What's Haiku?
Nothing much. What's Haiku with you?
OK. So it's been awhile. I have no excuse. At least none that I really want to get into here.
I have missed regular writing very much, so I'm going to step up my game. But I need to dip my toe in the water a bit. So I am presenting some musing in the form of haiku. Why - you ask? Why not!
2 years ago, I was in the best shape of my life. I had quit smoking,was eating a healthy diet, running 5K a day, working out 6 days a week. I was still hovering around 200 pounds (on my 5'9" frame) but I had lost my belly (mostly), had toned and sexly arms, and felt fantastic. However, one day, while doing flies, I re-injured my right shoulder. I had torn the rotator cuff a few years previous while conducting Fiddler on the Fucking Roof, and never really had time to let it heal properly. (Still, on occasion, when I do helicopter arm swings, you can hear "clickclickclickclick") So I took a few weeks (months... years...) off of the gym, lost the momentum, and haven't really returned. Nevertheless, I'm in better shape than I was 10 years ago, perhaps a bit rounder in front, but fitter and more toned.
All this to say that right now, I am in so much damn pain! Yesterday, a bunch of us from the msPS went to a waterfall in Fiji where there was a rope swing. In recent years as I get older, rather than becoming more cautious, I have become fearless. I think it's probably because I feel the need to show the young whippersnappers who are my friends that even this middle-aged portly gentleman (as my bass player called me) can do everything they can. Well, it turns out I can't. It takes me much longer to recover from my shenanigans than it does the average 25 year-old. I probably swung off that rope about 20 times, and it was awesome. But I paid for it today. I can't straighten my left arm. My bicep is bunched up into a a tiny knot of excruciativeness. (On the plus side, my guns look fantastic!). I can barely get my arms above my head. I couldn't wash my back in the shower this morning, and I decided not to wear socks with my runners not because it was stylish, but because I couldn't get them on my feet. Granted, I really pushed myself, and I have absolutely no regrets (Non! Rien de rien!). But shit, I could barely play the piano today. Why don't they tell you this in the manual? "After the age of 35, if you are a portly gentleman, you may experience crippling muscle spasms following unusual physical exertion".
So what now? If I had yesterday to do over again, would I do the same? Yes, absolutely; except for the time where I tried to swing of the high perch and almost crashed head-first into the rocks below. I might have brought the Ben-Gay with me though. Or at least a gay Ben.
Singing has always seemed to me the most perfect means of expression. It is so spontaneous... Since I cannot sing, I paint.
-Georgia O'Keefe
ps I can't paint either :(
I don’t think I’m being falsely modest when I say that of the many gifts that I have been lucky to have been granted, a fine singing voice is not amongst them. I have a limited range, no falsetto, a thin middle, a woofy bottom and a wiry top. I can’t hold harmonies, my vibrato is quick, narrow and goat-like (when it’s there at all) and I used to sing consistently sharp (though that problem has been fixed; I now sing flat). Despite these seemingly insurmountable flaws, I have always sung, whether people want me to or not. I grew up singing in choirs, and have been a member of several award-winning groups in Montreal. I even sang with the Montreal Symphony Chorus, with whom I was privileged to perform such masterworks as Beethoven’s Ninth, Stravinsky’s Symphony of Psalms and Orff’s Carmina Burana (and whether or not that particular work is a masterpiece is up for discussion). I’ve played leads in musicals, including Ché in Evita (note: the role was a bit beyond my abilities, and I wouldn’t have cast me, but I had fun, and an astonishing leading lady) and, in an Oh-My-God-Find-Me-A-Pair-Of-Size-Eleven-Pumps moment, Mrs. Lovett in Sweeney Todd. (note: One of my dearest and oldest friends, Kate was to have played Mrs. Lovett, but fell ill. She gave me the bra off her back, and 20 years later, I still have it. We took our first brave musical steps together, performing “As Time Goes By” at a choir dinner, complete with humorous props when we were 12. 27 years ago. She remains one of my chief inspirations). But I have worked very hard and managed to fashion a workable polyester purse voice out of cow’s ears vocal cords. What helped more than anything is that my ex, rickyd, is an opera singer, and while playing piano for him, at some points almost daily, I learned about the intricacies of the human voice. And though it hasn’t really rubbed off as much as I would have liked, I sound better now than I ever have. Most recently, I've been performing on cruise ships with a trio. Yes ladies and gentlemen, I’m being paid to sing. No one is more surprised than I.
To be frank, I would give anything to have a beautiful voice (cue the smoke and the satanic laughter), but my ambition and desires have always outstripped my ability (much like Maria Ewing. I probably sound better than her these days, poor thing). That hasn’t stopped me however. I can’t pass a mirror without grabbing a hairbrush microphone and belting out the final chorus of Being Alive or, more improbably, Old Man River. I actively seek out karaoke bars, and in fact 20 years ago, used to bartend at one (recently, I was at a college bar in Ste. Anne’s on Karaoke night with some friends and sang Nothing Else Matters. I was an instant hero to a room full of 19 year-old boys. Thumbs up.) Simply said, I have become vocally fearless. I’ll try anything once. (One night on a ship, our band was doing Disco Night while our singer was sick, and I tried Play That Funky Music White Boy. It was going great until the lyric “Gonna take it higher now”, and my poor little voice, parched and already stretched to its’ limits, did not want to take it higher at all. No amount of note modification or Monty Python falsetto was going to fix what was already a disaster in the making. Oh well, live and learn.). About 10 years ago, I renounced being a tenor, and have warmly embraced my baritonal reality. This has helped a lot. I’ve also discovered in the past few years that I have a gruff growly side to my voice, which allows me to belt out such classics as Mustang Sally, Born to be Wild and I Feel Good (which oddly enough, I can do pretty well).
All this being said, I remain tremendously insecure about singing, and occasionally, fate kicks me in the nuts and I spiral into days of self-doubt and flagellation. I managed to get decent reviews when I played Ché lo these many many years ago. But a certain gentleman-reviewer who shall remain nameless (who nonetheless remains reviled in Montreal, years after his critic career ended) wrote that he couldn’t stay past the first 20 minutes of the show because my singing was so atrocious. At least he didn’t mention me by name. I was devastated (and I still occasionally get teeny butterflies when I think of it) but I’m a big boy, and I went on the following night and sang my ass off (probably a little sharp…). Another incident happened the other night. It was Rock and Roll night on the ms PS, so instead of our regular diet of cha-chas and waltzes, the mighty little trio was doing some Everly Brothers and Elvis. A sour old English gentleman came up to me between songs and asked us to play a waltz. I said fine. A modern waltz. I said of course. A waltz without singing. I said no problem. Because, he said, and I quote: “You really have a horrid little voice.” Well, that would have been fine if that had been that, but he went to the front office and complained for 20 minutes about how awful I was. He even came to our sets the next night to MAKE SURE I DIDN’T SING. I didn’t open my mouth for 3 days. That was 2 months ago, and I’ve gotten over it. Mostly. They say practice makes perfect. In my case, practice makes OK.
