Handbombs of the Poor

            On Tuesday I spent a lot of time online arguing with bigots in the aftermath of Monday’s vehicle attack. So many people were ready to assume that it was an ISIS inspired terrorist attack even after the early and subsequent evidence clearly showed that assessment to be wrong.

            In the evening I put my guitar in its case and folded my guitar stand to slip it into my backpack, then I rode to St Stephen in the Fields Church for the April Shab-e She’r. It had just begun to seriously rain as I arrived in front of the church. Giovanna Riccio was at the reception desk and told me that George Elliot Clarke would be coming later. I expressed regret that I hadn’t brought my copy of Canticles I for George to sign but Giovanna shrugged and said, “Maybe next time!”

            I was feeling very warm and so I stripped my upper body wear down to my tank top.

            I unpacked my guitar stand and set it up on the stage next to the cathedra chair. I tuned my guitar and ran through the song I planned to do that night, then I put the instrument on the stand that I’d bought myself as a Christmas present this last December. This was my first time using it at a place where I would be performing and it made me feel like a professional.

            Giovanna commented that I was dressed for summer. I told her that I found it humid and hot in the church, she said she didn’t feel it but thought it was great that I’m so warm blooded. I assured her that I wasn’t, though I didn’t go into detail. The fact is that I get cold fairly easily and always have, though I recall it having been worse when I was a kid.

            Allan Briesmaster came in and we chatted briefly. He asked about my writing so I told him that I hope to have a book of poems on the theme of Parkdale ready soon and I would be looking for a publisher. I said that knowing that Allan still has a small publishing house even though he’s no longer one of the people that run Quattro Books. Allan said he wishes me luck and he would certainly buy my book when it comes out, and I got the impression from his tone that he’d picked up on my hint and had subtly declined my offer to give him first crack at my book. I might still send him the manuscript later on to see if he can point me in some kind of direction, since he’s the only publisher that I really know and he must be fairly familiar with the Toronto scene.

            I sat down at the front and started doing some writing. A tall man came out from the back, gym area of the church, followed by a shorter man who appeared drunk. The second man barked something at me that I couldn’t make out and then he tried to attack the taller man. Norman Allen got up to try to intervene, reminding him, “You’re in a church! Don’t hit him!” I added, “Just don’t hit him! It’s irrelevant whether you’re in a church or not!”

            Suddenly the minister of St Stephen in the Fields, Maggie Helwig was there and she was quite impressive in the way she quickly diffused the situation. She spoke quietly to him and soon she was lovingly holding him in her arms until he was sedated by her affection. I don’t think Maggie has special powers or that she’s a walking ray of light, but she has obviously developed some useful skills in her time as the priest of a downtown church.

            Elisha came to sit to my right in the front row and said hello. I had to ask her name though because the first time I’d seen her perform she called herself Charlie Chopra. She told me that she wouldn’t be coming to Shab-e She’r again for a while but gave me her instagram and Facebook addresses just in case I wanted to check out what she’s doing. She asked me where the washrooms are and I gave her directions, adding, “They’re all gender neutral.” She took my comment the wrong way and explained that Charlie Chopra was just a character that she’d done. I assured her that I hadn’t meant it like that.

            Tom Smarda arrived and we hugged. He pulled up a chair in front of me and played his guitar while chatting. He used a chromatic tuner similar to what I used to have and I asked him if he prefers it to a clip-on. For me, it took a long time to tune with the chromatic because it picks up too much ambient noise while the clip on tunes by the vibrations on the neck and it doesn’t matter what noises are going on around me. The clip on has saved my musical life. He explained that he finds it more accurate than a clip on. I told him that I’ve been advised to always tune the E and B strings slightly lower than where the needle says it’s dead on and that works out pretty well for me.

            Elisha was sitting next to us and practicing for her open stage performance. Every now and then she would ask for feedback. She was wearing a pair of big dark glasses over her own glasses and was holding her pen, which is made to look like a quill, as if it were a long cigarette holder. I told her she was looking a bit like Jackie Onassis. She said that I’m not the first person to tell her that. She explained that she was getting in character and so her responses to our conversation might not be hers. Tom asked her name but she told him that he would find out later. She asked Tom if he was into Tom Petty. He answered that he likes some of his stuff but he doesn’t follow people.

            Bänoo came to the mic and announced that there was Middle Eastern food on the table at the back. It smelled delicious but I don’t like to eat directly before performing and I also prefer to eat when I’m relaxing at home and it’s a part of every day that I look forward to. Tom asked Sozan Jamil, the woman who’d brought the food if it was vegan but she said it wasn’t. I could smell that it was delicious meat from where I was sitting. Tom seemed a bit disappointed that it wasn’t vegetarian so I held out my arm and told him, “You can eat me! I’m a vegetable!” Elisha commented that she thinks there’s a song lyric that says that. Tom quoted something that I came up with years ago: “If vegetarians only eat vegetables, what do humanitarians eat?” Elisha said, “That would be a cannibal. There’s a band called Fine Young Cannibals.” She mentioned missing Honest Ed’s and I agreed that it’s weird to see the place gone but told her that I always hated shopping there. It was an annoying maze of a store with unhelpful employees and a lousy atmosphere. She mentioned Sam the Record Man and I commented that she was a little young to remember Sam’s. She assured me that she is older than she looks and told us that she’s late Generation X. That would put Elisha as having been born between 76 and 80. I see after later looking it up that Sam’s closed in 2007 but for some reason I’d associated it with a much earlier period.

            I asked Elisha if all of these references to an earlier time hinted that she was planning something nostalgic for the open stage. She said, “I’ll plead the Fifth on that!” I reminded her that we don’t have the Fifth Amendment in Canada. She said, “Good point!” Tom declared, “And no second amendment!” I added that we do have the Charter of Rights and Freedoms though, which is better than the US Constitution. The right against self-incrimination is covered by section 13 of the Charter.

            Bänoo welcomed us to the 62^nd Shab-e She’r event and International Poetry Month. She told us that Shab-e She’r began in November of 2012. Since Laboni Islam, who knows the land acknowledgement by heart, was not there, Giovanna Riccio read it from a page.

            Bänoo told us that the League of Canadian Poets had donated three poetry month posters and some poetry anthologies for her to give away and she let us know she would be doing that later on.

            Bänoo said that she tends to ask a Shab-e She’r newcomer to be the first reader and so she invited Jenna Tenn-Yuk to the stage.

            From Jenna’s poem – “I’ve always been drawn to her hands … Po Po … opens two packages of yeast … Hands that survived the Japanese invasion … She touches smells and tastes … filling her precise creation with seasoned meat …”

            Jovan read “Now” – “Now is ever fleeting … My hands sweat in anticipation … I think hard to keep these moments that I long for.”

            Next it was time for Elisha’s set but she had asked Bänoo to introduce her as Charlotte. She stood halfway up the steps to the stage with her back turned to the audience and spoke in an ordinary voice without the microphone, so it was very difficult to hear what she’d memorized so well. I wasn’t sure whether or not it was her intention to not be heard, but she confirmed to me later that part was meant to barely audible for metaphorical reasons – “I had a teacher who was a big fan of great Canadian … We didn’t have Rogers Centre …”

Charlotte turned around to face the audience at this point, and so it was easier to hear her as she related early memories of double standards about women and girls in the media – “During an era when Kim Campbell almost became the first female prime minister of Canada … she never signed up for a boxing course … A friend or family member needs support … Not my … our story … I speak on behalf of all invisible populations … strong survivors are out there … There’s many success stories out there … Tamara Burke … Me Too Movement … There’s also a movement for children in Pakistan … Thank you everyone! Thank you for helping me find my Hindi accent! That was really heavy! Let’s be calm and help some girl guides!” Then she pointed back towards the gym, “They’re over there!”

Norman Allan did a few short poems.

