WARNING - NOT FOR THE SQUEAMISH
Gilbert Bouchard's body was fished out of the North Saskatchewan river this weekend.
The writer, popular culture commentator and broadcaster had gone missing late one night in April when he went out for a walk. It was reported that Gilbert had been battling depression and had gone off his medications.
A search was organized, and posters were put up, and a FaceBook group was formed. Despite rumours of Gilbert having been spotted a couple of days after he left on his walk, there was nothing concrete until this weekend.
In the interests of full disclosure, I have been only nodding acquaintances with Gilbert for years. He was supposed to be the editor of my first book, way back in the early years of The Books Collective. After agreeing to do it, he faded from the project and he was replaced. In the ensuing years, I stumbled across Gilbert infrequently. He was focussing on visual art and popular culture commentary while I focussed on theatre and classical music.
A year and a half ago, after Gilbert wrote a particularly mean and personal review of one of my plays, someone offered an old Indian proverb: Sit on the bank of a river and wait: your enemy's corpse will soon float by.
Here, in 21st century Edmonton, that proverb had no reality. It was abstract, about karma in general, and it was said without malice - I was being told to let go of my anger, and I did. I wrote a short story titled Driving Day in which people on a happy drug travel down the river to an unknown destination, trying to pull people in with them. So the reality of Gilbert floating in the North Saskatchewan is sad and disturbing. If anything proves to me that Gilbert and I were not enemies, it is this unexpected feeling of loss: I wish Gilbert were still here, still burbling on the radio, still striding about downtown in his long black coat.
Gilbert had his own demons, and many of us were unaware of them. He revealed his excellent qualities to some people: curiosity, generosity, hard work, fun. Our community has lost a man who had passions, who sparked dialogue, and who continued to seek his own path in the world with his own kind of integrity.
I live near the river. I never want to see anyone float by under any circumstances.
Peace, Gilbert.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Moving the Hand
You'll see them inside the art galleries, sitting on a bench with their sketchpads, copying the works of the masters. These are artists learning something about their craft, learning something visceral about what it feels like to draw those lines. They are acquiring the knowledge of line and form and proportion through the act of copying.
Writers don't do enough of this. We think reading is enough. I have read the occasional how-to book that recommends actually writing out, copying, passages from excellent writers. Have I done it? Only a paragraph here and there. The more I think of it, though, the more I think it might be a good idea. You could feel the rhythm of the sentences, understand that flow in a visceral way.
The parallel to the visual art includes the fact that those people sketching are not working in the same medium - it doesn't mean they aren't learning anything. Just because I use a word processing program on a computer and not a fountain pen, quill, or an Underwood manual typewriter, doesn't mean there is nothing to be learned by typing out those passages.
It would have to be a private effort, though. Unlike the artist's sketches, the end product of the writer's exercise will look just like the original. I guess the attribution should always be at the top, in case one dies and the literary executors think these passages are those of the deceased. Or never save the files - because the value of the experience is in what you learn from the retyping, not from the rereading.
Writers don't do enough of this. We think reading is enough. I have read the occasional how-to book that recommends actually writing out, copying, passages from excellent writers. Have I done it? Only a paragraph here and there. The more I think of it, though, the more I think it might be a good idea. You could feel the rhythm of the sentences, understand that flow in a visceral way.
The parallel to the visual art includes the fact that those people sketching are not working in the same medium - it doesn't mean they aren't learning anything. Just because I use a word processing program on a computer and not a fountain pen, quill, or an Underwood manual typewriter, doesn't mean there is nothing to be learned by typing out those passages.
It would have to be a private effort, though. Unlike the artist's sketches, the end product of the writer's exercise will look just like the original. I guess the attribution should always be at the top, in case one dies and the literary executors think these passages are those of the deceased. Or never save the files - because the value of the experience is in what you learn from the retyping, not from the rereading.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Perspective vs. Truthtelling
In the past month, I have had two situations in which I felt a former colleague was not telling the truth, and in so doing that colleague was harming my reputation - if I have one.
In one case, it was a matter of what was NOT being said. There was information posted on FaceBook which did not tell the whole story, and when people responded to the information in ways that showed they misunderstood the chain of events...the original author did nothing to correct the misunderstandings - instead choosing to write tasteful thank you notes.
