In love with love ... and Debbie Harry

Face It by Debbie Harry
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I confess that I am puzzled by some of the Goodreads reviews I have read of this book. Lackluster? Unemotional? Really?! This is a memoir by *Deborah Harry.* There is nothing lackluster about her! Some of us are more expressive than others, and I've always thought (rightly or wrongly) that Ms. Harry had a sly, ironic, even Cheshire Cat-like quality that perhaps is read as "flat affect." But it's all in the arch of her eyebrows, the curl of her smile. The quip. The wry observation. It's subtle. It's sublime.

And, yes, I am a fan.

But a fan who knew very little about Ms. Harry post-1990. And even pre-1990. For example, I did not know about her time in New York on the Downtown Scene. Sure, I knew she came up through the punk era, was there at CBGB's, was mentioned in the same breath as Patti Smith and Tom Verlaine, but I really had no idea how deeply involved she was with the people and places of that lost era--her memories of which certainly made me emotional at times.

And I didn't know as much about her career after Blondie broke up in the early '80s, despite owning copies of KooKoo and Rockbird, despite watching her in concert at Gay Pride in New York in 1990 (at least that's what I recall--she sang "Sweet and Low," I'm fairly certain), and despite seeing and hearing Blondie in concert at the Palace Theater in Greensburg, Pennsylvania, for one of my birthday celebrations in the early 2010s. (Debbie, the gods bless her, actually smiled for the camera when I tried to take her picture!) There have been movies, plays, and TV shows; recordings with the Jazz Passengers; the showcase at the Carlyle (for which I would have moved heaven, earth, and Delta Airlines to have been in the audience); the activism; the friendships.

And while reading this book, I couldn't believe that it's already been 20+ years since Blondie regrouped in the late 1990s and recorded the album No Exit (an album that now appears to be out of print). Time flies when you're sleepwalking through life in pointless meetings and unsatisfying relationships. (Thankfully, one of those scenarios has changed over the years. Hint: It's not the pointless meetings.)

There is certainly more than I want to know--more details about Parallel Lines and Eat to the Beat, Blondie's two best albums (in my opinion) from the Early Era; more details about the transition from Eat to the Beat to AutoAmerican, which seems drastic even now, although it was probably something completely normal in the evolution of the band; more of her thoughts on the reaction to KooKoo, which even now seems mixed, despite it being something of a quirky, musical milestone in pop history. More, perhaps, about what she likes to read and listen to and whether she still paints. And some pics of her dogs would not be amiss.

It may be the case, as Harry notes, that some of the Early Era was a blur because the band was so busy. It may be the case, as Harry notes, that this would be a better memoir if she'd kept a journal over the years.

Nevertheless, I was enchanted by her girlhood in New Jersey and somehow making the decision after high school to become an artist (of a genre to be determined) in New York in the 1960s--and, despite all odds, actually accomplishing it. I felt moved by her losses over the years and about her coming to terms with childhood trauma. I was entertained by her storytelling and (sorry, Debs!) her inherent nerdiness (comics and the space program, oh my), something you would never think possible in the life of an Icon of Cool like Debbie Harry. I felt pride in her inherent, unapologetic Americanness, a quality as post-modern Americans we dismiss too easily.

So if you found this book "unemotional" or "lackluster," I don't know what to tell you. I rarely give a book 5 stars, and the rational being in me might not award this one with that many. But my emotional self values this book and Debbie Harry's revelations more than 4 stars, maybe even more than 5 stars.

Maybe you had to be there--and I really wasn't, as I was marooned in Mayberry in the '70s and early '80s. Maybe you had to want to be there, which I most certainly did but didn't know how to. So this memoir is one way to get a taste for an era I lived through and yet still somehow don't know very well at all. As a result, I'm grateful to Debbie Harry for sharing her life stories with us.

View all my reviews

Snow way

40 years ago today: 20 inches of snow in eastern NC :: WRAL.com: Meteorological spring is here! But as many of you know, just because it's meteorological spring on the calendar, snow isn't out of the question.

Freshman year at East Carolina University. I remember "borrowing" plastic trays from the cafeteria in Jones Hall to go sledding on College Hill. Hiking to the Stop-n-Go (better known as the Rip-n-Run back in the day) to buy soup and other stuff, like carob bars (which I was oddly into at the time). And the first time I ever witnessed "thunder snow."

Working 9 to 5

... to make sure none of his friends, family members, old Apprentice guests, cronies, and enablers get 5 to 9 years in prison.

I'm still driving around Montréal

Or perhaps Paris ... at least in my own mind ....

Je reviendrai

Sometimes when I'm driving around the aesthetic dissatisfaction that is the 401/427 corridor in suburban Toronto, I tune the radio to Ici Musique, Radio-Canada's French-language music channel. While driving around listening to Francophonie and world pop sounds, I like to pretend I'm actually in Montréal.

Hearing something like this--"Ascenseur Tropical" by Quebec electro-pop group Le Couleur--almost makes me believe I am there.

Orange Face Killa #2: Maybe It's Maybelline

Orange Face Killa #1: Cover Girl

So let me get this straight ...

So ... people should be judged on their ability to do the job and not on their sexual orientation says the possibly entitled, possibly straight, and possibly quite white lady.

And a straight man is a stronger supporter of LGBT rights than an actual gay man ...

And a straight civilian is a stronger supporter of LGBT rights in the military than an actual gay veteran ....

Got it.

Now repeat after me:

"People should be judged on their ability to do the job and not on their race/gender."

"A man is a stronger supporter of women's rights than an actual woman."

"A white guy is a stronger supporter of African-American rights than an actual black person."

How does that sound to you?

To me, it sounds both insane and hilarious, but also just really, really, really stupid. And more than a little pathetic. And thus we have The Cult of Bernie Sanders. Or at the very least The Russian Troll Farm of Bernie Sanders.

* * *

And while we're at it ... "[Bernie Sanders] was supporting trans people since 1976, too."

That may well be true, but that seems like a fairly random date that makes the statement seem factual--but is it? According to Wikipedia, in 1976 Bernie was bankrupting the Liberty Union party while trying to get himself elected governor of Vermont.

Or does reality even matter anymore?

Thus here are 15 other Bernie facts and accomplishments that you might not know about. (With apologies to Chuck Norris. And Jesus.)

• When Vladimir Lenin was born premature, Bernie selflessly suckled him at his breast until Lenin started the October Revolution. (Which was Bernie's idea.)
• Bernie knows how to create cold fusion but keeps the secret to himself because Burlington's a nuclear-free zone.
• The late Steve Jobs lives in constant fear (even in the afterlife) that Bernie's Mac will crash.
• Bernie was Truman Capote's original choice to play Holly Golightly in the movie version of Breakfast at Tiffany's. Tru thought Bernie had the right touch of madcapness, joie de vivre, and melancholia that captured Holly's essence.
  
