Before I go on, you should be in the know of the following. Instrumentalists spend thousands of dollars on hard-covered protective cases only to find themselves frantically stuffing them with extra cushioning the night before a flight. You see, we’ve all heard horror stories about how airline personnel only offer ‘Fragile’ stickers because they like the picture of chipped wineglasses. On a concert tour to Singapore a few years back, a cellist in the orchestra opened his case to find that his cello’s neck was suddenly detachable. So, as any travelling musician will do, I pack my cello with cloth and soft materials to ensure that it’s a tight enough fit so that the cello won’t suffer any unnecessary banging from inside the case during travel.
As you can see, this is an exhilarating subject.
Over the years, I’ve found a need to be resourceful with my luggage space. Normal musicians pack their instruments with face-cloths and towels. But in the very name of efficiency, after unpacking the instrument, nobody needs fifteen bath towels unless they’re really, exceptionally fat.
So I pack my cello with my socks and underwear. It’s very clever, actually.
“You think the damage is pretty bad, huh?” asked the tall, pale clerk in the cramped reception area of the Soundpost, a repair shop in downtown Toronto. I nodded. “Well, let’s take a look.”
I proceeded to open my case, quick and confidently as I remembered having denuded it of my socks and underwear just before coming. The lady behind the counter asked me whether or not I wanted to be lent a cello. While I was responding, the clerk decided he would help me take the cello out of the case.
I turned back to the clerk. Horror: there is nothing quite as unsettling as seeing an article of striking familiarity and of remarkable privacy dangling from one of your cello’s pegs in public. As the clerk further pulled the cello out of the case, my cliffhanging underwear flopped noiselessly to the floor.
“Whoops,” he said casually, as he started stooping down to pick it up. Evidently, in its shapeless clump, he thought that it was simply a patterned cloth used to wipe down my cello after practising.
I reacted before thinking, scrambling to get my underwear out of sight in what must have looked like peculiar freneticism for an old rag. But my cello, which was still in the clerk’s hand, was in the way, standing between me and my underwear. “It’s okay, I got it,” he said as he picked it up. I stared in silent terror as there he stood, his left hand holding the neck of my cello, his right holding, the way you would an apple, my underwear.
In a scene that seems funny to me now, but definitely not then, for the next few minutes, he was talking to me, inspecting my cello, asking me what happened, dispensing professional advice, and all the time clutching my underwear. My mind raced to see if there was some way I could get my underwear back before he realized what he was holding. If I asked him for it, he’d be sure to look at what he held. Maybe I could tug it out of his hand in the most inconspicuous way possible. Maybe I’m fast enough. Maybe he wouldn’t notice. Maybe I could punch him in the face, grab my underwear, and act surprised as if nothing had happened.
He kept talking. “Well, the front doesn’t look that bad; it’s the back that’s going to run you up, I think.”
Maybe this was a time for sparkling honesty. Maybe I could just tell him that he was holding my underwear.
“Okay, well, I think I’d better let the guys upstairs have a look as well,” he concluded. Without a second glance he placed my loincloth back into my case and took the cello towards the staircase; he hadn't noticed. I breathed easier, knowing I had started to form beads of sweat above my brow.
Towels. Pack the cello with towels.
The Sunday morning sun gleamed gloriously against the pale, mirrored buildings of downtown North York. Yonge street was particularly barren with only the occasional car sharing the road with us – most of them passing us. It was nice to sit in a car with someone driving at a slow-to-moderate speed; my step-dad, who was behind the wheel, contrasts sharply to any of my friends, and myself, who drive with speedy insouciance.
I hadn’t made that great of an impression on the directors of the upcoming show, to tell you the truth. For one thing, I had been incredibly busy and I realized that, on their end, they must have been getting increasingly nervous about this unknown character who could supposedly rap and play the cello, merely a name that would have to magically start holding up his end of the deal. And I understood that. After a string of rehearsals which I could not make since I was out of the province, even out of the country, I’m sure questions started to fester in their minds – I mean, they had seen every other performer except me. To top it off, I almost didn’t come to the dress rehearsal yesterday, because I flew in from Chicago only a few hours before and had urgent business which involved taking my cello to the repair shop.