From “I Spoke” – “I spoke of the Trumping of America …”

            From “He Said, She Said” – “When was the world not at war? There were peaceful people around Fort Erie for 10,000 years …”

            Bänoo invited a young woman to come up and tell us about a cultural event that takes place once a month, featuring music, poetry, film, visual arts and dance. Every event has a theme and it usually takes place on the last Sunday of every month. It’s at Luanda House at 974 Bloor Street West near Dovercourt and it’s called Sarau Brazil. The next one is on April 29^th and the theme is St George.

            Then it was my turn. I did my song “Insisting on Angels”. I had done it before back in the fall but had screwed it up so badly that I was determined to bring it back and do it better – “ … All the women pass this pit / and they stoop / to look down / to admire its depth / and the beautiful clown / who sits at the bottom / of a sculpture of ice / hoping for fire / though he can’t pay the price / to be warmed by the furnace / of a girl in finite love / cause it burns / with the sureness / of a dry entry shove // But hope / is the dope / that I smoke / to get by / though it don’t kill the pain / and it don’t / make me high // Cause the love that we hope for / depends on who we’ve kissed / and if you’ve kissed an angel once / it’s on angel’s you’ll insist.”

            Bänoo decided at this point to do a poem responding to the vehicle attack and for this she chose a piece by, Hafez, the 14^th Century Persian poet referred to as “the mouthpiece of the divine” – “Last night I saw the angels knock at the tavern door … The residents of the pure, chaste heavens … could not bear the burden of trust … The war between 72 nations is all an excuse. They did not see the truth … Thank god there was peace between you and me … Fire is what fell on the moth’s wings … ever since they combed the tresses of speech.”

            Our first feature was Sozan Jamil, who began by offering condolences for the people that lost loved ones on Monday.

            For every poem, Sozan first offered a version in what I think she said were two languages. One was Arabic and I think the other was Kurdish. She also sang each time after speaking the poem in one of those languages. I assume the spoken parts were the actual poems and that the sung parts were something extra, but the singing was quite lovely.

            From “On One Foot” – “Looking for a sign from you … I realize that you are watching me from a distance …”

            From another poem – “He is a big monkey … He dances to their tunes … Take a picture of him and occupy the minds of Facebook users forever.”

            Another – “A tender shy man covers his heart with fig leaves … The tender handsome man … He covered himself … The talisman on his neck did not help him … “

            “Oh Promises” – “The infiltrated giant … in my revolution … The fair headed pharaoh falls on his knees … distrust … wallow in winter … The virgins … ripple … under the shadow of a dark, cold land.”

            Another – “You departed … You emigrated my ruins and sailed … Honey on my lips … Leave me in the hollow of your sea … in the halls of your white shirt.”

            Another- “Four men apply Islamic law … The punishment is to cut off his hand … They apply the law with the mother watching … A hand bomb falls on the ground … Two eyes overflow with tears … Two hands lift it.”

            Although I think that perhaps some of Sozan Jamil’s poems did not come through their translation undamaged, a lot of her poetry has some very creatively written phrases such as the one about a departing lover emigrating someone’s ruins.  I think that her strongest poem was the one with the references to being an immigrant to Canada, especially the part with the alliteration of “the fair headed pharaoh falls”. Another poem though has a quite powerful and chilling image when she describes “a hand bomb” falling to the ground. 

            We took a break and I went over to chat with Tom. He complimented my song and told me that he remembered having heard it before. I think I did perform a musically simpler version of “Insisting on Angels” a few times in the late 90s because my girlfriend at the time was particularly fond of it.

Norman Allan came up and also told me that my song was very good. Tom told Allan that he liked his poetry and the way he reads it in stereo, whatever that means. Norman went on to weave a distopian prophecy that he is certain that humanity is approaching a massive apocalypse that will leave only about a billion people on the Earth. I asked him what the nature of this cataclysm would be the result of disease gone out of control. Tom wondered if it would be something developed in a lab but Norman assured him that it would be an already existing contagion. I seemed to recall it mentioned that Norman has some kind of medical background and so I asked him about that. He confirmed that he’d studied neuroscience.

Asking this question online, what I’ve found is that it would be very difficult for most of humanity to be wiped out by disease because the human genome has wide variety and on top of that we have an efficient medical infrastructure in almost every populated area. Once the first signs of a plague were noticed in one area, quarantines would be put into effect to prevent it from spreading. People would be screened before international travel. A small percentage of the population would have immunity.

Allan said something about god but I argued that there is none, or if there were it wouldn’t give a fuck, citing the example of children getting cancer. He said that it depends on what one means by god. I assume Allan thinks the universe is intelligent but there’s little evidence of that either. Tom said something about karma, the existence of which I also challenged. He said that he just sees it as an extension of the law of cause and effect in physics but I argued that there is no indication that thoughts or feelings are really physical actions or even energies such that they would be affected by the laws of physics. The idea of cause and effect is just about the immediate equal and opposite reaction to an action, so how can that fit with the karmic idea that years later or even in another lifetime the reaction could come? I drew his attention to one of the church columns and told him that if I punch it there would be an opposite force but it would be the same if I punched it on purpose, accidentally or because I had Torrette syndrome. I think karma was just invented by nice losers as a way of making them feel better about nasty winners winning. I think that karma is a trap that causes selfishness. If you’re motivated by being punished for an action you’re not really looking at how the action can just be wrong in itself. Why should people need universal consequences to motivate them to do the right thing? Tom and I had to cut off our argument because the break was over.

Before the second feature we had a musical performance from Tahseen, who played what sounded like Middle Eastern music on a woodwind instrument that sounded like a flute but which he blew from the end, so I’m going to guess that it was a kaval.

The second feature was Spencer Gordon. He had trouble elevating the microphone stand, so I got up to help him. It took so long for me to loosen the nut on the clutch to telescope the stand that he started to say, “It’s okay!” but finally it opened it and I slid it up to his height.

Spencer’s first poem was “X-Ray” – “Not to be unflinching nor deeply felt … no stunning achievement nor moral intelligence … No image of life … No thoroughly disreputable object … No triumph of the imagination … Neither convincing nor enchanting … No rigour to test the limits of what it means to be human … No wild amoral joy … Containing nothing … No phosphorescence … without startling realities … Without the mystery of the erotic menace of absurdity.”

From “Conservative Majority” – “Life, friends, is a game of online bingo … Ordinary people love a game of ones and zeros … Life, friends, makes art a necessity … Extraordinary Canadians sculpt rivers … Only Canadians say “Aboobooboobooboobooba … Banff … Pierre Berton’s ghost makes the internet hum … Poetry … Upscale décor … A Brooks Brothers suit … I liked poetry on Facebook … I tagged poetry on instagram … I wonder if books is where walls go … Pose beside a seal while a poet holds your hammer …”

From “A Picture in Gaza” – “Time slowed down its paradise … Sometimes you are paralysed … perfect summer dress … Every day we conspire to kindness … Inside they’re babies just like us … A dog’s pink tongue spoons up a bowl of water … Maybe the faces of children are still sweet and noble enough …”

From Augury” – “According to the website that sums up the Bible … when a storm came upon them seizing their boat … there’s a white crucifix stuck in the dirt of Lost Hills, California … near the world’s largest parking lot … chalks up your Pepsi bottle … no one I love has papers or records … The last time I saw my cousin … we passed three white crosses … He said, ‘Look, here comes the rain’ … The showers through the hills … in the wisdom of your water spouts … the earth is a killing brass pillow … I thought I was looking at the National Enquirer that bragged about Trump … Places you take Greyhound … dogs curled up on metal … My forehead pressed to glass … for the first time I tried on a prayer … The first thing is that we are alone and god hates poor people.”

