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Week 1 - Garage Sales 2012
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Miscellany
- Hits: 1929
Now a misleading title if ever there was one, because it's also my last day at work - I hope - and this posting should reflect both.
Days pass. Few customers know of my leaving - few would care, only Z tells them in his efforts to bond with them. The Nephew and G, they've accepted my departure, G not happy as he suspects he's losing his day off, I've offered to help out the 2 weeks I'm around (research to be done, other things), he doesn't want to accept.
Whew.
The Owner has been manageable, in a better mood, as it were, now that I'm leaving - or he knows that I'm leaving, quiet about trivial things, he as well wants it to be on a good note. They're bringing in the Talking Waiter as my replacement.
I threaten the nephew with the keys to lock up, they'll be his next, he declines, never in a hundred years could he deal with that responsibility, M enters the conversation "I wouldn't take them either....", he has his own reasons, the nephew reassures him: "not to worry..." , meaning, of course, that he's not long for the course. A shame, I rather like him. M doesn't get it. It's almost too savage, this rivalry of theirs.
Those few customers that know I'm leaving, they express their admiration, some tempered jealousy. It's curious, they didn't flesh me out that deep. Some even go so far as to pretend they'll miss me. Polite. To do what you want, that's a luxury. I don't disclose how ill I can afford it. The staff, they'll miss me, some bitterness, they presume I'll be back, when exactly do I think?
Never I hope, but I'm merely optimistic. I say nothing, don't want to burn my bridges, merely point out that if things work out I won't have to ever come back.
The biggest proof of failure would be to return. The goad in my side, walk farther, search harder, make sure you never have to return.
Better to die in the field than return.
That said, I'll miss them. My family, G, The Nephew, The Owner, even M and Z - of dysfunctional sorts - the past 2 years almost.
It's not easy leaving, and to an uncertain and precarious, ridiculous even, future, doubly so.
I'm amazed - really, by the slight resistance I've encountered. A crazy idea, to me even, but few - only a couple, have pointed it out. The rest - politely, reserve their opinions, a few ripost me as I might them about bears and the perils of the North Woods, but still wish me well, marvel at the adventure (the adventure I'm not feeling even slightly at the moment, only the pressure of organizing countless tiny chores ...), this is curious.
Even myself, I'd give me 50/50 for breaking even and 1/1000 for getting rich, I see the inherit insanity of it, the other side which I imagined to be invisible to everyone else is transparent. The owner talks to me outside, quiet, having a cigarette, of the folly of property, ownership, we should all live on the move, on the wing, he feels it as well.
Pressure. There's a lot of people not to let down. Fail at this and I don't just fail myself, but the children, my co-workers, friends, any number of people who felt themselves trapped in a box from which there was no easy escape. I've come to look upon it as an exercise in the force of my will, failure proof of my countless bad qualities, success as the tangible, demonstrable, exemplary proof of my ideals.
***
That said there's much to be done, and the imminent departure only adds to the stress.
I compose lists.
Things to buy, research to do....
Maps, Hip Waders, Nesting screens of varying gauges, build a sluice-box, water-filter for drinking, cheap watch with altimeter and barometer, pepper spray and flare guns, learn to use GPS, annotate maps with notes and history, existing claims, find places I think will yield profit. The more I think upon it, the more I need. Groceries, miscellaneous household chores, renovations, art projects, writing projects.
The lists become endless.
They only add to the stress. The staff, they imagine I must be looking forward to this, I am, but not yet, there's too much to be done.
***
The week conspires to tell me I've made the right choice. Every lunch tables stay late, every dinner tables arrive early. Lunch table leaves 3:00, Dinner table arrives at 4:30. Lunch table leaves 4:30, dinner table arrives 4:30. I'd be mad, livid, but it's always been this way and I'm almost done. It confirms my decision. The customers, Money and Power, other assorted criminals of different stripes, everything is telling me I'm on the right track. The job is killing me. The new job will be better.
