| everything too convoluted for stage

May 1, 2012
by Anna Gustafson
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Kippis

One of my fondest memories of growing up in my tiny fishing village was the May Day Parade. There were no floats but there was a queen crowning, a flower girl appointment, a procession of locals, and one lone Scot with his bagpipes brought out from town. He’s probably huddled somwhere feeling that he wasn’t validated as a human and only used for his piping. I hope he’s not too down still. This is the axis of my knee jerk reaction to cry whenever I hear bagpipes. When your first exposure to a live bagpipe is having one pointed directly at your head while both your little hands clasp a parade bouquet, you get very ‘Nam about it. Outside of the piper PTSD that has surfaced at every funeral since, it was a best day for sure.

The parade would start at the elementary school and proceed across the Trans-Canada highway, down the dirt road and spill out into the park. Depending on how much rain we’d had, the park doubled as a swamp if we needed tadpoles for science. For as many modeling and royal family aspirations as I had, this was the peak of my career as a Flower Girl May Day Princess. Stemming from this event I later got one side gig as a flower girl at a wedding. These were people I didn’t know but had asked to borrow me because I was cute. I didn’t know I was auditioning or potentially being abducted, it was a different time. Had I held onto the cute longer I would be working more now, i’m sure of it.

Just prior to the “parade”……I can’t continue without adding quotations, far too fraudulent to fall under the creative license agreement I have with all my memories……their would be a Maypole erected in the school yard with bright wavy ribbons streaming from the top like hippie hair. Chronologically I may have the days events wrong but the children were few and the rotations around the pole were many. To do it on purpose on a playground swing is one thing, to do it coupled with performance anxiety is another. I have natural knack for discombobulation as a result of these events.

There’s something fundamentally big picture wrong with a bunch of little girls in an isolated optionless mill town dancing around a pole to enthusiastic applause and encouragement. We held our ribbons and ran around in circles until they were tightly woven together and there we stood, stuck and staring at eachother waiting for a song to get us out of it. Somewhere there is a girl from that school who’s life is immitating art now. We’ll just call her Shasta.

Being that this was a predominantly Scandinavian town, there were reasons why this was such a fun day. Vippu is the term used for May Day celebrations and although there were Scottish bagpipes and Celtic maypoles, there were a lot of hammered Finns on hastily constructed wooden stilts hopped up on Sima, a traditional yeasty adult lemonade that was shared by all. Markkus Hard Lemonade, the original.

As the sun fell behind the swamp, and someone’s Dad fell into the swamp, the celebrations would wind down. Some unescorted German would try to shimmy up the pole and assault it publicly but it too came down. One pair of stilts would inevitably land in the water and float down stream. Maybe there were floats after all.

Kippis.

April 22, 2012
by Anna Gustafson
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Squirrel du Soleil

If I could catch the squirrels in my back yard, shave them and make them wear brightly coloured lycra unitards, I would have myself a franchise. Back in the fall when the air had just started to crisp around the edges, the squirrels implemented their annual panic stricken behavior which could have doubled for a cirque rehearsal full of Anglos. It’s beautiful, it’s entertaining, it’s Squirrel du Soliel. From tree to tree to shed to fence to house to tree…. a flawless, stunning display of aerobatics.

Like many of us over the winter, the squirrels got fat. With mother nature blowing by winter like a dirty hitchhiker, the not so little guys didn’t get the standard “hunker down” indicator so they are in gathering mode still. They have this frenetic need to fatten up to stay warm but it’s gone on for months longer than it ever has in their little lifetimes. My concern is that they develop early onset diabetes and joint problems.

Something is not right in nature if you see a squirrel with a fat ass. It’s troubling. Their natural understanding of physics is still apparent from the way they shimmy out on a tree limb and prepare themselves for the jump to the roof. They pause a little longer and start a little higher because there is more gravity in play now with the extra girth. Like a chubby kid on a high dive board for the first time, calculating how long he can hold his breath relative to how deep this dive will take him.

I’m cautiously optimistic that winter may still come and all will be be righted. The squirrels will move into their leaf condos, not to be mistaken with Toronto’s Leaf Condos downtown, albeit similar is square footage.

Did we do this? Did all the driving to and thru burger joints and throwing plastic bottles in trash cans contribute enough to global warming that we have to endure disgusting plus size rodents? Squirrel Butkins? Fullwinkles?

It’s Earth Day, April 22. Today I rode my bike in the sunshine with my friends. Forecast says that tomorrow i’ll be shoveling my driveway. Although me and the squirrels will be reeling from mother natures bitch slap, by mid-week we could be having drinks on the patio discussing the Suzuki exodus so there’s that. Carpe Damned!