            From “Ticker Tape” – “The Proline Auto Service used to say … outside Woolworths … More humorously, across Canada the Future Shops are closed permanently … wrapping halos of woe around the white peeling windows … Chiquita boxes filled to the top with Michael Buble CDs … Walmart Express stayed open just long enough … You work in fast food, you’re hungry … Zellers turns to Target … cradled by milk boxes … like Dominoes in Jeffrey Plaza … There is no system to replace the ruined system … severed reveries of thousands …Ask those pushing for a more diverse sea suite … sprinkled with fake looking snow … Climate change is a Chinese conspiracy … Coal is making a comeback … What’s a poverty line? Video lottery machines … if you’re part of the 47 percent who can’t leverage … at $5.99 the parmigiana is too expensive … Kids toys line the block … There is no system to replace the ruined system … When we wake up we’re covered in cuts …”

            Spencer told us that his final poem, “When You Are Old” was written as a tribute to Yeats – “The second time you try, it’s all right … then the call comes back … Even drinking is easier … You lean … and say ‘Kiss me darling’ … The air doesn’t need friends or family.”

            A lot of Spencer Gordon’s writing sounds like it is made up of phrases that were composed separately and then assembled later to make a composition. Sometimes it works but sometimes it feels disjointed. He does have some interesting thoughts and some killer lines like “mystery of the erotic menace of absurdity”; “wrapping haloes of woe around white peeling windows” and “god hates poor people”, but I think a lot of his poems are cluttered with unnecessary images and phrases and he could benefit from having an editor, or if he has one already, a better one.

            Bänoo announced that the next Shab-e She’r will be on May 29 and then called Nick Micelli to kick off the second half of the open stage. Nick read a piece he’d written for a talk he gave at the Centre for Spiritual Living – “A flower growing to the sun … A vast field full of infinite vitality … illuminating the night of experience …”

            Someone (perhaps Bänoo) mentioned that yesterday was Shakespeare’s birthday. Actually, April 23^rd has just been established to be his birthday because he died on that date and it makes for a neat time rhyme. He was baptized on April 26^th though, so April 23^rd might either be the date of his naissance or pretty close.

            Melina Gianellia came to the stage in her bare feet and spent about three minutes setting up her poem, but she seemed like an easily distracted person. She told us that she had planned on performing with an accompanist that is both a musician and a physicist but he didn’t show up. She announced that she is circulating a petition to ask the city to put a bench in the park in her neighbourhood in honour of a friend that died. She talked a little more about herself and then gave a shout-out to her mother who was in the audience. Just before starting to read her poem she suddenly ran to her seat to get her mug of tea or whatever beverage it was. Then she ran back to read the poem – “Give the girl October please … her aching knees … Give her also a man to watch like a sunset … August … a scrambled mass of nuptials … a steel tang on the teeth … How to love a man while slaloming through catastrophe … the gold loops catching … We are enraptured … I am sandwiched by twin disasters … We scrambled up the Bluffs … her body … You the men who traded gold, remember her.”

            I assume that Bänoo did not consciously arrange it so that we heard from three poets of Italian descent in a row. The third was Giovanna Riccio, who reminded us that she is writing a book of poems about Barbie. She said she learned about the Barbie Inspiring Women series of dolls featuring historical figures such as Amelia Earhart and was inspired to write a new poem when she saw their depiction of Frida Kahlo – “A girl cannot be what she cannot see … Death … derailed her trolley … She munched on … reflection and ennui … loneliness as newfound agent … Frida Kahlo … Once off her back she kept company with … his labour adorning Mexico’s walls … Frida’s brush extracted art … Her body as biological epic … Her dress composed a mestizo manifesto … Neither Paris nor New York could occupy her palate … Stick figure arms … A big faced fake Frida … Barbie never admits her faulty logic … a hollow tribute, Barbie can only see.”

            Erin Kang read “Tapestries” – “When you see railroads do you see progress … When you see diverse cuisine do you see histories ripped apart … Could I get those without MSG … When you see me, do you see …”

            Then Erin sang a song in an East Asian language.

            Chai came to the stage with a poster that he’d won because Bänoo had asked one of the features for the month of their birth and when it turned out to be April she asked for an audience member that was also born in April and that had been Chai. He was also carrying a long stemmed pink rose because he had earlier been at Yonge and Finch where the vehicle attack had occurred the day before and a man that had brought flowers for the victims, since he could not see where to lay them, had begun giving them to other people that were gathered in the area. Chai asked everyone to stand for “a few seconds of silence”, but as soon as everyone was standing, Chai immediately said, “Thank you”. It was the shortest moment of reflection I’d ever experienced.

            Chai asked everyone if they’d heard of Colin Kaepernick and then asked George Elliot Clarke if anyone has ever written a poem about a knee. George started to respond but Chai didn’t really give him a chance to finish and expressed that he’d never heard a poem about a knee. Of course though there must be thousands of poems about knees. In fact, an online search of poems about knees turns up a million and a quarter hits and a search for poems about taking a knee shows twelve and a half million results, including a poem by George Clooney.

            From Chai’s poem – “It is time to take a knee … for Canada’s carbon footprint … It is time to alternate knees for health … It is time to switch knees sitting down for a pleasant lakeshore bike ride … It is time to take a knee for national boundaries … Breathe till you die … Take a knee and stand against racism … Take a knee to the NRA … Stand against climate change … Stand for fresh water … take a knee for closing before the blow-up of Bruce and Darlington … Take a knee … and kick their ass!”

            Bänoo called Laura De Leon to the stage but she hesitated because she had hoped that Anthony would play guitar while she read her poems. But Anthony had thought that Laura had signed him up to accompany her and to do his own set as well, whereas Bänoo had only put the two of them on the list together. Learning that, Anthony decided not to accompany Laura, and as far as I could see he disappeared, as he so often does. I think one of the reasons that Anthony is so often homeless is because he can’t wait more than a few minutes for anything before wandering off.

            Laura read “Narcissus”, which she reminded us is an epic tale of one soul submerged in self-love – “How much are these wishes? Do they resonate like songs? Visions of silks … return to the place that was luminous and deep …”

            Laura asks Anthony to back her up on her second poem, “Echo” but he is nowhere to be seen – She tells us that Echo is the shadow of Narcissus – “Perchance one wish may find you … An epiphany of lost years … I am your reflection … given a second sense … dividing spirits from the lake … spirit sucked into the deep vortex … the displacement of all … Perchance you will find me all dressed in black.”

            Laura asked, “May I call on Anthony?” but Bänoo thanked her in a tone that indicated her set was over.

            George Elliot Clarke read a poem from his book “Canticles I” a poem in the voice of African American poet Paul Laurence Dunbar, who was quite famous in his day for writing non-critical, light hearted, pastoral poems about slave life. That’s why he was particularly popular with white people. He was bothered by his success. George’s poem was called “Paul Laurence Dunbar Selects a Theme” – “The great poem should canvas Confederates … shatting upon their own dumb, doleful dead … Being a Negro (or “negativized”) poet / I combine John Donne and Johnnycake … My tinny, dubious poetics … (hardy as Hardy: / hardy har har) … I edge toward a Direction … /to recall the slaves’ edgy tongues / to bless their hollered plaints / an epic of hectic invective: / that’s what I should write … But I’m the (bastard) child of Lincoln … and “Moses” Harriet … I slash words into sheets crepuscular /My poesy is surgery done wrong … A jungle grammar, nothing papers over / I’m the damnable imp of damp ink … All cantankerous Cant / cos I can’t descant … Yessum, I trade on my molasses sweet brogue / sumpin southern, wily and whisky smoky / and pungent as tar and icy as mint julep / a smidgen of ochre moonshine / and pot liquor low down in the mix / That’s why my rhythm jitters illicit … It’s as hard for me to carry a tune / as it is for a nigger to carry an election … My faux pas mustn’t mislead talented (i.e., obedient) / Negroes … Come the future, my words will be so many / dim smudges / and scholars will ice-pick apart /my plangent lying guts … My flowers constitute / a pitiful worm-blown bouquet … Consider Mr. Whitman … as egalitarian as manure.”

            Sydney White began with “A Mother’s Prayer” – “The war in Afghanistan is ended … Well isn’t that splendid … The dead children, they know the truth … Let their blood stain my gold but not my sons.”

            From “Living on a Ledge” – “Missiles were sent as a message to Assad … alleged to have used chemical weapons … Politicians are clinging to ‘alleged’ by their fingernails.”

            From “A Matter of Degree” – “Ten killed by a man noticed to be strange … Those new to our shores know death … The million dead children in Iraq …we have blood on our hands … That justice is blind we are so lucky.”

            The last performer, as usual was Tom Smarda. He told us, “By the time I was 18 I saw 50,000 murders on TV”. From Tom’s song – “We’ve got to take the pressure off the Earth /We’re destroying anything of any worth … We’ve got to take the pressure off ourselves / Looks like we’re on a one-way road to hell / We’ve got to take the pressure off ourselves / and make it better … I know you can … You did it before / now do it again … We’ve got to take the pressure off our kids / Lord knows it’s got nothing to do with what they did … Doodoodoo doodoodoo doodoodoo doodoodoo doodoodoo … Leave some trees so we can breathe / Leave some water so we can drink / Leave us our minds so we can think …”

            I approached Tom afterwards and he asked me if I remembered his song and I confirmed that I’d heard it many times and think it’s one of his best songs. He had the false memory though of having written it in twenty minutes at song writing workshop that I’d organized. I assured him that I have never done a song-writing workshop. But it was impressive that he’d composed that piece in a third of an hour. I told him that the only time I’d ever sat down with the intention of writing a song about a particular topic was after Angeline one night when we were in bed together had asked me if I was ever going to write a song about her. I decided to give it a shot and the result was “Angeline”. Tom told me it’s a good song and he plays it sometimes himself. I said that Angeline thinks it’s the only good song I ever wrote.

            Tom asked me what I would be doing on the week before Mother’s Day. I answered that I would be waiting to be born. He said that he’d been invited to perform at a psychiatric survivors demonstration and wondered if I’d like to perform my song “Instructions for Electroshock Therapy”. I said I could dig the song up and dust it off.

            Nick Micelli came over to tell Tom and I that we’d both done great sets.

            I started packing my stuff up when Melina walked up to shake my hand and tell me that she rally liked my song a lot. Then she asked if I wanted to sign her petition. I told her that I wasn’t going to sign it because I didn’t know the guy. She responded that she totally understood and that she would do the exact same thing in my position. It turned out though that even though she’d claimed onstage that the person that died was her friend, she didn’t actually know him either. She only has friends that knew him. She had been moved though by his death which was the result of having been repeatedly stabbed in the face. She said she lived in a pretty rough neighbourhood and could see Bruce McArthur, the serial killer’s building from her window. I know he lived in Leaside. She told me again that she’d enjoyed my song and I was able honestly return the compliment. I thought her poem, once she got around to reading it was one of the best of the night. As I went over to meet Tom and Sydney and walk out with them I saw the reason why Melina had been running around in her bare feet all night. On the floor, under a chair in the second row was a pair of glittering gold high-heeled pumps.

            Sydney, Tom and I left the church together and stepped out into the rain. We said goodnight and I went to unlock my bike. Laura exited the church and for a minute she stood there as if waiting for someone, then she opened her umbrella and walked west. As she passed me I commented, “You can never depend on Anthony!” She just smiled and said, “I enjoyed your song about angels!” I thanked her but wanted to make sure she understood that the song wasn’t really about angels. I told her, “It’s like when you kiss someone and …” she tried to finish my sentence “and the angels approve!” “No.” “Angels in the poem are just a metaphor for an exceptional person. It’s not that angels actually exist.” “I think that angels exist!” “But you can’t prove it. You’ve never really seen one.” “That’s why we need faith!” “I don’t think there is any necessity to have any kind of faith in anything. There’s plenty of reality to enjoy.” I smiled and said, “Goodnight Laura” and rode home through the mild downpour.

            I had a late dinner and watched an Alfred Hitchcock Hour teleplay starring Bruce Dern, playing a psychopath like he does best. Stella is serving her peach farmer husband Emory a big breakfast when she looks out and sees a drifter walking down the road. She suggests that he hire him to help pick his peaches. The hobo comes up their driveway and Emory goes out to greet him. He offers him half the wage any other farmer would ask but Jesse takes the job anyway. As soon as Stella sees Jesse she realizes they have made a mistake in hiring him. She senses that he is evil and she is right. He tells her later that he took the job because he sensed her fear from the road. Stella has a pet squirrel that she loves and on his way out to the orchard to start work, Jesse kills it. Whenever Emory is not around, Jesse intimidates and plays on Stella’s fears. Emory will not fire him though because he wants to get his peaches picked. Stella begins to understand that Emory cares more about Stella’s function as a cook and homemaker than as a loving wife and this is why they’ve never had children. One night while Jesse is sitting and falling asleep while listening for the radio weather report, Stella packs a suitcase and sneaks out the bedroom window, but Jesse grabs her. She screams but Emory doesn’t wake up. Jesse taunts her and makes her stand by the window looking in and screaming for Emory’s help but her husband does not stir. Finally Stella grabs Jesse’s knife and attacks him. He manages to avoid being slashed but he runs away and drives off in Emory’s truck, loaded with peaches. Stella goes into the house and discovers that Emory had been awake all along and had been too afraid to help his wife. She takes Jesse’s knife and kills him, and then she calls the police to tell them that their hired hand murdered her husband.

Toronto Needs Vehicle-proof Barriers Between the Sidewalks and the Streets

            Before I went to bed just after midnight on Monday morning, the bold raccoon that lives across the street had come out to lap up the blonde circle of grain that someone had scattered to feed the birds near the right side of A+ Sushi & Bibim. It didn’t even bother it as people walked by except when one guy turned the corner with out looking and walked straight towards the coon. The animal moved away and the man veered around but after a cautious few seconds the unshy procyon returned to finish its midnight snack.

            In the afternoon I started seeing notices by some of my Facebook Friends marking themselves as safe “during the auto-pedestrian collision at Yonge Street and Finch Avenue”.  I didn’t really understand what it was about.

            That afternoon I eschewed another shirt layer and went for a bike ride. This time I only had my tank top underneath my motorcycle jacket but it was still too warm for a long bike ride. I might wait until shorts weather arrives before I venture out to Scarborough again. I did go a little further to Sherbourne, then I turned and headed back west, going south on Spadina to Queen and then west again to stop at Freshco on the way home to buy more grapes.

            When I got home I learned the reason for my Friends having marked themselves safe. Someone had lost his mind and taken a rented van onto the sidewalk, using it to kill ten pedestrians.

            I think that what is needed are metal posts dividing the sidewalk and the street so that vehicles can’t cross over, but people can still walk between if they need to cross the street or get into a car.

