At the outdoor opera concert last night, my posse were the only people under thirty in a sea of sixty-and-overs. It was nippy down by the lake and nobody was really in the mood to be sociable. We just wanted to hear the music and then go home. We killed time by drawing cards from my new Rider-Waite tarot deck, and since Mehgan kept drawing Death and the Devil, we decided to obey our meaner angels and engage our collective Evil by looking for the ugliest people in the crowd. Yeah, I know, we’re all going to burn in hell. But we forgot to bring anything to read, what do you want from us?

Since I had my trusty digital camera on hand, we captured images of what we believe to be the worst offenders of our aesthetic sense. One man, one woman. The male specimen appears to be a rejected clone of George W. Bush who contracted lockjaw during the replication process, while the full glory of the female is lost because the photo is from behind. One can clearly see the most terrifying upsweep hairdo of all time, but the violently painted on black eyebrows (shaped like so: /\ /\ ) are hidden from view, more’s the pity. I thought I recognized her as a stunt double for Goldie Hawn in the movie “Death Becomes Her”, but I could be mistaken.

Before heading out to the show, I made sure to follow my usual pre-concert ritual of listening to whatever style of music is furthest from what I’m about to see performed. Last time I saw opera, I threw Avril Lavigne on the stereo and let it blast. This time I went the route of Stereolab followed by a few tracks from the latest Squarepusher album. An unusual method of musical appreciation? Perhaps, but I’m hoping to convert more people to adopting this practice as a sensible way of getting prepped for a live music venue. Think of it as being like tasting a sharp sorbet dish to cleanse the palate between the appetizer and main course at a fine restaurant, or sniffing coffee beans to reset the olfactory sense when inhaling a series of delicate scents (common procedure with perfume vendors). Spinning a little Beck before going to hear Iron Maiden refreshes your audio sensibilities. Try it next time you go to a club: you might like it.

So far, it’s been a quiet little Friday. I nibbled my way through half a bag of peach, pear and kiwi flavoured jelly beans at my desk this morning, then decided to walk to the Grange to pick up the Chinese periodicals for work. The elderly gent who owns the newspaper shop looked nostalgic today. He was dusting the shelves very methodically and slowly. Not wanting to rush him I took a moment to flip through the art journals. When I looked up he was smiling and gesturing towards me with his Swiffer mitten. He said, “You nice girl. Remind me of wife when she young.” This struck me as odd, since I have seen his wife, and we don’t share much in the way of a striking resemblance. It’s not so much that I have flaming red hair, blue eyes and pale skin, while she’s more asian in her coloration — it’s that she never speaks. Sweet as pie, but in all the months I’ve been buying the Ming Pao from them, I’ve not heard one word from her, just quiet smiles, always. Whatever else I may be, I’m not quiet. Chatty, outspoken, loudmouthed, opinionated, loquatious, verbose – yes. Hushed – no. Undeterred, my shop owner continued with, “You nice. I give you tasty plum!” Except he pronounced plum “plooom-buh”, so at I wasn’t sure quite what to expect his gift would be. It sounded like maybe I was in for some sort of colonic flush. His warning, “Don’t forget; wash first!” did little to allay my fears and suspicions.

I’ve never been given a plum as a gift before. What a sweet and juicy present.

Man oh man, do I ever miss having sex.