For those of you who are new to this weblog, I've got a "Best Of" page which lists my favourite articles all the way back to 2001.

I know you're probably working right now, but go ahead and read it! AFter all, isn't it some someone else contributed to the gross domestic product for a change?

Continuing from my last posting, here are the comments -- all 197 of them -- to the "New Girl" story.

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As part of my bid to win "Blog of the Year" in the 2004 Bloggies, I'm posting some extra goodies over the next couple of weeks. Some of these entries, such as this one, are of material from my old blog, posted for the benefit of readers new to this blog and wondering why this blog was nominated.

The article that really put The Adventures of Accordion Guy in the 21st Century on the map was originally posted on Monday, April 7, 2003 and titled What happened to me and the new girl (or, "The girl who cried Webmaster"). It's the story of how my blog -- and a conscientious reader -- saved my bacon from a lying, identity-stealing, child-abandoning grifter. As AKMA astutely observed, what happened was the contrary to some sensational media reports: I met the girl in real life and was saved because of my online life.

In the article, I used the phrase "BLOGS SAVE LIVES". It turns out that a Google search on that phrase yields lots of results, and most of them point to my original article. I even remarked that someone should make a T-shirt bearing that phrase, and lo and behold, someone has.

It feels like a lifetime ago, but in truth, not even a year has passed.

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I was in a store on Queen Street that specialized in the kind of funky clothing that appealed to club-goers and the snowboard/skateboard set, looking for cheap presents for my cousins. The manager saw me and asked "You don't still have crabs, do ya?"

It took me a moment to realize what she was talking about.

"No, I don't," I replied, "that was my friend."

"Riiiiiight."

I'm going to kill his ass, I thought.

---

Four years ago, I was at the same store, buying a sweater for my cousin. While standing in line waiting for my turn at the cashier, I got a phone call.

"Joey, I need your help!" said the voice on the other end. It was my friend X and his voice was panicked.

"What happened?"

"OhMyGodIThinkIGotCrispyCritters
FromTheBathroomAtThisReallyCoolGayBar
InNewYorkWhenIWasVisitingMyBoyfriend
AndTheyReallyItchAnd..."

His voice was so loud that I had to hold the phone a couple of inches away from my ear.

"You got what?" I asked "Crispy Critters? Is that fried chicken? What the hell are you talking about?"

"CrispyCrittersJoey!" he repeated, still speaking a mile a minute. "IMean..." and then he slowed down to enunciate every word "I...HAVE...CRABS!'"

He said it loud enough for everyone around to hear, at which point they all took a step away from me. The cashier -- who today is the manager -- grimaced at me.

"Hey, I don't have crabs, my friend does," I said to her.

"'Friend', huh?" she said incredulously.

X was still rattling a mile a minute on the phone.

"JoeyYouHaveToHelpMe
ItItchesLikeCrazy
AndICan'tAffordTheCream
CanYouLendMeSomeMoney
ItItchesItItchesItItches!"

He was phoning me from a pay phone near the Eaton Centre, not far from where I was. I arranged to meet him at the large fountain on the bottom floor, as it was near a Shoppers Drug Mart where we could buy the anti-crablouse goo. I hung up and noticed that everyone -- the people in line as well as the cashier -- were giving me funny looks and keeping their distance. The cashier took my credit card the with the tips of her thumb and index finger, holding it as if I'd handed her a very full week-old diaper.

Damned X, I thought to myself. He gets the STD and still it's me who ends up getting the "unclean" treatment.

---

Minutes later, I was walking towards the Eaton Centre fountain. X ran towards me, ready to give me a hug when I stuck out my left arm, firmly placing my hand on his chest.

"Can we skip the hug while you're still a travelling flea circus?"

"Oh yeah."

"I know that there's some kind of cream for it, but I don't know what it's --"

"Slut-o-cillin." (That's not the real name of the cream; I just can't remember what it was).

"You sound awfully familiar with the treatment."

"Oh, I've had them before."

"Of course."

---

On the way to the drugstore, we passed by a store that had a sale on pants.

"Hey," said X "before we go to the drugstore, can I try these on?"

I threw him a look that said Have you completely lost your mind?

"Oh yeah."

---

The pharmacist was young and easygoing, but concerned about me. "He might not be the only one who needs slut-o-cillin. If you've had sex with him recently..."

"Oh, he's tried," I said, "but no, I'm just buying it for him."

"That's a little...unusual. I mean, I thought that because you were buying it for him that you were...ummm...together."

"Oh no," X said. "Joey's such a breeder. You know he says he's never had a cock in his mouth? Not even once?"

"Keep that up and there'll be no cream for you, fleabag." I muttered.

The pharmacist rang up the bill; the slut-o-cillin cost thirty dollars. I had a twenty in my wallet. "How would you like to pay, sir?" asked the pharmacist.

"Uh, is there a bank machine nearby?"

"All out of cash. I tried getting some on my break."

"Let's try Interac then." I handed him my bank card and he swiped it in the debit machine. We failed to get a connection to the bank computer. With the Christmas rush, the lines were all tied up.

"Do you have a credit card, sir?" he asked.

"Yes, but I'm really trying to avoid putting this particular order...aw, hell. Take it."

I turned to X. "If this credit card purchase ever ends up haunting me, I'm going to fucking kill you."

---

Before we parted ways and I headed home, X turned to me and spoke.

"I know I'm a pain in the ass a lot of times, but I wanted to say thanks. I don't know too many people who'd do this for me."

"You're welcome. Just try not to get into this kind of trouble all the time, willya?" I reached into my wallet, pulled out the twenty and gave it to him. "Use this to wash all your clothes and your sheets too. In hot water. Maybe not in your usual laundromat, 'cause you're not going to win any popularity contests."

"Thank you, thank you, thank you. This is the best Christmas present ever." That little bit of gratitude made it all worthwhile. If he weren't such an ant farm, I'd have given him a hug.

Merry Christmas, everybody. May your holidays be safe and infestation-free.

Thursday, February 14th: Mountain View

The scene:

About 1:30 a.m. on Castro Street, Mountain View's main strip. Jill and I are outside Molly McGee's. We've been drinking and dancing for a while. We left as soon as the DJ started playing the Grease Megamix, a crime that should be punishable by public execution followed by public peeing-on. It's that bad. (If you want to experience a fraction of its horror, here's a RealAudio sample. There's also a MIDI version.)

I wonder how Jamie Zawinski managed to live here without losing his mind.

A group of drunk partygoers -- an even mix of men and women -- see the accordion and ask the question that most ninety-nine out of one hundred people ask: "Do you know how to play that thing?" I prove that I can by breaking into a couple of popular tunes.

After a couple of tunes, I stop to talk to the group. One of the women is pressing on the keys repeatedly and getting frustrated.

Her: It's not making any sound!
Me: Of course not.
Her (annoyed, as if I'm playing some kind of joke on her): Why not?
Me: Because I'm not squeezing the bellows right now.
Her: What?
Me: The accordion is just a big harmonica with buttons and an air bag. Sound doesn't come our of a harmonica by itself; you have to blow air into it to make noise. Same here, except you squeeze the bellows to move air over the reeds.
Her (impressed by my extremely basic science): Wow.
One of the guys: Dude, you're not from around here, are you? What brings you down here?
Me: I'm visiting my friend Jill [I point to Jill] and am attending a conference in San Francisco tomorrow.
Guy: We're all from around here. Most of us work at Lockheed.
Her: I'm a mechanical engineer there.
Me (thinking): I am never ever boarding a Lockheed plane again.

Recommended Reading

The social situation in Silicon Valley, circa 1999. One of the reasons that I have avoided living in the Valley.

Conway's LawMy friend Adam Smith used to have this quote from The Mythical Man-Month as a .sig for his e-mails:

Conway's Law: Organizations which design systems are constrained to produce systems which are copies of the communication structures of these organizations.

Adam summarizes this statement as "You build what you are."

My own Microsoft security crack

Sometimes, when people find out that I'm a computer programmer, they ask if I've ever broken into any computer systems or cracked someone's security. I reply that I've only done so once, but it was Microsoft headquarters. It is a tale that makes hacker boyz lick my Airwalks in abject worship and hacker girlz swoon and offer me backrubs and lap dances.

Okay, maybe not. But it's a good story, and it does illustrate Conway's Law in action.

Back in February 2001, the company for which I used to work was considered to be a leader in the P2P software development community. (Now, please remember that this is hardly cause to crow. I'm sure having the title "the brightest kid on the short bus" would carry more prestige.) Anyhow, I got sent to an invitation-only, covered-under-pain-of-death-NDA all-day seminar at their headquarters in Redmond.

I drove my rental car to building forty-something, where M$ holds its meet-and-greets. I unknowingly parked my car in the area reserved for employees, which meant that the door leading into the building was locked. Above it was a video camera, and to its right was a card scanner. I probably could've gone back to the car and driven to the correct garage or simply walked out the garage and circled the building and entered through the front. However, I decided to try something else.

I took my passcard for the company's Toronto office and passed it over the card scanner. Naturally, it had no result. I tried it again, and then once more. I then looked up at the camera with a confused "howcum it don't work no more?" big-eyed expression and pointed at my card.

I heard a loud click come from the door. I gave the door a try, and it opened easily. I smiled at the camera and gave the gullible security wonk a wave.

"Just like their software," I'm sure I said out loud, as I opened the door with a big "J03Y 0WNZ J00" grin.

Gratitude

Thank you.

Thank you.

Thank you.

I would like to thank my family, friends, former co-workers and acquaintances, both "real world" and online. Thank you for asking how I'm doing, for saying all those kind words about me, for buying me dinner, for asking for my resume for future reference, for offering to hook me up with people looking for programmers and for asking if I'll have enough to eat (of course I will, Mom, but thanks for checking). You have my eternal gratitude.

