Reading at Whistler

He volunteers on the slopes. He
helps the handicapped. Blind people, for
instance. He skis behind them. That's
a gondola, that's a snowboarder. Now
youre passing trees on your right.
The snow is like scar tissue and the
blind listen their way down.

Book Lovers Ball

The wind is high and the sidewalks
shine in clear ice. Nine valets wear
green balaclavas. The man who grew the
oyster beds has seven shucking knives.
It's a long walk for a martini -- probably
a good thing. Do I have a library
card? I have three. A Tiffany watch
walks around on the pink glove of a model.
The brocade tux appears to be in. We all
eat beef, even the vegetarians, and
there are skewers of pickerel and the
skewers are made from real branches.
There's a literary catwalk and a child
scans ahead as she walks with a woman
wearing seven pounds of black crepe.
Followed by a nine piece band and I keep
my eye on the sax and trumpet. When the
sax and trumpet are raised we dance.
I wear down the heels of my shoes.
To a private club, that's where the taxis
go, where half of us whine and
the other half mix pints with the
vodka, the beginning of a bad sign.
But we haul ourselves out of there
and our tuxes receive a free round at
the Inter Steer. Also pickled eggs
in Italian wine glasses. Who suggested
LPs and egg sandwiches? Who was that
who sprayed medicinal cannabis on
my gums like I'm a doped race horse?
Who knew librarians had such midnight
dealings? On some illicit website
there are photos of all this.

Curling at Leaside

I pulled on the red slider. I chose a broom.
I listened carefully to Heather. When she
crouched, I crouched. When she put the
butt end of her broom on the toe of her
shoe, so did I. When she pushed off and
slid and curled her stone into the
button, well how was it that I ended up careening
over the side of the curling rink and
jeopardizing three lanes of curlers while
recovering, in a Buster Keaton move, my
balance on the pebbled ice? Why was I the
only one of the eight of us to spend the
next day in bed reading Joseph Roth?

Toilet at Tiffany's

As some of you diehard blog readers know,
I like to visit and grade the public restrooms
of this world. I was passing Tiffany's.
So I went in. I headed for the men's watches.
A man with a handlebar moustache, he rubbed
his shirt cuffs. I'm just looking, thanks.
The price is tucked under the body of the
watch, or perhaps there is no price, just
a series of numbers indicating the provenance
of the watch. I hear an elevator. I walk
to the back of Tiffany's. Which floor sir?
I scan the list and ask for six. To the
men's lounge! And at the top of the building
is a hallway to the washrooms. One toilet
in a room on its own, and one urinal. The
fixtures are by Toto. A square sink. Regular
paper towels. The mirror is generous and
clean. B+