For Tom’s birthday, we gathered at Tim’s for grilled chicken breasts, pork chops, roast beef, and some pleasant conversation. I always find it interesting that the topics we discuss are so different from the ones at parties. Subjects tend to be more intellectual, whereas conversations at Pat’s house, let’s say, are much more jovial and carefree.
Four of us piled into my car to make a venture out west, in search of ghost towns. Areas that weren’t developed enough for the Canadian railway to go through, and the lack of major transportation eventually killed them.
What we found were not-so-abandoned places, black flies biting us all over, and dead ends.
Still, it wasn’t a total loss. There’s something to shoot almost anywhere, as long as you can change your perspective. And riding in a car with three new people means you get good conversation, if not good photo opportunities.
I just happened to be here during the Hong Kong Flower Show, a demonstration of various flower cultivators and appreciation organizations. Each group had their own little sections to present their areas of specialization. It’s amazing to see how creative people can be with flowers; living things, no less.
Sunday pot luck brunch was a little different this weekend; instead of heading to Tim’s, I was at Pat and Jen’s. It was collection time for a sit-up competition (where Julie destroyed everyone in both the largest total sit-ups and most improved over the last two months, winning $60), and we decided to get together to see how everyone was feeling, perhaps compare a six-pack or two.
There were homemade waffles, fresh fruit, honey bacon, French toast, pigs in blankets, smoothies, croissants, and cheesecake. So much delicious food that I could eat, now that I’m on medication to control food induced flare-ups, and I happily gorged myself.
It was such a lazy Sunday. Long conversations sitting around the table, then hanging out and playing games for hours while the food digested.
Pat later told me he used to come here and read about what’s happening with me, but has stopped reading altogether. The reason — and he paused as he was telling me this so that I understood the gravity of it — was that he would rather hear things from me personally.
While this is far from the first time I’ve written about my friendship with him, it still amazes me. We rarely get any one-on-one time, even when I’m over at his house on the weekends for food and conversation, unless it’s on the phone.
Pat always takes such a concern about what’s going on in my life. He asks all the right questions. He listens wholeheartedly without interrupting. He never judges me. He calms me because everything he says makes so much sense. Just being able to open up, where I’m vulnerable, and have him completely accept what I’m saying makes me overflow with emotion.
Maybe I just need someone to understand me right now.
I think I’m going through a period where I’m not getting enough social interaction. My friends are too busy, or our schedules don’t work out. It’s left me confused and disillusioned.
Everyone seems to fit somewhere, but I’m not sure where that leaves me. On days like this, when I’m surrounded by people, it makes me think that perhaps I still don’t know where I belong.
Tim is, as he puts it, cut from the same cloth as his uncle, insofar as they both enjoy entertaining. They also live in a four-storey house, which is perfect for such a thing.
So every Sunday, people come together for a casual pot luck brunch, where guests are invited to bring food, the idea being that it’s be easier to bring a dish somewhere and share with everyone than sit at home and make breakfast for yourself. Last time, I got to try fancy smoked bacon, and a pancake-batter-cooked-in-bacon-grease experiment.
At this point, enough people know about it that no one has to mention ahead of time whether they’ll be coming, but there’s enough food for all.
Tim described this pretty well in a recent e-mail:
Dear Everyone,
I’m fascinated by coordination problems.
Coordination problems are situations where all the actors involved are more or less on the same side, but there is imperfect information. Everyone wants the same general outcome but isn’t sure how everyone else is going to get at it.
Driving is a solved coordination problem. No one wants an accident so we all want to drive on the same side of the road, but there is nothing special about choosing the left or the right side. How do people pick?
In 1958, Thomas Schelling ran this experiment on a group of university students in Connecticut: “Imagine that you are to meet someone in New York City at noon, but you don’t know where and you can’t get in touch with them in advance. Where do you go?”
Without consulting one another, the majority of them picked the same location. I wonder if you can guess what it was (where would you go?).
Every week, we solve and re-solve a coordination problem with brunch. Everyone wants a good and varied brunch spread. Different people come every week and no one RSVPs, so you can never be sure what other people will bring. We don’t consult in advance, I don’t assign dishes or types of dishes. The only information we have is what was at brunch the previous week and my written suggestion about fruits, which is mercifully ignored by most of you.
Yet every week brunch has a wide range of delicious foods. Isn’t that amazing?
I think it’s amazing.
Hope to see you on Sunday,
Tim
If I was participating in Schelling’s experiment, I would have chosen to meet at the clock in Grand Central Station; it’s always stood out to me because of the way it was prominently featured in the fantasy waltz sequence done by Terry Gilliam in The Fisher King. I had no idea that this was also the information booth, and it’s this place exactly that most students chose.
And it goes with the people at brunch as well. When one person eats, another will get up to cook. When everyone is done eating, the dishes are all put away, the pans are all cleaned. With the wisdom of crowds, nothing needs to be said.
I think it’s amazing too.
A camera to mask my shyness, a lens to hide behind.
At Audra and Jesse’s I felt like I was back in university. Meeting people, learning names, throwing in for some pizza. Except this time, I wasn’t being dragged, kicking and screaming to the party. Maybe I was just feeling social, because I hadn’t seen my own friends in so long.
I learned that playing Punch Out on the Wii is as natural to you as it was back when you were in your room back in elementary school, crying because you were no one’s best friend. That watching Air Guitar Nation — when it’s hard to tell how seriously the contestants take themselves — is much more enjoyable with sarcastic comments applied liberally from the audience.
I want to know these people.
I want to find out what drives them. I want to know why they create, why they’ve chosen their mediums. Why they hang out together. Why they studied what they studied. Why they have the jobs they do.