Oi!

I'd just finished giving the kitchen range and hood a proper cleaning and de-greasing when Paul returned from his trip to Starbucks. He bounced up to the kitchen counter and looked as though it was taking some effort for him to stay still.

"C'mon, man, let's go! Ska ska oi!" he said, flailing his arms as if he were desperately trying to get the attention of a distant search plane. He gets that way when he's on stimulants of any kind.

Ska Ska Oi is an annual fundraising ska/punk concert organized by a Toronto group called Anti-Racist Action, whose purpose I'm certain you've already gleaned from their name. The event has a reputation for being an evening of boistrous fun, combining a very friendly crowd, great music and a wild but considerate mosh pit. Paul and I saw the posters for this event a week or so earlier and decided that we weren't going to miss it.

We arrived at Reverb at about 10 p.m. (which I thought would be early) to find a line of people leading up the stairs. The event had been sold out, but we could wait in line to replace people who were leaving the club. Having nothing better to do, we opted to wait. Our patience paid off; we were let in just over half and hour.

"I assume you're of legal drinking age, gentlemen," the guy at the door said as he let us in.

"We're old enough to be some of these kids' substitute teachers," I replied. I turned to a young punk beside me. "Young man, I want to see that math assignment on my desk first thing Monday morning."

After downing our only alcohol of the evening at the bar -- a broken down golf cart shooter -- we moved to the dance floor. On the way there, one of the bouncers recognized me and said "Yo, Accordion Guy! How you been?" I actually don't introduce myself to people as "Accordion Guy"; it's just what people who don't know my name tend to call me. As the next act came onstage, he took a position at the edge of the mosh pit, just ahead of me. "Gotta keep these kids from breakin' their heads, so they can still do arithmetic on Monday," he told me.

We'd missed a couple of the earlier bands. The first act we caught were the Class Assassins, a foursome of energetic shaven-headed guys playing some very loud, very raucous punk tunes. They opened with No Justice No Peace, a very catchy number off their new album. The mosh pit exploded at the first measure of this song, and halfway into it, Paul decided he couldn't take bouncing in place any more and launched himself into the fray. I chose to stay at the edge of the moshing, concerned that I'd either shred my accordion (which was strapped to my back) or accidentally hit someone with it. They played a blistering 45-minute set, and the moshing went non-stop.

Paul emerged from the pit when the band left the stage, covered in sweat and smiling. "Lots of girls in the mosh," he said. "That's the most action I've had in a while."

While waiting for the second band, a couple of people walked up to me and asked one of the usual questions: "Can you play that thing?" Being a ska/punk night, I obliged by playing and singing Goldfinger's Here In Your Bedroom. I surprised myself by being able to sing the chorus on the first try; it's usually a little out of my vocal range. I took that as a good sign for tonight's busking.

The next act was a group from Montreal called General Rudie, a full ska outfit, complete with keyboards and horn section. They played an amazing set that got the crowd skanking so hard that the floor was literally bouncing, flexing with the rhythm of people jumping in unison. Once again, I stayed at the edge of the moshing while Paul dove into the pit. Paul was impressed enough to buy their album; I was impressed enough to know that I'll probably borrow it from him this week.

Paul says "she's hot" in a Butt-Head-esque tone of voice about someone almost every week, and this week was no exception. A cute girl in a tight mint green tank top hopped onstage during one of General Rudie's numbers and danced while facing the crowd, eliciting this week's declaration of "she's hot" from Paul. No doubt he tried to collide with her in the pit.

After General Rudie's set, Paul headed home. He had to get up early the next day, as he was going snowboarding. While waiting for the final act, Arsenal, to get themselves set up, I wandered about the club looking for anyone I knew. A guy walked up to me and said "Two accordion players appearing by chance in the same room. What are the odds?" The other accordion player turned out to be his friend Doug, whom he introduced me to. Doug and I talked about synthesizers, accordions and the gigs we were going to play this year while waiting for Arsenal to play.

We waited for a while. "These guys better be the Radiohead of ska if they're going to make me wait like this," Doug said.

They finally started their set around 1:00 -- at least half an hour behind schedule. They were tight and had a rock steady rhythm section, but were somewhat unimaginative with their melodies. "I wonder if they know another chord," quipped Doug during their first number, which seemed stuck on a single chord. The next two numbers were the same; great rhythms but repetitive, monotonous melodies.

"Not the Radiohead of ska," I said, "but the Philip Glass of ska." That got a laugh out of Doug.

Doug invited me to jam with him sometime soon, so I gave him my phone number and left.

Snog

A trio of Doc Marten-wearing grrrls sat outside the entrance to reverb with a sign that read Will snog for beer. One of them looked at me and said "How about it, Accordion Guy?"

"I don't have any beer."

"I'll take a song instead of beer."

I played Should I Stay or Should I Go. Nice safe standard, and The Clash goes over well with the punk kids.

"Now," the girl said, "the snog."

"The song's a freebie, no worries. You look a little young."

"I'm not too young for you. What are you, twenty-five?"

"Thirty-four."

"Holyfuckinshit. Maybe I am too young for ya. You're too good-lookin' to be an old fart. Hey, me and my friends are going to catch up with our friends at Ossington station. You take care, and keep swinging' that fine accordion, 'kay?"

(I'm sure that there are several Japanese businessmen who would pay mad Yen to have what just happened to me happen to them.)

Have I mentioned how much I love this instrument?

Heirloom

I made my way over to the Velvet Underground. My plan was to hang out there until after last call, then go to Amato's Pizza and busk. The bouncer waved me in almost immediately a very cute woman with dark shoulder-length hair and striking eyebrows (I love striking eyebrows) walked up to me.

"I just got an accordion for Christmas, and I need your help!" she exclaimed.

Really, have I mentioned just how much I love this instrument?

She told me that it was a family heirloom; it was originally her grandfather's. She didn't know how to play any muscial instruments and didn't know what to do with it. Selling it was out of the question. She asked if I knew anyone who gave accordion lessons.

"Well," I said, not wanting to sound too eager, "there's Joe Caringi, whose store is out in Woodbridge..." Woodbridge is a way-out-there suburb, far away enough to be out of reach of public transit. I was betting that she didn't live anywhere near there.

"No. Not Woodbridge. Too far, and I hate the attitude there." Woodbridge has a rep of being where all the Mafioso live. It's often referred to with a fake Italian accent: "Wood-a-breedge".

"You can get nice cannoli there," I said, unable to resist a Godfather reference.

"You can get just as nice cannoli on College Street, and it's more fun there too." I liked her attitude.

"So what do you play on your accordion?"

"Mostly pop and rock. I leave polka to the experts. I do Nine Inch Nails, Fatboy Slim, AC/DC and a pretty mean Britney."

"That's great! I didn't know you could play that on an accordion!" she exclaimed, unaware that there isn't some kind of dead man's switch on an accordion that kicks into gear whenever to try to play something other than Lady of Spain (something I haven't yet learned how to play).

I was about to suggest that perhaps I could give her some lessons -- which would necessitate an exchange of phone numbers -- when her boyfriend appeared. And it was playing out like a movie script until now.

"Hey! You have an accordion!" he said to me, "did she tell you about hers?"

I told them that I would be busking later on tonight and that they catch the performance, during which I'd be happy to give her a couple of pointers. Hey, women are walking up to me and starting conversations. That's still better than what happens to most guys.

I've mentioned just how much I love my accordion, haven't I?

Performance

When I arrived at Amato's, there were only three guys sitting on the bench outside. Not a good sign, but sometimes a crowd gathers once I start playing. I started with the Presidents of the United States of America's Lump, and they started singing along. Judging that these guys were alt-rock fans, I segued into Goldfinger's Here In Your Bedroom, and they turned out to know the lyrics to that song too. I kept playing, and they kept singing, which attracted some more people to the area.

Arsenal's show must've ended just before, because a large crowd were making their way from Reverb to Amato's for some post-concert pizza. By the time I'd gotten to AC/DC's Big Balls, I'd managed to get a crowd of about eighty people around me. Normally this kind of crowd happens only during the summer, but it was a mild night and people didn't seem to mind hanging around and singing along. I'd grabbed a discarded pizza plate and placed it at my feet and saw that since I'd started, it had filled with loonies, toonies and even a couple of fivers.

Another busker, Jamie, who plays guitar farther east on Queen Street walked by, and the crowd and I asked him to join in. They cleared a space for him on the bench, and we started jamming. I led him through You Shook Me All Night Long and NiN's Head Like a Hole and he led me through Train's Drops of Jupiter and Colunting Crows' A Long December. The crowd peaked during Neil Diamond's Sweet Caroline (a bit of a hit here in Canada since it was featured in a recent beer commercial), with everyone singing out the horn part in the chorus -- Sweet Caroline -- ba da da! -- Good times never seemed so good...

At about half past three, Jamie and I called it a night. Jamie went off to the Matador, and I went home. As I was putting the accordion on my back, one of the guys in the audience shook my hand.

"Thank you very much," he said. "Only eleven days into the new year [Saturday night was actually the twelfth, and we were already three hours into Sunday -- Joey] and it's already very cool. Thanks for making it that way."

I got more gratitude from (mostly) strangers in just over an hour's busking than I did from my managers the last three months at work.

Condolences

On the way home, I ran into Star, a girl who lived in a squat near the University. She sometimes panhandles on Queen Street on Saturday night, and once I've covered my bar bill, I tend to give away a fair bit of my busking money to people sleeping on the street. Buskers are the unintentional nemesis of panhandlers, as we compete for the same spare change.

"Accordion Guy," she said as I walked towards her. "Sorry to hear 'bout your job, man. Fucking bosses."

"What?" I asked, surprised. Star was just an acquaintance. She couldn't possibly have heard that I was fired; some of my friends probably haven't heard yet. "How'd you know?"

