I: They'll call it anything but ours...

Tonight's title courtesy of "Freestyle (Why they don't like rap)" by poet Sonnet L'Abbe. She's a groovy lady and a clever poet.

It's been a long few days. In describing them, I'm going to start in the middle and work my way around back to it. It's called circular storytelling and if I didn't invent it, I'm certainly prepared to make it a trademark.

I arrived at the GO station at 6:10 last night after dinner with dad. I had been asked earlier in the week to come to Toronto and see a play, The Killdeer, as presented at U of T, and stage managed by Alyssa. I had attempted to gather enthusiasm for it on Facebook, but I find that Facebook really just makes it easier for people to politely decline to do things, via the "Maybe attending" RSVP. I'll admit to having done it once or twice, and I can't speak for everybody but in those cases I was legitimately inteested in the events in question. Take for instance a movie Haasim was going to see for an article (I believe) that had my curiosity, but that night I was still exhausted from work two nights earlier and the prospect of work the next night, not to mention there was a new episode of the Office that night (and the first new Scrubs of the season.) Anyway, with the general scattering of people, other business and usual exam chaos, I was, as I figured I would be, alone. I had some reluctance right up until I reached the station, as I do virtually any timeI leave the house. But as soon as I had the ticket in my hand I thought "Yeah! This is gonna be an adventure!"

Indeed...

It's a pretty tedious schlep to Toronto via GO and TTC. What can I say? Oakville to Union, Union to St. George. So I get off the subway and I think; okay, what did the directions say? South somehow? What street was the theatre on? It started with a D... I don't know why I didn't write it down or figure out beforehand how to get to the theatre from the subway stop. The site said it was a "two minute walk," and as it turned out, it was. However, if you go for 5 minutes in the wrong direction then have to reverse direction, and repeat up to three times before finally finding someone to ask for help, it adds up. I got off the subway at 7:30 and arrived at the theatre, two minutes away, at about 7:59, with the show set to start at 8:00. It's fun to get distracted by the bright lights of Bloor and Avenue.

So I found the theatre right in time t took my seat moments before the lights went down and the show started. Am I going to mark out over it like I traditionally do for WOSS Drama? Of course not. That doesn't mean it wasn't a good show. It was very well-acted, particularly some of the smaller roles (Kearston Lyons as Madame Fay and William Burr as Mr. Manatee were terrifically villainous,) and the lead actor Alan F. Campbell as Harry portrayed a fascinating change of character in the second act. THere were, I'll admit, parts when I wasn't comfortable with the script shifting over themes and motifs, but that's no knock on the company who put on a good show.

The show ran 2 hours 30 mins-or-so, which I'm told by Eric is the standard time for a stage production. It was after 10:30 at any rate when I met up with Alyssa in the lobby. I gave her some of my thoughts and cleared my throat something nasty. My throat had been polite enough not to cough much during the show, but now it was scratchy like a muthafacka. So yeah, that was nasty. She told me she'd have to attend to some Stage Manager-type things, and I checked my watch, somehow under the impression that I had a train to catch, said a farewell and split.

I've gotten into the habit, I think, of blaming everything on other people, things, forces, for problems I make for myself or am responsible for. I hate to be a drag, but it's a quirk I've come to notice about myself. At work, if it looks like anything might get messy, my mantra is "Some customer did it." I never use that excuse, but it always hovers in back of my mind. When inqusited on my e-zine's lateness, I immediately pegged it on the lateness of my interview with Dan Shive. Of course that's really more my problem for not asking sooner or outlining a timeline and saying "Dan please get it back to me by then." Of course, since I felt from the beginning that the timeline for E-Zine was ludicrous, I just plain wouldn't have. Anyway, on this night, my excuse was that the GO train left at such a time and I'd better be on it.

Even as I was leaving the theatre I knew that was not quite right. And when I arrived at Union station, empty coffee cup in hand (bitter and purchased at Tim's to make the outrageous $2.75 change) I realized that I had a full 40 minutes until the westbound train got in. What a shmuck. Okay, so I would likely just have been sitting around waiting for her to finish cleaning shit up for 45 minutes, then hang out for 5 minutes before I actually did catch the train, but my poor time management skills made me go all like "shit I gotta go." So go I went. And sit around at Union I did.

