

The more they played, the less enthused I was about staying there.  None of the songs were catchy; I figured maybe it was because the main singer wasn’t there to lead them.   Maybe he was sick.  Maybe they signed a contract with the place and were just giving the minimum requirement.

I went downstairs to see them from a closer vantage point.  The crowd was mostly quiet between songs – although there was some polite clapping at the end of each one.   I grabbed another glass of wine and wandered over to one of the posts.  My elbows needed a rest.  Seemed like a good idea anyway.

The more that gosh-awful band played, the more disappointed and disgruntled I got.  I looked at the clock and realized that if I left the place right then, I’d have a chance to hit the gym and get a workout in before it closed for the night.

As I turned that thought over in my head, the band played their lost song.   I looked at the clock again.  They had played for exactly forty-five minutes.   I nodded to myself.  They had fulfilled their contract, and we were totally ripped off.  I downed the rest of my drink and put the glass down, and got ready to leave.

Only…..

It didn’t look like anyone else was leaving.

I frowned and wondered what the heck was going on.

And then it hit me.

We had been listening to the warmup band.

I grinned at my stupidity.   Evidently, I need to get out more.

Of *course* there was a warm up band.  The fact that no one was the least bit warmed up meant nothing.  They were there, they had a job to do, and they had done it.

I smiled and shook my head, and went back to the bar for another glass of wine (and a bottle of water).

Cat Empire took the stage.

Oh.  My. God.

As much as I enjoyed them when they played on Breakfast Television, they were *miles* better in person.   I couldn’t believe how great they were.

The whole place shook as everyone jumped up and down and danced to their sometimes reggae, sometimes rock, sometimes tango beat.  Everyone was grinning and the band themselves were rocking out like there was no tomorrow.    The pianist did a solo.  The trumpets blared out their top notes.  The singers did the same.  The drummer did a solo.  The singer got on the bongo drums and the music played on and on……. There was no let-up, and no intermission.

We all stayed on the floor and danced like there was no tomorrow.   There was no thought of going back to the bar for drinks or for sitting down.  You don’t pause when a dynamic party of this intensity is under way.  You simply can’t.  You stay where you are; you sing with the music and you move your feet and your ass to the rhythm.

I wondered how strong the floor was; you could feel the timbers straining beneath your feet.

There was a beautiful blonde girl dancing next to me.  We shared thoughts between the songs.   Really, there wasn’t even a notion for romance though – the music and the joy of the band was just too great, and neither of us wanted to miss a single note.  We just stayed there and danced and sang and enjoyed the tremendous music together.   It was just too much.  (Of course, I’m not entirely stupid:  I did ask her for her number after the concert, and she gave it to me.  So there’s that).

I walked a long way after getting out of the concert hall, with my earphones on, listening to more of Cat Empire.

It’s been a while since I was on such a natural high.

If they ever come to your town, I highly recommend you go see them.  I promise you won’t be disappointed.

P.S. I tried to embed one of their songs called “Hello Hello” but they’ve disabled it.  If you look on Youtube you’ll see it there.  Have a listen.  It’s worth it.

Update:  there’s even a better review, complete with pics, which you can find here:  Cat Empire Review

After coming out of a two-week stupefaction which was instigated by an unexpected and highly unwelcome summer cold, you’ll understand that it took quite a while to get the engine running again.  And it didn’t happen before the motor coughed its guts out.   The idea of “living life” took a backseat to daytime TV (which, by the way, I don’t recommend. )

I remember just sitting there with the apple core in one hand and the TV remote in the other.  I was in my wife-beater t-shirt, hair all on end, with a runny nose, staring out of one pulsing “pink-eye” inflamed eyeball at the TV set, as the Fresh Prince joked with his unsmiling uncle about something-or-0ther.   I thought maybe I should change the channel or just shut it off.  Maybe I should put the now-brown apple core in the garbage.  Instead, I sat there, mouth half-open (otherwise I would have suffocated from the nasal impediment), and the apple core just dangled there, not quite leaving my lax fingers, while I endured the crappy laugh-track-enhanced comedy.  For a full twenty minutes.

The whole two weeks was a write-off.  I spent the time sleeping.  Or waking up in a panic, as my pillow suddenly got threatened by an end run from my nose.   I bought food and didn’t eat it.   The lazy-boy chair endured countless hours accommodating my zombie ass.  I’m telling you – I was freaking miserable.

I hadn’t been sick like this for…what was it?  Three years.  At least.  And the only thing I could think was “man, I really need a woman to take care of me right now.” 

That’s right. I said it.  

Eventually though – thank God – you come out of it.   Eventually you can taste stuff again.  Smell it.   The chirping of birds no longer annoys you.  You sort of like it.   The sun is no longer a hammer to your eyeballs.  Instead it’s pleasant.  Inviting.  And warm.

The night before the day I was to go back to work, there was one last nightmare.   I was back working in a factory, doing excruciatingly dull labour.  The bright glare of the unforgiving factory lights shone down on the bare metal of the car skeletons as they screeched their way slowly down the line.  Bright welding sparks burnt your retinas, throwing everything into a momentary carbon of reality: black was white, and vice versa, for only a moment.  The pounding of hammers thrummed in your ears, in counterpoint to the unending anxious wail of hydraulic lifts.   A cloud of dirt smudged the air, making it difficult though not impossible to find your way to wherever it was your were going.    

Frowning, I told my boss I was getting ready to throw up (I wasn’t) and that I had a bad headache (I didn’t).   I just wanted out of there.  Now.  And eventually, he agreed to let me go home.  It was basically a flash-back to so many days and nights in a car factory from years ago.  Everything was the same, and it was all serving to create a mental pain that was equal to the physical illness just recently endured. 

Upon waking, there was this sense of ambiguity:  thankfulness that it was all just a dream and I didn’t really work there anymore – and a painful awareness that I needed to be thankful for the relatively great job that I have now.  It was one of those “you know you should be thankful, right?” moments.   Where you know what’s right, but there’s a part of you that says “yabbut….”   Yes, this is a great job.  Yes, I don’t have to punch a clock.  Yes, I get to use my mind.  Yes…yes….yes…..

Still.   Peter Pan was insistent:  the nine-to-five deal is for other people.  Not us.  We need to fly out of here.  Create, sing, dance, write…..live.

Last night, another dream clipped my consciousness.   It was another one of those flying dreams.   Where you have to get somewhere and the only way to do it is hold your breath, hold out your arms, wait for a slight breeze and…… lift off of the ground.   You know you can do it, too.  In the dream reality, you’ve done it many times before.  But it’s been a long time since you last dreamt this, so you know you’re out of practice.  (I suppose that’s it, too – you realize, in the middle of your dream, that you’ve dreamt this before.  Kind of odd, having that awareness in the middle of a dream).    So you try and you keep trying and eventually…your body rises and you find yourself awkwardly steering yourself in the right direction.

Before you know it, you’re skimming rooftops and meandering wherever your thoughts take you.   It’s invigorating, breathtaking, magical.

Upon waking, you understand the message of it, too.   In your religious days, you remember hearing the pastor quote a verse “all things are possible”.   The dream, and the morning sun proves the point: you only need to have the will.   

And this morning, this sunny Monday morning, you know it’s true. 

And your thoughts catch the air…..