"I read your blog. We get to surf free at the library."

William Gibson wasn't kidding, I thought, the street does find its own uses for things. She told me that she was looking for work using the 'Net and that some street kids used Hotmail as a kind of system for leaving messages for each other.

"That's cool! And hey, thanks. Look, let me give you ten bucks."

"You sure? Maybe you need the money now..."

"I'll be all right. Here, get something to eat."

"Those fuckers, when they fired you, they lost out big. Thank you."

No, Star, thank you.

The company for which I used to work provides a free lunch for all its employees on Thursday. It's one of the last dot-com niceties we had given the company's woes over the past year, and it's also a chance for management to make general announcements and give the grunts the low-down on the status of company (with the requisite spin, of course). If it's someone's birthday that week, they bring in a cake. If someone got sacked, then our acting CEO -- who used to be one of the partners at our Canadian vulture capitalist firm, and who replaced our original CEO after he got sacked -- usually makes some kind of statement, coupled with some explanations if the sackee was a particularly skilled, beloved, or long-time member of the company. I like to think that I fit at least two and a half of these criteria, and guess that my "elegy" sounded something like this...

Acting CEO: Mmm, falafel.

VP R&D: You know, back at Corel, they had some pretty good falafel. I remember this one particular falafel sandwich I had while debugging the square-drawing tool in CorelDRAW! 6...

Acting CEO: (elbowing VP R&D) Later. (turning to rest of room) We had a difficult decision to make at the start of the year. While we do have enough money to ensure that we can complete the product and while the investors have turned around and believe that we can deliver, it's been made clear to me that we need to cut some more costs. It was a tough call, but we had to let Joey go. It was particularly difficult because he was a good employee who had such a great attitude toward his work, even when things were really bad. However, as the project and programming requirements changed, he didn't have the skill set...

VP R&D: (muttering) Punkass couldn't even spell "MFC" a couple of months ago...

Acting CEO: ...although he put in long hours trying to make sure he was caught up. He's done a lot for the company -- part of the reason we have a good relationship with people like Microsoft and O'Reilly is due to his programming some really excellent prototype UIs and his outstanding work as Director of Developer Relations. And of course, we'll never forget all that TV exposure he got us with that crazy accordion of his.

VP R&D: (muttering) Bitch and his accordion. Part of why I left Romania was to get away from the fucking Gypsy Kings and fucking accordions.

John Henson (Chief Scientist, one of the last cool guys left): He was there when we made our first presentations to potential VCs, as well as big-ticket clients like eBay. He also led the team that released our first actual product, COLAvision, at DefCon 2000. He also made sure the new people felt welcome. (Sniffs, stifles a tear.) And he made friends with everybody...the P2P higher-ups at Microsoft, Tim O'Reilly, and (chokes) when we had our Christmas dinner at Medieval Times, he knew the guy who played our knight! (Sobs) I loved him! (Catches possible gay implication) ...like a brother! Like a brother!

VP R&D: But we needed somebody who really knew it now. I tried to find different roles for him, but it didn't work out. That, and he's one of the old guard, he's not part of my hand-picked team.

Programmer who replaced me: On first day here, Joey took me to Burger Czar and explained company heestory to me. Made me feel like long-time part of collective. Bozshe moi. Am feelink like dirt now.

John Henson: He was studying MFC pretty hard...he always had that big-ass MFC book with him wherever he went...

Sham (a co-worker of mine, great guy): I will wear a black hood, renounce chasing after loose women and cancel my subscription to Maxim in Joey's honour!

Waterloo co-op student 1: Uh, if you're just going to let that Maxim go to waste...

Waterloo co-op student 2: Does the new issue have Jolene Blalock? Subcommander T'Pol is a hot piece of Vulcan ass.

Waterloo co-op student 1: Shut up, Wesley! Seven of Nine is hotter.

Waterloo co-op student 2: You shut up!

John Midgely (another co-worker, also great guy): He gave me his Jesus clock! Depending on the angle you look at it, it shows either Jesus or Mary!

VP R&D: (to employees) On another note, I shaved my moustache. Doesn't it make me look more resourceful and dynamic?

John Henson: Whenever I'd pick up Joey for the drive to work, all I had to do was ask him to buy me a coffee and he would. And not the cheap coffee, either, but the good dark roast. And he often threw in a cookie or muffin or biscotti. What a sweet guy. I'll...(chokes)...I'll miss him...(sobs)...I'm just gonna run over to my desk and stick a gun in my mouth right now...(runs out of room)

Sham: Remember the time he had all those Subway 2-for-1 coupons and he gave them to all of us so that we could have a nice lunch...for half price?! He's a prince! A prince among men!

John Midgely: Sham, are you sure you can live without Maxim?

Sham: My God, what was I thinking? Can I take it back? Are we allowed take-backs?

(in the background, a shotgun fires, followed by a heavy "thump".)

Acting CEO: And there's the time he met this cute chick at the Matador and accidentally gave her my business card. Damn, that was funny. By the way, she called and we hooked up. I'm still partially crippled from that night.

VP R&D: (grumbling) Techno-peasant. Real Programmers don't pick up chicks in bars.

Acting CEO: Shit, that girl did things to me my wife can't even pronounce. Thanks, Joey.

Okay, maybe it didn't happen that way.

(By the way, the bit about my giving the acting CEO's business card to a woman at a bar is true. Read it in this posting.)

That's "hello" in Japanese, kids.

For your amusement, all my New Year's doings from December 31, 1998 to last night, in reverse chronological order. (I'm working off a hangover by writing.)

December 31, 2001 - Toronto

This New Year's Eve was different from the past few -- for the first time since 1995, I stayed in town. It's a little more low-key that the usual Joey production, but still a good time. I didn't throw a party or attend some kind of over-the-top bash; I just dropped by some house parties, drank a lot of Freixenet, played the accordion (the usual repertoire, plus Auld Lang Syne at midnight), nearly passed out, somehow won a game of Uno even though I was only semi-conscious and then went home to eat some homemade beef stew that we'd put in the slow cooker and then passed out. As we used to say back at the pub where I worked in University, "if you're not wasted, the night is." I got to entertain a crowd, meet some new people, catch up with a friend or two I haven't in a while, and got the drunkest I'd been in a dog's age. Not as way-out-there as some other New Year's bashes I've done, but I'm still smiling (if a little wobbly today).

December 31, 2000 - San Francisco

I was moving into the company's corporate apartment in San Francisco, and my then-girlfriend E. came down to visit. We had a fun week exploring San Francisco and she also joined me on a trip to L.A. where I spoke at a DJ conference (my first-ever public speaking engagement of my professional career) and hit the Sunset strip.

December 31, 1999 - Prague

My friend Andre is a crack neurobiologist who works at the Neurophysiology Department of the Czech Academy of Sciences in Prague. He threw a party called Millennipalooza (yes, the millennium didn't happen until the crack of 2001, but the odometer rolls at 2000, doesn't it?) where he invited about 60 of his close personal friends (and their dates/buddies/tag-alongers) to party like it's 1999 in a mini-castle called Zamek Roztez, located about an hour outside Prague. I had a really, really great time and met someone cute as well (the pictures here will attest to that).

However, the really interesting story took place a couple of days into 2001. I was staying in a short-term-rental apartment near Prague's Old Town and enjoying my vacation. Some very drunk Swedes kept me in beer and sausages (the only items on the menu) at one of the Czech beer halls one night, while at the bartender at the James Joyce stood with me on the bar and did a rousing version of the Proclaimers' 500 Miles. At several pubs, the accordion once again proved its worth as a machine for turning music into free beer and strangers into drinking buddies at several fine local pubs.

The accordion also saved me from an attempted mugging.

Prior to the trip I'd done some research on Prague, reading a few books, checking out the travel guide Web sites. The discussion boards where travellers posted their stories were the most interesting, especially the "horror stories" about how they'd been robbed or swindled by the locals. I read one story about how this one guy was appraoched by a seemingly lost man while on Prague's Left Bank. He asked for directions in Spanish-accented broken English, while fumbling with a large map of the city. While the man asked for directions held the map in front of the tourist's face, his accomplice picked his pocket and then both crooks disappeared down an alleyway. I made a mental note to avoid this situation.

I enjoying a pleasant walk on the Left Bank on an unusally quiet and empty street, my accordion slung on my back. I thought I heard someone shouting in English behind me, but I ignored it until it became louder.

"Please help," the voice said in Spanish-accented English, "Need directions. Please."

This can't really be happening, can it? I thought to myself. I picked up the pace of my walk. I couldn't run -- my beloved pair of steel-toed boots were finally wearing down and running in them hurt my feet. I looked for a building full of people to duck into, but there were only houses to one side and a large open park on the other. The Lost Man ran and caught up with me.

"Please. Am lost. Need directions. Need to change money."

"Talk to the hand," I replied, holding out said hand. He might not recognize the TV talk-show idiom, but he'd know what the hand in this face meant.

He held out a wallet packed with what looked like a fat sheaf of Polish Zlotys. "Please, can you change money? I give good rate."

And that's when the plainclothes cops appeared. Where the hell did these two come from? I wondered. They wore black from head to toe -- toque, bomber jackets, jeans, boots. If they'd been wearing black paintstick on their faces, they would've looked like those special forces guys you always see in action films, if somewhat scrawnier. One of them held a greasy plastic-looking badge that had a Czech word emblazoned on it. I assumed that word was Czech for "police". One of them said something in Czech to the Lost Man, who simply held his hands up instead of running.

"He is counterfeit money changer," one of the cops said to me. "You get money from him?"

"He sell me Zlotys!" said the Lost Man.

"You lie, zmrd" I said, calling him an asshole in Czech. (Like my buddy John, I make it a point to learn to swear in the local blabber.)