In the meantime, I was getting e-mails from several other people who were puzzled by the situation (as I was). So, rather than add fuel to the controversy, I arranged to meet the former colleague for a drink. We met, and we had a really good and interesting discussion. I expressed my concerns, my colleague expressed some concerns, I pointed out what damage was being done - and I found that in fact the ramifications had not been considered. Fine; a genuine error in judgment that arose from a logical sequence of events. You could consider it a matter of perspective.
The other case is more disturbing. A writer I once worked with, and with whom I had an excellent relationship, has written some things in her blog about the publishing company I used to be a part of, the company which published one of her books.
Unfortunately, what she wrote contained material which I do not believe to be true.
When I read the material in the blog, I submitted some factual corrections - provable, concrete material. I thought perhaps the author's memory of what happened all those years ago is perhaps...unreliable. The author initially did not approve the corrections for posting, instead sending me an incendiary e-mail. My positive comment, on a separate part of the blog post, was approved. So someone could be forgiven for thinking I agree with them. When I drew this to her attention, she agreed to withdraw the positive comment as well. She also agreed to amend a couple of the points - all the while insisting that she was right, even regarding discussions to which she was not privy and I was, and threatening me with legal action unless I amended this blog.
I was once on a grant jury and thus privy to a scathing and bitter letter this colleague had written to accompany her application. I understood the source of the frustration for this colleague, and I defended her when the other members of the jury took exception to what they saw as a lack of professionalism. I fought for her, because I believed in her as an artist. Now I am more worried about whether or not there is something wrong there. Perhaps she is facing a medical issue. Or perhaps there is something else behind the anger. She flatly insisted in her e-mails that the people who disagree with her are wrong, even when I am offering reasonable proof that they could well be right.
One of the questions I have struggled with, off and on, is this: What is the relationship between the art, truth, and the artist? It was one of the themes touched on in the essay in my first book. Now, as I am faced with these situations, I must ask it again. I do know that an artist who refuses to face the consequences of his or her own actions faces a very tough road.
In one case, it was a matter of what was NOT being said. There was information posted on FaceBook which did not tell the whole story, and when people responded to the information in ways that showed they misunderstood the chain of events...the original author did nothing to correct the misunderstandings - instead choosing to write tasteful thank you notes.
In the meantime, I was getting e-mails from several other people who were puzzled by the situation (as I was). So, rather than add fuel to the controversy, I arranged to meet the former colleague for a drink. We met, and we had a really good and interesting discussion. I expressed my concerns, my colleague expressed some concerns, I pointed out what damage was being done - and I found that in fact the ramifications had not been considered. Fine; a genuine error in judgment that arose from a logical sequence of events. You could consider it a matter of perspective.
The other case is more disturbing. A writer I once worked with, and with whom I had an excellent relationship, has written some things in her blog about the publishing company I used to be a part of, the company which published one of her books.
Unfortunately, what she wrote contained material which I do not believe to be true.
When I read the material in the blog, I submitted some factual corrections - provable, concrete material. I thought perhaps the author's memory of what happened all those years ago is perhaps...unreliable. The author initially did not approve the corrections for posting, instead sending me an incendiary e-mail. My positive comment, on a separate part of the blog post, was approved. So someone could be forgiven for thinking I agree with them. When I drew this to her attention, she agreed to withdraw the positive comment as well. She also agreed to amend a couple of the points - all the while insisting that she was right, even regarding discussions to which she was not privy and I was, and threatening me with legal action unless I amended this blog.
I was once on a grant jury and thus privy to a scathing and bitter letter this colleague had written to accompany her application. I understood the source of the frustration for this colleague, and I defended her when the other members of the jury took exception to what they saw as a lack of professionalism. I fought for her, because I believed in her as an artist. Now I am more worried about whether or not there is something wrong there. Perhaps she is facing a medical issue. Or perhaps there is something else behind the anger. She flatly insisted in her e-mails that the people who disagree with her are wrong, even when I am offering reasonable proof that they could well be right.
One of the questions I have struggled with, off and on, is this: What is the relationship between the art, truth, and the artist? It was one of the themes touched on in the essay in my first book. Now, as I am faced with these situations, I must ask it again. I do know that an artist who refuses to face the consequences of his or her own actions faces a very tough road.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
On the Right Side of the Tracks!