I had a great night tonight. 2 sets in a full-ish lounge, with an enthusiastic crowd, shouting out requests, and responding with hardy applause. We ran the gamut from George Gershwin to Billy Joel. How fortuitous that I happened to record it ;)
I never felt I could ever do this song justice. I'm getting there. I hope...
I had another video, but it took forever to upload, so it'll have to wait until I get home. It was Joy to the World. Not the Xmas hymn.
I don’t like it when people like bank cashiers and store clerks call me by my first name without ever having met me. I would never presume to do that to them. It creates a false atmosphere of informality and an ersatz familiarity. However, when I taught high school. I never would have stood for someone calling me Mr. Higgins. Even my dad isn’t Mr. Higgins (he’s Bob). On ships, the service personnel call all officers ‘sir’, an appellation at which I bristle. My room steward on my current ship called me sir for a month, even after I threatened to rub my dirty socks in his face (jokingly, of course. Don’t go callin’ the ACLU on me). And yet, when I speak with someone of a higher rank, I will always call them sir or ma’am, unless otherwise instructed.I think this is because I have a problem with accepting responsibility and power.I hate having to be in charge, even though I have been put into positions that have required me to don the mantle of authority from a fairly young age (I music directed my first ‘really big shew’ at the age of 19).I also don’t like to be told what to do, which is why I generally like to work alone. I would like to think that I am a good and fair boss (one of the musicians on the ship recently said to me “Oh no. You’re in charge. You’re just not a dick about it), and I take pride in the fact that I look after the people working under me. But like Hamlet (yeah, right, I’m like Hamlet…), I am often frozen by inaction and introspection. I don’t always strike while the iron is hot, and have trouble making difficult decisions, especially in stressful circumstances. This is because I will over-think possible solutions and try to make things fair for everyone, when in the end, there often isn’t a fair solution. I also have this tremendous need for everyone to like me. I think my public persona is one of a jovial, social and warm guy, and I am, generally (Let’s face it, I’m a big softie). So when put into a position where I have to be a meanie (which happens), I am often incapable of it. I remember conducting a show where an orchestra member, who had worked with me before, was drinking too much, and his performance was erratic. I should have a) warned him as soon as his behaviour affected his performance and b) if he didn’t improve, fire him.But I let it drag on because I didn’t want him to hate me. It’s as simple as that. In the end, I had to fire him, but I had let it go on for too long, and instead of having only one musician angry with me, I had an orchestra and a cast angry with me. You’d think I’d learn! I think I have gotten better at dealing with adversity since then. On one of my last ships, some of the band had an issue with a musician that I didn’t really feel was justified. I stood my ground, and there was dissention in the band for a while.My choice didn’t make me popular, but I feel to this day that it was the correct choice. I wouldn’t have done that 4 years ago.Occasionally, my temper and my heightened sense of righteous indignation get the better of me, and I can fire off a tirade worthy of Julia Sugarbaker (I remember yelling at a guest entertainer who had insulted the whole band and musicians in general, where in reality, the band was fantastic, musicians are awesome (!) and he was a prick with a Napoleon complex and illegible charts. I got in trouble with head office for that. It was worth it.)
I was in therapy for several months doing Assertiveness Training, where you are supposed to be taught to air your grievances calmly and without aggression, but firmly and assertively, hence the name.In the role-playing the doctor and I would do, I would express my complaints calmly, and he would respond calmly, the way you wished people would talk in real life. But aha! That wasn’t real life! So when you bring this training out into the real world, people will respond sarcastically, or passive-aggressively, or violently. They don’t tell you that in Assertiveness Training.I won’t say it was a waste of time and of a 15 bucks-a-week co-pay, but I think what I learned from that particular course of therapy was that you just gotta deal with shit. It was also when I was diagnosed with ADD, so I got to take Happy Pills for a while.
I’m not sure what prompted this entry, or what I intended by it.I’m not even sure if it makes sense.Maybe I’m starting to be comfortable with the fact that I’m a bit of a wuss. That would be fine with me. Well, if it’s ok with you.
In January of 2008, I went to see a friend’s choir concert in Montreal. The stage manager was a former student of mine, who had been a delightful teenager, and had turned into a delightful adult. It was her birthday (23 or 24) and I joined in the festivities. (I guarantee you that when she woke up that morning that she never thought she’d be spending her b-day getting sloshed with her high school choir teacher!). I ended up talking to this guy who was in the show. He was funny, polite, charming very cute and very well spoken. I assumed (and never assume, cause it makes an …) he was in his mid 20’s, which though a little young, is totally within my dating range.. Well, we ended up talking about Facebook (doesn’t everybody?). I mentioned that since my 20th high school reunion was coming up, it was great to get back in touch with some old friends. He looked quizzically at me and asked me what year I graduated. I said 1988. He paused meaningfully, and replied with a guilty smirk “I was born in 1988”.Daddy felt a little old that night. Apparently, 37 is the new 50.
Am I old? Despite the popularity of such adages as “You’re only as old as you feel” and “He’s young at heart”, they’re all fallacies. People can be surprised by your age – without false modesty, people often guess my age as 6 – 10 years younger – but when all is said and done, 39 is still 39 and always will be. Well at least until next March, when it’s 40.(I’m obviously totally obsessed with looking younger, mostly because when I date [which is remarkably infrequently], I’ve tended to date younger guys. Not THAT much younger, but still…)
I bring this up because I realized recently that most of my friends on board are on average at least 10 years younger than me. True, there are exceptions, but most of my current posse wasn’t born yet when “Synchronicity” was released. It’s never bothered any of the involved parties, so why ruminate on the subject?