"Please to be inspecting your wallet and passport now," said Cop Number Two.

Wallet inspectors? I thought, That's a scam from The Simpsons!

While hanging out with my sister's buddies from the U.N., I learned the drill for handling cops, real or otherwise (I couldn't be sure whether these guys were crooked cops or simply pretending to be cops). "No," I said. "You do not get to see my wallet. You do not get to see my passport. If you want to arrest me, I demand to be taken to the Canadian Embassy right now."

"Please to be inspecting wallet!" yelled a huffy Cop Number Two. He gave me hard shove backwards.

I fell back hard against a stone wall and heard a crack behind me. The accordion, still slung on my back had taken a hard blow. Had it not been there, my head woould've made hard and fast contact with the wall. I wasn't fully aware of this fact, just that an accordion I'd spent a couple of hundred dollars to get fixed had been damaged.

"Hey, asshole!" I yelled, forgetting to say it in Czech. "That cost me a lot of money to get fixed!"

To everyone's surprise, mine especially, I kicked at Cop Number Two with a steel-toed right foot. I connected with his kneecap, and he dropped to the ground. The Lost Man, seeing this, fled. Cop Number One looked at me wide-eyed and -mouthed. I later learned that guys like this like to attack Japanese tourists because they're so unused to muggings and the like that they tend to be complete pushovers in these situations. They probably assumed I was Japanese and weren't expecting an "Ugly American" style of reaction. Hell, I wouldn't have expected that of me.

There were still the two cops, and even the injured guy could've easily used me to wipe the walls. It was time to negotiate, Third World Style. Bribing the cops is an honoured tradition in the Philippines, and I guessed that it might work here in the Czech Republic as well.

"Okay," I said, in my loudest busker voice, waving a 1000 Crown note. A mere $40 Canadian, but it would buy a lot of beer and sausages in Prague. "This is for you," I said, planting the note very firmly in Cop Number One's hand. "Now you go levo," I said pointing to my left, "and I go pravo," as I pointed to the right. "Okay?"

"Okay." said Cop Number One with a single nod, as he picked up his fallen comrade, who was still kneeling on the ground, rubbing the knee I'd kicked.

I swaggered around the corner, trying to look tough. Once around the corner I ran (Mama didn't raise no fools) despite the pain my boots were causing me. There was a Japanese tour group a half-block away and I joined them, wearing the accordion on my front so the "cops" couldn't see me if they were following. Once free and clear, I went to the Terminal Bar, where I finally calmed down after three pints of pivo.

December 31, 1998 - Halifax

Wow. We're in the pre-accordion era now.

I'd conviced my friends Chris and Karl to rent a car with me and drive to Halifax to attend a rave with Jenn, my old friend from University. We got the car at around 11:30 p.m. on December 30th and drove all night. Karl has somehow convinced us that the trip would be only 14 hours, but he was off by almost 7. We arrived in Halifax at 8:30 p.m. on the 31st, rested for an hour, and raved until 7 the next morning, fueled only by Pepsi and other stimulants. Since Chris has to be home for some kind of work contract by the 2nd, we had to make the same marathon drive back to Toronto in near white-out conditions. The only disappointment was that we were in and out of Halifax so quickly, we never got see the ocean!

December 31, 1997 - New York City

After making a last-minute decision and somehow securing seats on a plane, I flew down to New York with my sister Eileen in the early afternoon of the 31st and didn't have any plans made, other than to meet up with friends at a bar.

Dinner was going to be a big hurdle -- being New Year's Eve, we didn't stand a chance of getting into any place decent, but we were going to give it a try. We went to a nice-looking Italian restaurant whose name escapes me. As I walked up to the maitre'd, Eileen whispered to me "We have reservations. Got it?"

"Hi," I said, in my cheery "let's eat!" voice, "deVilla, party of five?"

The maitre'd shuffled through the reservations book, naturally finding nothing.

I peered over the edge of the book, feigning an attempt to help.

"Sir," the maitre'd asked. "when did you make these reservations?"

"About two weeks ago, I'd say? It's deVilla. d-e-V-i-l-l-a."

"I'm sorry, I can't find it. Please wait, I'll see what I can do."

The maitre'd somehow managed to squeeze a couple of extra tables from a storage room into some unoccupied space in the far corner of the restaurant and had us seated there. Sure, it wasn't on par with the Great Ferris Bueller's restaurant scam, but I take whatever little victories I can get. Nice osso buco too.

After dinner, we went to a bar called Opaline on Avenue A, where we were to meet our friend Andre for drinks. We had a crantini in the front lounge and chatted for a bit. Andre still hadn't shown, but Eileen had noticed another room behind the lounge and asked me to go see if he was there. I walked into the back room, which was even larger than the lounge and suddenly heard my name being called out from a voice I thought I'd never hear again.

It was K., one of my sister's floormates from her first year at McGill. We'd gotten chummy and attempted to start a relationship, but that ended when she backslid towards her previous boyfriend and I ended up dating her sister, E. For a brief period, I dated both, hoping that neither one would find out about the other (Hey, I was 19 at the time. You'd have done it too). Both relationships ended in a Kafka-esque flameout ten years prior, and I hadn't seen or heard from them since.

After a big hug, she yelled in my ear "and you'll never believe who came with me!"

E. walked up to see what the fuss was all about, saw me, and more hugging ensued. E. introduced me to her boyfriend, who promptly vanished for the rest of the night with a bunch of jock-ish looking friends to another corner of the bar for I-couldn't-give-a-damn-why. We spent the whole evening catching up on what the other had been doing with their lives for the past decade. "Still silly after all these years," she said of me. At the end of the evening, we exchanged e-mail addresses and kept sporadic contact with each other.

What I didn't know at the time was that this chance encounter would lead to my dating E. for most of 2000.

December 31, 1996 - Boston

Drove down to Boston with my then-girlfriend C. It was a nice trip -- we got to see Boston, Cambridge and Salem, pick shells and rocks from the seaside and go wandering through the woods of upstate New York.

December 31, 1995 - Manila

First dinner at the Hotel Shangri-La, followed by drinking and dancing all night at a club called Zu, where they pulled out all the stops. If you ever get the chance, I very strongly recommend clubbing in Manila.

December 31, 1994 - Toronto

I'd just graduated from Queen's and was now in the Real World, looking for a job. I DJ'd a private party, with my cute if somewhat clingy -- okay, incredibly clingy girlfriend, S.

December 31, 1993 - New York City

My all-time favourite girlfirend had just broken up with me, so I spent the Christmas holidays in a kind of "just kill me" funk. Soy uno perdidor, I'm a loser baby, so why don't you kill me and all that. I went down to New York City with my sister Eileen to attend a New Year's Eve party my friend Andre was throwing at his apartment.

Andre had managed to expand his usable party space by taking advantage of a door in his apartment that opened onto a flat expanse of roof. He set up a tent to block the wind and several clay braziers full of coal to stave off the cold. Between these measures and the crowd, it was actually comfortable on the roof, even though it was an unusually cold winter.

At some point during the party, I was on the roof talking about beer. I was referring to the new crop of American microbrews that were actually good. I think I also made some offhand remark about how soda-pop-like Rolling Rock was and expressed amazement that fratboys actually managed to get themselves killed drinking the stuff. An Asian guy walked up to me and said "You don't like the beer here? Where you from?"

"Canada," I said.

"Canada?!" he sneered. "What's that, America lite?" That got a laugh out of his buddies. "So where in Asia are you from, guy?"

"The Philippines," I said.

"Philippines?!" he sneered again. "What's that, Asia lite?" That got an even bigger laugh out of his buddies. I had a guess as to where he was from, and was already loading my verbal ammo.

"And where would you be from?" I asked.

"Korea. man."

Bingo. You wanna get ethnic on me, kimchi-breath?

"Ah, you're one of the fruitstand people. If the Japs aren't using you for comfort women, the bruthas are using you for target practice."

Silence, followed by a lot of laughter from his buddies.

He put his arm around me in a friendly manner and said to his buddies: "I like this guy." He turned to me and said "Sorry for being such a shit to you. Just breaking your balls, see."

Ethnic slurs for harmony. New Yorkers. Geez.

December 31, 1992 - Manila

I was there for a month over the Christmas holidays, having the time of my life. Back home, my school marks were peaking in the 80's and 90's, I had a great new girlfriend, my DJ career was going very strong, and when I got home from the holidays, our band was going to have its first gig. In Manila, I was having a lot of fun hanging out with my cousins and friends in the districts of Makati and Malate.

I even got to geek out a little: I spent some lazy afternoons doing my first-ever readings about object-oriented programming under my Aunt's palm trees by the pool. A friend of my aunt visited one day and saw me reading up on C++. She turned out to be the Dean of Computer Science at the Polytechnic University of the Philippines and asked me if I would like to speak in front of an assembly of computer science students and tell them about being a computer science in North America. It was a lot of fun, I got to hang out with the students and I got the VIP treatment from the faculty. The Dean took me aside at one point and asked if I could send her some copies of the new Borland compilers -- the university, being a state-run institution in the Third World -- was pretty strapped for cash and couldn't afford even a single copy of Turbo C (Linux was still in its infancy at this point, Free Software was still somewhat obscure and the Open Source movement was five or six years away).

December 31, 1991 - Toronto

It started innoncently and boringly enough with me and my friend Henry going to our friend Kevin's house, where we caught the tail end of Predator 2. The movie ended at 9, and we decided we weren't going to be caught at the stroke of midnight sitting at home and watching TV.

We headed downtown and ended up at the Rotterdam Pub, somehow managing to find a table. Henry and I were short cash, but Kevin told us not to worry; he'd take care of it. A minute before midnight, we got the bill and Kevin announced to us that "Operation Drink and Dash" was about to commence.

Oh, crap.

