Should I ever get into acting for “adult videos”, I shall go by the stage name of “Vlad the Impaler”.
They say that the Chinese pictogram for the word “crisis” is also used for the word “opportunity”.
(The smartass would come back by saying that some of them view “dog” and “dinner” as the same thing.)
Welcome to the Autumn Equinox! From here through to mid-December, the nights get longer.
Being an ambitious kind of guy, I got a head start on the season and had a weekend’s worth of long — and craptacular — nights. After those, Fall’s going to be a cakewalk.
The Law of Averages (math pedants: I know, I know…) says that I’m not due for another weekend like that one for a long time. Good.
Nobody says “things happen for a reason” to people when good things happen to them.
As if the evening weren’t going badly enough (and unbloggably, I’m afraid), I got robbed last night.
I was busking outside Amato’s Pizza, trying to push away the less-than-fun events that took place earlier that evening. I was a little distracted, so my form was terrible. I was missing notes that I normally never missed, screwing up solos that I can play in my sleep and forgetting lyrics that I can remember even after many pints of beer. Still, getting outside and doing something even vaguely productive helps take the edge off. In spite of my terrible playing, I was still making money — I had about thirty or thrity-five bucks in loonies and toonies in my cap.
A couple of weeks ago, B., a street kid who got thrown out of her house for swearing and listing to Marilyn Manson CDs, had warned me about a guy who’d been going around Queen Street West stealing money from buskers and panhandlers. His modus operandi was simple enough: he’d run down the sidewalk towards a busker, slow down just enough to be able to grab his hat or guitar case, and then escape around the nearest corner. Buskers were probably very easy marks; they’re too busy trying to entertain their crowd, and it’s difficult to chase someone while you’ve got an instrument strapped on.
I was in the middle of fumbling my way through Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap when he appeared. A scruffy guy in a blue denim jacket and black jeans pushed through the crowd of exiting club-goers that typically gathered around the pizza place. B., who was there, yelled “Look out! It’s him!” He ran by me and In one smooth motion, he stooped and scooped the baseball cap that held all the change I’d made. There was no way I’d be able to catch up with him with my accordion strapped on. I barely had time to reach for my unopened bottle of Diet Coke at throw it at his head. It winged his ear, but since the bottle was plastic, it didn’t slow him down a bit. A couple of guys who were watching me put down their pizza slices and chased him, but they were too late.
One of the people who saw it happen gave me a fiver out of sympathy. Thank you, whoever you are.
I played a little longer, after which I packed up my accordion and joined some friends from Thirsty People of Toronto, who were going to check out a house party down the street. As I left, I tossed a toonie in B.’s hat.
“After what happened, you don’t really have to,” she said.
Not true. Craptacular as the night was, I was still going to sleep in a king-size bed with a roof over my head. She was going to crash in a sleeping bag in the park on a night when it might rain.
“I need the karma,” I replied. “I’m trying to end the evening on an up note.”