61 Inch TV

As I was walking down the hall to go outside, I had to plaster myself against the wall to allow three men by, carefully cradling a 61″ (Five feet, people! Five feet, ONE INCH! Costs over one thousand dollars a foot!) television set, making sure it didn’t fall off the dolly on the way to the moving van.

Moving Guy 1 You just know where this tv is going there’s going to be beer and a football game.

Moving Guy 2 I’m just glad it isn’t mine. Forty inches for two thousand bucks was enough money for me to spend.

Paul had his very first sleepover this week. It began as going to a friend’s house and segued into “Oh Mama, please can I watch Star Wars (1977) as a special occasion,” and after consulting Todd I said yes. I mean, even though I was right, and the violence was as toned down as I thought it would be (and yeah, I did make a compromise so that he could hang out with his friends, something I ethically believe is wrong, and I’m getting a little depressed talking about this) I’m still not thrilled that he’s now seen the stupid thing. (Incidentally, I’d forgotten just how fucking boring Star Wars really is - I should have been clued in by the last time I watched it at age 5, and I fell asleep about thirty minutes in, which was ten minutes more than I could manage Monday night. I mean, for godsakes, I’ve seen more interesting characters and plots on the notoriously low-budget ’80s British sci-fi show Blake’s 7.)

After I agreed to the movie, we were asked to stay the night and Paul, jumping up and down, said yes instantly. The mom showed me the room I’d be sleeping in, which was pink, with various shades of pink, and for the relief of the eye, Barbie flesh-tones.

Sage, wailing But if I sleep in here, I’ll turn into a girrrrrrrl.

Mom, laughing I hate to tell you this, Sage, but I think you might already be one.

At around 10 p.m. I suddenly remembered that we’d committed to seeing a play first thing in the morning on the other side of the city and I told the mom we’d probably be gone before she woke up. And that’s how we ended up walking to the bus stop before dawn in the mind-numbing cold while I wondered if we were too far away from the house to go back and get the gloves I’d forgotten. Paul was the youngest person on the bus by thirty years, and we got lots of strange looks. Paul looked exhausted and spent the bus ride staring at his knees. I had the kind of hair Robert Smith of the Cure sported in 1986, which would have looked great with some black eye makeup and a black trenchcoat, but not so much with a shirt covered in chicken risotto babyfood from the night before when I’d helped to feed my friend’s baby. Everyone on the bus looked like they were coming up with some really interesting stories about how we’d ended up there.

We got home, showered, ate breakfast, got to the play, then home again where I lay on the couch for the next three hours.

Sage …so after that I finally revived.

Homeschooling Mom Wow, sounds like you guys had quite the night.

Paul And while Mama was on the couch, I got to watch THREE MOVIES!

Sage, rolling her eyes Right. I wasn’t gonna tell you that part.

Homeschooling Mom They always tell the embarrassing parts, don’t they.

Sage At least it wasn’t, “Mama homeschooled me by letting me watch three movies!”

A woman on the bus. I liked the contrast of the dark background and her white hat and coat.

Podcast: Santa Claus Man

In today’s entry, Sage encounters the Santa Claus Man for the second time. Call 206-666-3043 to leave your comments. Listen: MP3 format

Santa Claus Man

Stickers are a popular form of graffiti in Toronto. Todd calls them “Canadian graffiti”, because they’re so easy for the city workers to scrape off later. On my way up the escalator I saw a sticker on the wall which read: MY GENDER HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH YOUR SHAME.

Ha ha haaaaaaaaaaa.

Although I see him around every once in awhile, it wasn’t until Sunday that I had another close encounter with Santa Claus Man.

The subway car pulled into the station and he ran for the doors at the last minute, jumping in and shouting, “Yes yes YEEEEEES!” as he flexed his muscles and nodded frantically. People watched, bemused, as he strode up and down the subway car, projecting as he spoke.

“It’s me again! Grrrrrr, grrrrrr. People think I’m a character, a nutcase. Yes yes YEEEEEES. I’m not crazy. Everyone knows about me. On the internet, on television, in the newspaper. Grrrrrr, grrrrrr.” He paused to do twelve perfect pushups, then continued, taking off his jacket and pointing to his perfect stomach. “Check it OUT. Yes yes YEEEEEES.” As we pulled into the next stop, he leaped off the subway car, stopping in the middle of the platform, throwing out his arms and screaming, “Merry Christmas! YES! Grrrrrr, grrrrrr!”

You know, the first time I met Santa Claus Man, I was sure he was a crackpot. This time? It could have been a bid for attention, or performance art. It could have been a very long-term psychology experiment culminating in a thesis on the way people react to insanity if it comes in a Hollywood moviestar package.