            That night I watched a bizarre, clever, funny and twisted Alfred Hitchcock Hour teleplay entitled “See the Monkey Dance” starring Roddy McDowell as George, who is on his way to the country to the country for a weekend with the beautiful wife of a wealthy man. During a brief station stop, George calls his lover to tell him he’ll be there soon, but when he returns to his compartment there is a stranger, also unnamed (played by Efrem Zembalist Jr. speaking in a fake British accent) that is now sharing the space with him. George begins to read a book but the stranger remarks that his behaviour is typical. He asks, “So you’re going to read are you?” “I beg your pardon?” The stranger repeats his question mockingly and adds, “I said, as you well know, so you’re going to read are you?” “I was thinking of it.” “Typical! Here it comes!” “If you don’t mind!” “If you don’t mind, right on cue! No I don’t mind! It’s probably all for the best! Typical!” “What is so typical, if I may ask?” “Ask away!” “Well?” “Well what? You were going to ask me something. You said, if I may ask. You are typical. That’s what is typical!” “Now just exactly how do you know that I am typical?” “Because everything you do is just what one would expect you to do.” “All right then, I am typical. Now that’s just one more thing in life that we shall have to put up with, isn’t it? Now …” “Here is comes!” “If you don’t mind …” “If you don’t mind! It used to be frightfully upper class, if you don’t mind. An aristocratic approbation, ever so genteel. If you don’t mind! But actually right now my boy it’s become rather vulgar and I’d rather you didn’t use it, if you don’t mind!” “Now look here, will you please tell me if you have decided to annoy me until we reach the next station? Because if so I shant try to read at all!” “I’m not trying to annoy you!” “Well, let me put it this way, you have succeeded without trying!” “But I certainly didn’t think I was annoying you!” “Well you were!” “But I’m not now am I?” “Would you like something to read or are you too drunk?” “I’m not drunk!” “Well then you should see a psychologist!” “I have something to read, thank you!” “All right then why don’t you read it?” “Very well!” The stranger opens his briefcase and says, “You don’t have to take that attitude!” In the case is a book, beside which is a revolver, which George does not see. The stranger takes out the book and closes the case, declaring, “It’s typical of your kind to be rude to strangers!” and then he begins to cry. “Are you all right?” “Yes!” “Are you sure?” “Yes! I’m sorry I annoyed you. I’m really not like that. Please forgive me!” “That’s quite all right!” “I work too hard you see?” “Oh, that’s a common fault these days.” “When the pressure comes off I have a tendency to go boyishly hysterical.” “I see.” “I’ve been to the psychologists and they say it’s a perfectly normal reaction to my sort of work.” “I see.” “I’m dreadfully sorry!” “Oh that’s quite all right!” “I’m a physicist.” “Oh, how interesting!” “I’m afraid that’s all the ministry will allow me to say about it.” “I’m in the brokerage business myself. The city.” “Ow!” “Oh, nothing but high pressure! I don’t think I could stick it myself these days if I didn’t have a little place in the country I could go to, near Landrin!” “Near Landrin?” “Yes.” “That’s a coincidence! I have a place myself near Landrin!” “Really!” “Yes! Isn’t it a charming little town?” “Oh now, I said that I had a place near Landrin. Actually, that does make it sound rather grand, doesn’t it? Really, you see, well, I have a caravan.” A caravan is what we in Canada would call a trailer. “I have it parked on the edge of a field over the town …” “A caravan?” “Yes.” “You have a caravan?” “Yes.” “Isn’t that a laugh?” “Well I don’t use it very often! Well I don’t see what there is that’s so f8nny about having a caravan however!” “No, no, no! The fact is I have a caravan too!” The stranger says that his caravan is also on the edge of a farm. When George names the farmer the stranger claims to be also on the same property. When George names the part of the farm he’s on the stranger says he’s in the same place. George says the caravan belongs to him but the stranger says the farmer is leasing the caravan to him. The stranger insists that it’s also his caravan. George starts to realize the stranger is crazy. The stranger says, “You’re pretending to own my caravan just to see the monkey dance!” George says there are yellow curtains on the window that he put up himself. The stranger shouts, “I put those curtains up!” “Your repeating my own words back to me. You’re crazy! I have the key! Would I have the key to your caravan?” The stranger searches his own pockets and asks accusingly, “How did you get that key? When you lit my cigarette you picked my pocket didn’t you? Give me that key you swine!” They stand and fence, George with his umbrella and the stranger with his cane, but George pokes him with the umbrella and he falls back to the bench, clutching his stomach.  The train pulls into Landrin and George gets out. The stranger follows him, limping. On the edge of town the stranger steals a shovel that is sticking out from a construction site beside the path. George arrives at his caravan, goes inside and locks the door. The stranger gets there a few seconds later and in front of the caravan begins to dig with the shovel. George opens his window and asks, “What are you digging that hole for?” “I’m digging this hole for you George.” “For me?” “I may dig another for your girlfriend, but I haven’t made up my mind about that yet.” “What girlfriend?” “She’ll be along in a little while.” “Oh, all right then, I do have a girlfriend! What business is it of yours? Oh! I suppose that I must not bring my girlfriend into your caravan, is that it?” “It isn’t my caravan. I was just fooling you. I didn’t know where it was. I wanted to make sure you would lead me to it.” “Who are you?” “Take a guess George.” “Her husband.” The stranger just looks at him. After several minutes the grave-shaped hole gets deeper and George comes out of the trailer. “Look here old man, it was just one of those things and I’m awfully sorry that it had to happen.” “I’m going to kill you George. Shortly after, when she arrives, I may kill her as well.” George comes to the door with a bottle and two glasses. “Would you like a drink?” He begins to step outside but the stranger says he’d rather he didn’t come any closer. “Why?” Because you can run faster than I can and I don’t want you to get away as the last one did!” “Now see here!” “There’s a gun in this case! I’ll use it if you step out of that doorway! Is she nice to you by the way?” “If you love your wife how can you possibly ask me that?” “I merely ask because she treated her last boyfriend most abominably! Like he was some sort of animal! Earth under her feet! He felt sorry for him myself!” George looks shocked. “Oh, you didn’t know there’d been others. Come to think of it, it’s harder for a boyfriend to find that out than a husband, really! There’s so much ego involved in being a lover! A husband doesn’t have to go on proving anything. I set out to kill the last one and I certainly would have but for an unfortunate occurrence.” “What happened?” “I hadn’t practiced using the gun. I missed and hit him in the leg. Ironic, because I understand he’s got a limp today just like mine! Here, you dig for a while! Keep your mind off things!” “Me?” The stranger is pointing the gun at George. “Yeah, hop in there!” George reluctantly begins to dig, but in his anger he puts his back into it. He begins to try to reason with the stranger and tells him that we don’t kill the lovers of wives anymore. “A hundred years ago they thought of a woman as a profession, like your horse. If a man stole your wife or your horse you shot him, but not anymore. A man doesn’t own a wife today. More likely she owns him.” The stranger points the gun against and commands George to keep digging. The stranger hears the sound of a car approaching and thinks it’s their woman. He forces George into the trailer. George asks him how he knew about their weekend. He answers that he read George’s letter to her. George insists that he’s never written her a letter in his life. The stranger shows him the letter and when George sees it he smiles because it’s not his handwriting. The stranger begins reading it out loud and George tells him it sounds like the way she writes. The stranger asks, “Why would she write a letter to herself, sign your name and then go to the trouble of mailing it and have me find it?” “She knew you’d try to kill me. You’d hang if you killed me. That way she would be rid of both of us.” “It was the same last time! That other poor devil that I shot in the leg! It was a letter that time too!” George has decided he doesn’t want anything more to do with her and gets ready to leave. The stranger says, “When she does kill me, of course you’ll be involved again and I’ll apologize for that in advance.” George comes back in and asks, “How do you mean I will be involved again?” “You’re her boyfriend. You have a motive. They’re bound to suspect you. If I know her she’ll do her best to make it look as though you’re the guilty one.” “What are we going to do?” “We could kill her.” “That way we would be hanged.” “No, there’s another way. You know that steep hill leading down into the town? It’s a very windy and tricky road. That’s our solution.” Next we see the woman in her sports car on her way to George’s trailer as George hides in the bushes. She knocks and then enters the trailer only to find the stranger. She asks, “What are you doing here? Where’s George?” “George is gone.” “What do you mean he’s gone?” “I roughed him up a bit and he fled.” She laughs. “Who are you kidding? You couldn’t rough up a blanket, you coward!”  “We had a little talk and he left.” “If you’ve turned him against me I’ll kill you!” “He agreed that I have some prior rights to you, since your husband doesn’t go away so often.” “Any more nonsense from you and I’ll have my husband put a kink in your other leg!” Meanwhile, George is sabotaging the wheels on his girlfriend’s car. She leaves the trailer. George is back in the bushes. She drives away. Minutes later George and the stranger hear the crash. George asks, “What do we do now?” The stranger says he’s leaving but advises George to fill in the grave and to get rid of the parts that he’d removed from the woman’s car. George says, “Unless you help me I am going to tell the police that it was her husband that helped me!” “You do that George. You tell them that her husband gave you a hand.” “Who are you? You’re not her husband!” “Did I say I was?” The stranger leaves and George desperately tries to fill up the hole and bury the evidence, but two cops arrive just then and see everything.