April 15, 2012
by Anna Gustafson
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Revenge Of The Tight Ends

You could argue that “tight end” is a football term but I challenge you to ride behind a life long road cyclist and find a better description of him. Some see road cyclists differently. More of something to bump and run, slobber-knock and force out of bounds. You can witness it on any given sunday.

On a windy ride last weekend, well north of the city in the standard brown Canadian coffee shop that survives on hockey moms, cyclists and seniors…hot crowd…we’ve pulled in for a break. If you don’t see us, you will hear us. Imagine Riverdancers as they move into position behind the curtain before the show starts. Lord of the Lycra Pants. And when you dress for a ride, you dress bright and you dress tight….Break!! I get that we don’t look tough but we sure look matchy.

It’s obvious we’re a curiosity and somewhat of a confusion. More so on the road when we ride two by two like we’re holding onto the pre-school rope. There’s a reason. If you’ve ever had a look at a depth sounder on a boat, I know i’m nichey that way, and you pick up a large school of fish traveling tightly together they look like one big scary fish. For similar reasons we ride together. As a single cyclist on the road we are unseen, as a pack we are a whale of a presence.

The world is losing patience, it’s part of the human condition now. Everywhere you look, someone is annoyed. It seems beyond comprehension to some that out on their travels they would encounter a slow moving presence on the road and would have to slow until it’s safe to pass. Taking a few seconds from someones life is an intolerable inconvenience and met with much bluster. My heart breaks for the mobile Amish.

I’m not ignoring the fact that there are some asshole cyclists out there. Believe me, i’ve ridden with them. All hopped up on their importance and trying their best to make you understand, as a driver, that you are not as fit as they are, not as cool as they are and that the total cost of their bike, shoes and outfit equal the base price of the model of car you are driving. We all know why they do this, same reason guys buy Dodge Vipers. Genital shame.

Back to the coffee shop and what inspired this post. Overheard was a very Aryan looking, tattooed pod of young gentlemen pointing out to the aforementioned hot crowd that we were “the kind of bikers we like to run off the road”. Over the years i’ve tried my best to change the “fight or flight” in to “flight and write”. My swing is better and more accurate when there’s a pen in my hand. That’s why i’m here and not in jail.

It had been a while since i’d felt overtly threatened like that and I ran through my list of instinctual strategies.

First instinct was maternal. Teach these young men some manners. Always a risk that they are lady punchers, quite possibly even their own mothers by the looks of them, so scratched that.

Second, combative. School them on how stupid and dangerous they are when squeezing by us at 60km on a blind hill. Never critique a rednecks driving. Ever. Especially when you are wearing a spandex “outfit”. You’re at a huge disadvantage on that alone, unless you have a pair of heels, then you are a potential suitor and in the game.

Third. My years of doing comedy in dive bars training kicked in. Engage them. “Hey, nice sleeve. You got a good ink pusher in this town?” “Can you believe that the liquor store doesn’t open until noon on sundays.” ”Mmm, is that British Sterling?”

Forth and final. Heckle. “Don’t you have some visible minorities to pick on?” “The only triple triple you’re going to need is a bypass, Gordie” “Where’d you learn how to whisper, a helicopter”

From what I understand, some want all cyclists off the road. No. Sorry. There’s a band of hippies downtown advocating bike lanes that will never let us go. I can feel your confusion as to why we ride two abreast, completely understandable. If we’re big, you have to take a moment to consider how best to go around us. Like a tractor, or a senior in a Skylark. If we rode single file, you’d use your minimal high school physics to validate squeezing by. Not factoring in mirrors or bumpers or dogs in your truck bed.

For the most part, people have a benevolent awareness of us. Little toot on the horn to let us know you are there, a deceleration until it’s safe to get by us and sometimes even a cheer out the window because clearly, by our jerseys, we are riding with a purpose. Or, it might be a Real Housewife of Dufferin County enjoying the team “tight ends”, we welcome the support in whatever form it comes.

Cycling season is here early, time to share the road. You never know who you are trying to pass. It could be your parole officer, your dealer or the child that you’ve never met. Let’s be careful out there.

March 16, 2012
by Anna Gustafson
5 Comments

Fill In The Blank

Here’s a conversation starter. ”Oh no, you do those cancer rides don’t you?” Doesn’t anyone just ask you if you want a glass of wine anymore? When comedy is your career, deliberate exposure to tragedy is sometimes viewed as a no-no. And writing about it is no winner winner chicken dinner either.

In my defense, you’re supposed to “write what you know” and I have been schooled by a seventeen year old dude so here goes.