• Bernie makes onions cry.
• When Bernie Sanders gives you the finger, he's telling you how many seconds the Oligarchs have left to live.
• Bernie wrote all the lyrics to Lennon-McCartney songs--except "Revolution," of course.
• Bernie doesn't wear a watch. He decides what time it is. (Hint: It's always 1968 o'clock.)
• Bernie knows exactly how it feels to be a woman in America. Is he a woman? Is he trans? No. He just knows.
• Bernie can do a wheelie on a unicycle.
• Bernie can speak Braille, Cobalt, Klingon, and Egyptian Hieroglyphic.
• Bernie actually died after his recent heart attack, but the Grim Reaper can't get up the courage to tell him. (And because Medicare for all.)
• Every miracle that we think Jesus performed--walking on water, turning water into wine, fishes and loaves, etc.--Bernie did first and did better. 
• Bernie taught RuPaul how to sashay, chanté.
• Bernie knew Frederick Douglass. Frederick Douglass was Bernie's friend. You, sir, are no Frederick Douglass.

* * *

For the record, I'm not in the tank for South Bend, Indiana, Mayor Pete Buttigieg. Not yet anyway.

Oh, I like him. I think he's thoughtful, well spoken, and a highly conscientious, perhaps even moral, person. (Who can say what secrets lie within any of us at this point?) I like the fact that he is a religious person and a veteran, even though I am neither of those. It's a refreshing change in public life.

Do I think he's qualified to be president? No, not really. He seems awfully young, but it's more that I am concerned he's very untested in the cutthroat world of Washington politics. I think he would learn and would learn quickly and that he is wise beyond his years. But I'd prefer to see someone with a little more seasoning with Pete at most as vice president or at least as a member of Congress first.

For the record, I'm not really in the tank for any of them at this point. And with the Iowa caucuses now done (I guess ...) and the New Hampshire primary up next, this is a problem for me. And I suspect it's a problem for many others, too.

I am Sackashit Fierce!

Oh, honey, that sounds like a dare.

Cryptkeeperella, I know you see yourself as all Ilsa She-Wolf of the SS, but even the Nazis didn't last forever. And they had plans for a thousand year Reich, when y'all can't even get through Infrastructure Week without falling on your asphalt.

And they didn't see the end coming either.

Your daily mob boss affirmation #3

 "I think you did a good job on her" 

Via Twitter by CNN reporter Jim Acosta, 28 January 2020. The alleged president was commenting on U.S. Secretary of State Mike Pompeo's abuse of National Public Radio reporter Mary Louise Kelly.

Your daily mob boss affirmation #2

“Get rid of her .... Get her out tomorrow. I don’t care. Get her out tomorrow. Take her out. O.K.? Do it.”

Marie Yovanovitch taking the oath before testifying in the impeachment inquiry against Donald J. Trump,
15 November 2019, by Terry Sewell. Public Domain. Via Wikimedia Commons.

As originally reported in The New York Times, 24 January 2020

Your daily mob boss affirmation #1

"Vote against the president, and your head will be on a pike"

President Donald J. Trump participates in a bilateral meeting with Ukraine President Volodymyr Zalensky,
Wednesday, Sept. 25, 2019, at the InterContinental New York Barclay in New York City.
(Official White House Photo by Shealah Craighead). Public Domain. Via Wikimedia Commons.

As originally reported via the CBS News Twitter feed, 23 January 2020 

Ruby Manila

Author's note: I've written about this song before, a little more than five years ago. Nice to see that this song has become ever so slightly less obscure--even if it still only has 5 YouTube views at the  moment (at least one of which belongs to me).

This is probably more moi than I care to admit. Actually, fuck that, I'm happy to admit that I think this Filipina-German chanteuse Ruby Manila singing "Fly Butterfly" is one of the most exquisite gems of late 1970s pop, and in 2020 I remain flummoxed as to why others don't view this song in the same way.

• Thumping base line? ✓
• Orgasmic moaning that turns into a very lovely, surprisingly strong vocal? ✓
• Clicketty-clacketty synthesizers? ✓
• Deep male vocal counterpoint? ✓
• Catchy Euro chorus that doesn't require you to know more than three words of English? ✓

It's all here. You just have to open your third eye (or whatever) and embrace it.

The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire

Swifts Creek bushfire, 14-12-2006, by Fir0002.
Via Wikimedia Commons. CC BY-NC.

On New Year's Eve, I received an email from an Australian colleague today. She is home for the holidays in Melbourne and on her family's sheep farm in western Victoria.

She said there had been smaller bushfires near where her parents live, but they had been brought under control quickly. However, some friends of hers had had to take cover on the beach in eastern Victoria in order to escape the fires.

My colleague also said the she and her husband had driven to Adelaide, South Australia, recently. Temps had risen to 48C/118F while en route. Mind you, that part of Australia isn't desert--although it's somewhat dry. Think California or South Central Texas.

I loathe offering just "thoughts and prayers" when so many people and so much nature is under threat. But other than recycling better and reducing my carbon footprint, what can I do? Not to go all drama queen on you, but it feels as though the world is catching fire, climatically, politically, and socially, and there seems to be little that an individual can do to remedy it.

Perhaps, then, collectively we can do more--but that assumes that our political and business leaders are listening and understand the need to make swift, significant, unpopular changes. And that we the people will accept such changes readily. And that such changes are proposed from a place of the common good, rather than just to maintain the hegemony of government and business.

You're no good, you're no good, you're no good, baby, you're no good

"Linda Ronstadt performing at a WPLR Show
in New Haven, Connecticut in the New Haven
Veterans Memorial Coliseum" (1978) by Carl Lender.
Via Wikimedia Commons. CC BY-SA 3.0 Unported.

My brother telephoned me on New Year's night. I was glad to hear from him, but I was surprised he called me 10 minutes into the airing of the Linda Ronstadt documentary on CNN. He was always a HUGE Ronstadt fan back in the day.

I didn't think he'd miss that show for anything, and I can only assume he forgot that it was on. And I admit I didn't mention it to him for a couple of reasons--I didn't want to interrupt the conversation, and I didn't want to upset him that he'd already missed part of the program.

This takes me back to a minor, yet still significant (at least for me), event during our shared childhood.