A lot of crew on ship tend to be young. Kids out of college, young turks on a summer job, getting paid to travel and see the wonders of the world (from the Dardanelles to the mountains of Peru). Life is a big fun party. Beer and hooch in the crew bar is cheap and plentiful, everyone is a little looser, you meet people from all over the world – it’s really a great job. But those of us in our 30’s or so usually come on ships because we need to find ourselves. I’ve met divorcés and divorcées, a psychologist, a couple of lawyers, at least 3 ex-ministers and most recently, a clown (no joke). It might seem like an odd place for introspection, but in some ways it’s perfect. When I started on ships 4 years ago, no one knew who I was. I was a clean slate. I could have been anyone. More importantly, I could have chosen to be anyone. I choose to be myself. A 37 year old overweight divorcé with 3 dogs. People liked me. (Well, most did. I was branded as ‘difficult to work with’ by a couple of people in my former company who shall remain nameless and hopefully, away from me.) I would venture a guess that about 1/3 of my 845 Facebook friends are ship folk. And I look and feel better than I ever have. I quit smoking, I’ve been taking care of my skin, I eat well and I feel really good. Best of all. I fit in - in some ways for the first time in my life. I fit in with these whippersnappers who don’t remember the Reagan yearsor “Manimal” or “Kid Creole and the Coconuts” or Rubik Cubes or leg warmers. And I’m having a blast.
I do my best to keep up with the Joneses. I go out a bit more than I would. Drink more than I should. I act a little crazier, I’m a little more spontaneous. And at this point in my 39 years, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Life is good. No, life is great.
There was a time in my life when I would have liked a modicum of fame. Not Bennifer fame. Not Brangelina fame. Not Jon and Kate fame (Jate? Kon?). But enough fame that people, though they might not know my name or my face, once it was explained who I was, would exclaim: “Wow! He's famous!”. I didn’t practice my autograph as an adolescent, as Cher did (yes I did), but I have delivered many an Oscar™or Tony™ speech into a hairbrush-microphone in front of a bathroom mirror. I am still really really good at feigning surprise. (Omigod! I so don’t deserve this! To my fellow nominees, you’re ALL stars! Especially you, Keanu!) At this point in my life, I am remarkably comfortable in my current anonymity.
On ships, however, I have a fairly high profile position. Passengers see me night after night; either in the main show lounge or playing with a combo in a nightclub. It is impossible to have lunch in the Lido without someone coming up to me and say “Aren’t you the Music Director? You’re really great! I don’t want to interrupt your meal…” and then proceed to spend the next 25 minutes telling you about how they used to play clarinet in high school, or how their granddaughter is taking cello lessons, or how their gout is acting up because of the rich food on the ship and they really didn’t want to come to Alaska but their wife had her heart sent on it and they have a better time on Carnival and they remember how it used to be on this line before they started cutting all the benefits to return passengers and they intend to make a complaint to the CEO. I politely nod, and try to eat with my mouth open and slurp my soup loudly. Sometimes, I'll meet a middle-aged cougar insisting that that their husband will be in the casino until 3 am, and he doesn’t really satisfy her needs anyway (wrong tree…). I often try to avoid these public situations, mostly because they tend to feed my latent misanthropy. Passengers will occasionally buy me drinks, or write me a thank you note. I actually met a really great group of people last cruise, including a Quebecoise living in New Zealand, and a tall, handsome and young Kiwi skier who will be moving to Montreal to study at Concordia. They had a table full of champagne, and no one to help them drink. I was only to glad to oblige.
This summer, to escape the slavery of cruise ship life that HAL had become, I sublet a tiny little wee apartment in what can only be described as crackhouse/student housing in Montréal, mostly to get a taste again for the pleasures land life could offer. Though I am a admitted TV junkie, I decided not to get cable because the installation fees were too high. So, I was destined to watch one of 3 local English channels. And frankly, I'll watch anything. Even TMZ. For those of you who aren’t familiar with the newsertainment show, count yourselves lucky. Basically, the show is a room full of ‘reporters’ who sit around a newsroom and, with what must pass as witty repartee to the hoi polloi, discuss the video their camerapeople have shot of the famous and the wannabes. One show this summer featured an exposé of Marlon Wayans (whom they followed around for several hours while he was shopping at an outdoor market) and Courtney Love, who spent 45 minutes emptying her bottomless pit of a purse, showing its contents for the television public (Look! Lipstick. Look! A tampon. Look! A syringe [no joke. She had a syringe. It was for her “allergies”. Allegra, Sudafed, heroin, it’s all the same.]). They ambushed Blythe Danner at an airport and asked her if Apple and Moses (Gwyneth Paltorw's kids) were family names. Who. The. Fuck. Cares? Well, apparently I do, because I would watch every night at midnight, flipping back and forth between Canada Council funded documentaries on CBC. Why would anyone want to be famous in this day and age of ubiquitous and instantaneous media? You risk being followed around by obnoxious leeches, attempting to get a scoop. And not just if you’re a famous train wreck like Amy Winehouse or Lindsay Lohan. I mean, Marlon Wayans? Is he still alive?
Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia
- E.L. Doctorow.
I have decided after much soul searching that I am not going to fret about not posting a new blog every day. It's not so much that it's a daunting task (which it is) but it's more that I don't want to be scraping the bottom of the topic barrel when November rolls around. I was looking at my Powerpoint list of posts and thought there's no bloody way I could possibly maintain anyone's interest (least of all mine) until next March. If I were merely ruminating on daily events, then the task would perhaps be a bit easier, in that things would be fresh in my mind. But (and I'm pretty sure one isn't suppose to start a sentence with the word 'but', but it's not like I'm following any other rules on writing) there has been a lot more introspection involved in this project than I had originally thought (my entries on Ties, Sock and Giraffes notwithstanding), and I find that the more I write, the more that I remember. I've recalled situations and events and people I had long forgotten. It's like my brain was a damaged hard drive that was brought to a tech geek to recover lost information. This has been a wonderfully eye-opening project, even though I've only been posting for the past month and a half (and in fact, I recommend it to everyone). However, being a perfectionist (a trait that has long been a thorn in my side), I'm afraid to post anything until it's absolutely perfect, which of course, it never will be. I have at least 20 entries in the works, most of which I've rewritten several times. I have many wonderful anecdotes and memories to share, both poignant and side-splittingly funny (like the time I passed out in a park with a friend and woke up at 9 in the morning with a dog sniffing my face. I didn't drink for a few months after that). I just decided to aim for quality, not quantity.
A well tied tie is the first serious step in life.
-Oscar Wilde
I have always loved ties. I realize that many men consider them powerful forces of societal oppression, but to me, they are one of the only ways that I can express myself within a fairly conservative environment (musicians always have to wear black. Bo-o-o-o-ring!). It’s also the quickest way to determine someone’s personality in a sea of suits.
-Drab diagonal stripes: conservative and cautious.
-Bold solid colour: Type A, aggressive and pompous.
-Novelty tie (with cartoon characters and the like): Peter Pan. Someone who thinks they’re cleverer than they are. Not husband material
-Unusual pattern or colour combination: Adventurous, non-conformist.
-Floral: Gay.