Our newest house is west of the new Light Rail Transit station. Like the house in which we live, it is only a half block from the tracks - but, unlike our domicile, the station is right there.
I noticed the difference because of the sound. House #1 is bathed in the dinging bells of the level crossing where the LRT shoots out of the tunnel from downtown. House #3 hears the lower, mellifluous bells which announce the arrival of the train at a station - and the recorded voice of the station announcement. Far enough away that you can't hear it from inside the house.
There were lots of dignitaries at the opening of the new LRT station last weekend - people I recognized from every level of government. The pedestrian/bicycle underpass hosted blue-icinged cupcakes, popcorn (how many poisons can they offer me in one event?) and a roster of young musicians - young and good, I must say. Although playing amplified music in a concrete tunnel assured a decibel level that I wouldn't stay around for.
The little dead end street is showing a fair amount of activity as people renovate, making a desirable location even more so.
Our house was empty for much of the winter - with the exception of a few very short-term guests. This weekend it will be invaded by a family of 5. It has been two years since the house saw this kind of liveliness. I look forward to feeling a more active vibe there. We have been furnishing the place, and it is starting to look like someone's home again.
Soon we will have to stock the pond with koi or goldfish to keep the tradition that Virginia Van Santen started. Many of the paving stones around the pond have heaved owing to the fierce fast freezing cycles of the Edmonton winters, and we will eventually have to do something about that if we keep the house. For now it makes the backyard look like a wild, abandoned magical place - including the old blue bicycle rusting against the fence.
I noticed the difference because of the sound. House #1 is bathed in the dinging bells of the level crossing where the LRT shoots out of the tunnel from downtown. House #3 hears the lower, mellifluous bells which announce the arrival of the train at a station - and the recorded voice of the station announcement. Far enough away that you can't hear it from inside the house.
There were lots of dignitaries at the opening of the new LRT station last weekend - people I recognized from every level of government. The pedestrian/bicycle underpass hosted blue-icinged cupcakes, popcorn (how many poisons can they offer me in one event?) and a roster of young musicians - young and good, I must say. Although playing amplified music in a concrete tunnel assured a decibel level that I wouldn't stay around for.
The little dead end street is showing a fair amount of activity as people renovate, making a desirable location even more so.
Our house was empty for much of the winter - with the exception of a few very short-term guests. This weekend it will be invaded by a family of 5. It has been two years since the house saw this kind of liveliness. I look forward to feeling a more active vibe there. We have been furnishing the place, and it is starting to look like someone's home again.
Soon we will have to stock the pond with koi or goldfish to keep the tradition that Virginia Van Santen started. Many of the paving stones around the pond have heaved owing to the fierce fast freezing cycles of the Edmonton winters, and we will eventually have to do something about that if we keep the house. For now it makes the backyard look like a wild, abandoned magical place - including the old blue bicycle rusting against the fence.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Blue Plate Diner
The following is the text of a recent e-mail exchange regarding an experience at the Blue Plate Diner in Edmonton.
First message - sent to the restaurant through their webpage.
I met with friends at your restaurant last Thursday. We had an hour, and the restaurant was moderately busy. I always enjoy the ambiance of the Blue Plate.
We ordered. As usual, I identified that I have celiac sprue and can't have dishes with gluten. I was specific that this meant wheat, oats, barley and rye. I also have a corn allergy - which is why I happily place myself at the servers' discretion when choosing a meal. The special that evening turned out not to be safe; I was advised to order the stuffed pepper.
It arrived on a bed of couscous. Wheat. And by then there was no time to re-order, so I left.
This is the THIRD time I have been given dishes with wheat in them after telling the servers and kitchen that I can't eat it. I had not been to the diner in almost a year because of the previous hassles.
I will not be back. Much as I like the diner, it is not a safe place for anyone with dietary concerns. I will ask the Celiac Association to place a warning in their newsletter.
Second message - sent by Rima Devitt to me three days later
Dear Timothy,
We expect our servers to be reasonably knowledgeable and respectful towards special dietary issues such as gluten intolerance. Having said that, we also know our serving staff can't all be experts in the fields of allergies, intolerances and nutrition in general and hope that customers who do have special dietary needs come to our restaurant armed with some knowledge of their own. Seeing as you have several allergies/intolerances and have had negative experiences it would seem in our restaurant in the past - would it not seem reasonable for you to perhaps call ahead with any questions about the menu you may have, go on our website, pop us an email, etc.? Rather than coming in during the busy dinner rush and basically putting your health in the hands of our server, who by definition is a 'server', not a 'doctor' or a 'nutritionist'? I believe it states right on the menu that the Stuffed Pepper is served on a bed of couscous - if you would have asked for that to be served on rice instead this whole scenario could have been cleanly avoided had you actually read the description of the menu item.
