SUPERSTITION IS NOT THE PROPER MEANS OF GETTING THINGS DONE
Late last October I paid a visit to my friend Nick. While he was taking care of some business matters on the phone, I sat in the dining room with his very pregnant wife, Nat, and their two young sons. The boys had their crayons out and were colouring some Halloween pictures.
The older of the two boys turned a page in his colouring book, revealing a cartoon drawing of a pointy-tailed, pitchfork bearing devil. Nat was taken aback.
“Don’t colour that picture,” she told her son, “I don’t want you to have anything to do with that picture. Its bad luck!” she insisted. And she meant it.
When it comes to religion and superstition, I am a conscientious objector. I find it foolish that people would dread something as benign as a cartoon drawing in a child’s colouring book. To me it’s like teaching children to fear and avoid other works of literary fiction like Darth Vader or Sauron. I wanted to reassure the boys that there is no such thing as the devil; that he is but a mere creation of man’s imagination; a merging of his fear of the unknown and unforeseeable, dreamt up to scare people into maintaining the status quo and teach the masses not to question authority. I wanted to tell the boys that religion only exists to perpetuate itself, like any other business. I wanted to tell them that it was okay to colour every page of their little books, and no harm would come to them as a result. But I had no right to tell Nat how to raise her kids, so I kept my mouth shut.
Nick & Nat are probably the two most superstitious people I know. It’s one thing to find a penny on the street and pick it up thinking it will bring you good fortune, I mean, we all have our little quirks and idiosyncrasies, but they almost live their lives by these bizarre rules. For example, Nat never accepts anything from anyone under a doorway, believing it will mean they will one day be enemies (an old Ukrainian superstition, I am told).
I also recall a trip the three of us took to Atlantic City. Nick was on a winning streak at a blackjack table. It was getting late, and Nat went to get him so we could leave. The second she showed up, Nick started to lose.
“Get outta here…you’re bad luck!” he, in all seriousness, said to the love of his life. Immediately after Nat left (understandably angrily), Mr. Sensitive started to win again.
I was with them last Christmas eve. Their young boys had spent the day working on a watercolour painting as a gift for Santa Claus. After placing it by the fireplace, they went to bed. They had also left some cookies and a glass of milk for Santa, and some carrots.
“Why the carrots?” I asked Nat.
“They’re for the reindeer.”
“Reindeer don’t eat carrots! Where would they find them on the arctic tundra? Was this your idea or the kids?” I asked.
Nat replyed with: “They wanted to leave something for the reindeer, and I heard somewhere that reindeers eat carrots.”
"And where did you hear that?”
“Oh, shut up and leave me alone Andreas! Nobody cares, okay! Why do you always have to be such a pain in the ass?” Nat replied, “Forget about that. I have an assignment for you. I want you to write a thank-you letter from Santa for the kids, y’know, thanking them for the cookies and carrots.”
Of course I obliged her, because one of my few fond childhood memories involves my parents fooling my brother and I into thinking Santa ate the Oreo cookies and drank the milk we left for him. At the time my brother and I were about the same age as Nick & Nat’s boys. And talk about Christmas miracles: In order to pull it off, my parents would’ve had to have worked as a team!
So I wrote the little thank you note, and Nat and I stood by the fire trying to decide what to do with the cookies, carrots, and adorable painting the boys made. Nat wanted to keep the painting, but feared that the curious boys would discover it in the future, blowing the whole deal, and then Nick & Nat would have some explaining to do. In the middle of discussing this, Nick, without word or warning, grabbed the cookies, carrots and painting, and threw them onto the raging fire, where they immediately burned up.
“Nick!” Nat shouted, “What the hell..?”
Nick turned to his wife, looked her straight in the eye, and in a deadpan voice said: “Its bad luck to keep anything that’s supposed to go to Santa!”
Believe it or not, Nat accepted that. I, on the other hand, was slightly more skeptical.
“You know, Nick, Santa doesn’t really exist, eh?” I said.
“I know,” Nick answered.
“And where exactly did you hear this? Was it from the same person who told you reindeer eat carrots?” I asked as if it would be more legitimate were Nick told about this custom from a fortune teller, medium, or other person of great authority who makes up these rules for personal or professional gain, and sells them to the ignorant masses as a kind of security blanket, somehow believing it will protecting them from random occurrences.
When Nick answered with “It just is!” I knew he had made that one up on his own. To be fair, there is no reason why his rules would be any better or worse than anyone else’s.
