Time will tell kids. Meanwhile, if you dare (or have nothing better to do), the following is a more-or-less acurate transcription of my musings from Rhino's this evening, edited (I hope) for brevity and clarity, but with nary a thought towards lawsuits or other objections to my pithy prose. .
Item: I regret not going to at least one of the 3 shows Dylan put on a couple of weeks back here in Hogtown. The one I saw a couple of years ago was quite probably the best concert I've ever seen in my life.
Item: A woman at the next table just ordered a steak sandwhich, "But minus all the mushrooms and oninons and red peppers." "Just steak and bread?" wondered the remarkably taciturn waitress. Er, yes.
Item: During my lunch-break this morning, I semi-spontaneously called up my young friend Heath and suggested we might get together when I was done slaving at the corporate trireme. (Speaking of which: sabotabby, I think it's fucking cool you also like Dr. Who (though you're far too young to be aware of such works of televisual art) and, more to the point, unless you write and tell me not to, I'm likely to call you up in the near future and strongly suggest we share a beer; I owe you for inviting me to your party. And also, I think I'd enjoy having a one-on-one with you. But I digress.)
Heath said yes, he'd like to get together, but warned me that he'd gotten himself hammered the past two nights running and wouldn't be drinking. Fine, quoth Young Geoffrey, so long as you don't object to my quaffing an ale or two in your temporarily teetotalling presences.
Heath didn't, and so we did, though he packed it in early with the claim he needed a nap, leaving me to ponder the Moral Fiber of the Youth of Today (Heath being somewhat between 10 and 15 years my junior. But again, I digress).
During our outing, Heath mentioned he might attend a show at The Drake. A friend of his plays in a band on tap for this evening.
"The Drake?" I said. "$7.50 for a pint? I think I'll pass."
"That's probably a good idea," replied Heath. "'John' [for once, I am not disguising an identity; I just don't remember the actual name] doesn't like you."
Well - what can I say? - this got my attention. Left me non-plussed, as it were.
"Who's 'John', exactly?" I wondered. Heath's description of the gentleman had rung as many bells as might a leashed quadroplegic at a gong show.
"He doesn't like me?" I said. "When did I meet him? Who is he?"
"He doesn't like [my 25-year-long best friend] Vern, either," said Heath.
Apparently 'John' knew the 2 of us from close to a decade ago, back when I had helped Vern run a booze-can (which I prefer to think of as a "blind pig", but - slang being the ephemeral beast it is, would mean nothing to most of you - is a term I will use only parenthetically) for a few months.
Apparently, Heath continued, Vern and I (though especially Vern) had raised the ire of this gentleman, to the point where our very names to this day offend his honour.
Sadly, Heath had no details, and I no memory (neither of the gentleman, nor of our offense), and so I bask in the knowledge I am disliked by someone I would not be able to identify were I pressed to do so at the barrel of a high-calibre carbine.
And life goes on (though Heath has promised to get details - keep checking in kids!).
Item: I (finally) got a reply from L today. She has been busy sleeping, hanging out and getting stoned and eating ice-cream with friends, and we are tentatively going to get together on Monday, which makes me a happy boy indeed.
Item: The aforementioned table is composed of 5 girls and 1 boy. (I can't help but be reminded of the 3 years I lived in Ottawa, when all of my local friends were female and yet I was nevertheless celibate for very close to a full 2 years; the closest I came to relief during those 630 or so days was a most frustrating period when I spent a lot of time chugging vodka, philosophising and sharing a bed with a lesbian towards whom I expressed neither my carnal nor (let's be honest) my romantic desires. But that is another story entirely. And I suspect that most people who live vicarious lives through the internet are well enough aquainted with unrequited desire to forgive me the lack of detail just now.) I wonder if this fella is sleeping with any of the women in his company.
All through my childhood, and well past my adolescence, temporary presentations to small groups of people were made with the aid of sheets of slate (known colloquially as "blackboards", or, sometimes, as "chalkboards") and small cylinders of chalk, which - when pressed against the slate, would leave an easily-read mark upon the slate. The cylinders were cheap enough that poor parents (such as mine) could supply them to their children as toys in large quantities and they came in various colours.
True, they were a little messy, leaving a residue of dust, but they left their mark, were inexpensive and one always knew when it was time to replace when stick with another.
But (again) I digress.
At some point - during the long interegnum of welfare, minimum-wage jobs, UI and more welfare (rinse and repeat!), that simple, cheap and effective technology was replate with whiteboards - smooth plastic surfaces upon which one made one's mark through the medium of an ink contained within a plastic applicator (a "pen", if you will), which - like chalk - came in various colours and was easily erasable. And, granted, the resulting residue contained far less dust.
But they were more expense, they ran out very quickly and ... well, the lack of dust, really, was (and is) the only obvious benefit to the consumer.
Well, let's see.
They run out. Quickly. Because the ink is hidden within the plastic sheath, one has no way of knowing how much ink is left. From an environmental viewpoint, the fact that the largest part of the marker is its shell is apalling.
The cost a lot more than chalk. And, in my experience, your company's supply-room is usually out of them (no doubt because of the cost), which adds much to the tedium of training sessions, while "facilitators" run around trying t scrounge up a supply of the "high-technology" "visual aids".
How did this happen? How did a more expensive, less efficient, less environmentally-friendly marker come to take over the world of seminars and classes in less than a decade?
Any of you university types could probably use this travesty of reason as a case-study for a thesis - on the power of marketing; on the herd mentality of consumers; on the love for shiny new objects of the masses; on the limited scope of environmental legislation.
Who the hell likes whiteboards and markers except for the people who sell them?!?
Item: Rhino's is fucking empty tonight. It is not a sports bar.
Item: A couple of the women (girls? Why does my nomenclature shift as the pints go down?) at the long-ago aforementioned table are very cute-looking; why am I incapable (or unwilling - is there a difference?) of approaching either of the them and saying "Hello"? (And never mind why asking why I would only consider approaching those I consider "cute" - that's fodder for a much more srious entry. My god! it must be hard indeed to be an ugly person in this world. I am fortunate enough to be moderately attractive - though short and balding - and that makes life difficult enough. But I digress yet again.)
Item: I need to remember that most of the people I meet are not atheists.
Item: Montreal is down 2-to-nothing in the first round of the playoffs against Boston and I really don't care, though I will laugh, and laugh and laugh should the Habs pull out a small miracle and go further than the Maple Leafs in this year's playoffs.
Item: I love my contact lenses, but must admit that my glasses provide better vision. I have a follow-up appointment with my eye-doctor on Monday and must ask her if my prescription can be tweaked. I don't want to be a walking example of those who chose whiteboards over blackboards (do I?).
Item: I think I've put you Gentle Readers (all 3 or 4 of you) through enough of my meanderings for the nonce. Unless Genius herself launches a thunderbolt at my cerebral cortex (and thinning pate), I'm done for the evening.
Cheers! And don't forgot to scarf some of the body of Christ in the morrow. (There's no god like a dead god, I always say.)