They’re well-read, educated, opinionated, cosmopolitan. I felt somewhat out of place. Topics of conversation weren’t even close to my interests. Concerts aren’t my scene. Politics confuse me. Things are happening to other friends I’ve never met. But when there’s this much to learn, listening is just as good as taking part.
It was past midnight by the time I got home, but I had hard time falling asleep. My brain was buzzing, trying to take in everything I had just experienced.
Last minute Halloween party means last minute costume.
I’m walking down the consolidated aisles of Walmart at 7:30 on Saturday night. The costume packages are all 50% off, and the models on the labels are all pre-teen. I don’t think I’ll fit in the tights of this Batman costume, and this vampire cape only goes down to my waist.
I’m suddenly struck with a fit of nostalgia. Remember that time when I was at that party with Becky, who was wearing a witches mask, trying to engage her in a conversation after we met at the Honest Lawyer1? Remember when we went as Supertroopers to the party at the girls house? Remember when I got drunk off that bottle of Earnest and Julio Gallo?
I hurriedly grab a black cowl and bloody knife, and walk to the checkout line. With my full-length leather trench coat, I’m hoping it’s enough to gain acceptance to the party, but not too much to stand out.
So the plan is to get there early. That way I don’t have everyone looking at me when I walk in the door. Bail when it gets too loud, or the people too drunk. But everyone invited through Facebook was told eight while I was told nine, and I’m almost last one there.
Not only the day that Trolley got hitched, but a chance to see Adam and Tomasini and Eric and Nick and Alison; the people I only get to hang out with when camping or partying at the farm. I missed Adam and his ever ebullient attitude most of all, something that never fails to buoy the spirits. Even though we didn’t get a chance to talk much through all the preparation, it was enough to hear his voice and laughter.
It was back to Stanley’s Maple Farm1 for the outdoor wedding. The rain continued up to half an hour before the ceremony then stopped completely, as if god himself had a hand in ordainment.
You just need to look at the smile on Trolley’s face to understand how happy he is.
The reception was open bar, with prime rib and a dessert buffet at the end. I had been waiting over a year to have the prime rib dinner, as I was going through an undiagnosed case of IBS at Aaron’s wedding and was left eating bread. Even Pat, my gourmand friend, said that it was cooked to perfection, and found out that the venue has a deal with the farm up the road to get the best cuts of meat.
We surprised the newly wedded couple with the shoe game, where they answer a series of questions without knowing how the other one will answer. They surprised us with how many they answered in sync. A good sign for the newly wed.
Nick humourously noted that there weren’t many single girls around, but being able to hang out with Aaron in the MC booth made me feel much less awkward and abandoned than the last wedding I went to.
At one point, Trolley came up to me and asked me _____ __ _________ ____ _____. It was his wedding, but he was concerned about me. I couldn’t believe it even entered his mind with everything going on around him, and it was certainly the part I’ll remember most about that night.
For Canada’s 141st, Aaron had the regular characters over, along with some new faces, for the annual barbecue. We stayed outside this time, lawn chairs in a semi-circle while the burgers and dogs were being cooked, and took it easy while the sun bathed us.
It was a beautiful day; sunny, with a refreshing breeze blowing through the air.
I don’t get to do this often enough.
The third Emergence Exposition was the first summer show. With daylight coming through the house, and the doors and windows open, there was a different mood floating around. People also dressed lightly and in bright colours, adding to the sense of airiness.
Along with the mind-blowing visual artwork, there were performances by Con Brio, a string quartet, and Aura Giles, a modern flutist with huge lungs.
One of the most memorable parts of the night, however, was a performance of an original composition by John Alac, where he tells a story of a man about to be executed, using only his guitar. The number of different sounds he gets from plucking, tapping, scratching his strings is quite amazing, although what really blew my mind was the way he got the sound of a bell to toll at 4:06.
(You can watch this in High Definition on the Vimeo site. It looks much nicer.)
I left when the sun was setting. Along the way, the road stretched out infinitely before me, as if to say that I can always get away, and there is always more to go. The tree line danced and waved across the horizon, eventually disappearing with the sun. Then the lines of red and white in each direction guided me all the way to Darren’s house.
In it are little things from the house I grew up in — some candles here, some cabinets there — that my parents didn’t want after the divorce. So strange to see innocuous objects from my childhood in a different setting.
It was the first time we’ve been completely sober together since we were kids. No alcohol, no weed.
I found out a couple things I wouldn’t have known otherwise:
A weekend of sweet indulgence, late nights, and intimate conversation. No one understands my relationships the way Darren does, because we both share these quixotic ideas about love. It was so comforting to be able to express myself on these things without having to explain my underlying feelings, as if someone could truly understand me, especially important in this current phase of my life.
It made me realize that home isn’t where the parents are, something I used to believe1. It’s an idea.
A comforting place you can go to get away, where you’re completely accepted for who you are.
Also known as a drinking party at Shirley’s.
This is how I learn that people have a good time when there’s at least one person willing to make a fool of himself, because it sets the tone for everyone else.
That being young is to be young at heart. That to be young at heart is to laugh deep and laugh regularly.
And that it never hurts to have alcohol to help facilitate the process.
Andrew, Alex, Annie, and I took a road trip to Montreal. Armed only with my GPS and a veggie platter, we headed to the food capital of Canada without a plan or timetable.
Our first stop was for lunch at Schwartz’s. It’s a tiny place, packed with with the heady aroma of seasoned smoked meat. Established in 1928, it’s a landmark in Montreal. I like to imagine that Moe’s Diner in The Apprenticeship of Duddy Kravitz was based on a place like this, or maybe that Leonard Cohen frequented in his youth, and I was sitting where he penned the lyrics for his songs.