A week later I was at their home again for a New Years Eve dinner. Overall 2006 was not good to me. It started out really strong in the first half, but faded into catastrophe down the stretch. I was anxious to see the year come to a close, and Nick knew this. Also attending were Nat’s two older brothers, their wives and children, and her mother, Olga. Altogether, there were thirteen of us at the table.
Olga is just as superstitious as Nick & Nat, and was so fearful of dining at a table of thirteen that she threatened to leave the party.
I sat next to Olga at the dinner table, and between soup and salad, she managed to spill a full glass of red wine onto my lap. Fearing I would blow my stack, everyone at the table became suddenly silent as I stood up. It felt as if 2006 was taking a final shot at me; what else could I do but laugh?
“Hey everyone, the drinks are on me!” I joked.
They were not amused. I guess they either felt that corny old joke wasn’t funny, or they thought I was making fun of their matriarch.
“Don’t worry,” Nick reassured me, “someone spilling wine on you on New Year’s Eve is a sign of good luck in the coming year!”
“Oh yeah,” I said, “and where exactly did you hear that?”
Nick just shot me an impish smile.
THE DROOLER
I am now at an age where all my friends are reproducing at an alarming rate; so much so that I now find myself knee-deep in rug rats and toddlers. Every time I arrive at their homes, I am practically tackled by a wild horde of children, and the only way out is to administer tickles, tummy kisses, and by tossing them in the air.
The other day, after dining at my best friend’s house, his wife was walking around holding their year-old son. She stood over me while I continued to stuff my face (hey, it was free food!) discussing some inane matter, ah, I mean we were engaged in sparkling conversation.
“Please, turn the baby the other way so he doesn’t face me,” I asked.
“But why?” she said.
She had to ask why? Because babies who have just eaten are ticking time bombs, just waiting to go off. A well-fed baby is like a loaded gun. Earlier that very evening, my friend told me about how once, when he was the same age, his first-born son had suddenly and without due cause or warning, puked on him. He had his son’s vomit in his own mouth! And he thought this was adorable!
Everyone knows that babies indiscriminately vomit, pee and crap and to avoid it one has to take precautions.
“Please,” I implored, “just point him in another direction.”
“Oh, brother!” she said as she rolled her eyes.
Don’t get me wrong, I like kids. I have a nephew the same age as my friend’s son whom I adore with all my heart. And I love all my friend’s children, I really do. I just don’t see why I have to run the risk of being puked on for no reason. I didn’t sign up for this!
“Well,” she continued, “you picked up Isabella’s shit, and cleaned up after her, didn’t you?” (Isabella being my dear, departed dog.)
“Yes,” I said, “but I didn’t make any of you do that. And when I picked up her droppings, it was with a plastic bag. And I didn’t bring it over here and tell you how cute it was, did I?”
I guess that showed her!
Once, while over at their house, their older son jumped on my back and wrapped his arms around my neck, trying to choke me. The roughhousing was fine, but after it was over, I discovered that he drooled all over the back of my head.
“Oww, gross!” I exclaimed.
“You're such a cry-baby,” the boy’s mother said, “It’s not a big deal. It’s kind of cute,” she giggled.
“Okay,” I said, “let my spit all over your hair, then! I bet you won’t find that cute! Just because a secretion comes from you child, it doesn’t make it any less disgusting that if an adult does it. How would you like it if I pissed on your sofa, or took a sit on your rug? I bet you wouldn’t find that so adorable!”
That incident reminded me of the time when I was about four. My family lived on Birnam Street, and right next door to us was my mother’s best friend. She was a buck-toothed bone-head of a woman who despite being in Montreal as long as my mother, never learned to speak a word of French or English. She and her monkey-headed husband had several children. The middle child was a boy about two years younger than I. At that time he was just learning to walk and talk (and already he could speak better than his parents).
I always dreaded occasions like Easter or Christmas, because I knew that little boy would be there. He would walk around dribbling up a storm. And he did not have regular, human drool, no, his drool was made up of some combination of transparent syrup and slime, and would dangle out of the corners of his mouth like a couple of braids. And one could always tell where he’s been…just look for the puddles. It would disgust me so much that I could not eat at these events. I would wretch, and gag, and even remember once when I almost puked.
I finally had enough one day, and I grabbed the future Nobel Laureate by the hand and brought him to the kitchen table, where all the adults were gathered, talking about some stupid thing or another. I walked up to my mom and asked her for a napkin. When she gave it to me, I wiped The Drooler’s mouth right in front of everyone. My goal: To embarrass his fat-head mother into wiping his goddam mouth. The result was not what I had expected.
