For once, a news agency that celebrates the difference between Greek and Roman cultures -- note the use of "tunics" near the bottom instead of the oft-misused "togas"! Richard Galpin, BBC correspondent in Athens, come here and kiss me!  

As you may know, it is extremely typical for a teenager to claim incompatibility with the thought processes of her parents ... usually the fault of the senior party. I have already spelled out difficulties with my well-meaning but still socio-politically traditional mother. My father, dare I say, is actually a worse offender, as not only does he not understand my beliefs, but he shares my mother's penchant for overachieving gadgets and ... wait for it ... has no flare for style.

Today I had to venture up into the horrors of suburban Toronto (henceforth known as the Land of Suffering and Much Gnashing of Teeth) to have a ringer replaced in my new telephone. It's a modern appliance, done in a retro style with sweeping lines, in turn juxtaposed with a matte metal finish. When I plugged it in triumphantly, it worked in making and taking calls, but naturally could not inform me when these occasions might arise. 

The trip up there via public transport would have taken more than an hour; via chauffeured vehicle it was perhaps twenty minutes, if even.

So about forty minutes later -- there was a bit of a queue in the store -- I was back in my father's car, sans telephone but with a pickup invoice filled out by an apologetic but skeptical-it-might-could-be-done clerk. I had left half hopeful, half heartbroken. I sat glumly by the window. My father decided this was a good time to assert his superiority.

Him: "What took so long?"

Me: "Nothing. Just a line. They're going to try and fix it."

Him: "Is it going to cost anything?"

My father doesn't believe there is such a thing as a good deal, unless he himself personally procures it, and even then, the party from whom he obtains it is still a bunch of conniving, thieving bastards out to murder his sons and rape his daughter ... especially if they are not Chinese. Yes. He is also somewhat racist ("somewhat" being "extremely", but he is my father, after all; I'm going to cut him some slack, even if I retract it a moment later). He may not be always be hateful, but he makes absolutely horrendous generalizations. I have already omitted his snide remark about Indians working at the store because it fills me with almost physical shame.

Me: "No, because it came with a 90-day guarantee. If it can't be fixed, it can't be exchanged either, because mine was the last one in the entire company. I already knew from the onset that they don't do refunds. They'll give me store credit."

Him: "[Derisive snort] Oh, that's very clever. So you have to shop at their store."

Me: "I don't mind. They've got a few cheaper phones I like, and I can use the remaining amount to get something else extra."

A brief silence passed.

Him: "So how much did that telephone cost, huh?"

Last time he drove me to the location, I had wisely rushed in, grabbed the phone, paid for it, and rushed out before he sauntered in, precisely to avoid questions such as these.

Me: "..."

Him: "How much?"

Me: [Muttering] "Twenty dollars." Which was still a very fair deal, having seen the same phone for fifty elsewhere. Bah!  

Him: "How about that phone we just got? It was under twenty dollars, and it does all sorts of stuff!"
Besides simple, mundane functions such as redialling and holding -- which to my knowledge neither of my parents knows how to utilize anyway -- this "stuff" includes: Displaying the current date or whichever date you wish; calculating sums (that old song again), and producing an ultraviolet beam to detect counterfeit currency (according to it, half my personal fortune is fake). And yes, it is also a fantastic cook and lover.

Me: "..."

Him: [Watching the trafficlight, with his customary two fingers on the wheel]

You see, I regard my father as somewhat fearsome. He does not take dissidence very well. Therefore, this is what I wanted to say:

Me: "Mine makes and receives telephone calls, Dad. That's all I need a telephone to do. If I want to know the date, I'll check my calendar, alarm clock, wristwatch, computer, or the television. If I need to figure out my taxes, I'll use the scientific calculator I already have, or better yet, use your accountant. If I need to verify the legality of my tender, I'll use the more expensive and more reputable UV device Mom has at work.

"The phone you and Mom purchased, while a good deal and very functional and futuristic-looking, is very ugly with no sense of original design or class. It has an awful-sounding ring and a handset the size of a Snickers bar. You have little taste in aesthetic matters and your disregard for their importance in life has offended me, not in just this instance but over several in my lifetime; this includes your obvious distaste for fine art, which you express boundlessly even when you know I have a fervent devotion to it. Also, you should stop wearing so many polo shirt and shorts combos; you used to be a fairly stylish and studly man, yes, I've seen the photographs, and what the hell was up with that perm in 1981?"
 
Instead this is what I actually said:

Me: "Hmmmm."

Peek-a-boo.

First, Romulus Doe brought you the WTF Group. Now, it seems that Toronto is indeed a hotbed for that volatile mix of company naming contests and mischievous employees, for I present to you:

There seemed, I observed today, to be nothing more female than bra-shopping with your friends. Of course, there was also nothing more boring, especially if they kept shooting down your suggestions for blue lace and electric pink ribbon, and stuck instead to white cotton. Bah. 