Now to make it work.
***
It's the first week of garage sales and today I take advantage of a slight break between shifts to dash out and hit one. It's Terrific, buckets of vintage costume jewelry at discount prices, I rifle through it all, pick out some pieces that I like, there isn't time enough, really I could spend hours, some parting souvenirs - cufflinks, jewelry, for the staff. Mixed media for myself. An auspicious start to the weekend.
***
And now, 6:30 AM, The Good Samaritan Rummage sale in 2.5 hours, I'll be in line in an hour, after that St. Lukes and other sales, a big morning before the last night at work. Lots to be done and searched for, Urban Prospecting as it were...The weekend will be reported on and rated as it passes...
Story Slam
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Other
- Hits: 1603
Something different, or not so given the past couple of weeks, with the boy, we're going to take in the Story Slam at the Library.
I'm under the mistaken impression that it's a youth slam, poetry, referred by a website that mentioned "Youth Poetry Slam" in it's title, but I'm mistaken.
We're early. The stories have yet to begin.
And I joke with the boy about taking him to see his peers, because so much of what I take him to - theatre, film, the books I recommend, is for adults or more mature audiences, and it's got to sting a bit to suddenly do something that might be "age appropriate".
He rolls with the punches.
Eventually the box office opens, we buy our tickets, find our seats. 5 contestants today, 2 girls, 3 guys, vying for a prize of $25.00.
Ouch.
I like stories, like the spoken word, listen and watch the moth podcasts, poetry slams, but I'm seeing the best of the best, I've failed to process this, I take it for granted that the stories I've heard will be the standard of all stories.
This is not the case.
A perhaps 16 year old, slamming some poem he's written about the innocent victims and perpetrators of war.
Uh-huh.
Polished, well done, rehearsed, he's in a performing arts program somewhere, that's for sure.
Next up a girl, again polished, rehearsed, talking about her imaginary childhood friends and adventures. She was very imaginative. Again, polished, rehearsed, actions and gestures and expressions to the words, less a story than a monologue or a performance art piece, somehow I'm missing something, this isn't it, I'm annoyed. She's dressed in a bright red skirt with oversized buttons, blue shirt, stockings, I don't get it at first but then I realize: It's like she's the host of a children's program, and the story she's telling, her overly dramatic gestures and mannerisms, it's as if she's projecting herself through the camera to a host of unseen children...
An older hippy, craggy, good looking in that let-himself-go sort of way, talking about the glory days of drugs and some hotel in Toronto and a police raid and a gay pride parade outside and he's as unrehearsed as the girl before him was polished, he's a natural raconteur and is doing this to meet the girls, the story, it doesn't wrap up, as chaotic as the events he's describing...
Another woman, again overly polished, talking of fairy tales and Iceland and fairies and speaking in an appalling Celtic brogue, singing what you guess are Icelandic songs, no explanation provided or required, she's the woman you shouldn't have taken home from the bar, the penultimate in bad dates, a "natural storyteller" she'll assure you, but despite her reassurances and practiced rhetoric you somehow just feel embarrassed for her...
Finally, another unrehearsed, unpolished contestant, I like him, the lack of polish reveals a certain vulnerability, sensitivity, but his story doesn't wrap up as well.
There's supposed to be an elimination but the audience hasn't the heart, all the contestants go again.
Different stories, there's no chance to leave or sneak out and I'm gradually feeling more and more soiled. It's not the stories you see on YouTube, more just the suspended judgement and disbelief you employ when you see somebody embarrassing themselves in a major way in public. It's testing the limits of my empathy.
Give them credit, it takes a lot to put yourself out there. And the audience - myself included, tries to be supportive with their clapping, not too judgmental, but I've made my notes.
I hadn't considered how many ways things could go wrong. This story slam, it's the visceral illustration of possibilities I hadn't considered.