All the adults at the table had a good laugh…at me! Even The Drooler’s mother! They thought this was funny, and cute. Cute! Was I the only one to be disgusted by this little freak!
I felt like screaming “Hey! You stupid bitch! Wipe your fucking kid’s mouth! Are you fucking blind, you ugly, inbred morons! Can’t you see that he’s making me sick!?! What the fuck’s the matter with you!?!”
The Drooler went on to break my brother’s G.I. Joe at an Easter party about a year later. My brother blamed me and made me give him my G.I. Joe as compensation. My father fixed the G.I. Joe using garbage bag ties and elastic bands, but it just wasn’t the same.
The Drooler’s family eventually packed up and moved to Florida, where I’m sure the sunlight dried up the drool faster than I would in Montreal, and I never saw or heard from them again.
So listen up you parents: If you stick your hand in your kids’ diapers and pull out a shit-covered finger, stop showing everyone! Shit is not cute or adorable! It is waste matter! And nothing you say can make it anything else!
And Drooler, if you’re reading this, you owe me a full-sized eagle-eyed G.I. Joe with the Kung-Fu grip!
THE MERRY MONK
One autumn my best friend Nick got a new job that required him to attend an intense eight-week training course in Toronto. The company that hired him was generous enough to rent Nick a small bachelor condo in Hogtown’s entertainment district. During that time he was able to score a couple of good tickets to a Habs/Buds exhibition game at the Air Canada Centre. Needless to say when he told me this, I was there.
Now I often make jokes about The Queen City, calling it a bloated, egotistical, overrated, soulless, lame-ass Ontario Whitey town, but truth be known it’s a place I like visiting. Torontonians have always been nice and friendly to me (with some exceptions, which I will get to later), and I have never gone there and not had a good time.
I worked until midnight the day before leaving, and since my train left at 6:30 am, I decided to stay up all night. I tried to sleep on the train ride over, but the fat-assed douche-bag sitting behind me spent all his time either blabbing obnoxiously on his Blackberry, or snoring loudly as he slept.
I arrived at the condo around 11:30 am. Nick had left a key for me with the doorman. At last, some sleep! Or so I thought. You see, the building was having a new fire alarm system installed, and they kept testing it every five minutes. At around two in the afternoon, upon finally reaching sleep, I was rocked out of bed when they were considerate enough to blast an announcement that they were finally finished with the alarm testing for the day. Thanks for letting me know, jerk!
Nick conveniently forgot to bring any Montreal Canadiens apparel, so there I was, alone with my huge, red vintage Habs jersey. Boy, did I turn a few heads. I stood out like a big, red, sore thumb. The ticket-taker was a nice older woman who kidded me about wearing the wrong colour. I sat next to a nice, elderly gentleman at the game who was a life-long Toronto Maple Leafs fan (poor man!). He was so old he could remember the last time the Buds won the Stanley Cup. There was some kidding between us, but it was entirely friendly. The real problems came after the game, (which the Habs lost 4-3) as we walked back to the condo. We had to pass by the Skydome, just as a Blue Jays game was ending.
It was then I had an encounter with one of the Jays fans. He was a thin Ontario Whitey in jeans (both pants and jacket) and a baseball cap which concealed his mullet, (and possibly that he was balding). He had a moustache and looked to be in his late twenties.
“Hey!” he called out, “the Habs suck!”
I quickly turned around, much to the dismay of Nick, who feared I would start some kind of fight. I didn’t think it was likely. I was more than twice the Whitey’s size. I walked right up to him and said: “I’ve been to eight Stanley Cup parades in my lifetime! How many have YOU been to?”
The Whitey had nothing further to say.
“Eight! In my lifetime!” I added as I marched away.
The street was lined with school buses full of kids leaving the ballgame (I think it may have been the Jays’ last home game of the season or something). One of the kids (he was about twelve) opened his window and shouted to me from the safety of his seat “Hey, Frenchy!”
I immediately turned an unfriendly eye towards him as he awkwardly tried to close the school bus window. When he was unable to do so, he quickly hid under his seat until I walked away.
It must be said, though, that most of the baseball fans were a little friendlier, and just asked what the final score was or what happened at the game.
Closer to the condo, Nick and I ran into a group of white trash looking lowlifes who were openly drinking beer on the street. One of them stumbled up to me and said: “A Canadiens shirt? That’s a go where I come from!”