One early evening I came home from playing outside and sat down to watch TV. This was around 1971 or so. I was probably no more than 10 at the time; my brother, 15.) My brother quickly engaged me in conversation and kept talking to me, asking me questions about my day and my interests while we watched a show he liked. I don't remember which show it was, other than to note it probably wasn't one that I enjoyed. I have the vague sense it was Gunsmoke, a show with an appeal I never fathomed, but if I did the math and went back to TV schedules in 1971, that might just not work out.

I didn't think much of this until after a half hour or so, and the next TV program began. All of a sudden, my brother stopped talking, smiled coyly and said, "Well, I guess you missed your show."

I don't remember which show it was, The Brady Bunch, UFO, The Partridge Family (yes, I've consistently had questionable taste in entertainment), but at that moment, I realized my brother had purposefully kept me talking, knowing that I'd forgotten about my show--a show he disliked immensely, as I recall--distracting me so that I wouldn't remember it was on.

Keep in mind, this occurred in the early 1970s: We had one large console TV and no VCR because, well, they likely hadn't been invented yet. There weren't regularly scheduled repeats of shows. You couldn't watch it on demand or stream it online because those things didn't exist either.

Which brings me back to my conversation with my brother and these burning questions:

How long do I wait before I call him up and say, "Well, I guess you missed your show"?

And should I FaceTime him so he can see me smile when I say it?

Online streaming notwithstanding, revenge nearly 50 years in the making is still sweet.

I definitely want to

I seek out and share new music from Argentina so you don't have to. "Quisiera" translates as "I would like," using the subjunctive "mood" of the verb "querer." Except for me there's no subjunctive about it--I definitely adore this song and the performance by Argentine performers Natalie Pérez and Coti. ¡Viva la Argentina!

Five years and counting

Heinitz coal mine, Europe, before 1930. Public domain. Via Wikimedia Commons.

I finally figured out what I want my next big accomplishment at work to be before I retire.

To not die.

Third time's a charm

Quid pro quo. Via Wikimedia Commons. Public Domain.

Il Douchey is so pathetic that he's not even the 1st president to be impeached. He's a lowly *3rd*.

Mofo can't even fuck up with distinction.

You bet your life

Source unknown

The not-so-secret word is "plague."

The generational divide

Headline, News24.com, 12 December 2019

I have a strange sense of humor, a strong sense of the absurd, and I am not always appropriate in public or private. But these days I try to embrace it.

This image is a pretty solid example of all of the above, a headline from the South African news site, News24.com. It's a horrible thing to happen, a family is murdered in their own home. And it happens all too often, in the U.S. as well as in other countries.

But the thing I just can't wrap my head around is why the headline notes that the family was watching Generations, a very popular South African soap opera, when they were murdered.

I'm just having trouble understanding why this point is germane. Would it have been more or less horrible if they were watching 7de Laan, Isidingo, or The Bold and the Beautiful instead?

I'll see myself out now.

Jaundice is the new black

Melania: I need new dress to meet Queen on big London trip. I am bored of these clothes.

Stylist: Mrs. Trump, perhaps your dresses could reflect a theme, such as the success of American industry and brands across the globe.

Melania: Yes, that is good idea.

Some time later ...

News anchor: First Lady Melania Trump appeared today in London wearing what was described by her stylist as her tribute to French's yellow mustard.

Music Togo

I don't understand any of this, but I love it just the same.

Impeachy keen

Fat, dumb hicks

1967 Elcona Mobile Home by M. Thivierge. CC BY-SA 3.0 Unported.
Via Wikimedia Commons.

Word to the wise and not so wise: You should avoid pissing me off online.

[Not me]

"In both states [Alabama and Mississippi], the primary product is fat, dumb hicks, with substance abuse problems, who live in rusty single wides, and who hate everything and everyone."

[Me]

"Why is it bad to be fat? Why is it bad to live in a trailer? Why do you think people in these states have substance abuse problem[s]? And even if they [do], shouldn't we as a society be more compassionate toward those with addictions, especially since those addictions are often facilitated by poor or nonexistent medical care?

"Statistics might lend credence to your general observations about weight and substance abuse, but they can't explain away the need to insult people who may not have had your advantages (I'm assuming) in education, income, and technology.

"I also wonder, is it helpful to disparage great swaths of the population whom you might like to agree with you on social issues or political matters at some point? Or is there room for collaboration--or even just coexistence?

"I feel rage and spew vitriol toward the willfully ignorant as much as any liberal, but I don't think 'fat, dumb hicks' are the problem. I think it's more down to the willfully ignorant upper classes either not caring about the challenges faced by those 'fat, dumb hicks' or eagerly manipulating those 'fat, dumb hicks' into doing what keeps the upper classes happy.

"While 'fat, dumb hicks' have agency, let's not pretend the deck isn't [heavily] stacked against them [as it is, all poor people]. Let's not pretend that sitting back in our liberal cocoons and insulting people does either them or us any good."

***

Lordy.

The thing is, I get the sentiment, I feel the frustration, and I'm sure I've been as uncharitable as this poster to an article in The Washington Post that I read earlier today. Seeing people repeatedly vote against their own interests, watching people react to cheap patriotism, witnessing people toast and adore a treasonous Soviet asset, a mean-spirited jerk, a willfully ignorant, screw-the-little-guy president is maddening and enraging.

But it's not just the "fat, dumb hicks" who do these things, even though they're trotted out at every rally President Slimeball conducts (and then quickly leaves town without paying his bills, much as he's done his entire trash-strewn life). There are plenty of middle and upper class people who have done the same--and they influence or control the flow of money in my home country more than the "fat, dumb hicks."

How are we ever gonna fight the good fight if we turn against one another? How are we going to lift every one up by pushing down further the people we think are already beneath us, lower than the low, and deserve it for being born economically or culturally poor or poorly connected? How are we going to get people on our side--or, more appropriately, how are we going to get on their side--by constantly signaling through word and deed that they are not worthy or worthwhile? Why would anyone want to side with a liberal if you can only be a liberal on someone else's terms, not your own? I think we have to ask ourselves, is the point of all this to give the "fat, dumb hicks" agency--or is it just to make them bend to our will, just as conservatives have tried to do to the rest of us?

I think I know the answer to this last question, and it's not good. Maybe we should study hard and take the test again.

Tickle your fancy

Are we not men? No! We are Jermaine Jackson and DEVO! performing together in a Halloween special in 1982!

Honestly, back in the day, I never understood why this song was not a number 1 in the U.S. Instead it had to "settle" for top 20 pop/top 5 R&B. Nothing to be ashamed of but a chart ranking middling enough to guarantee obscurity within just a few years.