While waiting, I dug a green pen out of my jacket pocket and scrawled some notes down on a free magazine. Some I kept, like an opening line, "She closed the drawer on a box of condoms." I don't know what I'm going to do with it, but I'm sure you can't wait to hear more either. Some I left behind, such as my observations on a pair of girls. One of them had heeled shoes that were unstrapped, and I speculated as to why she opted for that. I left that note somewhere in the station. Another one said "I hope you're with the one you love tonight. It's cold out." Each one had a plug for Redneck Comics. Anywhere else it'd be graffiti (or at best, littering,) but in Toronto I suspect it's avant garde art.

Those two girls I mentioned were, like everyone else, headed westbound. I was sitting not far from them on the train, after making brief, awkward conversation. They got off at Port Credit, and here's where the awkwardness set in. One of them left her purse and I hadn't noticed until the train was pulling out. They were practically passed out in their seats so I imagine it was not with great care they checked for their luggage as they disembarked. So I'm stuck with the moral responsibility of having been the one to notice a lost purse. I had to go through it to find an address and then I had to hang onto it, a man with some little black leather job from H&M. I kept it concealed under the Classic the whole way home.

The Classic, by the way, is my new name for my coat in its combined shell+lining form. The Classic.

I had intended to write this all down after getting home, and was even up for several hours with the intent of doing so, but was otherwise distracted. Grocery shopping ensued this morning. I mentioned about the purse to mom and that I intended to go to the post office to send it back, she went all fanatical that it had to be done a certain way, where I'd call her, or the GO people to see if she'd called them, and make it infinitely more complicated than it was. I thought, "What the shit? Like they care? Why can't I just pack it in a bubble-envelope and get it out of my life?" Upon seeing it was not an older woman's purse (just a 16-year-old girl's, with a Debit card, a G1, somw mints and makeup,) she acquiesced to let me do whatever the hell I wanted with it. $10 postage later and it's out of my life. It'll be back to her by Tuesday, so hopefully she's not freaking out too badly out there, wherever she is.

Part of me just wanted to abandon the damn thing on the train, but in good conscious I couldn't do that. People don't care for other peoples' goods, and your odds of finding an item left on public transit are not very good. The purse didn't seem to contain anything too valuable, but it's a karma thing. and besides, it may jsut have been part of some weird social experiment, which by sending it back, I've passed. Or maybe some pay it forward thing. This can only have a positive effect on the worlld. I rule.

So it's the end of rainy eason, the beginning of snow, I imagine. The christmas lights are up and maybe I won't have to pull out the umbrella for the rest of the year (although with the global warming you never know,) which is all good. Okay, I hate the cold, but I hate cold rain very much. Not just as a pet peeve or personal annoyance, either. It's a personal vendetta. It was fucking god damn mother fucking pull-out-the-splash-pants pouring on Friday. I got to school and had to immediately remove my shoes for fear of some horrible mildewy rash. Then I held them under the hand dryer in the washroom for like 15 minutes, with mixed results (one got dry, one didn't, wtf?) Mansoor, ever the saint, gave me a lift home, after getting lunch and a visit with the World AIDS day girls. It had cleared up by the time I set out for work later that day. Of course, I had to wear my old shoes, much like when I was el Porter del Classic Bowl (they were better for walking back and forth, which I did a lot of that night.) Despite the crazy business (really "busy-ness") of HMV during midnight madness, it wasn't a bad day for work. Lindsay wasn't there and I didn't screw up very much. There was a major, major, major, major SNAFU with gift receipts (Doug your advice was sage yet alas unheeded,) but it was easily undone by the manager on duty, Matt, who was a good guy to work with (as was "Other Scott," a stigma I can't seem to avoid. People love to name their kids Scott. I've long since made my peace with that.)

The highlight was this very nervous and awkward-sounding guy who called in on a quest for Andy Williams Christmas albums, which I was able to order for him, but he was very particular. I guess that's the audience that listens to Andy Williams. but it got me familiar with TRACK, for which I thank the guy.

When I got home, I was comfortable and happy, but I was kept up half the night coughing for no good reason. It was disgusting. As you can imagine, this is where the story gets on the fast track to coming full circle. I don't know what it is, but I'm back to cough-city. I imagine it's because last saturday I walked around cold downtown all afternoon, after overestimating the "heatwave" of the 12-degree day. Hopefully I can get past this and not be sick to my stomach from coughing again.

I slept late on Saturday morning, obviously bushed from working the night before, yet strangely not too-too sore to bowl. It all worked out well actually, as I didn't overexert myself as a result. Good day.

One of the more entertaining weekends all in all in recent memory. Start from the middle, work your way around to it again.

And now, tomorrow comes stomping through.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotts