Thursday, December 29, 2016

Dog. Drum. Duet.

Up at Metro Tobalaba, where the Tip y Tap beer garden fills the plaza in front of the entrance to the metro, a couple of musicians had set up shop. One had a guitar, another a drum kit, and they were good - I mean, really good, or at least they almost certainly would have been, but when I came into the plaza, the guitarist was putting away his guitar with a face like a sucked lemon, and the drummer was going at it on his own.
            The dog thought he was fabulous.  He was a big black dog - mostly labrador, with a bit of mastiff about the shoulders, and he had parked himself nose to brass with a cymbal, and every time the drummer hit a drum the dog barked a great big whoouff.
            The drummer hit a drum.  The dog barked. The drummer hit another drum. The dog barked bigger. The drummer drummed faster.  He reckoned he could out-bark the dog. Pretty soon he was going about a hundred and fifty beats a minute, but the dog's tail was going about double that -
            As far as that dog was concerned it was an ecstatic, practically hallucinogenic, full-on meeting of souls and minds. It barked and it barked and it barked.
            The drummer was beginning to look a wee bit lemonish himself. He and his guitarist had counted on a beer-generous Tip y Tap audience, and what they had was about fifty people laughing their heads off and holding up their cell-phone cameras - not even pointing at him. They were all aiming at the dog.
            I would have love to have stayed, but I was late for an appointment, and slipped past them into the metro station.  A machine-gun whoouf-and-drum-kit duet followed me all the way down the stairs.


It was a GOOD day.

Friday, December 23, 2016

Santa-Lanterns





Just before Halloween I went a little bit mad - my local supermarket was selling Halloween pumpkins, I bought seven.
            We didn't carve them for Halloween, and miraculously, a month and half later, in this high summer heat, they are as hale and whole as the day I brought them home.
            So we carved Christmas lanterns. Santa-lanterns?  Ho. Ho. Ho.



Wednesday, December 7, 2016

Why Architects Really End Up Talking Like That

It's November, and it's gotten hot. Yesterday I went down to our bodega (storeroom) to put away my winter sweaters and pirate hats and I came across a box of drawings from back in my first year of grad school.
            The one on the top was a sort of vector diagram done in footprints. Memories came rolling back. It was an "see you tomorrow!" all-nighter sort of project - a mapping exercise, in which we neophyte architects were asked to go someplace where a lot of people came through and map the traffic patterns - put that four-dimensional traffic down on two-dimensional paper in an exciting and neoteric fashion. (Neoteric: architecture-speak for 'an artistic vanguard that you thought up right now all by yourself."
            And then we had to write about it. The drawing would speak for itself, obviously, but a short museum-style blurb wouldn't go amiss.  A good professor is way ahead student neoterisms as a matter of course.
            The problem with being asked to describe a drawing project in a paragraph or two on short sleep and shorter notice is that you end up turning out some purely awful drivel.
            Because you weren’t thinking clearly. You were snoring between your words. And you were listening to people who'd gotten even less sleep that you had, and in your personal sleep-deprived state, your ideas seemed pretty darned great, but theirs approached towers of literary genius.
            There’s no color of jealously like sleepless green.

One fellow held a degree in ancient literature.  He had mapped the smokers on their nicotine breaks in Dundas Square.

            “Since the Dawn of Time” he said solemnly, “Ancestral Man has been Drawn to Flame.”
            “That’s probably true” I agreed, grinding my teeth, and went off to ask editorial opinions on “The pulse, the tide, the ebb and flow of harried, feverish commuters at the Bloor-Yonge Subway station” from two students lying on the floor behind me and looking, respectively, vacuous and pained.
            I read. One of them winced.
            "Isn't it a little…damp?"
            On cue, Mr. Ancient Literature walked past declaiming “And Now, a Tattered Subculture of Social Pariahs Clusters Around the Vestigial Memory of the Ancient Hearth Fire!”
            I, who belong to the extremely tattered Subculture that feels stoned rather than euphoric when we don’t sleep, turned back to my laptop, typed out ‘In my map I marked out a sour by fix goot frid” and ran spell-check twice.

Down in the bodega, I shut the box and sealed it up with tape, but I won't forget. It's still down there.

            I think I need a little ceremony.
            I'll unfurl the map.  I'll enter the pulsing commuter tide that hustle down my street at rush hour every evening. When the ebb and flow of shoulders and elbows have crumpled it beyond the reach of even the most accommodating professor, I will go home and make it an offering on the fires of my BBQ on my balcony.  Neoterically.

Sunday, December 4, 2016

Summer Kitchen PSA

Advice for when you drop a cherry pitter:

Don't.  The splatter radius is indescribable.