Get this: You had a member of the Jackson mafia family, which was everywhere in the early 1980s. You had the ultra hip new wave band DEVO, which was probably at the peak of its alternative popularity. (At least if memory serves from my college days.) You had an incredibly catchy hook ("Let me tickle your fancy/let me excite your soul") and a highly danceable beat. And you had a very adorable and sexy Jermaine doing his best work, a few years before he'd crash and burn his credibility with a duet with Pia Zadora.

In essence, you had 1982 in a 3-minute pop nutshell.

Maybe it was racism--"black people don't play rock 'n' roll" and all that bullshit. Maybe it was a less popular Jackson in the spotlight (neither feast nor fowl, neither Michael nor Janet). Maybe it was a song stuck between worlds, not R&B, not rock, attempting to appeal to too many audiences through the talents of two slightly less than high profile performers. (How is this that different to "State of Shock," the Michael Jackson-Rollling Stones hit from 1984?) Maybe it was danceable but not in the right way - too alternative, not Hi NRG, disco's cheap, tacky, easy little sister. Maybe it was too perfect of a song and sounded like a lot of other stuff on the charts at the time. Which maybe it did, maybe it didn't.

Regardless, I thought this was a perfect pop gem at the time and still do nearly 40 (!!!) years later. Frankly, as old as it is, it still seems more exciting, entertaining, and authentic than every piece of pop pablum on the scene at this time.

Yeah, I'm *that* old.

March of the Faucettos

I ain't tappin' that: "My Faucet" by Marcus Quigmire.
CC BY 2.0 Generic. Via Wikimedia Commons.

I have a dripping faucet in my bathroom. Maybe it only needs a washer, maybe it's something more. I do not know. I'm not a plumber. It's been like this for a week. The whole week, in fact, has been like this for a week.

So I called maintenance for my building, but they can't--or won't--do anything about the problem. I do not know why.

They tell me to call a plumber. Which is complicated by the fact that I don't own but rent a condo, so I have to get my landlord's permission to call a plumber.

And why do I rent a condo and not own one or rent an apartment instead, you ask? Because I live in a city that dreams of being socialist but is actually quite the capitalist--or perhaps is just shitty at and indifferent to both, like it is at pretty much everything service-oriented, transportation-based, or creative and inspiring. (Worst public art ever.) And thus there's no money in apartments, and only the wealthy can afford to own the condos. And while I do ok, I'm not at the "I just spent a million maple leaves on a 300 square foot condo" level of income. Maybe in another year. Or fifty.

Anyway, the landlord is cool, go ahead call the plumber, and I'll reimburse you, no problem. She's like that, and I believe her.

So I call the plumber and am asked what kind of faucet is it? As in what brand.

And I'm like, I don't know, it's in the bathroom, it's a bathroom sink faucet and there's no brand name on it. (I double-checked.)

"We only service Moën faucets." You know, the expensive, stylish ones, that emit a stream of lukewarm water onto a flat rock. The water glides from the flat rock into a tray, then dribbles into a minuscule drain, and eventually plunges into Lake Ontario or some such. And somehow you're supposed to shave in this sink, the Rube Goldberg machine of modern plumbing.

Well, hunh, I'm pretty sure there are other types of faucets out there, not just Moën, but never say never. You live in Canada, you get used to fewer retail options. (Really, are Grape Nuts that hard to import?) I'm guessing because it's a small country that, as mentioned, has a peculiar, middling, I dunno what do you wanna do? I don't know what do you wanna do? relationship with socialism, capitalism, and pretty much everything animate or inanimate.

"Do you have the parts?"

Well, no, because I don't know what the problem is, so why would I have the parts? It's probably a washer, and if it is, I'm sure you could spare one, but, honestly, I'M NOT A FUCKING PLUMBER SO HOW THE FUCK SHOULD I KNOW?!

Interior monologue only, I promise.

"Well, we'll replace it with Moën and charge you for it if you don't have the parts."

Seriously, is Moën the Faucet Mafia and if you don't use them, you end up with a dead horse in your bed?

"Send us a picture of the faucet, try to identify it, and we'll get back to you next week."

Oh, I'll get right on that.

I suspect that if I were to do business with them--which I won't--they'd replace the entire sink, maybe even the cabinetry and the mirror, even though the faucet only needed a washer, because they feel impelled to make everything Moën.

(Or as one of my friends said when I related this story to him: "Sorry, you're going to have to move.")

I know Greta Thunberg won't be pleased with me, but I'm thinking of letting the faucet drip until it becomes a water feature or a fountain. (It's dripping hot water, so let's call it a hot spring or a thermal bath. Les Bains au Harbourfront peut-être ....) Then maybe I can build condos and retail around it, make lots of maple leaves, and retire early.

Screw librarianship. I think I should have become a plumber. I would have made a lot more money and get away with baring my teeth and my ass to the world for fun and profit.

¿Qué será mi vida?

Like I said, always choose disco.

Choose disco

This is probably way too much yellow fabric and blue eyeshadow for a rainy October morning, but some of us choose to jumpstart the day with drugs while others, like me, choose disco.

The Gibson Brothers (who, despite the Anglo sounding name, were actually Francophones from Martinique) represent a phase of late 1970s French/Belgian pop hitmaking that no one other than me would possibly be interested in. Long live the production team of Daniel Vangarde and Jean Kluger!

From this era and from this production team, I am particularly fond of "Cuba" but also of another Gibson Brothers' hit, "Qué Será Mi Vida (If You Should Go)," which was popular the year I made my debut at the cotillion of publicly acknowledged homosexuality. That is to say, bounded out of the closet and into the hearts and minds of a small but highly valued group of family and friends.

Cuuuuubaaaaaa, quiero bailar la salsa ....

The party's over (or at least in the minority)

Justin Trudeau in 2019. Public Domain.
Via Wikimedia Commons.

I have a lot to learn about the Canadian political mindset. Despite having to form a minority government, the Liberals and Justin Trudeau really didn't take that much of a hit, losing fewer than 20 seats since the 2015 election. Every Toronto riding was won by the Liberals.

And yet, especially over the last two years, the bloom has definitely been off the Justin Trudeau rose, at least if you were to believe comments made in public news forums and by opinion makers, ethics review boards, and non-Liberal politicians. 

I'm not sure what my lessons learned are. The Doug Ford Conservative government in Ontario hurt Conservatives overall? The opposition choices were unappealing (Conservative Andrew Scheer), untested (NDP Jagmeet Singh - or "too ethnic"? Something few Canadians would confess to, at least in public), or region-specific (Bloc Québécois Yves-François Blanchet) to make much of a difference? Canadians aren't as progressive as they virtue signal? (Poor showing by the Greens, lacklustre showing by the NDP.) Or people voted strategically for the Liberals to block the Conservatives?