I respectfully suggest you consider dining at home more often, rather than subject hospitality staff to your bad manners and lack of preparedness.
Sincerely,
Rima Devitt
Blue Plate Diner
Third (and fourth) messages - my response
Thank you, Ms. Devitt.
I was very clear with the server, and the server understood - it was not the server's mistake. The restaurant was less than half full. When I ordered, I was also clear that I like everything, and anything that could be prepared would be fine - including any necessary substitutions. That is hardly a lack of manners. The server was quite upset, because the mistake had been made in the kitchen and she didn't notice when she brought the dish to the table - the lighting was dark enough that I had to confirm with my companions that this was indeed couscous and not broken rice. Calling ahead would not have made a difference if the kitchen staff do not recognize couscous as containing gluten.
I left not because I was upset about the food, but because there was then no time for another dish to be prepared if I was to be on time to teach my class. My companions stayed and had dinner. They were asked for my e-mail so the restaurant could contact me. After a couple of days had gone by with no follow-up from the restaurant, I sent a message through the website.
I do take responsibility when I go to a restaurant. In restaurants where there is any indication from the staff that they do not know what celiac is, I hand them a laminated card with an explanation and a list of ingredients. I do not ask servers to be nutritionists or doctors, but with celiac becoming more and more common I am surprised to find this is still an issue at the Blue Plate. The Creperie has a separate menu; Mata Hari indicates their celiac items on the menu; Bistro Praha has always been most welcoming; Chianti offers gluten-free options on their pastas; Upper Crust has never had a problem, and never made me feel as if I am a problem. My dietary concerns are not unusual, nor are they difficult to accommodate.
You interpret my actions as bad manners and lack of preparedness. While I admire your defence of the staff and the restaurant, blaming the customer for a mistake made in the kitchen is not appropriate. Yes, this situation could have been avoided. It could have been avoided by the kitchen staff knowing what the server meant. It could also have been ameliorated by management sending a timely apology and saying they were asking the celiac association for the latest guidelines so the staff would be better prepared in future. The attitude reflected in your e-mail does not bring credit to your restaurant.
Yours,
T.)
Okay. So now the commentary:
I like the Diner. I like the idea of the Diner. I like the people at the Diner. I recommend the Diner to other people, as long as the people I recommend it to have no dietary restrictions.
On a previous visit to the Diner, I was served a salad that had croutons. The croutons had NOT been listed on the menu - but I HAD told the staff that I could not have wheat products. The server was apologetic and said he would bring a salad without croutons. A couple of minutes later I had a salad and it seemed like everything would be fine - until I got to the lower layers of the salad and found more croutons. Soggy with dressing.
I'm not overly fussy about things like cross-contamination, or I would never eat out at all. But if I eat wheat, I suffer symptoms that are like those of an intestinal flu. Because I have a fast metabolism, the symptoms can start within about an hour. Instead of throwing together a fresh salad, it seems the kitchen staff had tried to pick the croutons out of a pre-made salad. So there were crumbs in there - and that's all it takes to make me sick.
Fortunately I only feel crummy for a few hours (the other blessing of a fast metabolism).
But what if the customer had an allergy that led to anaphylaxis? Let's say a peanut allergy - and the kitchen just picked the peanuts out, but left a few by accident...
When a restaurant is informed of an issue, they have the option of saying "I am sorry, but I don't think we can safely accommodate you." Then people can leave OR assume their own risk. Don't tell the customer you will accommodate them and then make them sick.
In the e-mail exchange above, Ms. Devitt blames me. I had been clear about the sensitivities, ordered the special and was then told it was not safe - and the stuffed pepper was recommended as an alternative that would be safe. She has a point: I did not read the description of the recommended dish, and I assumed that the kitchen would make any necessary substitution - particularly since I had made it clear that I like all food and would eat anything that was safe.
