"It’s the post-electrical age!", part 2

(Continued from this blog entry.)

I went into my house and switched to the coolest, most breathable clothing I had: a pair of black walking shorts, a t-shirt and a U.S. Postal Service work shirt given to me by an ex-girlfriend.

(This shirt was given to her from the U.S. Postal Worker I’d saved her from. It’s a sort of trophy; I refer to it as the “skin of my defeated foe.”)

My phone rang. It was Boris, who’d arrived from Montreal earlier.

“It was weird. I put money in the parking meter,” said Boris, “and minutes later, the power went out.”

“So it’s your fault, then.” I remarked.

“Hah. I’m outside the DECONISM gallery right now, and Steve Mann is standing not ten feet away from me. I told him I was meeting up with you, and he was excited that you’re going to be here tonight.”

“Cool! I’ll be there in about ten minutes.”

I also gathered some supplies, including:

• Half a bag of IKEA tealights and a butane lighter
• A Cateye MC-200 halogen bike headlight, which I often use as a flashlight and served me so well at Burning Man ’99
• Cateye LD120II tailight, which I clipped onto my accordion straps
• An old AM/FM radio walkman, which I haven’t used in years
• AA alkaline batteries for the light and walkman
• The “street” accordion

On my way out, I ran into my neighbour Trudy and asked her if she had candles, offering her some if she needed any. I went east to to Beverley Street, then north to Dundas.

On the way there, I switched my walkman on and for the first time ever, I set its “band” switch to “AM”. I thumbed the wheel and found a station — hey, MOJO radio, the “men’s radio station”!

They’d pre-empted the usual talk shows for an all-night call-in show. People were phoning in mostly “good news” stories. One woman, who’d run out of gas while stick in traffic on Highway 401 was aided two men who were hauling a load of lawnmowers. They’d managed to siphon out the gas from the lawnmowers to give her a quarter-tank of gas.

Another caller reported that some stores were either letting ice cream and other frozen desserts go at a deep discount or free.

When I arrived at the corner of Dundas and McCaul streets, some people at the Village Idiot Pub across the street yelled at me to come over. The Village Idiot was until very recently a cafe that almost never had anyone in it; it’s since been transformed into a very cozy and charming neighbourhood pub with a very classic feel.

The Idiot’s exterior walls — essentially garage doors that can be rolled up in the summer to let the air in — were rolled up, and the place was packed.

“There’s no music here!” one of them called out. “Play something!”

“Play a polka!” another yelled. There’s always someone who yells that.

“Play Lady of Spain!” yelled someone else. There’s always someone who yells that, too.

“Hey, how about this?” I asked, cutting into You Shook Me All Night Long, a pretty sure crowd-pleaser. I finished, and the entire bar cheered. Someone started passing around an empty pint glass and collecting money. I started into Born to be Wild. By the end of that number, the glass had returned, and I’d made thirty bucks with just two songs.

I noticed that some guy was standing beside me. I nodded at him. “Got a request?”

“Joey, it’s me, Boris!”

“Hey, great to meet you in person at last!” I shook his hand, and he introduced me to his friend Ken.

“Let’s get some beer,” I said, holding up the money that had been collected. “First round’s on me!”