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Giant Newsboy Cap

Saturday, I stopped in the Timothy’s coffeeshop across from the Bloor-Yonge subway stop. There was a long line of people who all seemed to be the sort who sit on museum boards. At one table, a group of wealthy, middle aged museum board types talked cheerfully about one man’s $1,500 digital camera, while an obviously hauled - along - in - protest twenty two year old sat staring at the table in a trance of boredom that I bet required shaking when everyone else was ready to go.

Behind me, two French women chattered about…well, despite my best attempts, all I could discern were words like “”always”" and “”too much”" and “”not”". I know it’s a cliché, but to my ears, French is truly the most beautiful language, so I was thoroughly enjoying myself. The man who owns this particular Timothy’s makes every customer feel as if he has opened the store that day solely in the hopes that they might stop by. He speaks flawless English with an Arabic lilt, so I was as surprised as the French women when he greeted them with, “”Bonjour, mesdames. çava?”" in what sounded to me like a perfect accent. The two women gave twin cries of delight and proceeded to order in French.

And that is some fucking customer service, people.

One of my worst habits when I’m with Paul is wandering off in my own head. We’ll be standing there waiting for the subway train, and he’ll be telling me a story, and I’ll suddenly realize that I’ve missed half of it because I’ve spotted a man striding by in a sort of giant newsboy cap, in which I know his prodigious hair is piled in a luxurious mess and I’m wishing I had the guts to ask for a photo.

The subway stations attract the sorts of ads that you’d see in the back of a TV Guide. Advertisers reason that if the potential customer can’t afford a car, they can’t afford nice clothes, or a house, or fancy restaurants. TTC riders can, apparently, afford cellphones, condos, and we soak our financial woes in the soothing broth of Television. Would you like some lovely Spam with your Television, sir? I’ve warmed it up just for you. Throw away your glasses forever in just two weeks! Conquer your impotence problems, I have! Attend our Philosophy School and change your life!

It was the Philosophy School ad that I was looking at the other day (as Paul was telling me a story, again, as usual) that made something in my head go ZING. The ad ran something like this: “”Tired of worries and anxieties? Distracted? Connect to the present moment.”"

And although I never do this, I whipped out my notebook and wrote that down, in all capital letters. Connect to the present moment. It’s been a helpful mantra that has brought my attention back to what’s actually happening in my life, instead of what happened four years ago, or Kite’s visit next week. Kite once noted, amused, that Todd and I only ever disagree about what might happen in the future. Laughing, we had to agree.

This morning I began watching Wandafuru raifu, a Japanese movie about a group of people who have just died, and are allowed to choose one memory to take with them to the afterlife. Thus far, I’m enjoying it tremendously. It brings up, of course, what memory I would take with me. I’m sure there are a hundred others equally wonderful, but what came first to my head was this one, that Todd wrote about in January of 2001.

There was a point, perhaps the first day he could really go out as his cold had subsided. We dressed him warmly and went out into the crisp air (it was in the teens that day). The sunlight was dazzling - reflecting off the snow, which had turned into a hard crust that only Sage and I could break through. Sage played in the tipi and I gathered wood outside. Paul was running around yelling exuberantly and chasing Shelly the cat who seemed to be playing with him - trotting just ahead of him and looking back to see what he was doing. At one point, he yelled to me “”Look Daddy, I’m sparkling”" And I think he really was!

Don’t call your MOM.

A Secret Surprise