Early Thursday afternoon I rode down to Parkdale Community Legal
Services to make sure that my rent increase notice was legal. The receptionist
said that I should come back on Monday because all of their law students were
brand new and so they were only able to deal with emergencies. I told her that
needing to pay my rent and not knowing how much I should pay seemed like an
emergency to me. She asked me to take a seat but she repeated that she was
doubtful if I could see someone.
I sat down in the
waiting area and five minutes later an attractive young woman of East Indian
descent called my name. We went to a little boardroom and she took down my
information. When I told her my landlord’s name is Rajah Namasivayam she rolled
her eyes a bit and told me she recognized the name. I immediately knew the
source of her familiarity because I know that my upstairs neighbour, Caesar is
constantly trying to take Raja to court because of various issues, like lack of
proper building maintenance. She pulled out a calculator to check my rent
increase and confirmed it was on the up and up. I was hoping for some mistake
in the wording of the document that would delay the increase but she said
everything was in order. So now, for the first time in 20 years, my rent has
finally crossed up into the 600s to $608.75.
I rode to the Bank
of Montreal on Queen between Bathurst and Spadina get my rent money and some
extra cash. I was really wishing en route that I’d put on a pair of sweats
under my pants. It was biting cold, but after a while I felt it more on my ears
under my hood than on my legs. On the way back I stopped at Freshco where I bought
grapefruit, blackberries, a small bag of cherries, a boneless pork loin rib
roast, a can of fruit salad and a few other of my usual purchases. When I got
home though, I realized that I’d forgotten to buy garbage bags, which had been
my main reason for going to the supermarket, because my last bag was full. I
had no choice then but to head back out into the blistering cold to get some
garbage bags. I figured that since I’d already been to Freshco that I might as
well get my bags at No Frills and that way I could see if they had anything
interesting to buy. It turned out that they had blueberries and strawberries on
sale, so I got some of those and I even remembered to buy garbage bags. When I
got home though I realized that I also needed paper towels and detergent, but I
wasn’t going to go out again. I’d get by without those until Saturday.
Shortly after
getting back home I got a message from Nick Cushing asking if I was home yet. I
told him I was, so about an hour or less later he arrived, with a couple of
cans of Waterloo Indian Pale Ale and the gift of one the little tiki heads that
he’s been making to sell. I gave him a bag of five extra spicy pepperoni sticks
from the sausage King at St Lawrence Market.
We were about to
sit down at my kitchen table that is missing a leg at the south east corner
where I keep it propped up against the wall to keep it from falling. The leg
had broken before a few years ago and I’d managed to fix it but a year or so
ago it was starting to get wobbly and was on the verge of breaking again when
Nick turned out to be the one to do it. On a couple of occasions since then
Nick has accidentally knocked the broken table over and so the last time he was
here he deliberately sat at the non-broken end so as to avoid any furniture flippages
caused by feet and knees that aren’t used to the lay of the land bumping it and
knocking it over. I suggested to Nick that he sit at the sturdy end this time,
but he insisted that he was familiar enough with the hazard now so as to not
make any wrong moves. I shrugged and said “Okay.” I poured my beer into my
favourite drinking glass, which I’ve had for at least ten years.
Nick was chastising
me for having used the term “trailer trash” on social media. He said that he
knows lots of people that would find it offensive. I defended myself by arguing
that it’s just an expression. It doesn’t mean that all people that live in
trailers are trash or even that all trailer trash live in trailers. It’s a way
of talking about the type of uneducated poor people that have no logical reason
to vote for someone like Donald Trump and yet do so anyway, perhaps because
he’s both dumb and rich at the same time and it gives them a sense that if he
can do it they can and that by liking him some impossible wealth-making dumb
magic will rub off. Maybe calling them “trash” is a little harsh. How about
“trailer victims” or “trailer ghettoites”? Anyway, the word “trash” exists as a
qualifier. It doesn’t mean that everyone that lives in trailers are ignorant
assholes. It just means that the ignorant assholes that live in trailers are a
particularly repugnant culture that makes the other trailer residents look bad.
Nick also seems to
have more admiration for Donald Trump than smart people tend to have. He thinks
Trump has actually accomplished things since he’s been in office. He cited the ending of chain migration to
make US immigration more like the merit based system we have in Canada. There’s
something to be said for both, but economic immigration may attract
opportunistic people that would be inclined to emigrate for a better offer. I
think chain migration is a big part of US heritage and also Canadian. It has
created places like Chinatown, Little India, Little Italy and Korea Town. The
only danger is when it creates ghettos, but it’s not as if there is any more
crime resulting from recent immigration. Past immigration to ghettoes created
gangs and organized crime in every ethnic group from the Irish to every other
ethnic group that was ghettoized. But chain migration also tends to inspire
patriotism; because when one brings one’s family to a country it creates a
sense of home there. It has existed for so long that it is suspicious that some
people suddenly want to trash it just at a time when a lot of brown
non-Christians want to benefit from it.
Nick asked me for
the skinny self-powered microphone that he’d leant me last year, so I found it
for him. He was trying to open it up but was having trouble and wanted to see
if I had a better pair of eyes. I got up and took it into the bathroom where
the light is brighter and was looking at it there when Nick decided to join me.
When he got up there was a big crash because he’d once again turned over my
table, spilling our beer (some of which spilled onto his toque) and breaking my
favourite drinking glass. Nick felt very guilty about it and wanted to replace
the tumbler. I didn’t argue against it because I really liked that glass. He
said he had an account with Amazon and so I said I would look into it.
I never even knew
what the official name was of the type of glass I’d had, but after Nick left I
managed to track something down that seemed like it must be it. It was a 518 ml
Duralex Picardie tumbler. It was developed for the rough and tumble world of
French bistros. Certainly mine had fallen several times over the last few years
and had never broken.
I sent the info to
Nick and he ordered it right away.
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