            Patricia Medina played the unnamed wife. She was married to Joseph Cotton.

           

           

Pina

            After midnight on Sunday I watched a video of a panel discussion between Peter Boghossian, James Damore, Heather Heying and Helen Pluckrose at the Portland University campus. Boghossian teaches philosophy at PSU; Damore is the Google employee that got fired for writing the memo that criticized Google’s gender equal hiring goals; Heying and her husband Bret Weinstein were left of centre professors of Evolutionary Biology at Evergreen State College in Olympia Washington, but they quit in the aftermath of a major student protest that went on for several days. Their side of the story is that the administration gave the students too much power and it turned to anarchy. The student side is that Weinstein and some other professors would block the free movement of protesters and just start screaming at them and then he started slutting himself out to FOX News, which caused the far right to get involved and the protesters to receive death threats; Pluckrose is a self-described ex-feminist and exile from the humanities. She thinks that feminism has grown to wrongly try to be all things with the same rules for all women from white to black to transgender. She also finds irreconcilable contradictions in feminist attitudes like protesting the criticism of the way rape victims dress while refusing to criticize the use of the niqab in Islam.

            The panel discussion was mostly on the topic of gender diversity in the tech industry in light of Google’s firing of Damore. Damore wasn’t denying that gender bias exists in the industry but he asserted that there are biological differences between women and men that tend to make each better at different things. He said that Google should take those differences into account so that certain areas of specialty will be enhanced. But he admits that there are overlaps, so I don’t get why he bothered to specify gender at all. If most women have certain advantages in communication, publishing, art and health while some men do as well, why bother to talk about gender differences. If you open up areas taking advantage of certain human abilities the people with those abilities, regardless of gender, will gravitate to those areas.
            Heying pointed out that the percentage of female computer engineers at Google corresponds to the fact that 20% those with degrees in computer engineering are women. She and Damore seem to think that means that it’s okay to only have that percentage of female techs represented at Google. I’m not seeing the logic in that. They are claiming that it has nothing to do with social conditioning. I suppose that’s possible but if Google wants to draw from that 20% of graduates to make 50% of women they may prove that theory wrong. Heying argued that in Scandinavia where there is greater equity and choice of fields, only 20% of women tend to go into technology careers.

            Pluckrose has said a few things that seem a bit Islamophobic. She said that ex-Muslims should not be shut up for criticizing Islam. I’d say nobody should be shut up but really the only people that are going to make any great changes to any religion are the people that change it from within. Anti Muslim rhetoric from ex-Muslims tends to just become a feeding frenzy for racists.

            My head was full of arguments when I went to bed and so I think I only finally got to sleep around 4:00. When I got up at 5:00 I managed to keep myself going till 11:30 or so but then I had to take a siesta.

            I’ve noticed over the last week that there is a big raccoon living somewhere nearby the building directly across Queen Street from my place. It’s quite bold and comes out in the morning to go through the garbage bins beside the sushi place.

            That afternoon I took a bike ride. I didn’t wear my long sleeved shirt under my hoody but I still had my motorcycle jacket on top. I was still too overdressed to take a very long ride, so once again I just turned on Yonge and went home along Queen.

            That night I watched an Alfred Hitchcock Hour teleplay that was based on a story by Ray Bradbury and co-starring Pina Pellicer (one of the most beloved Mexican actresses of all time, who committed suicide at the age of 30, two months after this story aired).

            Pellicer played Maria, the wife of Juan Diaz. They are poor and he is selling candied skulls as the Day of the Dead celebrations approach. He suddenly realizes that he is dying and pays the graveyard owner, Alejandro, two years rent on a grave, telling him that his wife will continue to pay after that time. In addition to his graves, Alejandro also owns the catacombs where he mummifies and displays for tourists the corpses of those whose families can no longer pay the grave rent. Juan dies but after a year Alejandro cheats Maria, saying that Juan only paid for a year of grave rent. She has no money and so he digs Juan up and puts him on display in the catacombs. Maria and her oldest son come to steal Juan’s body. Alejandro is drunk and is frightened when the boy is carrying it because it looks like Juan is floating towards him of his own power. They take Juan home and set up their own museum featuring his mummified body and tourists give her money to see it. Juan’s last wish had been that he would like to be able to still help his family after he dies, and so Maria had made his wish come true.

           

           

Fake Baked Beans and Overheated People

            Outside the food bank on Saturday morning the regular crowd was there. We were all waiting for Martina to come around with the box of numbers for us to randomly pick. It was the first day in many months warm enough for bare handed reading and since I was finished with school till September I continued from where I’d left off last summer with Balzac’s “The Atheist’s Mass” in my dual language book of French stories.

            For the first half hour or so things were uneventful until someone arrived and took a spot in line near the front, explaining that he’d been there earlier. The big guy that had gotten angry at Bart’s verbal outbursts a few weeks before now blew up at the guy for allegedly butting in. It didn’t make any sense to me to get angry about places in line since we now had a random number system, so I said to the guy, “What difference does it make?” This caused him to go ballistic on me as he started yelling, “Mind your own fucking business! You’ve always got something to say! Last time it was about that schizophrenic guy! Just get out of my fucking face and leave me alone! I’m just here to get some help! I don’t need your bullshit!” Whenever I opened my mouth to try to reason with him he would just cut me off with, “I don’t give a fuck!” Finally I just old him to relax, but of course that’s one of the worst things one can say to an angry person. My daughter’s mother almost scratched my eyes out once when I told her to relax when she was mad.

            The prematurely white haired volunteer that sometimes drives the van came out to announce that somebody screwed up with the numbers and so this time everybody would have to remember their places in line. That rendered the conversation I’d attempted to have with the angry guy totally pointless from the get go. We all more or less found our places in line and waited.

            After the line had moved a couple of times I asked the door guy what happened to the numbers. He said he just couldn’t find them and the manager, Valdene hadn’t shown up, which is weird, since she’s the only person there that gets paid. I’d always been curious as to whether food bank management gets paid. He explained that she started getting paid in January because now they have extra money from the March of Dimes.

            When the young woman at the computer checked my name on the system I asked her if they were going to have the numbers back next week. She said, “We know where the numbers are but we just decided not to use them this time because there weren’t many people.” There were just as many people as usual so I don’t know what she was talking about and I’m not sure if she did either.

            The only volunteer working the shelves was the older Ukrainian lady and so I had to wait until she’d done a full cycle with the person ahead of me.

            I hadn’t been there for a couple of weeks because I was preparing for an exam the previous Saturday. I noticed that they’d rearranged the shelves a bit and removed one entirely.

            On top of the first shelf there was a plastic jar of applesauce with raspberries.

            From lower down I got three oats and chocolate chewy bars.

            The bottom of the first shelf now held the cereal that used to be on a shelf behind Angie, but that shelf had been replaced by a big fridge with glass doors. The only cereals though were boxes of Chex, which I’ve never liked very much, so I didn’t take any.

            At the top of the second set of shelves was a small can of Bush’s “baked” beans. Most makers of canned beans in Canada don’t pretend on the labels that their beans are baked when they are really steamed. Bush’s is a Tennessee based company that falsely markets their beans as baked. There are actually only two companies in the United States that sell canned beans that have been baked in pots inside of large ovens. Those are B&M in Maine and S&W, a Del Monte acquisition in California.

            Further down I grabbed a can of chickpeas and below that a tin of sardines.

            There were lots of canned soups but I picked a carton of market vegetable soup.

            I stood for about ten minutes in front of Angie’s dairy section waiting for Angela. At first she was in the back and then she was a couple of meters away and it seemed she was instructing Sylvia to separate her rutabagas and grapefruits. I was physically patient but what she was doing didn’t seem necessary. A one point she said to me, “I’ll be with you in a minute hon!” Five minutes later she was back at her station.