I have always collected ties, and would comb thrift shops for the gaudiest, loudest and ugliest ties. I had one with a silhouette of a naked lady outlined in small LED lights, which I wore to my college graduation in 1990. The nun (a woman who we used to call Attila the Nun) who gave me my diploma simply rolled her eyes. At one point, my collection numbered around 50. Several years ago, there was a flood in the basement, and most of them were ruined. Meh. Life goes on.
Since I have started travelling, I have tried to by ties in every country I have been to. However, most of my ties came from this one shop in Istanbul, a tiny store in the middle of the sprawling outdoor market. I had never seen such bold patterns and colours (most North America ties tend to look like they belong on private school students), and they were cheap cheap cheap! I probably have at least 30 now, and I wear them whenever I can. Here are a few pics of my favourites.
Going to see Godzilla at the Palais of the Cannes Film Festival is like attending a satanic ritual in St. Peter's Basilica
-Roger Ebert
When one is on a ship for long periods of time, especially on a boring contract like the Caribbean (because really, once you've gone to the Wal-Mart on St. Thomas, what else is there to do?), one tends to watch a lot of movies. There is a phenomenon, however, that anyone who has worked on ships will attest to: You can turn on the TV 5 times during the day, and the movie will always be at the same point as the the last time you turned it on. It's freaky. I have seen so so so so so so many flicks in the past 4 years that I would have never bothered to ever see. Most bite. Some are good. But there are a few that I liked in spite of myself. So here is a list of movies I shouldn't have enjoyed, but did. I may add to this list at a later date.
Miss Congeniality
Saw it again today on the crew channel. I love Sandra Bullock.
Showgirls
No matter what people may say, this is most assuredly NOT a misunderstood masterpiece. It's a piece of campy crap. And I love it.
The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants Who doesn't love America Ferrara?
2012
Starring my doppelgänger, John Cusack. And a wonderfully nutty Woody Harrelson.
Ace Ventura: Pet Detective
Perhaps the most egregious film on this list.
Deuce Bigelow: Male Gigolo
Nope. This one is more egregious.
Eurotrip
OK, this is the most egregious.
G.I. Jane
Demi Moore looks like a hot guy after she shaves her head
Waterworld
I didn't see this on the ship, but I really liked it when it came out. I haven't seen it in 20 (?) years though, so perhaps my perceptions will have changed by now.
Loverboy This is the cinematic oeuvre where a teenaged Patrick Dempsey (McDreamy) plays a pizza-delivery boy-cum-gigolo. I have no logical justification for this, but I love Kate Jackson, and I always had a crush on Mr. Dempsey.
Alvin and the Chipmunks
No really. It's not that bad. Jason Lee is kinda hot. The Squeak-el (sic) sucks though. Except when the Chipettes do "Single Ladies".
What hath night to do with sleep?
-John Milton from Comus
I have not been able to sleep through the night for what seems like ten years, but in particular for the past 3 weeks. I have been weary to try prescription medication, and have found that Melatonin works for me sometimes. However, no one should do what I did last night: 10 mg of Melatonin, 2 sea sickness pills and 2 Robaxical. It certainly did knock me out, but I slept for about 12 hours, and I woke up at noon unable to think coherently. It's 3:30 p.m. now, and my brain is still foggy. I think I would have preferred not sleeping.
I have always been a night person anyway, so I think part of my insomnia stems from my desire to stay up late. I love the night. I love the dark, the solitude, the quiet. I come alive at night, and am always most productive. I have written most of these blog entries past the hour of 1 a.m. (this one being the exception). But for much of my adult life, I have had jobs requiring me to be not only awake, but fully functional at 9 in the morning, which I realize to most is not an early hour. The year I taught Elementary school, I had to leave the house at 6 am to get the work by 7:45! I was 12 years younger, so I dealt better with the exhaustion than I do now. (generally, I can get by with 6 hours a night of sleep for about 2 weeks before I crash spectacularly!) To me, 9 a.m. is screamingly early! Crew drills at that hour are inhumane! But if I finish rocking out at midnight, I can't get right to bed. Even if I don't go to the crew bar (which is rare), I'll sit awake in my room until about 4, usually playing Sudoku or Sims3, or maybe, if the stars are properly aligned, writing this blog. Nevertheless, I need to be able to get to sleep before 6 in the morning.
So what will I do tonight? I think I will forgo the over-the-counter drug cocktail of doom I tried last night, and go for a cup of chamomile tea in conjunction with the Melatonin. We'll see. I wanted to get up early tomorrow. Early meaning 10 a.m. It's all relative.
Constantinope has Turkish baths, and Athens that lovely debris
-Stephen Sondheim, Follies
Ever since I can remember, I have been a hellenophile. (And Spell-check has just informed me that ‘hellenophile is not a word. Who cares.) I knew every Greek god and goddess and their super powers (this is not only because of comic books, but also the “Deities and Demigods” handbook from Dungeons and Dragons. If you ever want to know how many hit points Zeus has, I’m your guy!) In grade 7 geography with Mr. Cottam, I remember putting together this elaborate 2 poster-board project on Greece. I consulted numerous encyclopaedias, and coffee table and travel books. I went to travel agencies and got brochures with colour pictures of beautiful beaches and sprawling hillside villages of white square houses. Don’t forget, this was waaaaaaay before the Internet. (You kids today have it easy!) I remember this project hanging at the back of the classroom for several months, and after class, I would go up to look at those pictures of Santorini, Crete, Mykonos, Athens, Olympia and Lesbos. (Ah, Lesbos. The word always made me titter. The word titter makes me titter. Especially in combination with the word Lesbos). Some day, I said. Some day. Fade to black.
Fast-forward 25 years, and the now-adult James Higgins is working as a music director on a cruise ship in the Mediterranean for seven months! We didn’t get to Athens until about a month into my contract, so I had to be patient. I had already had remarkable experiences visiting Italy, the Motherland, and expected my pilgrimage to the cradle of modern civilization to be just as amazing, if not more so. The day finally arrived, and I decided just to walk around and get the lay of the land. So from the port of Piraeus, this lone traveller walked 30 minutes to the train station, paid his 80 cents, boarded Athens’ very modern and quiet subway, and headed forth to his date with destiny!
I liked Athens. I had a very nice time walking around the Plaka, with its narrow winding streets and charming little stores and cafes. I saw Hadrian’s Arch and the Temple of the Olympian Zeus, which was quite remarkable. I walked through this big park and saw a really odd zoo with stray cats and turtles. I had an incredible souvlaki with the best tzaziki I’d ever had (they put French fries in the souvlaki there. I found it weird but delicious). I didn’t get to the Acropolis, but I knew that I’d be back. In short, I had a really lovely day.
