Start the evening show

And May is gone.

So is 1992.  I was rather preoccupied that year, and missed this gem from XTC.  It sounds like the end of a love affair, but was apparently a disagreement with a record company.

Still, it's bouncy and pop-py, and I rather love it.

I put on a fake smile 

And start the evening show 

The public is laughing 

I guess by now they know 

So climb from your high horse 

And pull this freak show down 

Dear Madam Barnum 

I resign as clown

 

You said I was the master of all I surveyed 

But now I'm sweeping up 

The last in line in your circus parade 

Children are clapping 

As I fall to the floor 

My heart torn and broken 

And they just scream for more 

If I'm not the sole fool 

Who pulls his trousers down 

Then dear Madam Barnum 

I resign as clown 

You tread the high wire 

Between truth and lies 

Your safety net just walked out 

Much to your surprise 

Strike up the band, love 

And let the show begin 

For this is the last time 

I'm painting on a grin

A not very shaggy dog story

This is one of the stories I was telling elder daughter after her lost dog adventure:

When I was about twelve, I used to go on long walks down the railway tracks after school.  It was a long-disused route that roughly followed the Trans-Canada Highway, and it was beautiful, lined by dense trees and rock faces.  If you walked far enough, the landscape opened out into meadows where I didn't venture after I discovered they were full of enormous spiders.  This was usually where I turned back.

I was reaching this point one sunny afternoon when, directly in my path, sitting on the railway tie, was a tiny black Labrador puppy, nose in the air, and howling for all he was worth.  The minute he saw me, he sprang to his feet and trotted up to me, tail shaking.

"No, no," I protested.  "Don't follow me; go home!"  Undeterred, he pursued me, and after a while, I gave in and picked him up for the long stroll home.  He promptly fell asleep in my arms, and I fell into my accustomed rhythm, stepping along the rail ties, the late afternoon sun on my back as I cradled the tiny black bundle.

My mother was home from work when I got back, and the cat was most offended by what I had brought in.  The puppy frantically drank the water we set down in the kitchen while my sister and a playmate descended upon him in paroxysms of joy, shrieking and crooning endearments.

I don't quite recall how we got the information -- maybe it came via the playmate, maybe my mother made a few calls --  but it was not much later when we made the trip down our street and across Helmcken Road to a small hobby farm which we could see from our backyard.  I knew the family slightly, vaguely remember the kids as being a bit obnoxious, and I was annoyed that my sister had commandeered the puppy I had rescued.

As we walked up the driveway, we saw what appeared to be a herd of Black Labradors, at least a dozen of them, each one a carbon copy of the little lost dog.  Evidently he had wandered away from his brothers and sisters and no one had noticed.

Not long after we moved away from the neighbourhood, the small farm was sold and the huge complex of the new general hospital was built on the site.  It seems odd to think of my twelve-year-old self standing dazed, relieved, and just a tad resentful, close to the spot where my daughters would be born.

Go, fetch

Elder daughter was returning from doing errands downtown one bright morning in Victoria.

She's staying with Demeter indefinitely while job-hunting in hopes of saving money for grad school.  My envy knows no bounds -- except for the challenges of day-to-day life with Demeter who cherishes the idea that frequent comments on short-comings is a helpful and loving thing to do.  Elder daughter is discovering the painful reality of this.

Anyway, elder daughter was making her way back home through the neighbourhood in which she spent her first eight years of life.  In fact, she was heading east on the street where she used to live when she noticed a dog trotting toward her, wearing a harness and trailing a leash.

Uh-oh.  She managed to catch the small dog, not that difficult, as it seemed rather relieved to be way-laid, and settled on the ground quietly beside her.  Squatting on the pavement, she looked up and down the street, hoping a frantic owner would scurry into view.  Several minutes passed.  She considered knocking on doors, but she had no way of knowing how many streets the pooch had wandered.

Examining the dog's collar, she found a tags with phone numbers.  No one answered the cell number, but there was also a veterinary clinic tag, so she phoned them for advice.  Well, no, they couldn't give her an address; she'd have to phone Animal Control.  Elder daughter balked; Animal Control sounded forbidding.  (This may be my fault for letting her watch The Lady and the Tramp when she was little.)  They rushed to assure her that the Animal Control people were very nice and would contact the owners, as would they.