But maybe that’s just because he was wearing pants this time.

An elderly man on the bus (I do have a soft spot for those 1940 hats) reading the ads.

Podcast: Daily Life in Ancient Rome

In today’s entry, Becky tells us about her Boston Subway adventures. Call 206-666-3043 to leave your comments. Listen: MP3 format

PLEASE NOTE: This coming Friday I’m going to put together an audio play. I want your help. Email letter AT quirkynomads.com with one of the following:

a time (TAKEN)
something a person wants very much (TAKEN)
a place (TAKEN)
a name for the play (TAKEN)

Daily Life in Ancient Rome

Yesterday I walked down the Yonge-Bloor subway platform, trying not to dance to Frank Sinatra crooning “Fly Me to the Moon” in my ears. I was headed for a long red bench, where a seventeen year old boy was looking at the Toronto Sun. When he saw me coming, he quickly closed the paper. I thought it was because he was gawping at the Sunshine Girl (Mandy, 23, from Whitby) and I snorted to myself, because I am 78 years old, as I sat down.

I took out Daily Life in Ancient Rome and began reading, unable to stop my feet from flying, just a little bit. Then, during a pause in the music, I heard muttering. In Toronto, a seventeen year old kid is as likely to be a crackpot as he is to be reading Nietzsche on the subway - which I also saw yesterday - so I shushed Frank in order to listen more closely. (I kept my headphones on. People think you’re temporarily deaf if you’re wearing headphones.)

He was saying, in a very low voice, “When . . . word . . . got out all the . . . tur . . . keys . . . had been . . . sna . . . snap . . . snapped up . . . one . . . dis . . . dis . . . disgrumb . . . gruntled man . . . waiting in line began to . . . shout loudly . . . ‘What about us? What about us?’ to . . . no . . . bo . . . body in part . . . ic . . . ular.”

He was learning to read. This teenage boy, tall and menacing, dressed in expensive sneakers and in the latest street boy fashions, was sitting on a red bench in the middle of the most frequented subway platform in Toronto and he was practicing his reading. I threw myself across the bench and sobbed into his shoulder that he was one of the bravest kids I’d ever come across, and he should be so proud of himself for all the hard work he was doing while he patted me awkwardly on the shoulder and hoped I’d go away soon.

Okay, no. I didn’t. But I really really wanted to.

I’ve been curious about Rome for a long time. I’ve been hearing about the gladiators and the Roman Colosseum and the Bacchanalian orgies and the comparison to America since elementary school. But it wasn’t until America reached what I fear will be the apex of its collective sanity and then started down the steep hill to complete dementia that I began actively searching for what the hell happened to those people in the tunics and the swords.

To begin with, they were constantly at war. There was no patriotism, there were no protests - being for or against war would have been like having an opinion on breathing. You went to war and you took over other people’s land and enslaved the citizens and enlarged your empire because…well, for crying out loud, what ELSE are you going to do all summer?

But before the war, they made sure to consult the augurs to find out if it would be a good time to pillage. Despite their relative sophistication, the Romans were deeply, weirdly superstitious.

For military campaigns, the auguers had elaborated a special system for examining the auspices, which involved sacred chickens. On the morning of battle, they looked to see if the chickens were eating properly, letting food drop from their beaks. If they were, then the auspices were deemed favourable. If they were not, it was best to avoid engaging in combat. During the First Punic War, the chickens of Publius Claudius Pulcher, commander of the fleet, had no appetite - perhaps they did not like being at sea. In his fury, the commander threw them overboard, yelling, “If they won’t eat, let them drink!” After losing the battle, the people comdemned him. It was felt that his impiety had brought about the death of many citizens.

As summer turned to fall, the Romans usually headed home. The winter was too cold for living in tents, so they tromped back to their homes and reaped the benefits of the farms their slaves had worked for the past three months and gave lots of dinner parties. In fact, if you just think of the Roman nobility as exactly equivilent to the British aristocracy, circa 1925, you’d be right on track.

Woman on the bus, gazing at her two sons.

Podcast: Friday Interview

In today’s entry, Kim and Ken of Shakespeare Souffle and Sage get extremely silly in an interview. Not to be missed. Call 206-666-3043 to leave your comments. Listen: MP3 format

PLEASE NOTE: This coming Friday I’m going to put together an audio play. I want your help. Email letter AT quirkynomads.com with one of the following:

a time
something a person wants very much
a place (TAKEN)
a name for the play (TAKEN)