Useless Information

The average large elm tree has eight million leaves. I don't know what constitutes an "average" or a "large" elm tree (I'm not even sure I'd know an elm tree if one fell on me, crushing me with the weight of its eight million leaves, not to mention its sturdy trunk) but I'm impressed by this statistic. I've been carrying it around with me for several weeks now, trying to slip it seamlessly into conversation, but to no avail. The subject of elm trees just doesn't arise that often in my circles.

Nor does the subject of locusts, meaning I can only share my knowledge that locusts are in fact just angry grasshoppers if I say, "Hey guys, did you know locusts are just angry grasshoppers?" which gets the information out, but so inelegantly. (And I am nothing if not elegant, as my present attire of baggy cotton tank top, shapeless blue trousers of some indeterminate, possibly petroleum-based, material, and house slippers will attest.)

And what of Renaissance astronomy? Did you know the great astronomer Tycho Brae had a gold nose? He lost the original, flesh version to syphillis. Fascinating, no? But waiting for people to stop talking about the World Cup and start talking about the Renaissance, or astonomy, or syphillis is like waiting for the Vltava to start flowing north. Or south. Or whatever way it doesn't normally flow.

I've read that the invention of the telegraph marked the birth of trivia: suddenly, facts - like the temperature in Boston - could be lifted completely out of context and sent whizzing across the country to places (say, San Diego) where they could be of interest, but little use. The result was the invention of the crossword puzzle and the cocktail party - two outlets for otherwise useless information.

So, what I should do is attend a cocktail party, where my store of facts should make me a hit. Failing that (and, as a plan, it seems likely to fail because I never get invited to cocktail parties) I should just drink.

Requiem for a Restaurant

The Georgian restaurant behind my house has DISAPPEARED! Gone like an Argentinian political activist (of years past, of course, Argentina isn't like that no more times, no sir.)

Tamada (the actual name of "The Georgian Restaurant Behind My House") was a neighborhood TREASURE. And that's a term I apply sparingly, the other treasures in my neighborhood being Frank Gehry's Dancing Building and my own bad self.

Now, instead of dadianska chacapuri and kutaisi salad (and the chance to pretend we speak Georgian), we have yet another place for gulas and svickova. And BUDVAR. The beer that prides itself on its high exports, and I wish they'd export all of it.

Below: A bunch of us hanging out at the Georgian place.


There've been many changes in this neighborhood in the past four years, some good, some bad. Lemon Leaf was an improvement on whatever used to be there, chiefly because I don't even remember what used to be there so how could it have been any good? The Colombian restaurant was a nice, if pricey, addition (although I was a bit disappointed to discover that the white stuff in the salt shakers was actually salt; please don't ask me how I discovered this). 02, as far as I'm concerned, is more fun than the public toilet it used to be (in fact, "more fun than a public toilet" is its slogan), and the renos at U Bubenicku were an unalloyed success because, really, can you HAVE too many pictures of big-boobed women around you while you eat? Ich Bin Ibin Ben Carculla (am I close?) is every bit as good as Troll Bar (I'd go so far as to say BETTER) especially since they kept the elvish inscriptions on the walls and we can keep calling it "Troll Bar."

Some changes were neutral: Fajn bar went from gay bar to gay herna bar, a transition that involved the addition of some slot machines and climbing plants, and nobody seemed to notice.

On the "bad" side, Red Room (which I didn't fully appreciate even as I was spending entire weekends there) turned orange overnight and became "Empty Room" (they should have called it "Vacancy"). Yukon closed, meaning the loss of a non-stop that alway had toilet paper in the washrooms. (C'mon, in late-night terms, that's CLASS.)

And to this list I must now add the transformation of "Tamada" into "Czech Restaurant."

Tamada started life as a combination restaurant/shooting club/bluegrass venue with the air of a hunting lodge in northern Quebec, complete with ratty pelts and guns. Over time, the pelts and guns disappeared and the bluegrass occasionally morphed into the kind of stuff Barry Manilow would have played if he were Czech, but the food got better and better.

And now it's gone. And, as you can see from the photo, I am officially in mourning:

"She was always beautifully dressed."

As you've probably heard by now, 17 men...no, wait, make that 12 men and 5 youths, have been arrested in Toronto on suspicion of participating in a terrorist group that planned to blow up parliament and cut off Canadian Prime Minister Stephen Harper's head.