I was not abusive toward the staff in any way. I did mention that it was the third time this had happened, and that I did not have time for another dish to be cooked (we had been there 30 minutes already). I didn't raise my voice, but I did leave abruptly because I hoped to find something to eat before teaching my class. Is that rude? Considering the circumstances, I don't think so.
As for chiding me and saying I ought to come to the restaurant "armed with some knowledge" - how strange to accuse ME of being the unknowledgeable one when it was the cook who didn't know couscous was wheat. Well, now I do have some knowledge: the Blue Plate Diner not only can't be trusted to accommodate celiacs, but the management blames the customer. That is knowledge that needs to be shared with other people who have food sensitivities so they can do as Ms. Devitt suggests and dine at home instead of at the Blue Plate Diner.
First message - sent to the restaurant through their webpage.
I met with friends at your restaurant last Thursday. We had an hour, and the restaurant was moderately busy. I always enjoy the ambiance of the Blue Plate.
We ordered. As usual, I identified that I have celiac sprue and can't have dishes with gluten. I was specific that this meant wheat, oats, barley and rye. I also have a corn allergy - which is why I happily place myself at the servers' discretion when choosing a meal. The special that evening turned out not to be safe; I was advised to order the stuffed pepper.
It arrived on a bed of couscous. Wheat. And by then there was no time to re-order, so I left.
This is the THIRD time I have been given dishes with wheat in them after telling the servers and kitchen that I can't eat it. I had not been to the diner in almost a year because of the previous hassles.
I will not be back. Much as I like the diner, it is not a safe place for anyone with dietary concerns. I will ask the Celiac Association to place a warning in their newsletter.
Second message - sent by Rima Devitt to me three days later
Dear Timothy,
We expect our servers to be reasonably knowledgeable and respectful towards special dietary issues such as gluten intolerance. Having said that, we also know our serving staff can't all be experts in the fields of allergies, intolerances and nutrition in general and hope that customers who do have special dietary needs come to our restaurant armed with some knowledge of their own. Seeing as you have several allergies/intolerances and have had negative experiences it would seem in our restaurant in the past - would it not seem reasonable for you to perhaps call ahead with any questions about the menu you may have, go on our website, pop us an email, etc.? Rather than coming in during the busy dinner rush and basically putting your health in the hands of our server, who by definition is a 'server', not a 'doctor' or a 'nutritionist'? I believe it states right on the menu that the Stuffed Pepper is served on a bed of couscous - if you would have asked for that to be served on rice instead this whole scenario could have been cleanly avoided had you actually read the description of the menu item.
I respectfully suggest you consider dining at home more often, rather than subject hospitality staff to your bad manners and lack of preparedness.
Sincerely,
Rima Devitt
Blue Plate Diner
Third (and fourth) messages - my response
Thank you, Ms. Devitt.
I was very clear with the server, and the server understood - it was not the server's mistake. The restaurant was less than half full. When I ordered, I was also clear that I like everything, and anything that could be prepared would be fine - including any necessary substitutions. That is hardly a lack of manners. The server was quite upset, because the mistake had been made in the kitchen and she didn't notice when she brought the dish to the table - the lighting was dark enough that I had to confirm with my companions that this was indeed couscous and not broken rice. Calling ahead would not have made a difference if the kitchen staff do not recognize couscous as containing gluten.
I left not because I was upset about the food, but because there was then no time for another dish to be prepared if I was to be on time to teach my class. My companions stayed and had dinner. They were asked for my e-mail so the restaurant could contact me. After a couple of days had gone by with no follow-up from the restaurant, I sent a message through the website.
I do take responsibility when I go to a restaurant. In restaurants where there is any indication from the staff that they do not know what celiac is, I hand them a laminated card with an explanation and a list of ingredients. I do not ask servers to be nutritionists or doctors, but with celiac becoming more and more common I am surprised to find this is still an issue at the Blue Plate. The Creperie has a separate menu; Mata Hari indicates their celiac items on the menu; Bistro Praha has always been most welcoming; Chianti offers gluten-free options on their pastas; Upper Crust has never had a problem, and never made me feel as if I am a problem. My dietary concerns are not unusual, nor are they difficult to accommodate.