            She offered me milk but all she had was 2% and I don’t know if it’ll make a difference but I’m trying to cut my fat intake so I’ve decided to only drink 1% from now on. Angie shrugged and said, “Ohhkay.” Then she asked me if I wanted a one litre chocolate coconut smoothie. She assured me that it was very good, so I accepted it. She also gave me two cups of fruit bottom yogourt and two half-cup blocks of Becel margarine. Instead of the usual bag of four eggs I got three large ones. The final dairy item was perhaps the most decadent thing I’ve ever gotten from the food bank: a pressurized can of dark chocolate-caramel whip-cream.

            Sylvia had seedless cucumber, a bag of potatoes, small orange, yellow and red peppers, onions and a frozen Wageners Black Forest style ham. I assume that ham producers not of the Black Forest are legally required to put the word “style” in front of the product, because, since 1997 “Black Forest Ham” has been a protected designation of origin in the European Union as is Sangria, Prosciutto and Stilton. It has always struck me as odd though how different the taste is between Black Forest Ham and Black Forest cake.

            I walked out the door but then I remembered that I was out of bread, so I went back in to see what they had. The only loaves on offer were white buns and multigrain baguettes, so I took a pass.

            I hope the food bank fixes the problem with the numbers next time. The random system is nice because one doesn’t have to worry about remembering one’s place in line or whether someone else has jumped ahead.
                         As far as the food goes the shelves continue to be well stocked and there’s lots of protein and dairy.

There’s nothing much that can be done about the occasional volunteer shortage like this time, but if the manager is getting paid now it seems to me that she should be there when the food bank is open.

After the food bank on Saturday I rode immediately down to the No Frills at Jameson and King. The only fruit I bought were some strawberries. I picked up some 21-grain bread, because 20 grains are just not enough. I grabbed some old cheddar and three litres of 1% milk. They had natural peanut butter on sale for $1.88. It’s usually more than twice that price so I couldn’t pass that up.

I had samosas for lunch. I downloaded Beck’s first album and listened to half of it. I’d heard a couple of songs before and seen him on television a few times but I’d never dug into his discography. I think he’s a pretty impressive songwriter and a dynamic performer.

I took a bike ride in the afternoon. On the way up Brock Avenue I stopped to look through some boxes of stuff that had been thrown out. There were mostly books and a few kitchen items such as glass containers. The only thing I took was a large hardcover volume entitled “Abnormal Psychology”. It looks like it served as a course textbook. It’s in excellent condition other than the yellow highlighting in the text.

At Spadina and Bloor there was a jazz duo of a man playing the drums and a woman on saxophone.

I considered riding as far east as the bridge over the Don Valley but there were still some puddles from melted snow, plus I felt I was overdressed for a longer ride. I’ll start going out to Scarborough again soon but meanwhile just riding as far as Yonge and Bloor every day is lots more exercise than I had all winter.

I rode down Yonge to Queen and stopped again at Homesense because I’d gotten the sense that when I’d gone in there before the salesperson had misunderstood the name of the glassware that I’d asked about. They had a pretty good selection, but no Picardie tumblers.

That night I watched an Alfred Hitchcock Hour teleplay starring John Cassavetes and Ann Sothern. Cassavetes plays a convict named Rusty, whose cellmate, Mike, who stole $56.000 before he was caught, is now dying of pneumonia. Rusty, who will be getting out soon, tries to get Mike to tell him where the money is, but all he says before he dies is that the money is still with his partner, Pete, who is dead. He goes to the small town where Mike left his girlfriend, Helen, whom Mike had described as the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. Rusty finds Helen (a little too coincidentally) working as a waitress in the first hash joint he goes for lunch. Helen is nothing like Mike described her. She is frumpish and wears glasses. They get together to look for the money and become lovers but more for the sake of convenience than attraction. They go to a rat infested fishing shack that had been owned by Pete. Between the ceiling and the roof Rusty finds the strongbox containing the money beside Pete’s skeleton. They both planned on double crossing one another but Helen swings first with an iron bar. Rusty wakes up with his arms tied behind him to a support beam and with both his ankles tied together. Helen tells Rusty that she’d deliberately become unattractive to throw the cops off and she the breaks her glasses under her foot go prove she doesn’t need them. She stuffs all the money in her pockets, gags Rusty and his about to leave the shack when Rusty lifts both his feet to kick her in the ass. She tumbles forward and is impaled on a spike. Rusty is trying futilely to break free just as the rats come dropping all around him from the ceiling.

What Did My Bike Do In Thunder Bay?

            On Friday I tried to trace the serial number (J56986 though the second symbol only looks like the bottom of a 5 or a reverse “c”) of my bike but I don’t think it’s possible to figure out the brand from the serial number. The “J” might indicate the month that the bike was made and the 69 might be stating the year, but I don’t know for sure. That serial number might exist for several bikes made by different companies. I’ve mentioned before that there is a sticker from a place called the Cycle Shack on Cumberland Street in Thunder Bay. I know that the Cycle Shack no longer exists and it’s fairly safe to assume that it existed before the internet because any store like that would have some sort of web track from having been mentioned by someone online. My writers open stage, The Orgasmic Alphabet Orgy, for instance, ended in 2000 but there are still references to it online.

            Something I only recently noticed on the sticker is that The Cycle Shack was a division of the March of Dimes. That would mean that The Cycle Shack was a non-profit, for charity bike shop, which would mean that my bike was probably already second hand when it was sold there. I wondered if the March of Dimes would have records of the bikes that they sold at that store, so I sent them an email to ask. It’s a long shot but they’ll probably get back to me next week with some kind of answer, which will probably be that they have no idea.

            I took a bike ride in the afternoon but only as far as Bay and Bloor and then south to Queen and home again. There were still too many puddles from melted snow on the streets to venture too far. Queen Street has some pretty deep potholes and cracks.

            I watched an Alfred Hitchcock Hour teleplay starring Phyllis Thaxter as Elsa, the wife of Keith, who has forced her to live in a beautiful rented beach house, which she hates because the house gives her the creeps and she thinks the ocean sounds are mournful as death. and wants to move back to their apartment in Pennsylvania. Another problem with the house is that it’s damp and so Keith claims he is fixing that problem by digging a hole in the basement for drainage. Keith loves the house and the location and is planning to buy it whether Elsa likes it or not. The owners of the house are another unseen married couple that have rented the house out because the wife also refuses to live there and left her husband over it.

The beach is frequented by young people that are always around surfing, dancing and partying. Keith refuses to act his age and still wants to run around with pretty young things.

When Keith finishes the hole in the basement he calls Elsa down to marvel at his accomplishment. She tells him she’s glad he’s enjoying such a sense of accomplishment but tells him to fill it up and take her home. He says he will and then kills her with his shovel. He buries her there and then cements the floor above her grave. A few days later the police arrive with pickaxes to tear up the floor. Keith asks how they found out. The sergeant answers, “Your wife told us.” “My wife told you?” “She tried to write Mrs Wilson, the co-owner of the house but she couldn’t find any change of address for her down at the post office. She was supposed to be in Texas but all of her mail was being forwarded to Mr Wilson in Seattle. Your wife told us that any fool know that if a woman leaves her husband she wouldn’t let him get her mail. That proves that Mrs. Wilson is dead and Mr. Wilson must have killed her.” When the cops questioned Mr Wilson he broke down and confessed that he’d buried his wife in the cellar. Just then one of the cops calls up from the basement that they’ve found something and they’d better bring Keith downstairs. 

Peter Fonda

            On Thursday, since school was over until December I wanted to make sure my bike was in tune for the longer rides I would be taking so I went to Bike Pirates at noon. The bicycle I’d built last spring held up fairly well through its first winter and I hadn’t had so much as a flat tire for more than half a year. This is a stark contrast to the problematic hybrid that I’d ridden for the ten years leading up to that. The brakes have getting pretty squeaky in wet weather lately but other than that I’ve been remarkable problem free.