It turned out to be simpler that I thought it would be. At midnight, everyone started the usual hugging and kissing. We simply hugged and kissed people in a straight-line path, pushing our way through the crowd toward the door. Kevin led us, walking out the door very casually, turning the corner and then bursting into a full gallop. We ran a zig-zag path through alleyways for four blocks, and collapsed in an alley, panting and laughing.

Kevin offered us some of the Rotterdam beer glasses he'd stuffed into his pockets. "Souvenir of one fine New Year's Eve, gentlemen."

December 31st, 1990 - Montreal

I managed to convince my friend Rob, who normally isn't into this sort of thing, to come with me to the GWAR concert at the Rialto. The Lunachicks opened, and at the stroke of midnight, GWAR burst through a fake brick wall and their lead singer, Oderus Urungus wished everyone "Happy New Year, human scum!" I try and put a little bit of the GWAR show into every accordion performance of mine.

December 31st, 1989 - Toronto

A house party at my friend Nick's, which I attended with my then-girlfriend, G.

December 31st, 1988 - Quebec City

There were two couples -- Andre and his then-girlfriend Catherine, Kevin and his then-girlfriend Kelly -- and me and Henry, who were playing the part of the two "fifth wheels". We'd dropped off our stuff at a youth hostel and gone for the 8 o'clock dinner sitting at one of the nicer restaurants within the walled part of Quebec City. Afterwards, we were to go to a club that came highly recommended by Andre -- a place called L'ombre Jaune -- The Yellow Shadow.

"They've got the best music," he said. "Great DJs, friendly staff, great crowd. You'll probably meet some really cute chicks tonight," he said to me and Henry.

When we got to the address that Andre has provided the cab driver, it turned out that L'ombre Jaune no longer was in business. Instead, the building had been divided into two establishments. In the basement, a place called Le Cheap Bar, and upstairs, a fully-equipped disco whose name I've forgotten. Le Cheap Bar was half-empty and occupied by bored-looking patrons, while the upstairs place was charging a cover that none of us could afford. It was about an hour until midnight, and knowing of no other place that we could go to, we settled for the aptly named Cheap Bar.

The bar did have some guy in the corner running CDs through the disc changer and the bartender was nice enough, but it just didn't seem quite right. The place filled over the next half-hour, probably with people who had nowhere else to go, and Henry and I drank our beer while looking longingly at the line-up to the entrance to the upstairs bar. A cougar started paying a lot of unwanted attention to Henry, and he decided to dodge her by going into the back alley for a smoke. I tagged along to keep him company.

We could hear the thumping of house music from above. Someone had left a fire escape door slightly ajar, probably to let in some of the fifteen-degrees-below-zero outside air into the upstairs club. We looked up and then at each other and simulateneously came to the same conclusion.

The fire escape ladder was icy, and Henry nearly kicked my party hats off when his boot slipped. When we got to the top, we could see through the crack that there wasn't anyone watching the door, just some club-goers getting their noisemakers ready. It was ten seconds to midnight.

We waited for the countdown to reach zero. The DJ started into some big number -- I forget which. We opened the door; the cold air cut a path through the smoke machine's fog. People turned to face up and started to clap.

Henry and I were each wearing two party hats like horns and had noisemakers in our mouths. "They think we're part of the act," Henry said, to which I replied "Let's start a conga line!" Henry took the front, I was behind him, and we got a good chunk of the dancefloor to join us.

To our surprise, no bouncers came to kick us out. We spent the rest of the evening dancing and schmoozing in the fancy club upstairs while our coupled-up comrades downstairs were making kissy-faces.

"Let's break into a club every year," Henry said.

I just got the strangest mass-mailing I've ever seen:

Time Travelers PLEASE HELP !

message: If you are a time traveler or alien disguised as human and or have the technology to travel physically through time I need your help!

My life has been severely tampered with and cursed!!
I have suffered tremendously and am now dying!

I need to be able to:

Travel back in time.

Rewind my life including my age.

Be able to remember what I know now so that I can prevent my life from being tampered with again after I go back.

I am in very great danger and need this immediately!

I am aware that there are many types of time travel and that humans do not do well through certain types.

I need as close to temporal reversion as possible, as safely as possible. To be able to rewind the hands of time in such a way that the universe of now will cease to exist. I know that there are some very powerful people out there with alien or government equipment capable of doing just that.

If you can help me I will pay for your teleport or trip down here, Along with hotel stay, food and all expenses. I will pay top dollar for the equipment. Proof must be provided.


Only if you have this technology and can help me please send me a (SEPARATE) email to:

Robby0809@aol.com

Thanks

I'm thinking about using this as a reply:

Well, here were are again. You have no idea who I am, don't you?

Not only am I capable of helping you, but I've done so twice already.

I can meet all your requirements except one -- the one where you retain your memories of everything's that happened to you up until now. Normally, it would be possible for you to remember the present (and all events leading up to it) when you go back into the past, but you kept insisting that you also want your aging to be reversed. I can only do that by reverting you to your past state, which means that events leading up to what you call "the present" wouldn't have happened. Which means you'd have nothing to remember. See the problem?

I was willing to let things slide when things went horribly wrong the first time. Initially, it looked as though you were going to live a long and happy life: you had a successful business, you were in the best shape of your life, and you had just married one of the supporting actresses from American Pie. However, you blew it big time when during your honeymoon in Honduras, you caught a butterfly. That butterfly's wings were supposed to trigger a hurricane that would have devastated the coastline of El Salvador, including the coastal village of La Libertad. Instead, the village was never destroyed, and as a result, a troubled and overindulged little boy grew up to become the Hitler of the 21st century. He managed to turn the eastern seaboard and much of Europe into the world's largest smouldering graveyards before he was finally stopped. I managed to retrieve you from that timeline -- you were under a pile of rubble and half-mad. I decided to try and send you back in time again.

While the course of your life has not been so catastrophic for the rest of the world this time around, you have still managed to make a mess of it for yourself. And this time, you're resorting to spamming in order to find a time traveller like me. That's really low.

The biggest shame of it all (and more so because you don't remember) is that your life wasn't as bad as you thought when you first came to me for help. You said you wanted to undo your so-called "terrible, terrible mistake". In retrospect, I should never have honoured your request. Yes, it was an embarassing situation, but "the incident", as you liked to call it, would have been forgotten soon enough. It's nothing that a public apology and a little plastic surgery couldn't have fixed. Besides, while that kind of thing was taboo once, it would have become socially acceptable a few short years later.

I am truly sorry, but I feel that you're one of those people who will do the same kind of thing over and over, no matter what kind of circumstances they find themselves in. Please do not contact me anymore. If you see me on the street, please do not approach me or speak to me. I will claim not to know you. I cannot be bribed; you will not be able to buy your way into the past again.

In closing, all I can do is offer you some advice:

1. Please try to think before you act.
2. If you don't do something about that haircut, you and many innocent people will regret it. It may seem trivial, but believe me, I know better.

-- Joey

What happened to Crabs

Rick McGinnis guessed correctly that I remained friends with Crabs. One Saturday night in the fall of 1999, Crabs and I met up at Buddies in Bad Times -- the site of the first date with The Waitress -- to dance there for old times' sake. Crabs came with his new boyfriend, who I recognized from TV. "Dude," I said, "I loved it when your head exploded on Earth: Final Conflict!" "People actually watch that?" he asked, seeming genuinely surprised. "Hey man, I was young and I needed the money." I shall refer to him as Exploding Boy. As the evening progressed, more of our friends joined us, and by the time the club was in full swing, we had a pretty good group. The music was excellent, the crowd had a very pleasant vibe going, and for the first time in a long time, I was actually enjoying myself at Buddies in Bad Times. It seemed that the curse had been lifted from the place. At the end of the evening, after the last song had been played, Crabs went downstairs to fetch his jacket from coat check. I sat on the stage, sipping from a bottle of water, talking with Ryan, whom I knew from my days at Crazy Go Nuts University. The DJ had shut down the sound system, and the place was lit by the harsh glow of fluorescent tubes. "Ugh," said Ryan. "They've turned on the 'ugly lights'." "Everybody, get up!" said a voice over the sound system. "We're going to dance again!" "What the...?" asked Ryan. "That sounds like [Exploding Boy]!" I looked up at the DJ booth. Exploding Boy was in it, with the DJ's microphone in his hand. He appeared to be searching the booth frantically and throwing switches at random. "I want everybody to get up," he said, "because the night's not over! We're going to have music!" "The managers aren't going to like this," said Ryan. Two bouncers raced from the main entrance and across the dance floor. They took a quick look up at the booth, saw that an unauthorized person had commandeered it, and raced up the stairs. "Oh shit," I said. "I'd better go get [Crabs]." My experience working as a DJ at student pubs has taught me that if you want to get an overly rowdy or belligerent drunk to calm down, one of the best courses of action is to involve his/her significant other. Usually a girlfriend or boyfriend can calm down an out-of-control patron more effectively than any bouncer. I found Crabs and took him upstairs to the balcony level where the DJ booth was. We arrived to find four bouncers, each one holding onto either a leg or arm belonging to Exploding Boy, who'd adopted the passive resistance strategy of going completely limp so that one is very difficult to move. This was especially effective in Exploding Boy's case, as he weighed over 225 pounds. "I'm not leaving until we have music!" screamed Exploding Boy. "We...need...music!" "We're closed, buddy," said one of the bouncers. "Go home!" "You close too early! There's still time for music!" "Think we can lift him?" asked one of the bouncers to the others. "Not when he's all limp like that," said another bouncer. "Guy weighs a fucking ton." "[Crabs]," I said, "why don't you talk to him?" Crabs burst out in tears. "[Exploding Boy], why are you doing this to me?! This is embarassing!" Crabs lunged at Exploding Boy and pummelled him with a volley of completely wussy, Dame Edna punches. "Accordion Guy," said a bouncer through gritted teeth. "This...isn't...helping..." I grabbed Crabs by his arm. "C'mon, let's just leave. [Exploding Boy] will follow," I said, annoyed at once again having to deal with what was likely more ketamine-fueled outbursts. "Goddamn horse tranquilizers..." I walked Crabs out the front entrance. He sobbed all the way. As we passed Christine the doorperson, she looked at me and said "Accordion Guy, did you hit him over a girl again?" "NO!"