But…
I kinda wanted some sort of mystical experience, an epiphany if you will. But I didn't have one. Maybe I was expecting too much. Maybe my hopes were too high. I felt a little defeated and deflated. I was very melancholy for a while.
A few days later, we sailed into the breathtaking caldera of Santorini. As the ship dropped anchor, the sight of the iconic white square houses clutching to the side of the cliffs took my breath away. I rode a donkey up these ancient winding stairs leading up hundreds of feet as countless people had done for thousands of years before me, and I was captivated by the picture postcard Greece I had dreamt of since I was a little boy. The boys for the band rented 4X4s and drove to the beach, but I spent the day alone, walking as far as I could in any and every direction. The air was hot and fresh. The sky was a giant expanse of the bluest blue I had ever seen. The reflected sunlight rippled in the calm ocean. And it happened. I fell in love with Greece, unequivocally and unapologetically. Over the course of the summer, we visited Mykonos, Navplion, Olympia, and Athens again (where I finally got to visit the Acropolis and commune with the Ancients), each place with its own charm and mystique. Sometimes, when you imagine great things before seeing them in person, your expectations of the future can undermine your experience of the present. That's what happened to me. Silly James.
PS If anyone can help me with formatting tips, I would really appreciate it. This drag-and-drop thing is convenient, but produces some pretty ugly results, as this entry shows.
When I was 7 or 8, my father took me to Place-Des-Arts (during what I can only assume was the Jazz Festival) to see an amazing triple-bill of Ella Fitzgerald, Joe Pass and Oscar Peterson. I wish I had been aware enough to understand how amazing this was. I actually fell asleep during Joe Pass, the subtle soft guitar riffs probably too boring for my hyper-active mind. But Oscar Peterson was thrilling! I remember thinking I wanted to do what he did. And I do, sort of. I play the piano for a living - I would even say I kinda-sorta-almost play jazz piano for a living (Believe it or not!). But man, it was a long road.
The first Christmas after I started piano lessons, my parents bought me 2 records (I'm tired of the jokes us old guys make about remembering vinyl, so I'll skip them...): Glenn Gould playing Bach Partitas, and Oscar Peterson and Count Basie's album Satch and Josh. I fell in love with both, and played them until I wore them out. I loved Bach and jazz for the same reasons: the elaborate counterpoint, the rich harmony, the dextrous fingerwork. Perhaps coincidentally, I am terrified of both Bach and jazz, for many of the same reasons. I was, however, lucky enough to have had 3 piano teachers who insisted that one could play Bach just as well with the score as without, so at least I didn't have to memorize the stuff. But then and now, I'm terrified of the intricacies, both dextral and contrapuntal. I understand them perfectly, and indeed got an A in my Tonal Counterpoint class at McGill, where my prof said my 5 voice fugue was one of the best he'd ever seen (nudge, nudge...). But however tenable my intellectual grasp is, I can't translate it to an actual performance situation. When I was 12, I was playing the C minor 2-Part Invention in recital- not a tremendously tricky work, but one of the most beautiful melancholic works I've ever studied - a perfect canon most of the way through, using only 2 voices. About 30 seconds into the performance (which had to be memorized - yuck!), I somehow managed to switch my left and right hands - that is my right hand began playing what my left was supposed to (an octave higher) and vice versa (an octave lower). I managed somehow to fudge by way through for another 30 seconds (much to the amazement of my piano teacher and the director of the Conservatory), making sound, if not beautiful, at least credible. Finally, I crapped out. I turned to the audience and said "Let's start this again, shall we?". People laughed, I diffused the tension, and proceeded to play it perfectly. That was the last time I ever attempted Bach in public, aside from a couple of "Bist Du Bei Mir"s at funerals.
But jazz has an added bonus: the fear of the unknown. As a young musician, I was already a proficient reader, and in fact loved to sight read more than I liked to practice. My instinctive grasp of harmony made it easy for me to see patterns on the page, and transmit them to my fingers. By university, I could even read thorny 20th century music (I had to sight read Messaien's Poeme pour Mi for a singer who's accompanist hadn't shown up for her audition. It wasn't perfect by any means, but the auditioner was amazed. So was I. Have you seen that score?). I was/am so bound to the paper in front of my eyes, that the prospect of not knowing in advance what you're going to play is terrifying. Yes, I can "improvise" accompaniments and read chord charts (my first piano teacher, in an act of prescience, seeing that I had an instinctual grasp of harmony taught me to read from fake books), but it's not jazz.
5 years ago, when I started on cruise ships, I was under the impression that I'd be playing for shows and that there would be very few, if any, sets to do. No. We had mostly sets: by the pool, in the Crow's Nest, in the Ocean Bar. You name it, we played there. The music director was a guitarist who was nice enough to play the smaller combo sets with me most of time after the drummer and the bass player started yelling at me during one of my first sets. And why not? I didn't know what the fuck I was doing! I was scared shitless! Luckily, the other keyboard player was a great jazz pianist (but a not-so-great reader) who ended up with most of the trio stuff.
My next contract (first as music director) was slightly more successful, only because we played for the production shows and had a lot of guest entertainer shows to back. If we had sets to do on rare occasions, I could schedule the other pianist. However, once a cruise, I had to play the Captain's Cocktail with the drummer and the bass player. The Captain insisted that the music director play it. It was 30 minutes of standards and dance music before the Captain's talk, and 15 minutes after he talked. I lived in fear of the Captain's Cocktail. I would wake up the morning of with a pit already in the bottom of my stomach. I begged, I pleaded - Don't make me do this! But a funny thing happened: it eventually got easier. I practiced chords and voicings and scales and patterns, and things got easier. I listened to more jazz pianists and things got easier. I can't say that I ever looked forward to the Captain's Cocktail, but my the end of the contract, I no longer had night sweats.
I'm working on it. It's coming slower than anything in music ever has for me, but it's coming. I listen more, I have a series of Jazz primers I work with (most "Play Jazz Piano" books start off with "This is middle C" which is generally absolutely useless), I practice, and I perform. I jumped in the deep end of the pool. Let's carry the metaphor further to say that I'm as good a jazz pianist as I am a swimmer, in that I can do the basic strokes and I wouldn't drown, but I'm no Ian Thorpe. I still have a long way to go - I don't know enough riffs, my fingers sill can't quite get around the notes, and I'm not that good at comping during bass solos, but I actually enjoy it now, and some nights, when the ghosts of Oscar Peterson, Bill Evans and Michel Petrucciani are smiling down on me, I can toss off a pretty impressive solo.