            At around 11:00, an hour before Bike Pirates was scheduled to open, I started feeling sleepy, so I lay down with the aim of taking a half hour nap. I woke up at 11:41 and rushed to get ready to go. I made sure to put on an old pair of pants rather than the new ones I bought on Boxing Day. I arrived in front of the shop at five minutes before opening time but I was surprised to be the only one waiting. Den opened up and I was the only one there for the first few minutes.

            I spent about an hour with a rag, a toothbrush and some spray cleaner getting all the winter guck off my bike (That would be a good name for a cleaning product: “Guck Off!”).

            I overheard another customer talking to a volunteer about getting a lot of flat tires. I noticed that his tires were the wider, mountain bike style tires and I told him that in my experience I had a lot more flat tires with wide tires. I opined that it seems mathematically logical that if one were covering twice as much space with one’s tire one would have twice as much chance of getting a flat. The older volunteer nodd3d and agreed that what I was saying made sense but the bike owner told me that in his experience, because of his weight, he has more flats with narrower tires. I maintain that my logic is sound on this point though. But later when I checked online, according to the bike experts on the internet I am wrong about that. A fatter tire apparently has a better chance of distributing its weight over a sharp object on the road. The example that was that going over a sharp object with a wider tire is like lying on a bed of nails while going over it with a narrower tire would be like standing on a bed of nails. I can see how that’s true if both tires make contact with the sharp object but still the odds of hitting the object would be diminished by half with a twice as narrow tire. Others online arguing with the other guy agreed with me and someone added that narrower tires tend to be harder and can resist puncture and when a harder tire hits the edge of a piece of glass it can actually crunch away the sharp edges.

            As I was cleaning the back of my bike it seemed that the silver paint was combing off to reveal green paint underneath. I asked Den if the spray cleaner strips paint. Of course I hadn’t given it much thought, since if it could strip paint one wouldn’t be using it to clean one’s bike. He answered that it’s pretty mild, plus somebody has already watered it down to stretch it out. He pointed out that the paint looks like it’s peeling on parts of my bike. That’s probably due to salt. He commented that I have a good bike frame though. I told him that a couple of volunteers have told me that they think it might be a Mercier but I’ve never been able to tell what kind of frame it is, besides it being French. He informed me that I could just check the serial number. I didn’t think there was a serial number on it but he found it at the back left corner of the frame where the wheel fits in. It’s J56986, although I’m not sure if that’s a 5 because it has no top but the bottom looks like a backward “c”. He said I have to specify that it’s a bicycle because he was once checking the serial number of a piano and got a motorcycle.

            After I finished cleaning the bike I checked the brakes and gears and found the chain wasn’t dropping to the lowest gear. A volunteer told me to loosen the H screw on the derailleur and that fixed the problem. He also warned me that one of my back brakes was too close to the tire. He lowered it for me.

            I was only at Bike Pirates for an hour and a half, and I didn’t get any parts from them but I dropped in a $20 donation.

            I went home and washed my hands but there was still some grease. I find though that if one’s hands are dirty and one has lunch, if one eats with one’s hands a lot of the grease comes off.

            In the afternoon I took my first recreational bike ride since last September.  Don’t know if it was my imagination but it seemed to me that my bike was running more smoothly after the cleaning I’d given it. The weather was still a little chilly but the snow was melting and leaving lots of puddles to avoid. There was especially a lot of water along the Bloor bike lane. I decided not to do any long bike rides while the ground is wet, so I went south on Yonge Street where the construction just south of Bloor had created even more holes for melted snow to accumulate and the muddy kind too.

            When I got to Queen Street I thought I’d stop at Home Sense to see if they had the kind of Picardie glass I’ve been looking for. A salesperson with high hair met me almost at the door and asked if he could help me. I asked for Picardie glasses but he immediately said they don’t have them. I asked where I might find them and he told me the LCBO. He told me there was one at Yonge and Dundas. I rode up there but couldn’t see a liquor store. I went into the Eaton’s Centre and walked for a couple of minutes but had a feeling I was going in the wrong direction. I walked half a block north on Yonge and then back down to go a full block east. Finally I went into the Wine Rack and asked a salesperson if he knew where the liquor store was. I turned out to be just one door west of Yonge but it was hidden by scaffolding because of construction. The sales guy I spoke to seemed to think I was asking for Bacardi glasses. I corrected him but I’m still not sure he understood. He said sometimes they give glasses away with bottles. It occurred tome that the salesperson at Homesense might have also thought that I’d meant Bacardi and that was why he sent me to the liquor store.

            I went back down to Queen and headed towards home. The temperature had dropped considerably since the beginning of my ride. I went into Freshco where I got bananas, grapes and yogourt.

            When I got home I cut up the chicken I’d bought the day before and roasted it.

            I watched the first teleplay of the third and final season of The Alfred Hitchcock Hour. This one starred Peter Fonda and it was interesting because it featured one of the most perfect murders I’d seen in a story. A drunken old man named Stoney Liken gets kicked out of a bar because he’s been arguing with a rich and powerful local politician named Riley McGrath. He staggers back in though and challenges McGrath again, this time not only with words but also by shaking two bottles of beer and spraying them all over McGrath. McGrath pulls out a gun and kills Liken. Because of how much power McGrath has in the town all of the witnesses lie and testify that McGrath shot Stoney in self-defence. When Liken’s sons, Verge and Wilfred are informed of their father’s death, Verge Liken (played by Fonda) does not believe it was self-defence. He tells Wilfred that he is going to kill McGrath and begins following the politician to learn his habits. He learns that McGrath gets a hair cut once a week whether he needs one or not and he also learns that he has a bad heart. Wilfred, Verge’s mentally challenged brother is frightened by Verge’s obsession because Verge is the only family he has left and if Verge gets killed he will be alone with no one to take care of him. Wilfred goes to talk to McGrath and naively informs him that his brother wants to kill him. He figures that if McGrath just talks to Verge they could straighten things out. McGrath gives Wilfred $500 out of sympathy for the loss of his father. When Wilfred comes home with the money, Verge smiles and tells Wilfred that he now knows what he’s going to do. Verge tells Wilfred that he’s going to go away to Charleston for six months and he’s going to go to school to learn how to kill McGrath. Wilfred is surprised that there’s a school for killing in Charleston. Verge arranges for their two aunts to come and take care of Wilfred while he’s gone and makes him cross his heart and promise that he won’t tell anyone why Verge has gone to Charleston. After six months McGrath receives from Verge by special delivery from Charleston a large wreath with the words rest in peace. This prompts McGrath to have his henchman (played by George Lindsey. This is the third Alfred Hitchcock Hour appearance by Goober) to drive out and fetch the brother. Goober beats up the brother to get him to tell him what Verge is doing in Charleston but he won’t talk. McGrath goes for his weekly haircut and finds that there is a new assistant barber. We recognize the barber as Verge and it suddenly becomes clear that what Verge had been doing in Charleston was going to barber school. The politician has never met Verge Liken so he doesn’t know who is shaving him. Verge tells his boss that they are out of bay rum and witch hazel and so he goes out to buy it. Verge locks the door and gives McGrath a shave. After a while he tells McGrath that he is the son of the man he murdered. He hints that he is going to cut his jugular and makes several moves to indicate that with his very sharp razor, but the politician dies of a heart attack. The owner of the shop has been trying to get in, but the door is locked, so he calls the sheriff. Verge calmly lets everybody in and the sheriff tells Verge that he’s placing him under arrest for the murder of Riley McGrath. But Verge reminds the sheriff that there is no law against giving a man a shave and he reveals that McGrath hasn’t got a scratch on him.

That seems like it might be a perfect murder. Nobody can prove that Verge caused McGrath’s heart to give out.

Peter Fonda sure was one skinny guy in 1965.