Little dog, who had sat so peacefully while this was going on, suddenly became frightened and distressed when the young fellow from Animal Control came to put her in his van, despite his gentle manner and (as elder daughter noticed) his good looks.

Later that afternoon, she missed a phone call from the owners themselves who evidently had received her message first and had not retrieved their dog.  No answer again when she returned the call.  This time she had her laptop and did a reverse look-up.

The little dog lived at our old house, where she and younger daughter spent their first few years.

The next morning, elder daughter and I were strolling downtown to meet the rest of the family.  I told her about a couple of my own dog-rescuing adventures, and we wondered if the family living in our beloved former house had managed to make contact with Animal Control, after all. I deliberately took a detour to our old street, and to my daughter's horror, knocked what used to be our front door. (She has been somewhat contaminated by Ottawa reserve, I'm afraid.)

No answer, again.  Except for the barking of a little dog inside.

Go West

And so this is Christmas. Well, it's really Advent, but Christmas stuff is getting in full gear, including younger daughter's school's "holiday concert" which, of course, has nothing to do with either Christmas or Advent, since we have a mix of Christian, Hindu, Jewish, Muslim, and non-practising types. Fair enough.

(Actually, what really used to amuse me was the situation at the public elementary elder and younger daughter attended which featured a holiday concert and un soir de Noël for the French Immersion students which invited involvement from the English Stream French classes. The former was scrupulously secular, and the latter blithely consisted of carols, presumably because it was somehow politically correct to warble Christian ditties in French.)

Younger daughter was all set to perform Macavity from Cats, as she did TS Eliot's Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats for her poetry project earlier in the fall. However, yesterday at the bus stop, she struggled for the words - a sure sign that something is desperately important to her - and announced she wanted to do something "Christmassy" instead.

I dropped her off at her voice teacher's apartment where it was decided that "White Christmas" might work. Despite the "C" word, it's a very secular song. I hurried off down to Lees Station to waylay a bus, pondering what people perceive as Christmas music today.

When, for example, did "My Favourite Things" become a Christmas song? Sure, it mentions "silv'ry white winters" and "brown paper packages", but those things happen without Christmas, and besides, The Sound of Music is set in the summer. With Nazis.

"Jingle Bells" is often described as a Christmas carol. It's a) not a carol; b) not about Christmas. Same deal for "Winter Wonderland", "Sleigh Ride" and "Jingle Bell Rock". Check the lyrics. They're songs about winter. You could sing them in February. "Baby, It's Cold Outside"??? C'mon, people!

Then, of course, there's "Santa Baby". Okay, Christmas is involved. But still, it's not a carol. And Marilyn Monroe never recorded it. I've got nothing against these ditties, y'understand, I just think they're radically mis-categorized.

I gazed out the bus window, wrapped up in these thoughts and only vaguely aware of the salmon-coloured sunset. Wait a minute. The sun sets in the west....

I suddenly realized I was barreling west along the Queensway. Our house is to the northeast of downtown Ottawa, nowhere near the Queensway. I had absent-mindedly boarded a 101 Bayshore bus. After a second's disoriented panic, I noted that the automated voice had called out "Catherine/O'Connor" and hastily made my way to the exit. From there, I scurried another block west to Bank Street, and peered into the glare of the headlights in search of a #1 bus home, while Elton John's "Rocket Man" played on CBC Radio Two in my earbuds. (Also not a Christmas song, despite the bit about Mars being cold as hell.)

♪And I think it's gonna be a long, long time...♪

It wasn't, really; I got home a few minutes before the Resident Fan Boy and younger daughter....

Too bad younger daughter has opted out of Macavity. I think her version would have been dynamite, although probably minus the swivels and wiggling you'll see in the DVD version:

This might help (a post-script to the previous post)

Yates
Originally uploaded by kevin.boyd

This is apparently what Victoria looked like five days ago. It's five blocks from where we used to live. Cue the Barenaked Ladies singing "The Old Apartment" (And yes, I want them back...)