On occasion, i’m challenged over my involvement with a foundation because, from some perspectives, it seems to involve nothing but pain. Pain from riding a bike for days on end. Pain from giving up some of your time for no pay. Pain from seeing kids suffering. I don’t think it’s meant to be disparaging but rather a lead in to what usually follows:

I wish I had the “________” to do something like that. Fill in the blank.

Time. Guts. Money. Focus. Heart. Support. Balls.

There’s a payoff to pain and many times it’s joy. Insight into what you’re made of. An opportunity to discover something in yourself that you had hoped was there but have yet had the chance to prove it. It’s not that bad.

Yes, seeing a kid suffer and subsequently die from cancer is awful, awful, awful. To be witness to someones worst nightmare, hauntingly brutal. It happened this week with the loss of a phenomenal dude, Adam. Hockey hat trick, awesome. Cancer hat trick, not. In this case, however, I see the raw awfulness of this grief as payment for having had the privilege of knowing him. More than a fair deal for me. I don’t have one shred of buyer’s remorse. I bought into “the cancer ride” knowing full well that there would be pain but what I didn’t know was the deep impact that being exposed to kids like Adam would have on me.

Just beginning to scratch the surface of what he was made of and well on his way to changing the world. Knowing all that, he still stared this disease down and attacked it as much as it was attacking him. Death can be an ending to something unless, like Adam, you crack the code and start a fire before you leave and inspire people to fuel that fire that will be your legacy.

I don’t know what I did in my youth or childhood for this to happen but somehow, something lined up and I was meant to cross his path to pick up a gift. Adam gifted me with impatience. Impatience for people who complain about the horrors of inconvenience. The indignity of having to wait for something. The discomfort of self sufficiency. The agony of delayed gratification.

He gifted me with the most beautiful perspective on life as it stands. Right there in front of you and fleeting.

I’ve always referred to him as Dude because he is one. You couldn’t imagine how thrilled I was to be given the handle Dudette in return. Classy nicknames, that’s how we rolled, but we didn’t “hang.” We didn’t need to because we were aligned. A whole bunch of us, aligned. As a group we had the same clarity and focus and purpose, to do our very best to help kids with cancer. I’m pretty sure he saw himself more as one of the helpers and not so much a recipient because his focus was on others, not himself. That’s a super-power for a teenager. Why this dude did not wear a cape and fly around I will never understand.

On the day that he left us, I felt evidence of this collective connection that we all seem to pack around, us cancer riders. All day long I sensed something was wrong. I couldn’t shake that sinking feeling that you have on a plane when you’re trying to peg what you forgot to pack, what’s missing. I woke up in the night like i’d been shaken and read that he was gone.

I’m not a prayer. I don’t pray for people. My house of worship would be more trailer than house. I swear and throw things on their behalf. I go right to pissed off at the injustice of this kind of loss. That’s my church. You’ll know it, it has the dirty windows because we don’t do f**king windows. We’ve got other things to do. Up off our knees and onto a bike.

For the sake of this massive loss to the world you and I both still live in, especially if your world has kids in it, consider this. Fill in your blank. Not as it pertains to bikes but to what you have inside of you. Throw a log on somebody’s fire.

I’m not veering off the fun path here to make you feel something bad, i’m acknowledging that you are something good and your life deserves all the goodness you can jam into it.

It’s right there in front of you and it’s fleeting.

Happier times with Adam at Tour For Kids

Adams Fedesoff – Coast To Coast Against Cancer Ambasador

March 6, 2012
by Anna Gustafson
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Bring On Your Wrecking Ball

Not that i’m a fanatical fan but now that i’m sitting down to write a post on the subject, awash in new album anticipation, tour mug full of pens on my desk, tickets in hand for the Buffalo show, that statement probably wouldn’t hold up in court. I heart Springsteen.

As a youngster, going to see an artist in concert more than once gave you fan cred. I’ve seen Almost Famous, I know there are other ways to prove it all night but I was more on the attendance plan as opposed to the attending to plan. I’ve seen Bruce Springsteen and the East Street Band many, many times all through the front door. I just didn’t have those few key elements needed to get back stage; red hair and ability to harmonize.

There were two pivotal moments in my life as they relate to Bruce Springsteen.

First was hearing “Hungry Heart” on LG73 in my back yard. I liked being outside so had the stereo speakers dangling from my bedroom windows for the majority of the summer. I too enjoyed opening up the windows and waking up the neighbors. Different from most of my friends stories about hearing songs for the first time. Dark basement, windows shut, no neighbors, everyone is high, it’s Pink Floyd.

What caught my attention in the song was “I went out for a ride and I never came back.” You mean you can just bugger off like that? Note to trapped in a small town self. You guys stay here in your numbness, i’ve got a plan.