You interpret my actions as bad manners and lack of preparedness. While I admire your defence of the staff and the restaurant, blaming the customer for a mistake made in the kitchen is not appropriate. Yes, this situation could have been avoided. It could have been avoided by the kitchen staff knowing what the server meant. It could also have been ameliorated by management sending a timely apology and saying they were asking the celiac association for the latest guidelines so the staff would be better prepared in future. The attitude reflected in your e-mail does not bring credit to your restaurant.
Yours,
(PS. The Blue Plate Diner is one of the restaurants I recommended in an article on Edmonton in the Fall 2008 issue of the national magazine Out in Canada. I would like to think that was not a mistake.
Okay. So now the commentary:
I like the Diner. I like the idea of the Diner. I like the people at the Diner. I recommend the Diner to other people, as long as the people I recommend it to have no dietary restrictions.
On a previous visit to the Diner, I was served a salad that had croutons. The croutons had NOT been listed on the menu - but I HAD told the staff that I could not have wheat products. The server was apologetic and said he would bring a salad without croutons. A couple of minutes later I had a salad and it seemed like everything would be fine - until I got to the lower layers of the salad and found more croutons. Soggy with dressing.
I'm not overly fussy about things like cross-contamination, or I would never eat out at all. But if I eat wheat, I suffer symptoms that are like those of an intestinal flu. Because I have a fast metabolism, the symptoms can start within about an hour. Instead of throwing together a fresh salad, it seems the kitchen staff had tried to pick the croutons out of a pre-made salad. So there were crumbs in there - and that's all it takes to make me sick.
Fortunately I only feel crummy for a few hours (the other blessing of a fast metabolism).
But what if the customer had an allergy that led to anaphylaxis? Let's say a peanut allergy - and the kitchen just picked the peanuts out, but left a few by accident...
When a restaurant is informed of an issue, they have the option of saying "I am sorry, but I don't think we can safely accommodate you." Then people can leave OR assume their own risk. Don't tell the customer you will accommodate them and then make them sick.
In the e-mail exchange above, Ms. Devitt blames me. I had been clear about the sensitivities, ordered the special and was then told it was not safe - and the stuffed pepper was recommended as an alternative that would be safe. She has a point: I did not read the description of the recommended dish, and I assumed that the kitchen would make any necessary substitution - particularly since I had made it clear that I like all food and would eat anything that was safe.
I was not abusive toward the staff in any way. I did mention that it was the third time this had happened, and that I did not have time for another dish to be cooked (we had been there 30 minutes already). I didn't raise my voice, but I did leave abruptly because I hoped to find something to eat before teaching my class. Is that rude? Considering the circumstances, I don't think so.
As for chiding me and saying I ought to come to the restaurant "armed with some knowledge" - how strange to accuse ME of being the unknowledgeable one when it was the cook who didn't know couscous was wheat. Well, now I do have some knowledge: the Blue Plate Diner not only can't be trusted to accommodate celiacs, but the management blames the customer. That is knowledge that needs to be shared with other people who have food sensitivities so they can do as Ms. Devitt suggests and dine at home instead of at the Blue Plate Diner.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Locking the Doors
Occasionally a stoner will come to our house. He (almost always a he) is remembering a time when a drug dealer lived here. "Remembering" might be too active a verb. It's more like an instinct. There are other times when a drunk or wasted former resident will show up, insisting that they still live in our basement.
We have an alarm system, and it works. We did once have a situation where one of these guys got into the basement back when the basement door was sticking and not quite latching.
The alarm went, the police were called, they came and they took the man away. He was confused and on the belligerent side, but he didn't mean any harm.
The police officers were apologetic - they thought he must have been in there for some time, searching the place. It had been thoroughly tossed.
I reassured them that it always looked like that.
I have too much stuff. Or too little organization for the stuff I have. The valuable stuff is the least likely to be stolen, because the market for it is not the local pawn shop. I don't have much in the way of electronics - no television, a couple of obsolete laptops I keep for sentimental reasons. Not much that is portable and valuable. A crackhead is not likely to wrestle the heavy antique furniture out the narrow door and up the outside stairs.
The alarm is more about saving the hassle than saving the stuff. After a theft, you either have to report the incident and go through all the nuisance of explaining it to the police, the insurance company etc OR accept your losses and find a replacement for what was taken, knowing that you will spend the next couple of years occasionally looking in pawn shops to see if anything looks familiar.