I have not been purposefully remiss in my bloggal duties. I haven't had internet access on the ship for a week. You see, the crew have to purchase $20 pre-paid internet cards, and when there ain't none left, there ain't no internet. It's been a long frustrating journey, and my resolve has been tested. I can't imagine what I did before Internet, because it's clear that I cannot live without it.
It's been a tremendously busy few days aboard the ms PS (let's call it that from now on, simply so the company doesn't sue me). I organized a crew show, which basically means I had to sit through 3 hours of pointless rehearsals for mediocre acts (I don't think it's racist to say that the Filipinos have an unhealthy addiction to karaoke), transcribe 2 pop songs for the band, order the beer and pop for the performers backstage, set the running order, call all the departmental supervisors to make sure the performers can get off work at the appointed time, play the show, and get smashed in the crew bar afterwards. It all went off without a hitch, but I was profoundly knackered by the end of the night. There's been the usual running- around-like-a-chicken-with-my-head-cut-off sort of thing too. I've also arranged a 40 minutes show with 10 songs in 3 days. So what I'm saying is; It's a good thing I haven't had internet for the past little while, because I probably wouldn't have posted much anyway.
However, our ship is going into wet dock to repair the engines, and I'll be off for 10 days in Auckland. So I'm sure to get back on the horse.
Last night on the ship's music channel, I happened upon a Dusty Springfield concert, taped at Royal Albert Hall in 1979 before a live audience (and Princess Margaret, who looked as if she'd rather be spending the night with a jar of peanut butter and the Queen's Corgis). I had forgotten how much I love this woman (Dusty, not Margaret). She always came across as unpretentious and normal, and on stage, she almost had an awkward quality that was tremendously endearing. The concert, actually, wasn't all that. Her backup singers were very obviously sight reading, and her trumpet player sounded as if he'd had the 3 Bean Casserole for dinner every night for a week. But Dusty was glorious, basking in her fans' adulation, resplendent in an almost-unfortunate white jumpsuit (hey, it was 1979!) and sounding, if not quite as wonderful as she did on record, pretty damn good. I was slightly disappointed she did a truncated version of "I Only Want To Be With You" (and it was in a medley, and I HATE medleys!), but her "I Just Don't Know What To Do With Myself" was even better than the original. My favorite moment came at the end as an encore, after Dusty had changed into a purple sparkly morning coat. A melancholic version of a not-so-great song by Peter Allen called "Quiet Please" (supposedly written for Judy Garland), steeped in life and love and happiness and regret. Enjoy.
"Face it Vera, you're no Jane Rivers."
-Coffee Crisp ad from the 1990's
My job requires me to be away from Canada for long stretches at a time. In fact, I haven’t lived in Canada since 2002 (and to be accurate, I haven’t lived anywhere since 2006. Unless you count Deck 3). The very first thing I do when my plane lands in Montreal (after customs and filing a lost luggage claim) is go to a dépanneur and get a Coffee Crisp. (For those unfamiliar with what a dépanneur is, it’s a corner store with a Québecois flair. I’ll discuss them in a future entry). Coffee Crisp is a chocolate bar, made of alternating thin crispy vanilla wafers and coffee-flavoured cream, all wrapped in a thin layer of milk chocolate. Yummy. Oddly enough, I'm not a big chocolate addict, like a lot of people are. I can take it or leave it. But there's just something so... Canadian about Coffee Crisp. They're made by Cadbury's (which is a British company)but I have not, In fact, seen them anywhere else but in Canada. Pity.
I was in the crew bar last night, and what should pop up on the TV screen but the video for Total Eclipse of the Heart (the original, not the absolutely Hy-sterical literal video version!!). I mused out loud, but to no one in particular, that I remembered when that video came out. A normally delightful 23-year old woman said to me: "What are you? 40? You're not that old!" And I said: "39, actually. And yes I am that old". To which she replied: "You are old." In her defense, she was drunk. But I would have never presumed to talk to an elder like that when I was her age. What is up with with you kids these days?
My mom facebooked me today with this little tidbit:
I thought you might like a little (and that's the rest of the story) more about Mme. Alias (I still think of her like that). We taught together during my last year teaching at Maisonneuve. After you were born I brought you to the school and when she saw you she put her arms out and you (at 6 or 7 months old) reached out for her and gurgled happily in her arms. When she told me you were good in music (at the age of 7-ish), I thought it was because she liked me and wanted me to feel good about you being in that school. It was when she threatened to get you a music teacher herself and send me the bills that we realized she was serious (and I was a little intimidated by her), so we found Chris. I'm really glad we did.
So am I. And now you see from whence I get my love of parenthetical asides (like this one...)
I was in Auckland today, and I went walking up Queen street, which is the equivalent to Ste. Catherine's in Montreal, or indeed, Queen or Yonge in Toronto. As I got to a busy intersection, I noticed about 30 people scattered about on the four corners. They were all carrying pillows. When the light turned green, a whistle blew, they all ran out into the middle of the intersection and proceeded to have a giant pillow fight. Not with passers-by (unless they wanted to join in) but just with themselves. When the light was about to turn red, another long whistle blew, and they went back to their respective corners. I stayed and watched this for about 15 minutes. I've been smiling all day.
What the teacher is, is more important than what (s)he teaches
-Karl Mennenge (with a slight alteration)
One of the most influential people in my life was my elementary school music teacher, Mme. Elvire Alias. I had obliquely shown musical ability early in my life (I made up a song about rigatoni when I was 2 or 3 that my grandmother probably still has on tape somewhere. It wouldn’t be the only time I wrote a song about pasta), but she was the first person who truly recognized it. I think it’s safe to say that without her, I may not be a musician today.
A striking bespectacled lady from France who favoured gypsy skirts (though I believe she was of Basque heritage, like Ravel), she loved music and teaching probably more than anyone I’ve ever met. I would watch her fingers move as she would play the piano, and marvel at how someone’s hands could make such beautiful sounds. She taught us a quirky adaptation of the Orff method, a system involving hand gestures for each note (which we never learned) and mini-xylophone and percussion orchestras, which was developed by Carl Orff (whose Carmina Burana I may or may not discuss at a later date. I have yet to decide whether it’s a masterpiece or just a tawdry, crowd-pleasing collection of repetitive ditties). She would arrange folk and popular songs for her classes to play at the twice-yearly concerts, but our class was so good that she chose Für Elise as our spring showpiece. I remember one afternoon early in the semester. We were practising in the music room of the stately and over-crowded Victoria School. It was early February, and the sun was streaming through the tiny window in the dusky attic loft. I was sitting on the floor in the front row, playing melody with about nine other 8-year olds. (Truth be told, I always wanted to play the bass xylophones, because the sound was cool, and we could play them sitting on our knees. Even then, I got pins and needles when sitting cross-legged, or Indian-style, as we called it back in the day). We were practising the first half of the piece, but we hadn’t yet learned the second half. I looked up at the giant score pasted onto poster board that hung in front of us, and a light bulb went off. It all made sense: All the notes and notations and dynamics and rhythm and harmony, it all came together in that one amazing moment. When she gestured for us all to stop, I decided to sight-read the rest of piece as the rest of class looked on in annoyance. When I was done, Mme. Alias looked at me with tears in her eyes and proceeded to rattle on for 5 minutes in French, a language of which my grasp was still quite tentative, so I didn’t understand much of what she said. I realize now, of course, that I was showboating a bit (I probably realized it then as well…), but it was the first time that the mystery of music had opened my eyes. I didn’t want it to stop.
