Sunday, November 12, 2006
It's last Saturday and thanks to a combination of yoga, meditation and a selfish, self-imposed ignorance of the tragic, fucked-up world outside I am feeling at complete peace with myself. I will admit that it hasn't happened very often in the past. One of my earliest memories was the disappointment of dropping my frankfurter on the muddy autumn ground of a local park when I was 3 years old and realising then, in front of all my family (picnicing in a wet November like the pseudo-Brits they are), that life is shit.
On these rare moments, something strange and rather magical happens: I become mildly attractive. Now I am the first to admit i'm normally a bit of a pig. Wonky nose, misshaped head, double crown+chin, damaged lip, fat jowls, yellow teeth, zits, blackheads, yellowheads, greenheads, Abe Lincoln beard, hairy neck, sunken druggy yellow eyes - oh yes ladies, just imagine!
i am like an ugly version of Patrick Marber or with glasses and long hair, a good-looking version of Woody Allen. Double fair play to my Ex for seeing past it and dropping down a few leagues (possibly changing sports entirely). Not that she could look directly. So anyway, I'm entirely unaware of this image im projecting - i just know that for every good thing i experience, i have to counterbalance it with something deeply nasty. So I go visit my favourite chinese restaurant in Chinatown, the one that advertises 'Best BBQ Roast Pork in North America' on the billboard outside and may well be telling the truth. I'm supposed to be vegetarian, on a diet, Jewish and most important of all, a Friend of Pigs. I really don't like to eat meat that's been reared intensively. But by god do they know how to transform it. They usher me into a communal table and 5 minutes later my plate arrives, complete with the garnishes they know I like and a pot of green tea. I munch and sip without guilt when a guy sits down opposite me. He's mid-50's, local, regular looking and talking. He really looks like my old Canadian neighbour in Dublin - affluent, friendly and entirely boring. We get chatting and he's a nice guy so I stay beyond my meal and keep the conversation going. We discuss travel, best places to eat in Toronto, world economics, Comedy - the usual mundane topics I suppose. As we get up to leave, he goes:
"I don't know what I can do for you, exactly, but perhaps I can help you in some way, yknow, as a new arrival here I could help in some way"
-Thanks. I dont know either. (And I don't know... what he's talking about)
"Which way you headed?"
-North on Spadina. You?
"South. I just live down there. Been there my whole life. If you want to see a traditional old Canadian house, it's mine"
-Um. Thanks.... Tell you what, let me take your email address, i'll let you know when I've got a show on. Do you have a pen?
"No"
-Well, I'll just go and ask back in the restaurant
"Why don't you just come back to mine and type it on my computer?" (and he actually mimics keyboard typing as he does it)
-I'll go get the pen. (and I do. As Im writing his email address...)
"As I say, I don't really know but perhaps there is something I could do for you. What do you think?"
-I've got to go now. I'm really late for.... something...up there.
*whoosh*
The weird thing, apart from being propositioned in the first place by a guy who could be my dad, is that he could be my dad. There was not a trace of gay about the guy. I'm not entirely naive, i've lived in London and Paris and Dublin and known plenty of gay guys of all shapes, sizes and widths. He was your standard Canadian man and didn't, just didn't look like one.
And nor do I, ok???
|
On these rare moments, something strange and rather magical happens: I become mildly attractive. Now I am the first to admit i'm normally a bit of a pig. Wonky nose, misshaped head, double crown+chin, damaged lip, fat jowls, yellow teeth, zits, blackheads, yellowheads, greenheads, Abe Lincoln beard, hairy neck, sunken druggy yellow eyes - oh yes ladies, just imagine!
i am like an ugly version of Patrick Marber or with glasses and long hair, a good-looking version of Woody Allen. Double fair play to my Ex for seeing past it and dropping down a few leagues (possibly changing sports entirely). Not that she could look directly. So anyway, I'm entirely unaware of this image im projecting - i just know that for every good thing i experience, i have to counterbalance it with something deeply nasty. So I go visit my favourite chinese restaurant in Chinatown, the one that advertises 'Best BBQ Roast Pork in North America' on the billboard outside and may well be telling the truth. I'm supposed to be vegetarian, on a diet, Jewish and most important of all, a Friend of Pigs. I really don't like to eat meat that's been reared intensively. But by god do they know how to transform it. They usher me into a communal table and 5 minutes later my plate arrives, complete with the garnishes they know I like and a pot of green tea. I munch and sip without guilt when a guy sits down opposite me. He's mid-50's, local, regular looking and talking. He really looks like my old Canadian neighbour in Dublin - affluent, friendly and entirely boring. We get chatting and he's a nice guy so I stay beyond my meal and keep the conversation going. We discuss travel, best places to eat in Toronto, world economics, Comedy - the usual mundane topics I suppose. As we get up to leave, he goes:
"I don't know what I can do for you, exactly, but perhaps I can help you in some way, yknow, as a new arrival here I could help in some way"
-Thanks. I dont know either. (And I don't know... what he's talking about)
"Which way you headed?"
-North on Spadina. You?
"South. I just live down there. Been there my whole life. If you want to see a traditional old Canadian house, it's mine"
-Um. Thanks.... Tell you what, let me take your email address, i'll let you know when I've got a show on. Do you have a pen?
"No"
-Well, I'll just go and ask back in the restaurant
"Why don't you just come back to mine and type it on my computer?" (and he actually mimics keyboard typing as he does it)
-I'll go get the pen. (and I do. As Im writing his email address...)
"As I say, I don't really know but perhaps there is something I could do for you. What do you think?"
-I've got to go now. I'm really late for.... something...up there.
*whoosh*
The weird thing, apart from being propositioned in the first place by a guy who could be my dad, is that he could be my dad. There was not a trace of gay about the guy. I'm not entirely naive, i've lived in London and Paris and Dublin and known plenty of gay guys of all shapes, sizes and widths. He was your standard Canadian man and didn't, just didn't look like one.
And nor do I, ok???
|
Comments:
Post a Comment