I walked into the Tai Arts Dance Studio, where the dress rehearsal was taking place, and realized, minutes before I was supposed to play, that I didn’t have my cello. So that did nothing for my credibility.
My step-dad chuckled and said, “It’s a good thing you brought your cello today!”
We picked a corner so that I could be dropped off. I stepped out of the car and swung around to the back to get my cello.. only to see my step-dad floor the gas and turn the corner. Initially, I had thought that this was because there was a car coming behind and he didn’t want to block Yonge. But when he kept driving, panic set in.
In a completely unrelated story, I had forgotten to bring my cell phone that day. In another unrelated story, I was also wearing my yellow jogging pants, which I think, somehow, weren't meant for jogging.
Here was my step-dad driving no faster than twenty kilometres an hour with me in hot pursuit. (The use of the expression ‘hot pursuit’ alludes not to my being close behind.) I waved my arms, but with my quickly depleting stamina, it looked like a half-hearted attempt to fly. I wanted to shout to get his attention but my lungs were too busy trying to catch up to my feet.
It is often in the strange mixture of helplessness and embarassment that I come across deeper insights; immediately I was struck with eight realizations: first, my step-dad was fast becoming a coloured dot in the horizon; two, I was horrendously, horrendously out of shape; three, this was going to do nothing to reverse any first impressions I had already made with the directors; four, with the recent surge of cell phone users, the city of Toronto has practically no pay phones anywhere; five, my pants were falling down, at this point, fast approaching my thighs; six, thank goodness I didn't pick this day to wear my white briefs; seven, this is the second time in two weeks I was about to shuck myself of my pants at an inopportune time, in a public setting; and eight, you know, it’s strange – this stuff always happens on a weekend.
For the most part, girls love flowers. And guys. And even guys with flowers. But not guys dressed up in patterned flowers. Why? Because there’s something about a guy keeping flowers to himself that’s not attractive. Somewhere along the line, flowers became a possessive adjective for females and females only. The flower itself was suddenly female. Likening a girl to a flower, red and sweet, is touching and altogether a great game plan to winning her heart in swooning passion; likening a guy to a flower is just as poignant, but on the opposite extreme of burning passion – which is the sheer desire to gouge out your eyes.
If you take a look at the word ‘pansy’, immediately a horticulturist will tell you it’s a flower, a perfectly pretty and simple flower at that. Ask a guy off the street what a ‘pansy’ is and he’ll tell you it has nothing to do with a plant; instead, it’s a rather colourful term attached to an effeminate male. A wuss. Wimp, sissy, weakling.
In a completely unrelated story, when I was a kid, out in the baseball diamond, I remember not being so enraptured by the game as much as I was by the daffodils growing under my foot. I remember standing out in right field in the gleaming sun, which hung high above in the afternoon heat. I was suddenly struck by the concept of daffodils and how they were yellow, yet, in the winter of their lives, they did away with their white heads in the name of their niveous reproduction. Before I knew it, I was sitting out in the field, legs sprawled out and holding up the especially ready daffodils, blowing on them to see their seeds fly into the air. It was a very pure, beautiful moment. I was as happy helping out nature as I had ever been.
It wasn’t long before a high fly ball out to right field drew all attention to me; of course, I wasn’t able to make the play. Nearly choking on the daffodil, I jumped to my feet and watched as the first baseman, who had already run all the way out, threw the ball back infield. In chastising my lack of form, Jason, an especially burly bucket of sweat with a pitifully porcine figure to show for his expended energy, spewed out in anguish, so that everyone could hear, “What are you doing? Picking flowers?!”
This somehow was funny to everyone and I never heard the end of it. As fifth graders have no sense of horticulture, nor much creativity at their hands, they thought daffodils were dandelions, and every recess after that, they all called me the Dandy Pansy, which got shortened to Pansy through overuse. It wasn’t until eighth grade that I thought about reminding them that it was actually daffodils I was busying myself with, but I didn’t want them to call me Daffy something or other, seeing as their line of cleverness could only reap such undesired results, nor did I want to fuel the horrendous upset that was still going strong after three whole years.