It was probably soon after that that Mme. Alias urged my parents to start me in piano lessons. Urge, perhaps, is not the word; she forced, nay, threatened my parents to take me to a piano teacher, and quickly! They apparently ignored her pleas for a little while, what with the daunting prospect of the added expense of lessons and purchasing a piano. That summer (between grades 2 and 3) when I was at my grandparents’ church in Toronto with my dad and grandfather. I was banging away at the piano and realized for the first time that it was exactly like a xylophone; all the notes were in the same place. So I started to plunk out Für Elise, left hand and all. That was probably the wake-up call for the ‘rents, and so that September, I started lessons with a young university student from North Carolina named Chris who lived 3 doors down. I progressed quickly, and within 3 months, I was learning Für Elise. It was to Mme. Alias that I proudly showed my first attempt at composition - a 16-bar phrase in G major that I had painstakingly written out in my 8-year old’s scrawl. I can still vaguely remember the piece (and yet, I can’t for the life of me remember a note I wrote while studying composition in University. I did write a piece for viola and 10 blenders though. That’s what it was called too – Piece for Viola and Ten Blenders. I was always one for didactic titles. Never heard that masterpiece performed…). She never stopped encouraging me, and I started playing piano for her grade school choirs by the time I was in high school. When I graduated, she said that the pupil had surpassed the master. I still have trouble believing that. I continued to play for her concerts until she retired about five years later. And though I would have gladly done it for free just for the joy of being in her presence and working with her again, she insisted on arranging for a small honorarium. Not only was she a wonderful musician, she instilled in me a love and passion for music, which to this day, remains lit and burning. Her most remarkable achievement, though, is that she instilled that same love and passion in countless other children, many of whom are musicians because of her, all of whom surely must remember her with the same gratefulness and love as I do.
Procrastination is like masturbation. At first it feels good, but in the end you're only screwing yourself.
- Monty Python (?)
Those who know me well (and even not so well) are probably well aware of my tendency to procrastinate. I put things off until the last minute, manage to get them done (usually), but not usually to my satisfaction. I've tried for years to figure out this peculiar and at times destructive behaviour (with the help of a couple of shrinks) and have come to this (these) conclusion (s):
1) I'm lazy, stupid, untalented and ugly (I don't believe this now, but I did for a long time. I realize now I how damn handsome I am!)
2) I have a tremendous fear of failure. If I don't try hard enough, I might not succeed, but I won't fail too badly either.
3) One possible manifestation of my ADD is a paralyzing inability to bring a project to completion. I start things with great enthusiasm, energy and concentration. I'll get through 90% of it, and then I'll sometimes sit for what seems like hours at a time, trying to find the right word or chord or whatever, even though there are another perfectly good words or chords or whatevers at the tip of my tongue, and this overwhelming feeling of dread and anxiety comes over me. Sometimes, I can't break out of it, and I go onto playing minesweeper or read a magazine, just to make the dread go away. It's been like that for as long as can remember. I've found coping mechanisms in the past few years and it's better. It's one reason I wanted to do this blog. I thought that daily routine of writing would allow me to stave off the demons. But no, they have returned in full force. For the past 3 days, I haven't been able to write a word. I haven't been able to do very much of anything actually. I promised myself, that no matter how shitty and badly written and spelling and grammar-mistake riddled it was, I would write and post an entry today if it killed me, and it looks like I just have. James 1 - ADD 0.
I'll get something up tomorrow. It was a very busy day, between crew drill, organizing the talent show and playing Sims3 for several hours (man, that shit is addictive!). I was just in the crew bar for a couple of hours, and had a group of 20-somethings buy me beer all night. So no, I haven't written anything today. Except this.
First off, I want to thank you. I appreciate the fact that you haven't really wrinkled up yet. Sure, I'm not that happy with the bags under the eyes, but generally, I've got good skin. However, I thought that frankly you'd be done with the zits by now. I think it might go against nature to have both grey hair and pimples at the same time. Would you mind checking the rule book for me. If I'm wrong, I'll let it go, and keep on using the Teatree face wash from the Body Shop. But if I'm right, would you mind seeing to it to get rid of them? Especially the big ones that take about a month to go away.
My sole inspiration is a telephone call from a director.
-Cole Porter
Cole Porter wrote a myriad of love songs, none so beautiful as this one. Sinuous and delirious, it is almost entirely built upon one melodic motif – the semitone, and one rhythmic motif – da daaah daaah. The high note of each phrase is one semitone higher than the last, so the effect is of mounting tension and passion. It reaches it climax on the phrase “I’m yours ‘til I die!” and slinks down inevitably by semitones, insistently repeating the words “So in love”, so that, in the end, you have no choice but to believe the singer. It is truly the mark of a master craftsman and artist to be able to create so much with such simplicity.
The words in bold are the high note of each phrase. Listen how each climbs higher than the last.
Strange dear, but true dear, when I’m close to you dear,
The stars fill the sky. So in love with you am I
Even without you, my arms fold about you.
You know, darling, why.
So in love with you am I.
In love with the night mysterious,
The night when you first were there.
I love with my joy delirious when I knew that you could care.
So taunt me, and hurt me, deceive me, desert me.
I’m yours ‘til I die!
So in love, so in love, so in love with you, my love, am I.
I’m also including the first page of the song from the score. I’ve annotated all the semitones in the melody and in the accompaniment with a shaky yellow line.
This is Shirley Verrett from a 1985 recital. I looked for ages for the marvelous Kathryn Grayson/Howard Keel recording from the movie, but it's nowhere to be found on youtube. Shirley's pretty awesome, though.