Joined up later by a far more pragmatic friend who immediately made the sharp observation that we had bought nothing -- I excluded as I had been along in the sole role of visual consultant -- we made our goodbyes. My new companion and I then strolled to Yorkville to keep an appointment with yet another; while she pedalled her way closer, we explored a ridiculously overpriced retro toy store.

Madonna's children, evidently, had been in the same store as we, their mother being in town for a few shows. I only realized when we were leaving, with a stylishly dressed man stopping us to ask what the commotion was, and my friend explained. That accounted for the other man -- on a red scooter -- who had been snapping photos of what I thought was an ordinary storefront. While we lounged on a rock, waiting, he managed to round the block twice more before seeming to finally have shot off to have his photos bronzed and framed, or some other. We watched as swirls of  curious star-gazers came by and left slightly dazed and excited, even having seen essentially nothing.

To pass the time, we fawned over the wonder that was Cecil Adams of Straight Dope fame, and fretted over the recent disappearance of Peter Mansbridge and Ian Hanomansing from CBC Television. (If you have any information...)

Friends, a meal, a movie, a snack, conversation and laughter -- the day ended well. We all parted ways; I made my way to Donlands station via subway, to catch the connecting bus for the last leg of my journey. 

Once there, too late I discovered that the last bus left at 10:30 PM, an absurdly early time, for the absurdly underused and therefore underserviced station. It was 10:39 PM. I was, in a word, stranded.

As, in that rather shortsighted practise of hindsight, I silently ran through my day snipping away seconds here and there so I could have arrived nine and a half minutes earlier, I picked up the payphone receiver and called home, to request a ride. My tone was of building confidence; my father had never failed to come through before.

My mother shook my world. "He's not back from work yet."

"Well, can I walk home then?"

"You're not walking home."

"But--"

"It's a quiet street." And you know what I think about quiet streets, we both thought simultaneously. Honestly the chances of my being raped were quite slim, and as a plain girl with a negligible chest, they were slimmer still. But wisely I had wasted no breath attempting to explain the magic of statistics to my mother.

"What's the payphone number?" she asked.

"What?"

"The payphone number."

I reluctantly read the number to her.

"All right. When he gets home, I'll call you."

"What?" 

"I'll call you."

Too shocked to protest, I agreed to stay put, and hung up. After fifteen minutes of jitterily watching the payphone, however, totally terrified of looking extremely stupid -- in my mind -- to perhaps a total of two people, including the dozing toll collector, I phoned her back.

"Can I just take the subway back to Yonge, switch down to Queen, and catch the streetcar home?" 

There was a moment. "Yes, that would be acceptable. If you don't want to wait for your father."

"I don't wanna." It was, in fact, inevitable that my father was about to arrive home just about any moment and be able to pick me up in five minutes flat. But somehow I felt I could not risk such a sure bet. Besides, I had been so wired up for the last quarter hour or so that now I had a desire for a little night ride.  "Bye, then."

"Bye."

I was travelling backwards.

Steppenwolf accompanied me for most of the journey, while I stared at a spot on the empty chair across from me. Luckily no one took it for the rest of the way; I surely would have stared at his or her crotch for minutes without the slightest realization.

Two young men napped on either side of the doors -- one with his head tipped backwards, the other with his mouth open in an O as he slept. Another glanced at me occasionally; I smiled when he looked away. A couple shared grapes and laughed.

A sensation of languidness washed over me, as I succumbed to sheer physical and mental fatigue.

At Yonge-Bloor, a late-night crew was changing the ads. Half the station watched in fascination -- in fact, two Indian businessman stood as quite a matter-of-fact audience -- as they wiped down the plastic windows, opened the front of the light-boxes, and replaced the large sheet of heavy plastic printed with advertisements of cats and snowy white ducks. 

At Queen, I lumbered onto the streetcar and slid next to an open window. I leaned back, and turned my face towards the street.

A man was taking me home, with no less than professional intentions (perhaps a minor minus). I was tucked up in my seat, my temple rested against the window frame -- the wind blew cool on my cheeks and ruffled through my hair. The rain-washed streets, still damp, smelled fresh, metallic, and earthy. The streetcar speeded along at a regular, constant rhythm, in the water-filled tracks. I closed my eyes. Glorious.

There's no content today. Just an old art assignment.

I choose you, Mr. Vaguely-Angry-Looking-Pelican-Stork-Bird!


Wow. Hope you don't mind me tootin' my own horn, but that's pretty fucking good. Well, I kinda, sorta had a guide (not tracing, mind you, jeez, that's dirty), but still. And well, the shape's a bit screwy, but the texture's quite fine. Decent control.

/Incoherence.

Sans social companions for the day, I trampled down to BMV to score a few books. Strange people congregate in bookstores -- myself included, naturally, but my strangeness is kept inside, whereas others seem to put it on the outside. I've been delayed by a blind Lord of the Rings fanatic and a man who told me a story about a Russian clown named Popov who threw bottles at fighter planes ... You can't make these kinds of people up.