The winner's decided, the female children's host, then the MC tells his story.
And he wins hands down. He wasn't competing, but he's got the proper blend of polish and impromptu, silly gestures and expressions, irrelevant but the audience likes, he wins but he didn't need the $25.00 so bad and so chose to MC the proceedings, if anyone should have won it would have to be him, but he wasn't in the running and so the afternoon ends.
Another event starts in an hour at the Auburn, invite the boy but he's done as well, oddly this was exhausting, draining, the well of empathy has been emptied and we both need to recharge our batteries.
Garage Sales - 2012 - Week 0
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Miscellany
- Hits: 1721
Officially they start this weekend upcoming with the Good Samaritan Rummage Sale, and the St. Lukes rummage sale, (and how to be at both?), but I thought I'd begin a bit early.
Saturday, garage sale in the neighborhood. Find a set of clippers for the nephew at work, he complains it takes him hours to shave (because he does so only once a month), these should prove useful. Brand new, $3.00, with attachments, lubricant and brush.
Buttons, a handful, a dollar, larger, more enticing bags on display but "not for sale". Another sale, selection of jars, useful for sorting buttons into, $10.00 for 40 jars, kangaroo testicle keychain, tweezers useful for picking out flakes of gold from a pan.
Sunday, this the anticipated day, a parade of garage sales in Ramsay. the first of the season. I'm first on the scene, park car, walk across street to two sales, mostly rubbish, kitchen and barbie stuff. Turn around and beside my car there's a throng of people forming, I hasten back, someone is having their treasures scooped as they carry them out, an antique wooden trunk, $4.00, antique mantle clock, $3.00, an antique oak and brass instrument case, locked, unsure what's inside, $4.00, the victor some guy standing with his legs straddling his treasures, the vendor annoyed he's let them go so cheap, I've missed out in a big way.
He puts out more stuff, but now he's taken to adding a zero to his prices, and the prizes have already been sold. I've missed it all by perhaps 2 minutes.
The rest of the sales, drum sets, slide guitars, princess play equipment and merchandise for younger children, nothing to spend money on. A bad omen for the rest of the season, but I reassure myself that I won't be here for most of the season...
Model Milk
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Restaurants & Cafes
- Hits: 1836
The boy after school on a Wednesday, he's had rehearsal so we're late. We show up around 6:30 PM.
The hostess asks if we've a reservation.
Ouch. This is the same question we ask all our customers, only this restaurant at 6:30 isn't empty - it is, to appearances, entirely full.
Not unreasonable, but sadly we don't. She offers a couple of stools overlooking the kitchen - discuss with boy...
"We can watch them cook..."
- "Will there be animals?"
"Will they kill them?"
- "We should kill them in accordance to our Koscher Traditions..."
He's catching on, getting better at the dialogue...
The hostess gets it. We take the bar overlooking the kitchen.
Now the place is full - fashionably, the 30 and 40 something set. Well dressed, well-to-do. Not me. But tonight, night out with boy, I'll pretend.
We start with Calamari and Oysters - a dozen - East Coast and West. They boy's not had Oysters.
The Oysters are fine. The Calamari, strips in a mild salsa styled sauce, not exciting.
For mains, the boy has a chicken waffle. Breast of Chicken sandwiched between 2 waffles. Exactly that, he assures me, and I can't comment further because I didn't get a bite. He's 15.
Me, a steak, rare, very fine.
For dessert, a banana-cream something. Good but I'm not a Banana Guy.
Overall, great atmosphere, laid-back and low key service, busy kitchen (no swearing or obvious signs of stress, made me think it was all an act. Mind you there were 10 people there, with such detailed and specific roles as "decorate desserts" or "Shuck Oysters.." - not a lot of multitasking.). Food, Good, not remarkable, nonetheless the new hot-place in town. The Atmosphere alone makes it worth the visit. And make a reservation, they are that busy.
Link: http://www.modelmilk.ca
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