“Oh yeah? What trailer park is that?” I retorted.
The Drunk’s friends laughed. He was at a loss for words, but then again, he probably only knew a few to begin with. The Drunk turned around, and walked away giving me the old “Ah, forget you! You’re not worth it!” hand wave. Most people do that to save face, and make it seem like they got the last word. I let the whole matter drop, and walked away knowing I’m the one who came out ahead, even if the Habs didn’t that night.
The next day I saved for a lunch with an old college friend, whom I call The Big Man. He was born in Montreal, but moved to T.O. over a decade ago, and makes a living in film and television post-production. I had only seen him once since his wedding five years earlier, although we regularly kept in touch via e-mail correspondence and phone calls.
We agreed to meet at his favourite Thai restaurant on Church Street, which had a lot of churches on it (quelle surprise!) I can’t remember what the place was called…I think it was “Thai a Yellow Ribbon”…Or maybe it was “Thunder Thai’s”…No, that’s not it, either…Hmmm, was it “Thai Me Up, Thai Me Down” or possibly “Win, Lose, or Thai”?
Anyway, that’s not important. As it turned out I was about half an hour early, so I decided to do a little exploring up Church Street. About half a block north I found an old-fashioned novelty store like I had not seen since I was a boy. I thought those kind of shops had gone the way of the Dodo long ago. I didn’t go in, but checked out the window display.
“I have to tell The Big Man about this! He’ll flip!” I thought to myself. His father used to own a similar store on St. Laurent Boulevard in Montreal decades earlier. Then I thought that he probably already knew about the shop, so I decided to visit it myself after lunch.
The meal went well, and it was great to see The Big Man again. The food was good (but not as good as the Thai places in Montreal!). When I told him about the store, it turns out he had no idea it was there, and was excited about seeing the place. He asked me if I had been inside. I told him no and asked why he wanted to know. As it turns out, he was interested in buying a novelty his father used to sell in his store called “The Merry Monk” and to his surprise I knew exactly what that was.
“The Merry Monk” is an eight-inch high cheap plastic monk made in Taiwan. What makes him so “merry” is that when you press down on his bald head, an erect penis pops out of his robes.
It was as though we stepped into a time capsule. We were like two little kids again. The shop was a wonderland. They even had a wall of sunglasses exhibited on cheap, seventies-style cardboard holders. The Big Man said his father’s shop had the exact same display hung the exact same way.
The Big Man struck a conversation with the store’s owner, a pleasant woman in her forties as I checked out her inventory of clear plastic water pistols, Groucho glasses, fake dog shit and rubber vomit.
We ended up talking to the store’s owner for quite some time. It turns it they’ve been in business since the 1930’s, the entire time in the same family.
At one point I asked to see a novelty Oscar trophy, and upon clutching it I launched into a disingenuous Academy Award acceptance speech that brought the house down.
I mentioned to the owner that the only thing the store lacked was an old, bald, short, chubby guy with enormous, thick glasses and a cigar who would tell stories about how in 1936 he had a smoked meat sandwich and coffee at the Brown Derby in Montreal, and got change back from his nickel.
We told her that she should get a website and sell some of these things on the internet. Novelty shops like hers are a rarity, and there are loads of people out there who would pay top dollar for that kind of kitschy crap, but she seemed uninterested in that sort of thing.
As it turned out, they had several “Merry Monks”. The Big Man paid for his and we were about to leave when I asked the store’s owner for her business card. She said she didn’t have one, “unless you want our old card from the fifties.”
“Are you kidding!?!” I shouted, “What is it about the conversation we had for the last hour that’d lead you to believe I wouldn’t want a card from the fifties? I’d want that over any new one!”
The large, dusty, and faded business card was two sided, with an old-style phone number (ELGIN 4519) on the top corner. I wish now that I had asked for several more.
It is experiences like that one; unplanned and simple, that tend to be the most meaningful to me. I went for a grandiose, expensive NHL exhibition game, and instead it’s a simple, sentimental, unexpected visit to an anachronistic novelty shop that now echoes in my memory the loudest.
I GET THROWN OUT OF A NUDIE BAR
Montreal is a party town. There is always a party going down, if you know where to look. I could never understand why anyone would go to Amsterdam. Everything you can do there, I’ve done here.