Now I must say, as a retort, that flowers are girly only because girls somehow wanted to be likened to the many attributes of flowers; guys, not so much. Men have gone to such lengths as stealing rosebushes for girls, coming up with ridiculous idioms coupling flowers and girls, and writing poetry in the very shadow of bloom only because girls like it. A girl wouldn’t be impressed if I likened her to being as voluptuously round, soft and pink as the (very female) cow udder – which is an irrefragable proof that it’s what the girls favoured that got put into convention, and not a matter of what type of sex the subject of comparison was, and most definitely not a, uh, matter of taste.
I’m inclined to the idea that this is just a question of nurture, what we’re used to. I’m sure that flowers, had it been for a freak turn of events, could be seen as a very sexually neutral thing. While the original poets only saw the flower with its fragility and prettiness, I’m sure that we’re overlooking several manly characteristics that flowers have. As I’ve researched this topic exhaustively, I will give one point.
You may all be familiar with the Greek and Roman god Priapus. What was he the god of? He was the god of male generative power and you simply can’t get more testosterone than that. Priapus is where we also get the derivation of priapic, which means the same thing as phallic, and if you don’t know what that means, take a good long look at an obelisk. So undeniably, he’s a very manly god. But not only that, he was also the god of.. GARDENS. Gardens have much to do with flowers. And if you take the very things that defined Priapus and put them together.. ladies and gentlemen, that’s Flower Power.
And you must admit there’s absolutely nothing girly about that.
If you've ever lived in Chicago for longer than a week, you will realize that it is indeed a windy city. You may also have realized that their weather forecasts predict the exact opposite of what is actually going to happen. So I found myself quite the lucky individual when the forecast for Sunday was sunny, when in fact, Sunday turned out to be one of the most miserable days ever. As luck would have it, on Sunday, the forecast drastically changed and it read that there would be showers with winds reaching peak speeds of 40 or 50 miles per hour.
I needed to go all the way to Northwestern University; what's 40 miles per hour? That's probably like, really slow. So I decided, foolishly, not to drive a tank.
I hate for this site to be known only for its complaints but, as far as the genius who invented umbrellas is concerned, it's either rainy or it's windy -- never both.
I stepped out onto the street and was immediately greeted by thin waves of violently whipped spray. So I opened my umbrella, since that's what umbrellas are for. One block down, I mathematically deduced that winds of 40 mph is actually equivalent to the Canadian speed of 3 000 kilometres an hour. The incredibly strong wind struggled with my He-Man grip of the umbrella, and, in a matter of seconds, the cheap metal shaft of the umbrella bent and almost broke off at the handle. Seeing that the umbrella did nothing to keep me dry anyway, I straightened the shaft with my He-Man strength and closed it. Dragging along my cello, I trudged slowly to the L-train.
Soon, as I walked farther, I realized I was not alone in my hapless trek; I found myself surrounded by five other people who were probably, like me, wondering why people live in Chicago anyway.
Suddenly, a whole sheet of rain came down upon us and, with it, a tourbillion thrust. All five umbrellas blew open in the direction it was never intended: inside out. Another gust of wind blew the hat off an elderly gentlemen. In attempts to help out and keep the hat still so it wouldn't blow away, I instinctively stomped on it. You know. People do that. The way he took his hat from under my foot hinted that he wasn't thankful at all.
A full forty-five minutes later, as the purple line trains insist they need only come regularly when it's nice out, I finally stepped into Regenstein Hall drenched, my cello begging that we never do this again, my hair looking like Inspector Gadget without the hat.
And the door on the second floor is locked. Um, wait a minute.
I try again the recalcitrant knob which obeys not even my He-Man elbow grease. I was supposed to come today, right?
Small retraction: someone was kind enough to point out that the upcoming, aforementioned concert has all its proceeds going to Unicef, or United Way (shoot I forget which one). But, nevertheless, it's for a GOOD cause. So.. again, no dinner. Sorry.