I know Justin Trudeau plays very well outside Canada, but I've had an increasingly hard time taking him seriously over the last year, after some broken promises, fake virtue signaling, and fratboy douche privilege displaying. (Blackface, brownface, and a certain smugness papered over by nice hair and a good complexion.) When your alternatives are Doug Ford, Boris Johnson, Donald Trump, and Mauricio Macri (Argentina's current failed-state leader), I guess you can't help but look good to the world. Nevertheless, the world deserves better.

Surprisingly, I've sort of overlooked his ethics violations in the SNC-Lavalin affair: I thought that was more a tempest in a teapot, perhaps a disappointment to some but seeming more like an example of honest/dishonest politicking than anything else. At least it was real if not necessarily ethical.

One thing I hear a lot about here is about the "failure" of the U.S. political system to have more than two parties. Well, in this election, we had six vying for a majority in Canada, and I can't say that the results were all that different than with just two. It's a parliamentary system, so it's different from the outset--technically, you're voting for the party representative for your riding, not for the prime minister. And yet there are still some of the same challenges - uninspiring leaders, tepid voter turnout (about 66%, still much better than in the U.S.), middling results, and the reality that the Conservatives won the national popular vote, yet still are in the minority parliament-wise.

So maybe the lesson learned is that politics and governance suck everywhere, even in the most "enlightened" of spaces?

Oh, sooorry you had to read all the way through for me to reach that conclusion ....

* * *

The outcome of the Canadian election tells me that I am actually not a Supposed Former Drama Junkie after all. (Alanis Morissette reference, y'all. #CanCon)

Seriously, I find myself somewhat disappointed, even aggravated by the rather drab outcome--even though I should be pleased with the outcome, at least in theory.

"Rob Ford at the 2013 Beaches Easter parade" by
Bruce Reeve. CC BY-SA 2.0. Via Wikimedia Commons.

Mulling it over today, I kept thinking where is the drama? Where is the marching in the streets, setting couches on fire, and breaking storefront plate glass windows? Where is the plan to start campaigning beginning one minute after midnight on the day after election results are announced? Where is the name-calling, whining, and stamping of feet? Where is the endless dissection of results, the ad nauseum ruminations the election's Deeper Meanings, and overwrought analyses of the thoughts and feelings of white working-class voters?

My goodness, last week there was a 24-hour period in which President Shitstorm (aka Mussoleaky aka Il Douchey aka Donald Trump) and his mobster cabinet messed up more than all six Canadian political parties have done in the last four years. Hell, probably in the last four decades, given how the national ethose appears to be "safety first."

Maybe I need to detox for a while from the clusterfudge that is U.S., U.K., and Argentine politics. Or maybe Canadian politics need to be crazier. we hardly knew ye!
Rob Ford,

Maybe I need to sit down, shut up, and be careful of what I wish for?

Yeah, that, too.

Two can play

Governor Goodhair goes down

Fantasmas en la casa

As we move from summer to fall in the Northern Hemisphere, it's time to think about tea, fuzzy sweaters, crisp air, and warm fires--or not, depending on your preferences.

Fun Argentine pop group Miranda! will share the moment with us--in beautiful San Carlos de Bariloche no less.

"Pero no, no, no, no, no, no ...."

Dancing with the Soon-to-Be-Behind-Bars

Disgraced former White House Press Secretary Sean Spicer
salsas with tears in his eyes

That moment when you realize, nope, I'm indeed completely devoid of shame ...

That moment when you realize it might have been better not to have responded to that email from a Nigerian prince ...

That moment when you hear Mephistopheles laugh and you realize the joke's on you for eternity ...

That moment when you hear an announcer with a British accent intone, "Performing the salsa, Sean Spicer and his partner Lindsay Arnold!" and you finally realize you've died and gone to hell ... and you totally deserve it.

Poultry in motion

"Portrait of Argentine Actress Eva Duarte" (later Eva Perón)
by Annemarie Heinrich. Wikimedia Commons. Public Domain.

So my all-things-Argentina sojourn continues. And--you're forewarned--likely will for some time.

Currently I'm reading this biography of Eva Perón, Evita: The Life of Eva Perón by Jill Hedges, which is really very good, painting a more more nuanced portrait of Evita than you might get from other sources (such as musicals), but not shirking from her stridency, score-settling, and authoritarian tendencies either.

There is lots to recommend the book--it is thoughtful, sympathetic but clear-eyed, well written and well researched. But for now I want to focus on my favorite anecdote so far, one that brings into glorious flower (or do I mean feather?) the Peróns' mid-20th-century pro-level trolling. This anecdote has both a literary connection (Argentine author Jorge Luis Borges) and a library connection (Borges worked as a librarian for a time during the Perón era and then immediately afterwards, too).

Apparently, during the Perón era, Borges made many ugly public and private statements about Eva's origins--as did many Argentinians on the right, left, and center. If you were shocked how mean people, pundits, and politicos were to Hillary Clinton as a woman in power, really, you will fall to the floor in a faint when you read stories about the vitriol directed at Eva.

Eva Perón's origins were indeed poor, murky, and humble--one of five children born out of wedlock, her mother, Juana Ibarguren, was the paramour of Juan Duarte, an Argentine landowner and rancher who had another, legal family. By all accounts, he kept Eva's family to the side and never really provided for them in a significant way, especially not after his death.

Imagine growing up like that--fatherless, shunned, hungry, treated like trash, your mother working constantly to provide for five young children. Imagine how hungry for justice, sincere kindness, and social acceptance that you would feel as an adult. 

Then imagine having to hear famed author Jorge Luis Borges, a man in the 1940s with an international literary reputation, a man of the oligarchy, claim--based on no evidence then or now--that your mother at one point ran a brothel and that you and her sisters were prostitutes in said brothel for a time.

Hedges argues that it was likely quite the opposite, that Eva's mother worked hard, overcompensated, and raised her children to be as good, clean, and proper as possible so that they would not be tarnished for life by their illegitimacy and poverty.

Borges kept telling these tales throughout his life, including (and especially) when Eva and Juan were in power in the late 1940s and early 1950s.

Coincidentally, in those days Borges had a government or quasi-government job as a librarian in Buenos Aires. Of the good, the bad, and the indifferent that the Peróns did during their reign, they tended to practice "clientelism," awarding the spoils of war--i.e., government jobs--to their supporters, poor, middle class, and wealthy.