Why can't I lie down on my stomach anymore? It was my favorite way to read - lying on the bed on my stomach. I always fell asleep best when on my stomach. But now, if I'm that way for any length of time (more than 5 minutes), I can't stand up without my back going into spasms. I had a massage 6 months ago, and it took me 10 minutes to be able to stand up straight afterwards. I've been exercising regularly (well, ok, once in a while) and generally, my back has felt better than it has in years. So what's up with that? Could you stop getting older?
Much thanks,
James.
PS if you could one more little favour for me: Talk to my eyes and tell them to get rid of the bags. kthxbi!
Honey, someday when you're a little older, you will be introduced to something that is extremely seductive but fickle. A fair-weather friend who seems benign but packs a wallop like a donkey kick, and that is the Long Island Iced Tea. The Long Island Iced Tea makes you do things that you normally wouldn't do, like lifting your skirt in public or calling someone you normally wouldn't call at weird times
- Lorelei, the Gilmore Girls
My first encounter with LIITs came in 1991. It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Spontaneous Combustion had just closed A Little Night Music, and the cast and crew were enjoying post-show revelry at Aziz Mulay-Shah’s. His parents had a posh house in Westmount that could comfortably accommodate several dozen drunken kids and various quazi-responsible adults. Aziz, who is a year older than me and who today is a diplomat living in Dubai, was already aspiring to a metrosexual lifestyle, and could always be counted on to introduce us to the finer things in life as he then understood them (On New Year’s Eve 1995, he cooked Tandoori Chicken for 25 at a sit-down banquet at Phil’s decaying upper Westmount mansion, which by midnight’s knell had devolved into a Bacchic bender. I lost a pair of boots and a fair amount of my dignity at that party). He asked my mother if she had ever had a LIIT. My mom, who was and is not a drinker (save for the occasional Harvey Wallbanger and the ever-present quickly-emptied bottle of Bailey’s when we went camping) said that she loved iced tea but had yet to try the Long Island variety. By all accounts (including hers), she loved them, since she had at least 3 of them. I don't remember much of the rest of the night.
The LIIT has become my mixed drink of choice, at least when someone else is buying. Oddly enough, I only drank them sporadically until the summer of 2008, when I was sailing in the Mediterranean. I was in the disco on the Zuiderdam, and Dom and Chris ordered me one. Yummy! And they have more alcohol than you realize at first. I would often judge the passenger Karaoke contest, an ersatz American Idol, if you will. I played the Simon Cowell-type. The judges would get free drinks, and the bartenders would replace it as soon as one was finished. The more I drank, the meaner and funnier I got. The best LIIT-induced line I said was “That was so bad, it gave me cancer!” I’m not quite so funny when drunk on beer.
Everyone called him Mr. George. Students, my high school English teacher, old men, young women, dear friends, maybe even his mother. Everyone, that is, except my father, and by extension, me. We called him John. My father, a 23 year-old lapsed-Irish Catholic-socialist-hippie-draft dodger from Boston, came to Montreal on July 14th, 1969 (Bastille day), and promptly made friends with the owner of the bookstore across the street from the bar where he worked. Named after Jason’s great mythic ship, the Argo is a Montreal institution - a tiny crammed store, with ceiling-high shelves, full of literary classics, modern literature and novels by Canadian writers. Many college professors would order their course books through the Argo, and its downtown location and proximity to the 2 English universities made his store a popular favorite. Even after all these years, the Argo remains, seemingly impervious to the giant chains such as Chapters or Indigo, (4000 copies of The Da Vinci Code? Check! Mediocre coffee-cum-dessert? Check! Taylor Swift’s latest oeuvre? Check! Heroine by Gail Scott? Ummm…. Better check the Argo), unobtrusive and modest, yet holding steady against the storm .Yet all the store’s charming merits would have been for naught were it not for the warm and reassuring presence of its owner – John George.
In 1976, I started kindergarten at F.A.C.E.S., an alternative elementary school located right downtown in a grand old building called Victoria School. I was the only child who lived in my neighbourhood, so the school bus would either only pick me up or drop me off, and then only 3 days a week. How or why this arrangement seemed satisfactory to my parents, I cannot guess. But it meant that if I were in the morning group, I would get picked up, but there was no bus to bring me home. I would have to wait for someone (either an aunt or uncle) to pick me up and bring me back. This would have to be done after work. A dilemma indeed. So when Leona Hersovitch, our teacher-cum-tormentor sent us packing, Jeffrey Casselman (what ever happened to him? I wonder if he remembers me…) and his grandfather would walk me across the street and around the corner to the Argo. Now, to say I was a hyper child is putting it mildly. However, I was fiercely intelligent (no false immodesty – I was already reading at a grade 4 level) and profoundly curious, qualities which must have appealed to John, since taking care of a 5-year old at his store must not have been that conducive to good business. John would promptly affix the “Back in 5 minutes sign” and we repaired through a natty old curtain to the back room, where we would have a little snack of tea and ginger snaps. So, what other wonderful things do I remember? I remember learning to count on his old-fashioned cash register (which to this day occupies a place of honour on the shop counter), pushing the levers and guessing what the totals would be. I remember being particularly entranced by the ‘No Sale’ lever, and wondered what it was for. I remember reading “Where The Wild Things Are”, and wishing I were Max. I remember the Dover colouring books in the rack by the counter – fascinating in content and unattainable (my parents will have to confirm this, but I’m sure I must have asked for one every time someone came to pick me up. I did get one occasionally as a special treat.). I remember the fact that my father had a running tab, and would order books from John that no one else carried. I remember the giant tomes entitled “Books In Print” that were published every year that sat to John’s right. I remember his calm manner, his gentle stammer, his hushed, breathy high pitched voice with a hint of a sing-songy prairie accent, his bemused laugh, his bulbous red nose which got redder and redder as he got older, his absolute devotion to Charles Dickens (and the twinkle he got in his crinkly eyes when he talked about Great Expectations), his fierce intellect, and above all, his unabashed, unparalleled love of books.
John died a few years back, and there was a lovely tribute to him in the Montreal Gazette. I felt guilty that I hadn’t popped by to see him more often. For on the rare occasion that I did, I was always greeted with a warm smile and some words of wisdom, and I felt truly happy. John had insisted to my parents that I had no need for school – that everything I ever needed to know was readily available to me on those shelves. He was probably right. And as much I love what I do, as much as I’ve enjoyed and learned from my travels, I think – No. I know - I would be just as happy behind the counter at the Argo (perhaps happier? Why quibble?), for I can think of no profession as marvellous and as noble than that of bookseller.
PIC 1 - My mother, John George and me, Île Ste-Hélène, Summer 1971.
PIC 2 - Argo bookstore interior