---

Outside, it was cool, which felt wonderful after being inside a sweaty dance club for hours. I was hoping that the air would help clear Crabs' head. "Why is he doing this to me, Joey?" he sobbed. "He's not doing this to you, or anyone. He just wanted the evening to go on. Look, it's still early enough for us to get into one of the boozecans..." The emergency exit that led to the side of the dance floor opened. A voice came from the doorway: "On three! One...two...three!" Out flew Exploding Boy. The bouncers had managed to carry him down the stairs, across the dance floor and to the emergency exit, where they swung him by his arms and legs and threw him out on his ample ass. Exploding Boy landed with a thud and rolled over onto his stomach. He shook a defiant fist at the open doorway, calling the bouncers Nazis. "We called the cops, fatass!" one of them yelled. "Like I care!" he yelled back. He stood up, raised both fists in the air and started yelling gibberish about peace, love, music, and "the fundamental right of all human beings to dance until sun-up" at no one in particular. Crabs ran at him and attempted to tackle him. Exploding Boy swatted Crabs aside as if he were a rag doll. "I want there to be love!" "SHUT THE FUCK UP, WE'RE TRYING TO SLEEP HERE!" yelled someone from one of the nearby apartment buildings. "NO!" replied Exploding Boy, all revved up now that he'd found a new audience. "I'm not going to shut up until we have peace and love and dancing!" "Be quiet!" yelled another voice from another apartment building. "I'm calling the cops!" Crabs charged again at Exploding Boy and unleashed another volley of punches, each one no stronger than a sneeze. "StopitstopitstopitstoptistopitSTOPIT!" he yelled. "You know what?" yelled Crabs. "I'm going to call your mother and tell her what you're doing right now. Let's see what she thinks of your behaviour. Joey, give me your phone!" "No!" I said, and grabbed Crabs by both shoulders. "For Chrissake, pull yourself together! We...are...grown-ups! We don't solve problems by telling on each other anymore!" Besides, it was three in the morning. I'm sure she would've loooooved getting a whiny phone call in the middle of the night. In the meantime, Exploding Boy had gone off on a rant, occasionally interrupted by a number of people who'd taken to yelling out their bedroom windows demanding that he shut the hell up. "Let's get out of here and get a coffee," I said. I pulled Crabs in the direction of Church Street, where there was a 24-hour coffee shop. "We'll let him get tired." I bought Crabs a coffee. As we drank, I suggested that perhaps cutting down on the recreational chemicals -- "I'm not trying to be a killjoy, I like to party too, but..." -- might be a good idea.

---

After we finished our coffees, we returned to Buddies in Bad Times. I knocked on the front door, and Christine answered. "Hey, 'ccordion Guy." "What happened to our friend? The big guy who wouldn't leave?" "He yelled a little more, pissed off all the neighbours and then the cops came and took him to detox. Wellesley Hospital." "Thanks." "By the way, don't come back for the next couple of weeks. You three are on the list." By "list", she meant the "banned list". "What?! Why [Crabs] and me? We didn't raid the booth." "I know, but the manager said so. Sorry." She closed the door and locked it with a very final sounding ker-chunk. "I hate this place," I said to Crabs. "Something bad always happens here." It was months before I returned.

---

Crabs and Exploding Boy have since quit drinking and drugging. They're considerably saner, pleasant to hang out with, and have not turned any outings of mine into hellish nightmares since.

Some people wanted to know what happened to everyone involved in the Worst Date Ever stories. (In case you haven't read them yet, you'll want to read Part 1, Part 2, Part 3a, Part 3b, Part 4 and Part 5 first.)

---

What happened to The Waitress

(Tucows' CEO, Elliot Noss, my boss Ross' boss, heard that there was a tranny involved in the Worst Date Ever story and wanted to hear about him/her. This one's for you, Elliot!) A week after the Third and Final Date, I was once again at Tequila Bookworm, sitting in one of the tattered but comfortable second-hand easy chairs in the cafe's back section. I was lazily typing at my laptop, not actually accomplishing anything. Beside me, in the equally-tattered second-hand couch, sat Hector. He had a coffee in one hand and was lazily picking at some loose couch-stuffing with his other hand. (Years later, Hector would introduce me to Emily, better known in this blog as the New Girl -- while sitting in the very same couch. Needless to say, I have a strong guideline - even now I'm not ready to make it a hard-and-fast rule -- to never date anyone I meet there.) "Um, hello there," said a sweet but nervous English-accented voice. I nearly dropped my laptop in response. Hector must've noticed the discomfort in the air, but had no idea why. I hadn't told anyone what had happened. It wasn't embarrassment that kept me quiet, but shock. I still couldn't believe that my dream date had gone so awfully, disastrously, stool-softeningly wrong. I suggested that we take the conversation away from prying ears. She asked one of her coworkers to take over for her for about fifteen minutes, and we stepped outside. It was one of the first days that could truly be called spring. It was a bright, cloudless day, and the smell of budding plants was in the air. It seemed wrong to be having an "it's not working out" conversation on a day like that. "Look..." she said. I interrupted her. "It's okay. You don't have to say anything." Especially if it's in verse, I thought. The rest of the conversation was simply an admission on both our parts that we weren't going to pursue a relationship, but remain friends. Under normal circumstances, I would have been devasted by such a turn of events, but that last date's circumstances were anything but normal. Yes, i was a little disappointment, but what I was feeling most was relief.

---

A couple of weeks later, I was sitting at the bar with Chris. She took our orders, and after bringing them to us, announced that she was leaving waitressing for greener pastures. "I'll tell you more later, because I've got to run right now. Hot date." She and the film girl who was always drawing in her sketchbook were an item. Before that, Film Girl and The Artiste -- The Waitress' former boyfriend -- had a little fling. "What are you thinking of doing?" I asked. "Adult film. I know a director, and he says I'd be a natural. Tell you more later, I'm running late. Bye, Joey!" she said, and ran out the door. I sat in stunned silence. "You, my friend, have achieved the dream," said Chris. "Someday, you'll be able to point and say 'See that porn star? I dated her.' Those are serious bragging rights." "I feel soiled, yet proud," I said, still stunned. The Waitress never ended up in the adult film industry. Instead, she ended up waitressing at increasingly posh restaurants and dated one of the cooks at one her workplaces. We met from time to time for coffee and conversation, but I saw less and less of her as the months wore on.

---

A year later, in the summer of 2000, my coworkers from OpenCola and I went to Kickass Karaoke at the Bovine Sex Club. When we entered the back room where the stage was located, I was surprised to see The Waitress there. She never goes to the Bovine. She waved to me from her seat. I went over to greet her, and we exchanged a hug and a peck on the cheek. She introduced me to her date, a dark-haired woman with angular features. I'll refer to her as The Designer. I then introduced The Waitress and The Designer to my coworkers, among whom were Deenster and Chris. After we found a place of our own to sit, Chris whsipered to me "Did you get a look at The Designer's hands! They're...man hands!" After taking a another look at The Designer, I said "You know, I think you're right." She was referred to as "Man Hands" for the rest of the night. Later that evening, Carson, Kickass Karaoke's host, called The Designer and The Waitress to the stage to perform their number. I laughed when I recognized the number they were singing -- Sweet Transvestite from The Rocky Horror Picture Show.

---

Weeks later, Film Girl (the one who'd been with both The Waitress and The Artiste) and I were having coffee together. "You won't believe this, Joey," said Film Girl, "but my cousin was with The Designer for a while, and it turns out that she's not fully post-op." "You mean...?" "She's a woman only from the waist up." "And, uh, what about, you know, 'below the equator'?" "Dude." "Wow, those really were man hands."

---

Earlier this year, I was at Tequila Bookworm with a friend of mine I'll refer to as Rock and Roll Girl. I told her the story of my worst date ever, and mentioned that the last person I saw The Waitress dating was The Designer. "Oh, I was with The Designer once," she said. "I thought you were only into guys." "I am," she replied, "but I was curious about the boobs. Straight girls never get to play with boobs." "You know, I actually understand where you're coming from. They're pretty neat things, they are." "You know, [The Designer's] still pining for [The Waitress]." "That's because she never made him speak in verse." I haven't seen The Waitress since September 2001.

---

What happened to The Artiste

AKMA wanted to know what happened to The Artiste. Unfortunately, there's not much, but here it is anyway. The Artiste found out about my involvement with The Waitress weeks after the Third and Final Date. He immediately became all chummy with me because we "now had a common bond". No thank you, sir. The only common bond that he and I have is that we're both carbon-based life forms. That's about it. One afternoon, The Artiste felt like annoying Film Girl (this was after their fling) while at Tequila Bookworm. I wasn't there, so I have no idea what he did or said, but whatever it was, it was bad enough that Film Girl -- a whole foot shorter than The Artiste -- knocked him off his barstool with a solid right cross, leaving him stunned, embarrassed and bloody-nosed on the cafe's floor. For this act, Film Girl was banned from Tequila Bookworm. "If I were manager of Tequila Bookworm, I'd have given you free coffee for life," I told her. I haven't seen The Artiste in about three years.

---

Next: What happened to Crabs, or why I no longer dance at Buddies in Bad Times.

At long last, the final date (plus a bonus one) from my worst dates ever... You might want to reead the previous Worst Date Ever entries...

• Part 1
• Part 2
• Part 3a
• Part 3b
• Part 4

Part 5

A week after the date that had ended in violence, tears and my demotion to the rank of "customer", my cell phone rang. The display read "Tequila Bookworm".

So you've come crawling back, I thought. This would mean that I would have the upper hand. The trick would be to play it cool. I decided to borrow a "girl" trick: appear to be a little bit aloof at the beginning, make her "work for it" a little, and in the end, warm up and be magnanimous. To err is human, to forgive gets you booty.

I also decided to let the phone ring a couple of time before answering. The aloof do not answer on the first ring. "Hello, Joey speaking," I said.

"Joey, it's Jacqui." Damn. Jacqui was another waitress whom I'd befriended at the cafe. The Waitress had not come crawling back.

"Hey, Jacqui," I said, trying not to sound disappointed. "What's up?"

"It's a little more quiet than usual tonight, and I still have hours to go. I'm bored out of my mind, and I need someone to talk to. D'you wanna come on down? Diet Coke's on me."

"Well..." "It's okay, she's not here tonight."

"Like I care. She can't refuse to let me in, as long as I'm a well-behaved customer."

"No, but remember when she emptied a pitcher of water over [The Artiste's] head? She'd soak both you and your laptop."

I hadn't thought of that possibility. Being a freelance programmer, I lived and died by my laptop.

"Anyways," continued Jacqui, "she's at some dance auditions all night. She's not coming in, not even to say 'hi'. Look, we miss you, and I'd like to see you."

"Oh, all right. Give me half an hour." I threw on a sweater, hopped on my bike and made my way down to the cafe.

---

As soon as I entered the 'Worm, Jacqui cracked open a Diet Coke, poured it into a glass with ice and a lemon wedge and set it before my usual perch at the bar.

"Don't feel bad," Jacqui said. "Most of the guys who lust after her never get beyond just ogling her and pining. You got an actual date."

"Y'know, Jacqui," I said, "dating should not require the level of crisis management I had to do that night."

"What do you mean?"

I told her what happened on the date: how we'd met Renton and Pen Pal, how he'd interrupted my Special Little Moment with The Waitress, Crabs' monopolizing The Waitress and how I'd blown a gasket and slammed him against a wall.

"Wow," she said after hearing the whole story, "I didn't know all that had happened."

"Well, I tried to make sure that she didn't find out about that little episode with me and [Crabs]. I figured that nothing kills a date faster than coming off like some kind of violent psychopath."

"She doesn't know what she's missing," said Jacqui, attempting to console me. "I'd be flattered if someone beat up a scrawny gay man over me."

"You're the Queen of Pep Talks, you know that?"

Cynthia, one of the managers, called Jacqui to help her with some work in the basement.

"Hold that thought," said Jacqui, holding up her index finger. She took off her apron and went downstairs.

The fat disturbed-looking guy who'd recently started hanging out at the cafe turned to face me from his perch at the opposite end of the bar. "Chicks," he said, as if it were a complete sentence.

"Huh?"

"Chicks," he repeated himself, stood up and moved over to the barstool beside me.

Oh, crap.

Fat Guy wore rumpled clothes, a greasy mullet, a patina of sweat and an expression in his eyes that said "I'm not just disturbed, I'm bus station disturbed. He had an odd reek that reminded me of some dance clubs. Later that year at Burning Man, I would learn that crystal meth made your sweat smell that way.

"I had this chick once," said Fat Guy, carefully elucidating each word. "We went to Greece together. One day, we went to the beach. We were digging in the sand and we hit something. Something metal, and not just any ordinary metal, but metal that could not possibly have been made on Earth."

"And what does this have to do with chicks?" I asked. Bad idea.

"You. Are. Not. Listening. I'm talking about...fucking...non-terrestrial artifacts...maaaaaaaaaan!"

I rubbed my right temple again. I started to stand up and move to some seat far away from this freak, but then changed my mind. Any distraction would be welcome.

"Tell me more about this, um, artifact," I said.

Forty-five minutes later, after incoherently telling me the story of his life, a patchwork quilt fiction made of up equal parts of Erich "Chariots of the Gods" von Daniken pseudoscience, rap star sexual braggadocio, globetrotting and horseshit, he got up and left.

Jacqui, who'd emerged from the basement and caught most of the conversation looked at me with shock.

"Oh. My. God. Nobody ever says more than two or three words to Jabba the Nut if they can help it. You talked to him for nearly an hour!"

I'd never want to repeat that experience, but for a while there, I'd managed to forget The Waitress.

---

The following weekend was a busy one. On Friday night, my friend Karl Mohr's mother, Merilyn Simonds, had a launch party for her new book, The Lion in the Room Next Door. Karl had organized an improv electonic band comprised of some of his friends: himself, me and Steve Skratt on synthseizers, and Chantal, Rachel Smith and Krista "Lederhosen Lucil" Muir on vocals.

The launch party took place at the Edward Day Gallery in Kingston, and that day was a mad whirl of gathering people into a rented van, driving, setting up, performing, tearing down and then going for dinner and drinks at Chez Piggy, the traditional restaurant that you make your parents take to you during their visits if you're a student at Crazy Go Nuts University.

I drove back to Toronto Saturday afternoon in order to get ready for an even more important event: the first meeting between my parents and the parents of Richard, my future brother-in-law to be. The family had pulled out all the stops for this one: a catered formal dinner at my folks' house and everyone on their best Emily Post behaviour. I even had a solo piano number rehearsed -- a little jazzy number that I haven't bothered naming, so I refer to it as Wanking in Major Sevenths. Trust me, it sounds much nicer than its unfornate name implies.

The dinner was a success. Dinner -- dill salmon en croute -- was absolutely delicious, the conversation flowed well, the parents seemed to be getting along, and when Dad asked me to "play a little something jazzy" on the piano, I played a note-perfect Wanking in Major Sevenths.

"Joe," said Richard's father, in heavily-Korean accented English. "That was nice song. You wrote it? It has a name?"

"Yes, Mr. Choi. I wrote it, and it's called Major Seventh...um...Etude."

---

With the meet-the-inlaws ceremony concluded, my sister and I went back downtown. I'd barely set foot in the apartment when my cellphone rang.

The display read "Tequila Bookworm," so I answered it immediately. I winced. Aloof! I thought, You're supposed to be aloof!

"Hello, Joey speaking."

It's probably just Jacqui, I thought.

"Hello," said an English-accented woman's voice. "I've changed my mind and have decided it would be nice to see you tonight. Can you come by?"

On my way out, Eileen asked "You're still wearing your suit. Don't you want to change first?" I hadn't even thought of that.

Catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I replied "You know what? I think that this outfit is going to be just perfect for the occasion."

---

The Waitress was suitably (hah!) impressed when I walked into the cafe, dressed as I was. She greeted me with a hug and a peck on the cheek. I ordered a bowl of hot chocolate, and we settled into a nice conversation.

"I would like it if you would take me to a movie," she declared.

I tried to keep my reaction down to just a sly grin. Aloof, man, we're being aloof.

"I think that could be arranged. Any particular film in mind?"

Please let it be a tolerable chick flick, I thought.

"The new David Cronenberg film. eXistenZ."

I must've cocked an eyebrow, because she looked concerned and asked "Don't you like Cronenberg? You struck me as the type who did."

"I do," I replied, "You didn't strike me as the type who liked Cronenberg."

"I'm full of surprises."

Of that, there was no doubt.

---

I met her at the Uptown Theatre with a couple of surprises.

"What's in the bag?" she asked, pointing to the black satchel.

"Secret," I replied. "You'll find out later."

"And what's in your knapsack?" she followed up, pointing to the straps on my shoulders.

"It's not a knapsack," I said, turning around to reveal the accordion.

The previous Saturday, I'd taken the accordion out on the street for the first time ever. It would be a few months before people would automatically associate me with the accordion.

"Strange boy, strange movie," she quipped. "Very fitting. You will play that for me later, won't you?"

"Try and stop me."

---

We both liked eXistenZ, and after the movie, we wandered through nearby Yorkville and ended up at the quiet little park where Avenue Road meets Dupont. I'd gone to high school nearby, so I knew the neighbourhood well, and the maneuvering to the park was part of my plan. Nobody went there at night. I was not going to be interrupted by some idiot busybody this time. We picked a nice grassy spot to sit, at which point I produced a bottle of Dubonnet and a couple of plastic wine glasses from the satchel.

After a couple of glasses, she asked "So what are you going to play for me?"

"I figured this song out just last week," I said, and played Fatboy Slim's Praise You. It was in pretty heavy rotation on the radio at the time. She laughed as I played it.

"I never thought I'd ever hear anything like that on accordion!"

"I could turn this into some kind of schtick," I remarked. "Who knows where this crap could lead."

We finished off the bottle and then lay in the grass with my arm around her, staring at the stars. It's good to be the King, I thought.

---

A little while later, she pulled her face away from mine and said "I'm hungry. How about you?"

"Famished."

"I'm housesitting at my parents' place. It's close by. Let me feed you."

Her parents lived in a large house in Forest Hill, a posh neighbourhood full of Tudor houses with tree-lined streets expensive cars in the driveways. We were deep in WASP territory. I was reminded of the joke that went "What's the definition of a WASP? Someone who steps out of the shower to pee."

We entered the house through the front door, which into a large dark-tiled foyer, where we were greeted by The Waitress' youngest sister, a younger, darker-haired version of The Waitress herself.

An evil thought entered my head -- Hey, let's date both of them! -- but (a) she was too young, and (b) in younger, more callow days I'd dated sisters before (keeping each one ignorant of my dalliance with the other) and I can assure you that it is not a good idea.

"My mother works with the salmon board," she said as we walked into the house's Martha Stewart-ish kitchen. She opened the fridge, which was laden with smoked salmon. I'd never seen that much lox outside a fishmonger's. She opened the freezer, which had an entire shelf full of Ben and Jerry's ice cream. She took out some bagels and a tub of cream cheese. I stared at all the food.

"I've never wanted you more than I do right now," I joked.

She grabbed a long pack of Pacific smoked salmon and smacked me with it.

---

After our snack, we sat in a large chair in the family room. She was sitting in my lap, showing me photos from their family albums.

The family consisted of one particularly English-looking father, a pretty, hourglass-figured mother, and three daughters, all of whom had inherited their mother's curves. No force on earth would be able to remove the smile from my face.

"This one," she said, pointing out a yellowed kodachrome photo of a young man and a somewhat familiar-looking woman, "is of my parents when they were dating. Mother --"

"Mother"? I thought. Not "Mom"?

"Oh, you don't really call her 'Mother', do you? I imagine you call her 'Mummy'," I said, saying "Mother" and "Mummy" with my best fake English accent. "Or maybe...Mater!"

"Very funny. Anyways, Mother said that Father married her just because she was a Catholic and had big tits."

"Don't knock it...those are on my checklist." I can't resist a smart-ass remark.

---

"It's time for you to go, my dear," she said. The clock on the wall read 2:30. It was a "school night", and we both had work the next day.

"I'd let you stay, but the parents return tomorrow morning, and I think it would be a rather awkward way to do introductions."

"Ah, yes. I see your point."

"Look, if you're not busy this weekend, let me take you out to dinner. Maybe some Indian...?"

"Okay," she said.

We kissed goodbye, ending our only date that didn't turn into a disaster.

---

She had to work all day and all night on Saturday, so Date Number Three took place on Sunday. It went wonderfully. Dinner, dancing, yadda yadda yadda.

It was now Monday. While she was getting dressed, I phoned Adam, my business partner. We were going to do some work together that day.

"Hey, Adam? I was wondering if we could move our thing to tomorrow."

"I think that can be done. Any reason why?"

"Uh...I have a girl thing..."

"Oh. The waitress. Very well then; carry on."

"Thanks, man. I owe you."

"No problem. And Joey...?"

"Yes?"

"PHWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAR!" he yelled.

---

We went to the boardwalk and walked along the beach. She entertained me with true stories from her all-girl boarding school in London. The most entertaining was one in which she saw a classmate help another trim her bikini line with an Epilady. One held the hair-removing device while the other sat on the bed, her hands tightly gripping the headboard, her eyes tightly closed, a teddy bear held in her mouth between clenched teeth. The image still makes me laugh.

We went for dinner at a nearby Italian restaurant, where she recited some of her poetry to me over pizza and red wine. It was an lengthy sonnet which she delivered from memory in perfect beat-poet style with a clever refrain.

"I have an idea," I said. "It's Monday night, which means Chicks Dig It is on tonight."

Chicks Dig It is a night that features women DJs, a rarity in the clubbing scene, even in these enlightened days. At the time, it was held at the We'ave club, across the street from the Art Gallery of Ontario, only a couple of blocks from where I live today. We'ave has since closed its doors; it is now the DECONISM gallery, where University of Toronto Electrical Enginnering professor and cyborg Steve Mann lives and has events (such as the philosphical hot tub which coincided with the great blackout). Chicks Dig It has since moved to a number of other venues, but in a sort of full-circle, it currently takes place at the IV Lounge, a mere two doors down from We'ave.

"That's perfect!" she said. "I know some people who'll be there tonight. Let's go!"

---

It was a busy night. Now that we were a couple of weeks into May, the weather was getting warmer and more people were clubbing even on "school nights".

We met up with a group of her friends and had some conversation and beer with them. I ran into a couple of my friends. While I chatted with them, she excused herself with a kiss to run outside and join her friends.

"New girl?" asked one of my friends.

"Working on it."

Outside, her friends gathered in an alcove and stood in a circle. I made nothing of it at the time.

---

We'd been dancing for about half an hour when things went downhill.

"Don't you see it?"

"See what?"

"Look!" she said, pointing at the floor.

There was nothing unusual about it. Nobody had spilled anything...

"I don't see anything."

"The big gaping hole that's growing!"

"Big...gaping...hole?"

"It's! Right! There!" she screamed, pointing fiercely at the floor. "Why can't you see it?"

She screamed and ran off the dance floor, through a maze of tables and chairs and straight into the women's washroom.

What the hell was going on? Out of the corner of my eye, I could see one of her friends hyperventilating in an out-of-the-way lounge chair.

It clicked. Drugs.

They were doing drugs and they shared some with her. I walked up to the friend and asked her if she was okay. She looked a little strung out.

"I'm...okay. It's...just...really strong. Whoa...buzz... I still have...couple bumps...want one?"

Bumps? I thought. Then it really clicked. Oh, shit. Special K. Ketamine.

"You kids and your fucking horse tranquilizers," I said, and made a beeline for the women's washroom. A bouncer stopped me right at the door.

"Can't go in there, my brutha," he said.

"Look, I'm just trying to help a friend who might be having a bad trip."

"Sorry, that's the rules."

I looked around for a girl I knew. There!

"Alex!" I called out.

Alex was a colourist at House of Lords, the rock and roll haircutting place where I've been going since 1983. She was a skinny short-haired blonde who perpetually wore tight skater-girl tops and baggy skater-boy pants.

"Hey, Joe."

"Look, I have a friend in the bathroom who I think did some really strong K. She's freaking out in the bathroom right now. I don't think she should be there alone. D'you think you could go in there, make sure she's okay, and get her to come out here, where I can take care of her?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Thanks, Alex."

She was about to walk into the bathroom when I stopped her for a moment.

"Uh, Alex? Just tell her you're a Scorpio."

"Why?"

"She'll listen to you if you say that."

"Whatever."

Ten incredibly long minutes later, Alex emerged with a shivering waitress. I took The Waitress in my arm and started walking her outside.

"Let's get some air," I told her.

I turned to Alex. "Thanks, Alex, I owe you a big one."

"No prob."

I led The Waitress out into the cool night air.

"Feel better?" I asked.

"Why are you speaking prose?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Why are you speaking prose?"

"It's what I normally speak."

"Please stop speaking prose, it's freaking me out."

"What?"

"Speak in verse!"

(I'm actually paraphrasing The Waitress here. For this part of the conversation, she was speaking in verse -- quite well, considering she was extemporizing -- but I don't remember her exact words.)

"I can't speak in verse. I can't make it up on the spot."

"You can't see the big gaping hole, you can't speak in verse, and you've seen me naked!"

"What? That doesn't make any sense!"

"YOU'RE NOT SPEAKING IN VERSE! WHY WON'T YOU SPEAK IN VERSE?! AND WE'VE CROSSED THE LINE!"

She ran across the street screaming, making a beeline for the Art Gallery.

"Aw, shit," I cursed, and gave chase.

She ran to the entrace of the Gallery, where she stopped, lay down on her side and curled into the fetal position, arms tightly clasped around her folded legs. A few paces away, a tour bus had just pulled over and was unloading passengers.

"I CAN'T BELIEVE I SLEPT WITH YOU! YOU'RE ONE OF MY CUSTOMERS!"

Naturally, an exclamation that provocative got the attention of a couple of the tourists. They looked at us with intense curiosity, and why not? They saw a young woman curled up in a ball screaming rather personal details while a guy with an accordion on his back tried to regain control of the situation. I'd be watching the soap opera unfold too.

"It's not as if it's a doctor-patient relationship, you know," I said, trying to keep my voice as calm as possible. No point freaking out on the freaking out; it usually just makes matters worse.

"SPEAK IN VERSE! WHY WON'T YOU SPEAK TO ME IN VERSE?" I tried going iambic quatrameter.

"Will you PLEASE get UP off OF the GROUND."

"DON'T MAKE JOKES ABOUT METER! WHY DON'T ANY OF YOU CUSTOMERS CARE ABOUT POETRY?!

"Honey," said one of the tourists to the woman beside him. "I think this is some kind of performance art. It's an art gallery here, right?"

I gave the man a look of sheer incredulity that not even Elijah Wood, in full Frodo-ness, would be able to duplicate.

Where the hell is the ghost of T.S. Eliot when you really need him?

I managed to get her to uncurl from her fetal ball by talking to her partly in prose, partly in ad-libbed verse and partly using snippets from half-remembered Shakespeare and Auden. I took her in one arm, still ranting about my "refusal" to speak in verse and how we'd borken some kind of waitress/customer taboo while putting on my best "move along, nothing to see here" face for the tourists. I managed to get her to the street, where I hailed a cab.

The cabbie, a Jamaican guy with a red, yellow and green knit cap, looked at us with concern. He saw a guy trying to restrain a petite woman who was in a panicked state. "POETRY!" she screamed, "THERE MUST BE MORE POETRY!"

"Look, mon," said the cabbie, who leaned over from the driver's seat, motioning at The Waitress with his eyes. "I'm not sure I want to be givin' you a ride..."

Think fast, deVilla."Uh, you know..." I said, pointing my index finger at my head and making circles, the universal sign for "crazy, totally batshit", "...the way white chicks are sometimes..."

He smiled. "Yeah, don't I know it. Get in."

We got in, and the cabbie regaled us with stories about his dating, while The Waitress sobbed into my shoulder. "I 'ad me this white chick once..."

When he dropped us off at my place, he leaned out the window and said "Don' worry none about dis girl. She be crazy 'cause she can't handle a fine coloured mon like you. Peace."

I think I set back gender and race relations 20 years that night, but I managed to get us home.

All the freaking out had tired her, and I tucked her into bed, where she slept soundly. I spent the rest of the night sitting on the floor at the foot of my bed, leaning against the wall with my head in my hands.

"Dating," I said to a teddy bear that was lying on the floor and staring up at me, 'should not require this level of crisis management."