Surprisingly, people have asked about ticket information for the upcoming concert on the 18th of May. You kind souls are so nice to want to come -- but don't. It's not worth it. Do you realize that the matinee concert is 18 dollars? And the evening one is 22? Know also that I don't have the power to get a hold of free tickets since, well, they don't really care about me. Especially after I complained that at 22 dollars it better come with a chicken leg dinner.
But if you really, really, really want to come, you can get tickets from Ticketmaster. I think it's 1-800-TICKETS or something. Or I could totally be making that up. I really don't know.
Anyway, there's a lot of artists performing that day. So come if you want.. but eat at home. Maybe I'll give Epidemic a wedgie on stage, while he's rapping his very serious song about trying to escape prison (as he has first-hand experience) so it's more worth your money.
In other news:
Don't say 'dude'. No matter what ANYONE says, it's not cool. Repeat after me: Not.. cool.
Forgive my not posting in a while. Things have been much busier than I like them lately. My readers will now find me in Chicago for the next two weeks.
Travelling has never really been one of my favourite pastimes. I won't talk too much about the time I made an incredible scene of myself at the metal detectors in a Taiwan airport, but, suffice to say, I wasn't my usual suave self and somehow my Chinese security brothers were especially vituperative that day. (Note to anyone travelling abroad: as much as it may hurt our religious grips on fashion, try to refrain from wearing metal-buckled boots. Also, when insecure, smelly security personnel insist you don't move, well, you shouldn't move. Even if you know what's causing every electronic apparatus within a mile radius to beep. Above all else, do not lift your pant legs in attempt to show your guilty shoes -- this will be seen as an act of aggression. Somehow.)
Anyway, I must say that the trip to Chicago wasn't as eventful, though I have to complain about the guy seated next to me on the plane. He must have been over thirty years of age, with trendy unkempt hair, wearing a knitted cardigan and khakis. Topping off his whole look was a not-so-flattering underbite of mountain goat proportion. For some reason, after I smiled my 'I don't know you at all, but since we'll be spending the next few hours in such close proximity to each other, you breathing my carbon dioxide, and I, yours, here's a smile hoping that you at least brushed your teeth' smile, he started saying things to himself, but so that I could also hear, "Okay. Let's rock and roll", "Yup, this is going to be a party", and, I'm not making this up, "We're off to the air, Blair."
I pretended to fall suddenly asleep so that I didn't have to somehow mercy-chuckle myself out of commenting on how gross he was.
In any case, I wore my blue jeans -- if you have seen me in the past few years, you may have realized these are precisely the pair of jeans that lost its top button. Essentially, the only thing holding my jeans up is the zipper fly, which has a nasty habit for gunning to the south.
In a completely unrelated incident, I neglected to wear my belt that day.
After the two-plus hour flight, I got up, stretched, and walked off the plane. At the baggage claim, I carefully arranged all my possessions, which now hung strategically from my person. Suddenly, however, I realized something was seriously wrong: my pants didn't cling to my posterior with its usual vigor. No that wasn't just it. My pants were actually falling down. The fly had done its nasty trick again and I realized I was, once again, terribly close to making a public embarassment of myself. I couldn't zip up my fly for some reason! Half of the right flap somehow got tucked inside the pants, so zipping up the pants was out of the question, since a) my arms were full from all my bags, and b) putting them down to zip up my fly would entail me also having to pull up my pants, which would have fallen to my ankles by then, thus causing c) something nobody in the world wanted to see.
To make a long story short, as my grand-uncle, with whom I'm staying, only has dial-up access, I was able to use my special brand of skill, prestidigitation and absolute horror to safely guide myself to the men's room by crouch-walking (a new technique, really) so my jeans wouldn't fall any further from unsacking myself, while hanging my book-bag in front to hide anything already exposed, while using my remaining hands to hold onto my other bag and my cello, skillfully pushing my left forearm into my hip, which kept my pants somewhat stable.
I figure at best, onlookers would conclude only that I was reaching back to my high school roots, where wearing pants halfway passed your loins was cool. My crouch-walk also facilitated this high school attitude thing.
I stepped into the men's room, and before I could properly normalize myself, a business man looked me up and down and muttered to his associate, "Kids these days do anything to be cool."
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