But get this guys -- one of the terrorists is married to a woman from CAPE BRETON! WHERE I'M FROM! How cool I mean shocking is that?!

Apparently, she was just a normal Cape Breton girl named Cheryl, interested in all the normal Cape Breton girl things -- the highland fling, the Gaelic language, singing, crafts, jihad.

(Photo: The new face of terrorism?)

Then she met and married "a muslim prayer leader and factory worker" and "went that way," as one of her uncles put it in the Globe and Mail, changing her name to the ancient Islamic "Cheryfa."

"Staff at the Gaelic College of Celtic Arts and Crafts, which is nestled in the steep Cape Breton highlands, remember her in her dance kilt, a pretty girl with light brown hair..."

Nobody comes right out and says it, but the underlying message is clear -- you can't do the highland fling in no burkha.

"She was always beautifully dressed," said a former staff member who didn't want her name used. (I assume she didn't want to be quoted saying something complimentary about a woman has since gone "that way.")

Elsewhere in the Globe and Mail, neighbors of Cheryfa and her husband Qayyum Abdul Jamal, said Jamal rarely smiled and his wife "wasn't much of a talker, either."

"One thing I can tell you for sure -- this guy was weird," said Jerry Tavares, a neighbour. "There was one time I said, 'Hi,' and he just looked at me. That was it."

Now this strikes me as...MY GOD! IT'S JUST HIT ME! MY APARTMENT BUILDING IS FULL OF TERRORISTS!

They ALL just look at me when I say "hi" and that little old lady who was having such trouble getting her wheeled bag up to the third floor yesterday probably had it packed full of fertilizer.

Because if terrorism can touch Cape Breton, it can touch YOU. Or more to the point, ME.

World Cup Fever...

...has hit Rasinovo Nabrezi 76. And how. I've even designed a special "World Cup" logo to mark the no doubt endless comments I'll be making on the subject.

Today, some introductory remarks: everything you need to know to discuss the World Cup knowledgably over a wine spritzer at a po-mo literature conference.

The World Cup is a giant fooball tournament (that's soccer, for you moms in suburban North America, that thing you drive your children to after their Japanese lessons and before you hide in the laundry room and drink the cooking sherry*).

This time around, for reasons no one has explained to my satisfaction, it's being hosted by Germany.

Many, many countries will participate, even Switzerland.

Teams will play until a winner emerges. If there is no clear winner, the German President will call on the side with the most shots on goal to form a winning team, which it may do with support from another team, but not from the Communists. Or the Nazis.

The winning team gets a trophy that looks like an arthritic hand clutching a doorknob.

The competition is only held every four years because it takes approximately that long to get through the preliminary rounds.

Canada has not qualified.

*Author's note: My impressions of typical suburban North American life are mostly based on John Cheever short stories, "The Ballad of Lucy Jordan," and (I've just realized) a childhood spent watching endless "Flintstones" reruns. And don't try to tell me Bedrock was a city. 

Rumbo

I've taken to listening to the BBC at night as I drift off. I find the sportscasts highly soporific. Just say the word "cricket" and I drop off.

The problem is that sometimes they follow the sportscast with something interesting and I snap awake.

The other night, for instance, I was all but asleep when I heard that Donald Rumsfeld had gone to Vietnam. It was just a recap of the day's top stories, so I didn't hear why Donald Rumsfeld had gone to Vietnam, and I lay there puzzling it out instead of sleeping.

My first thought was that he'd succumbed to dementia and forgotten what war he was fighting.

Then it came to me -- he'd gone back to finish things up, Rambo-style. (If I had photoshop, I would cleverly blend these two photos together, creating a "Rumbo" figure. Sadly, I do not have photoshop and I know the limits of Paintbox too well to attempt anything so advanced, so I've opted to simply give you the two photos. If you cross your eyes a bit while looking at them, they'll sort of blend. The only other option was a pic of Rummy as the main character in the Matrix, which was cool, but which really has nothing to do with this post.)

What brilliance! How better to distract attention from Iraq than to go refight Vietnam? Singlehandedly no less!

Having sorted this all out to my satisfaction, I went to sleep, only to find out the next day I had it all WRONG.

Rumsfeld went to Vietnam to "increase military contacts," not to draw first blood (part II). As far as I can tell (and I admit, I've only skimmed the press coverage) he didn't kill anyone, or rescue anyone, or fire a single exploding arrow.

On the other hand, the cricket scores I heard WERE correct, so pip pip and all that.