I think my hometown should change its tourist slogan to something like: “Come to Montreal…We got Bimbos!” Or maybe: “Montreal: Hot and cold running Bimbos 24/7!” How about: “Visit Montreal: Bimbo City!” I personally like: "Montreal, where Bimbos be not few!" Well, you get the point.
Sure the Botanical Gardens, the Insectarium, the Musee des Beaux Arts and our fine cafes and restaurants are great attractions during the day, but the sex trade is where you find the big money. I would like you to name the one person who went broke exhibiting scantily clad or nude women. Well, who was it? I’m waiting…
Whenever I travel or talk to someone from another part of Canada (as I often do in my line of work) they always either say that they visited Montreal and had a great time, or want to visit because they heard about what a fun, open place it is. If they are young and male, they invariably want to visit one of our many nudie bars that allow what is called “danse contact”. Those are establishments that allow the customer (for a few dollars more) to legally fondle the dancer’s breasts and ass.
I am not ashamed to say that I have visited nudie bars. Most men have. And if they say they haven't, they're lying. On a recent visit I was, for the first time ever, thrown out of such an establishment.
It all began one afternoon when I showed up for my regular shift at work, only to find the building totally surrounded by fire trucks and other emergency vehicles. It turned out some careless construction workers had ruptured a major gas line and the building had to be evacuated. A few hours later, with the pungent stench of natural gas in the air making everyone sick, my boss decided to close the office for the day.
So there I was, with the day off in downtown Montreal. I decided to go home and watch the Habs season opener on TV, but that wasn’t for a few hours. While strolling along Ste. Catherine Street, I came across a nudie bar I had never visited before. It was a cave that was downstairs from street level. The place was dark, had only three or four strippers working, and about a dozen customers.
Bouncers come in three varieties: Bald with an earring (The Vin Diesel), long hair tied in a ponytail with a goatee (The Rock Star), or the big stupid fat ex-football player (The Big Moose from Archie Comics). The one at this particular establishment was the “Rock Star” type. He was even a little friendly. He guessed right away I was Greek, and thought we went to high school together (it turned out he was wrong).
The first dancer to approach me was a short hair blonde with a great body but a harsh looking face. It turned out she was from Germany. Her body was smooth, white, blemish free, natural, and very well toned.
The women who do “danse contact” come on two categories: Passive and Interactive. The “passive” dancer just stands in front of the client with her arms in the air slowly shaking her body and turning while getting groped. The “interactive” rubs against the client and sometimes hugs or otherwise touches back. The German was the “passive” type.
Now once you get a girl into the private booth, most places have the rules posted. I have never broken any house rules without the dancer asking me to. While she was doing her dance for me, the German shook her rear in my face and asked me to slap it. I gave her a light, playful tap on the fanny. She turned around, looking rather annoyed at me and asked me to give her a real slap in the ass. So I did. She had a well conditioned, rock-hard posterior.
“No! Harder!” she said.
I don’t get off on spanking women. It’s just not my thing, and I told her that. But she didn’t care and insisted that I keep spanking her. So I did. I slapped her butt several times, and she kept asking for more.
So there I was doing something I wasn't comfortable with, but she loved. And I was paying her! It didn’t make any sense to me and I wasn’t enjoying myself, so after two dances I called it quits and gave her $20.00. She seemed a little pissed.
I went back to the bar and ordered a club soda. A few minutes later I was approached by a tall, slim dancer with long, shiny black hair. She told me she was from Ireland, and her name was Kate. After we talked for a few minutes, she invited me to one of the private booths.
In the next booth was the German, but for some reason I didn’t hear any slaps. Did she only like being spanked by Greeks? I didn’t get it. Why did the guy she was with now get away with not having to spank her?
Kate was the “interactive” type. While being very affectionate, she did not violate any of the house rules.
After our first song, the German finished with her guy and left. In the middle of my second song with Kate, the Bouncer burst into the booth, said “Okay! This is your last dance!” He then pointed his meaty finger in my surprised face and said “You get out!” and angrily stormed away before I could ask why. So much for the first friendly bouncer I’ve ever met.
I didn’t know if he was angry with me or Kate, (who also had no clue why he was so upset). I paid her for her time, and left the bar, unsure of what exactly was going on. I’ve done far more in similar establishments and was allowed to stay.
I think the German, for whatever reason, told the Bouncer Kate and I had violated one of the house rules. Or maybe the Bouncer had a thing for Kate and got jealous?
I guess I’ll never know. Either way, I’m never going there again. Fortunately, I live in a city where finding another such place isn’t all that difficult. God, I love Montreal!