Borges was not one of those supporters, obviously. So they offered him a "promotion": A plum position as an inspector for poultry and rabbits at the Buenos Aires municipal market.

I don't know if he took the job, but he likely wasn't happy about the offer. I imagine that he thought his privilege would excuse his being a jerk but surprise! No.

I do know that there are a number of librarians I've worked with that, if I were in charge, I would promote to poultry inspector in a heartbeat. Who knows? They might be good at it, better than they were as librarians, colleagues, and human beings, but I fear incidents of salmonella and bird flu would skyrocket during their tenure, nonetheless.

All's well that ends well, I guess: When Perón was ousted, Borges became head of la Biblioteca Nacional de la Argentina, the Argentine national library. Years later, he still repeated those stories and continued to display his right-wing, oligarchic street cred as a big supporter of Chilean dictator Augusto Pinochet.

Maybe a little more time in the chicken coop, stepping around and through all that chicken shit, would have adjusted Borges' attitude some. But probably not.

Poor you, poor me, poor us

Street scene, Purmamarca, Argentina

Is Argentina a poor country?

Well, as far as poverty is concerned, it may all depend on how you define it. Using the World Bank's World Development Indicators from 2018, approximately 7% of Argentina's population lives on less than $5.50 USD per day. That's compared to 1% for Canada, 2% for the US (still shockingly something like 6 to 7 million people), 21% for Brazil, 35% for Mexico, and a whopping 57% for South Africa.

However, viewed another way, according to the the CIA World Factbook (2016, 2017, et al.), 32% of the Argentine population lives below the national poverty line--compared with 9.4% for Canada, 12.3% for the US, 4.2% for Brazil, 46% for Mexico, and 16.6% for South Africa.

Say what? The numbers are all over the map (literally) and don't necessarily translate well when comparing one country to another.

***

Viewed more subjectively, Buenos Aires looks great, like a stunning, slightly funky, "exotic" capital city, every so slightly lived in. At least that's the case if you stay in Palermo, Retiro, Recoleta, downtown, and most of the city proper. (In comparison, tidy Toronto is so un-crumpled, so unlived-in, so anodyne, and quite tedious, so much so that I almost cried upon landing back home.) I'm not sure what Buenos Aires is like in the poorer, more industrial suburbs, although a ride in from the international airport in Ezeiza reveals its share of tenements--but no corrugated shacks or squatter camps, at least as far as I could tell.

If you watch the Argentine news or current affairs programs there, you see your share of people of different income levels and social classes. And inevitably, like much of the rest of the Western world, the lighter the skin, the higher the social class/economic level tends to be (although not exclusively).

Despite the prevalence of Turkish soap operas, there is at least one Argentine soap, El Marginal (which was available on Netflix at one point--but not in Canada), shown on Argentina's public TV broadcaster, that takes a very gritty look at life among the poor, prisoners, ex-cons, petty criminals, and other "marginal" people.

Farther afield, the city of Salta in northwestern Argentina feels like a rather pristine Spanish colonial city with modern conveniences. "Salta la linda" doesn't have the glamor and cash that Buenos Aires does, however. Smaller Altiplano indigenous communities like Purmamarca and Humahuaca look more "developing" with unpaved streets and adobe buildings--but the restaurants at least have wifi.

Suffice it to say that Argentina is poorer than the US and Canada but does not feel desperately poor. Nonetheless, how do you maneuver this as a tourist without looking clueless or insensitive?

I still stayed in nice hotels and ate good food, but I tried not to overdo it or be ostentatious, much as I live in North America. I shopped some, both from stores and street merchants, including those trying to get by selling dishcloths, tissues, candies, and other small items, all part of the more informal economy. Did I need dishcloths while in Argentina? Not necessarily but they did come in handy. And as allergy-prone as I am, tissues are always in season.

I generally gave some money to those on the street, when asked, same as here. The "need" in Canada is sometimes questionable--with young guys on Queen West requesting money "for their band" or street people near my building asking me if I have something "better" than the $1 or $2 coin that I offered. While in Argentina, I didn't constantly pass out cash, only if I was prepared to, able to, and felt comfortable doing so.

***

What was more challenging was knowing how to handle a situation like the one I'm about to describe.

One night for dinner in Salta, I passed by the more elegant option recommended to me by a fellow tourist, instead opting for the old and familiar--McDonald's. Hey, what can I say? I was just feeling a little homesick that night and not very adventurous, especially after my lunch of "cazuela de llama" (llama stew) earlier that day in San Antonio de los Cobres. So I kept it simple: A grilled chicken sandwich and fries, a Diet Coke, all a prelude to some vanilla soft-serve, which I'd been craving all week for some reason.

While seated at a communal table, I vaguely noticed that a young boy sat down near me. But I didn't really focus on him, as I was no doubt scrolling through my Facebook or Twitter feed or reading the news from home, with home still being the US, despite my life in Canada. The boy eventually got up and went to another table where he asked a young couple if they were going to finish their fries and if not, could he have them.

At that point, I paid attention. I hadn't seen that happen before--or at least not in a very long time, and certainly not in glamorous Palermo.

The couple generously gave their fries to him without even a second's hesitation. So I decided to do the same. It wasn't much--there weren't many left, as I'd been eating them absent-mindedly while engrossed in the access to the wider world provided by my phone. But, literally, it was the least I could do.

An image of Eva Perón, downtown Buenos Aires,
exhorting the wealthy to do more for the people of Argentina

I started to leave, making my way toward the ice cream, served at a separate counter. But then I paused. I have more resources at my disposal, I thought; I can and should do more.

But what exactly? If I give too much money, will I look ostentatious? As Americans, we have a reputation for overtipping, and sometimes this can be viewed as showing off, rather than being understood as carrying out an American habit of leaving an inflationary amount for service because we know wait staff in the US have to get by on tips rather than salary.

The boy was young, maybe 12 or 13 at most--and this made me hesitate doing more as well. Being an older man seen giving a young boy cash, would there be the perception that I was expecting something for my money, either by the others around me or the boy himself? I recalled urban legends from visiting Puerto Vallarta years ago, a city with a big gay vacation scene, that young men of unknown age might entice you as part of a sting, with the police nearby, ready to swoop in for a bribe to "help" you avoid jail time and embarrassment. This was not the same situation at all. Nevertheless, on the trip down, I'd also seen posters all over the Atlanta airport about human trafficking and the sex trade. Suddenly the topic felt very real, very present. 

I debated what to do: Give him a generous amount of cash, buy him a meal, offer him a smaller amount along with my fries, or something else entirely (up to and including walking away). I ended up making what I perceived to be the least ostentatious gesture: I gave him about $30 pesos, not even one whole Canadian dollar, my fries, and wished him well.

I'm glad I respected the boy's pride, his "space," and I'm glad I didn't do anything that would appear compromising to him, to me, or to others. But was playing it safe the best I could do? Did respecting someone's pride outweigh momentarily alleviating their very real need--hunger? Should avoiding confusion, embarrassment, and, yes, the appearance of criminality, take precedence over helping combat someone's hunger or destitution?

***

I didn't know then, and I don't know now, and I will likely never know.

I do know, though, that I skipped having any ice cream that evening. Suddenly I was no longer hungry. Instead, I felt ever so slightly more melancholy for the comforts of home.

Argentina, te quiero

Oh, don't mind me. I'm just stuck at home with an apres-trip head cold, feeling melancholy, with too much music on my hands ....

El día que me quieras

I've been traveling again. Can we guess where?

Star quality!

Elena Roger and Ricky Martin perform "What's New, Buenos Aires?" from the 2012 Broadway revival of Evita.

Fin del Mundo

Fin del Mundo? Bring it on, Señor!

Is it any wonder? (Summer soundtrack #7)

After a few years on hiatus, Keane has new music out, which is reason to dance in the streets on a hot summer's day. The new song, "The Way I Feel," sounds great, but I still consider "Is It Any Wonder?," a gem from 2006 (13 years ago!), to be peak Keane.

It's because (Summer soundtrack #6)

"I'm Not in Love" by 10cc is perhaps in my personal top ten--nay, my top five--of favorite songs of all time. It is the perfect love song, lyrically, sonically (is that a word?), emotionally, and atmospherically, and why there's not an internet radio station dedicated to playing it non-stop, 24 hours a day, I will never understand.

By chance, I was in Alley Cats, an excellent record shop in Orillia, Ontario, earlier this week when this was played over the sound system. And even now, nearly 45 years later, the song still gives me a chill.

In town on business, I had fun explaining to a younger colleague that this was the original version, that other versions she was aware of were (in my opinion) pale imitations. She knew versions that I did not (a live version by Robert Smith and The Cure apparently), and I knew versions that she did not (Olive's somewhat drum-and-bass version from 2000, to me a major disappointment from a group I had adored up to that moment), but we both agreed that the song, no matter who recorded it, is ethereal, lovely, and poignant.

Why I didn't buy the vinyl then and there, I do not understand. I do have a CD version from The Very Best of 10cc, but here's one occasion when I can agree with hipster audiophiles: The warmth and intimacy of the vinyl cannot be denied.

A mellow tune for summer, but even a long, hot summer requires its slow jams.

* * *

Here's a short BBC TV documentary about how the song was made.

Wow. Just wow. It seems incredible that someone would make this much effort--especially in an era when multi-tracking was new and tape-looping was novel and rare--to create "just a pop song." But indeed 10cc did, as did ABBA, as did the Beatles, as did Giorgio Moroder, and did many other greats (by my estimation at least).

This article, cited in Wikipedia has more backstory about how the song came about, particularly lyrically, spawning from a complaint by band member and lead singer Eric Stewart's wife that he didn't tell her he loved her often enough.

Pfft. Typical man. Can't say the words but can feel all the emotion. In time, he can find a way to tell the world the way he feels. And maybe eventually even you.

Nonetheless, with the end result being the exquisiteness that is "I'm Not in Love," I'd say Mr. Stewart finally and sufficiently got his point across.

Queer theory

I for one am looking forward to his theory as to why he's such a douchebag.

Bishop explains: You're gay because your mom had anal while she was pregnant with you.
🤔https://t.co/FCNJyFQzlL

— Q. Allan Brocka (@allanbrocka) July 26, 2019

Death of pie

Muskoka berry pie from the Mariposa Market,
Orillia, Ontario

Scene from a murder, 3 AM.

In the pink (Summer soundtrack #5)

It's OK, Duran Duran, your secret's safe with me: You basically ... let's be kind and say "co-opted" ... late '70s Roxy Music's style, sound, wardrobe, and lyrical content for your first, I dunno, five or six albums. But I forgive you.

This past Sunday, I went shopping, mainly for shoes but for other clothes as well. In my never-ending quest to get outside of my own self-induced ruts, I went into a store I normally don't visit: Le Château, a Montréal-based clothing store chair that has locations in Toronto and across Le Canada. What drew me in was this beautiful soft pink suit--not unlike something Bryan Ferry would've worn in 1979 or Simon Le Bon in 1983. And while I coveted it, I realized, too, that at 57, this is a dream best left to the past.

To tell the truth, I couldn't have worn it in the past either because I'd have been way too self-conscious. Not because of the pink color per se, although I do not look particularly appealing in pastels. But let's face it: I was never a pretty man, not in an '80s blond highlights, triangle-shaped face, androgynous features, Patrick Nagel print kind of way.

It was likely a painful realization at the time. But now? Well, now I seem content with some comfortable shoes, stretchy-waist cotton trousers, and checked and plaid easy-care shirts. The mighty have fallen, perhaps, but the mighty are a heckuva lot more comfortable than they were throughout much of the 1970s, the '80s, the '90s, the '00s, and probably even last week.

Twin screw steel steam cruisers

RMS Oceanic (1870). Public domain. Via Wikimedia Commons.

So in getting ready for another trip to Argentina in a month's time (aka Down Argentine Way Round 2), I've been re-reading Bruce Chatwin's In Patagonia. Which is a bit funny in that I should have re-read this a year ago when I was actually going to Patagonia. Instead, this time I'm going to Buenos Aires and Argentina's Andean northwest (Salta, Jujuy, Purmamarca, Tilcara, Humahuaca, etc.).

I'll skip the critique of the book, for the most part. There are parts I remember reading way back when (mid-'80s), and there are parts I don't remember at all. (Which leads me to think that perhaps I never finished the book?) In some of the narrative, Chatwin comes across as very, "oh look at me, a Brit traveling the world, and passing judgment on the odd unfortunates I meet." To be expected perhaps, but we can't all be as woke as we are today. (Heavy sarcasm.)

But other parts, specifically the history of seafaring around Cape Horn, including that of a family relation of humble origin who rose to the rank of captain for a New Zealand shipping line, have been oddly fascinating.

In one part of the story, the engine fails on a ship his great-uncle (I think) is commandeering. It is a hybrid vessel: A steamship but one that has sails, which, after the engine fails, allows them to limp slowly toward Cape Horn with the hope of arriving eventually in port at Punta Arenas, Chile. But they have to be careful as they move to the cape for fear of catching a current that will set them adrift in the South Atlantic--not to mention the worry over smashing into the rocky coast of southern South America.
 
Chatwin remarks that the ship had no radio. According to my quick research at 3 am Sunday, ship-to-shore communication apparently didn't exist until the last few years of the 1890s, thanks to the pioneering "wireless telegraphy" inventions of Guglielmo Marconi. Further, such communication wasn't in common use until the early part of the 20th century. Thus there was no way to communicate what was happening on board, even as the ship moved closer and closer to shore.

Chatwin also mentions that another ship around the time had broken a propeller and, as a result, had been set adrift in the South Atlantic for four months before it was discovered. (This event served as the basis for Falk, a novella written by Joseph Conrad, which I'm now trying to track down for a hopefully quick read.)

While 125 or so years ago now seems like a long time ago, when Chatwin was writing his book, the events had taken place less than a hundred years before.

My points here are probably rather mundane:

• We're not as old, advanced, or as conscious as we think we are. 
• A lot has happened in the last century or two, so no wonder sometimes we feel like we're enduring cultural whiplash, a harsh and frightful spin on a carnival ride that is designed to thrill but ends up hurting as much as it satisfies. 
• These events put into perspective any flight delays we may have or any gastrointestinal illness we may have caught on board a cruise ship. 

Not that the latter aren't frustrating, awful, and even occasionally life-threatening, but the problems we experience now somewhat pale in comparison to never knowing if you are going to make it home despite "modern" (then steamship) technology at your disposal.

Maybe our ancestors were just a lot more used to risk and danger then. Maybe in some respects and in their own way they were braver, smarter, cleverer than us, even if they didn't know the same things we know now. Maybe this will make me less anxious about taking the small risks I take in life, which, while significant to me, seem quite tame. And that's OK. I'm a relatively tame guy.

Maybe, too, pondering what my ancestors endured and how I have benefited from it will make me whine less about the momentary discomforts of modern life.

But I doubt it.

Jock itch for the brain (Summer soundtrack #4)

Ah la la la la la kill me now please.

The thing is, I despise this song, at least lyrically--it's sexist, braggadocious bullshit. And yet "Sweat" by Jamaican reggae shame band Inner Circle has been stuck in my head for the better part of a week now.

So I'm adding this song to my summer soundtrack if for no other reason than it'll remind me that summer isn't always easy-breezy Cover Girl. No, sometimes it's crappy reggae reminding you that Hell is other people's music, trying to enjoy summer in the city, and in doing so, sweating so profusely that you end up with the worst case of jock itch you've ever had in your adult life.

Not that this happened to anyone I know, of course.

In praise of termites

A chainsaw artist has unveiled a sculpture of First Lady and Glamour Model Melania Trump in her home town in Slovenia. (Yes, she's an immigrant--but a genius!)

I dunno. Melania looks a little wooden.

But at the same time, amazingly lifelike.

Streetcar Stories: Black shoes, black belt

Black belt. Public Domain. Via Wikimedia Commons.

A man bounded onto the streetcar on my way home yesterday. He was 40, had lived in Texas much of his life, but was originally from Toronto, having left when he was 13.

I know all this not by sight but because he told me and another passenger soon after he sat down.

"I'm so confused," he said. "I don't recognize anything. I don't feel like I fit in here." He didn't say this morosely but with a smile and a laugh, one part amazement, one part exasperation, and maybe even one small hint of desperation.

I smiled genuinely but as I do so often in life, kept a certain amount of distance between me and the conversation that the man and the other passenger were having. Honest, I'm not trying to be aloof--it's just self-preservation in a world that I often find overwhelming and confusing myself. In my heart of hearts, I want to be open to the world, but the reality of said world often makes me think better of it. As I've said before, people can surprise you--sometimes in a good way but other times in a disappointing, even frightening way.

I let the other passenger do the talking and listening for a while.

The car stopped at Bremner Blvd. and the other passenger exited. I thought, well, I can exit, too, as a way to end the conversation, then walk the rest of the way home. But for some reason I decided it against it.

The man smiled, and all of a sudden, I heard myself say, "For what it's worth, I feel out of place here, too. I'm from the States originally, and I don't feel like I fit in either. And I've lived here for four years."

Which is completely true. Canada is like America's slightly off doppelganger. Things look similarly on the surface, but when you get below the surface, nothing seems the same. It's jarring--people sound mostly the same, English is the predominant language in Toronto, the accent and vocabulary are similar, and yet it's all different as well. Queen's Park, Parliament, hockey, cottage country, Harvey's for hamburgers and Second Cup for coffee, the prevalence of marijuana smoke and no one particularly stressed about health care costs. At least when I'm in Argentina I know the culture is different and I have to communicate in a different language. But in Toronto ...?

"Where are you from?"

"North Carolina originally. But I lived in Texas for many years as well."

"Ah, a Southern boy!" Which is a funny thing for a 40-year-old man to call a 57-year-old man, but I took it in the spirit intended.

We compared notes about Texas, having both lived in San Antonio.

"I don't know what's going on. I spent my time in athletics, then the military. Not like this, playing football, sports, the Army, not trying to ..." his voice trailed off. "But my Dad said, 'Come on up!' so here I am!"

He got up, ready to exit the car at the next stop, my stop.

"I have a question for you," he said. Which always makes me nervous because in my younger days, when someone said this to me, it usually resulted in some wildly indecent or offensive comment in a public place from a man or a woman with few boundaries.

"Can you come over here so I can ask you?"

Oh dear god. What in the name of ...?

Foolhardy person that I am, I walked closer. There were others around, and he wasn't using his inside voice, so I figured I could easily escape or deflect an unwanted comment if I needed to. I knew where my wallet was, and it was not easily accessible to him.

"I'm going for a job interview. I have a dark blue coat, dark pants, white shirt, and a red tie. Should I wear black shoes and a black belt or brown shoes and a brown belt?"

That was the question?

"Well, you might get by with either. Personally with the white shirt and red tie, I would go with black shoes/black belt. It can depend on how dark the blue is but black would be the safer choice, in my opinion. It won't look odd or out of place."

"Great! All I have are black shoes and a black belt! I don't have time to get anything else!"

Yes, that was the question. Frankly, having seen enough men wear brown shoes with a black belt, I was impressed that I didn't have to explain to him why that would be a bad idea.

"Thank you, man! I really appreciate the advice. Thanks for talking with me."

And with that he bounded off the streetcar and headed out into the world.

I lost track of him in the crowd at Queens Quay and Spadina. I walked along the waterfront, deviating from my normnal route a little and watching my back, then arrived safely at home.