So the alarm goes on. We even have it turned on most of the time when we're home. The alarm isn't about fear as much as it's about having limited energy to deal with thieves and addicts. At times I look at the mess that is my basement and think "Let them have it!"... but then I realize I do have an attachment to some of the things I have inherited or scavenged over the years. Not ready to downsize yet.
We have an alarm system, and it works. We did once have a situation where one of these guys got into the basement back when the basement door was sticking and not quite latching.
The alarm went, the police were called, they came and they took the man away. He was confused and on the belligerent side, but he didn't mean any harm.
The police officers were apologetic - they thought he must have been in there for some time, searching the place. It had been thoroughly tossed.
I reassured them that it always looked like that.
I have too much stuff. Or too little organization for the stuff I have. The valuable stuff is the least likely to be stolen, because the market for it is not the local pawn shop. I don't have much in the way of electronics - no television, a couple of obsolete laptops I keep for sentimental reasons. Not much that is portable and valuable. A crackhead is not likely to wrestle the heavy antique furniture out the narrow door and up the outside stairs.
The alarm is more about saving the hassle than saving the stuff. After a theft, you either have to report the incident and go through all the nuisance of explaining it to the police, the insurance company etc OR accept your losses and find a replacement for what was taken, knowing that you will spend the next couple of years occasionally looking in pawn shops to see if anything looks familiar.
So the alarm goes on. We even have it turned on most of the time when we're home. The alarm isn't about fear as much as it's about having limited energy to deal with thieves and addicts. At times I look at the mess that is my basement and think "Let them have it!"... but then I realize I do have an attachment to some of the things I have inherited or scavenged over the years. Not ready to downsize yet.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Moon River
Walking home on an uncharacteristically warm January evening - warm for January, that is. Which meant I took the indoor pedway system as far as the Sutton Place Hotel, where the bar's grand piano was sulking in a corner. I have become sensitive to the plight of the captive grand pianos. I have been told there is an ornate old European grand doing time in the west end Derk's Formal Wear store. It sits, mute, watching men try on their rental tuxes. Does the piano know these men are likely headed to events where younger, trendier pianos will tinkle in the background?
So I come out of the hotel into the cloud of smokers on the sidewalk and I turn toward home. Behind me a man bellows "Del!" A heart beat goes by and then "DEL! Where are you?" From somewhere down the block a distant "Here!"
"DEL!"
"What?"
"Where are you?"
I cross the street. The big windows of the Italian restaurant show that there is only one table occupied. The outdoor speakers, set up for the enjoyment of the ghosts of patio patrons past, are trickling out Moon River quietly enough to forestall complaints from the seniors in the assisted living residence across the street.
"Over here. Here."
"Del!"
Del is in front of the residence. She's tall and thin and I swear I didn't see her because of the light post. She has high cheekbones, and when she calls back to her drunken suitor she places her high-heeled boots wide, angles forward from the waist, and bellows.
"What?" "C'm 'ere!"
"No."
"DELLLL!"
His voice bounces off the office buildings, off the big windows of the Italian restaurant, and Moon River is the soundtrack to this doomed romantic evening. Above the street the lighted windows of the insomniac retirees suggest there are witnesses remembering their own Breakfasts at Tiffany's, their own Streetcars Named Desire, and wanting the noise to stop.
So I come out of the hotel into the cloud of smokers on the sidewalk and I turn toward home. Behind me a man bellows "Del!" A heart beat goes by and then "DEL! Where are you?" From somewhere down the block a distant "Here!"
"DEL!"
"What?"
"Where are you?"
I cross the street. The big windows of the Italian restaurant show that there is only one table occupied. The outdoor speakers, set up for the enjoyment of the ghosts of patio patrons past, are trickling out Moon River quietly enough to forestall complaints from the seniors in the assisted living residence across the street.
"Over here. Here."
"Del!"
Del is in front of the residence. She's tall and thin and I swear I didn't see her because of the light post. She has high cheekbones, and when she calls back to her drunken suitor she places her high-heeled boots wide, angles forward from the waist, and bellows.
"What?"
"No."
"DELLLL!"
His voice bounces off the office buildings, off the big windows of the Italian restaurant, and Moon River is the soundtrack to this doomed romantic evening. Above the street the lighted windows of the insomniac retirees suggest there are witnesses remembering their own Breakfasts at Tiffany's, their own Streetcars Named Desire, and wanting the noise to stop.
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