Second of the two pivotal moments was the perfect storm of events. I had implemented the plan and moved to Vancouver, was sharing my first apartment with three buddies. A squishy two bedroom but it had a pool. Due to a tragic laundry mishap, I was given a Springsteen ticket to make up for a borrowed and now miniaturized shirt. I had met a cute boy with BRN2RN plates on his corvette that week so was more motivated at running into him than anything.

I had seen concert footage of him, that’s what we used to call music videos, and knew that Bruce was generous and pulled real girls out of the audience to dance with. Can’t tell you the hate on I had for Courteney Cox years later when I found out she wasn’t a real person but an actor. I stand by that statement to this day. If you question me, I challenge you to find any trace of movement in her face.

I had…still have….that same trashy no-sleeve Born In The USA tshirt and have worn it to every concert since. It’s like a pressed flower in a book, there at the bottom of my tshirt drawer, reminding me of a time when I fell in love with this band and evidence that the hope of being pulled on stage still lives. Or boosted onto the stage. Or allowed to go up on the assisted chair lift they will soon need to install for these aging rockers, which is what they call us in the post show reviews.

So, as fans go, I started late. From this free ticket to Born In The USA, I reverse engineered my fandom and bought all the records. Not all at once, one at a time so I could enjoy them as they would have been released.

I’ve since met my love who is also a fan. I was the one, turns out. When a bunch of us went to New Jersey to see the band play at Giant Stadium before it was torn down, it went into the history books as one of the best nights ever. Had a wine and cheese Prius tailgate in the meadowlands which almost got me beat up by girls on Dodge hoods, but a phenomenally great night. So great that they made a video of it.

So there you go Courteney Cox, I did it. I got myself into a Springsteen video without an audition or a dirty last name. Who’s the queen of the supermarket now bitch?

March 2, 2012
by Anna Gustafson
0 comments

High Horse vs. High Ass

The danger of social media, and blogging for that matter, is that once you lay something down, it’s down, and down for all to see. There is no tall grass to lay down in online. I’ve either done it or am on the verge of putting something in print that will make me look like an ignoramus. Always a risk i’m prepared to take for my art. Being a comedy writer, it gives you a lot of latitude for behavior but still, the world wide web is the new penning it in. You weigh the risk, you weigh the reward.

The second tier of this set up, and where I find a tremendous amount of joy, is witnessing when people don’t understand the permanence of writing something dumb, open it up for comment, and then argue about it in post after post after post. It’s absolutely delightful and I thank God every day for not doling out 100% of the common sense. The sweetest part of all is the potential for folks to think i’m a complete knob for writing this. May the circle be unbroken…by and by.

Caught a passionate facebook exchange on the evils of Lululemon and their devil yoga pants that I was drawn to because i’m nefarious enough to seek an esthetically pleasing arse. The unpointy point they were making was how, at $150 a pair, Lululemon pants were positioned as nothing more than a status symbol and that the founder, Chip Wilson was an opportunistic rich dink. I do not agree and here is why. Keep in mind that I just hung up a North Face jacket and parked a Volvo.

There was a short stint in my life where I worked in the fashion industry. I have a bit of a chip on my shoulder for not having the opportunity to go to university so am motivated to crowbar every piece of knowledge out of every experience I have and then, ultimately, poke fun at it at a later date. As a company, Lululemon Athletica operates on a scarcity model meaning that if you don’t get it when it shows up in stores, you’re screwed. Unlike most other retailers who have essentially trained shoppers to not appreciate quality and to never pay retail because they are motivated to clear their mass produced stuff out to make room for more stuff. Hear that? It’s George Carlin turning over.

The scarcity model speaks loudly to my small town sensibilities in that if you didn’t get into Rhythm In Blues when the good stuff came in your were shitoutaluck. There were no other options. The desire to have nice jeans equalled the shame of wearing Sears catalogue pants.

There’s a quality vs. quantity philosophy at play here as well. If you pay $150 for a pair of pants and can wear them 100 times, your price per wear is $1.50. If you buy $40 pants and wear them a few times before they bag out, drop crotch and pill up, then your price per wear is much higher. See where i’m going? Be warned that if you teach this to your children about price per wear they will use it against you every time you enter a mall.

Lululemon is a a fitness based brand. You want to argue that there shouldn’t be emphasis on that? Giver. Their compassionate policies on factories should be an industry standard and are one of the few companies that still do any kind of manufacturing in Canada. Chip, the rich dink, created more rich dinks by sharing eight million bucks with his employees when he sold controlling interest. What…an…asshole. When he stepped down, he left a woman, Christine Day, in charge. Prick! I’d much rather throw my money behind a company that does this rather than one that infiltrates and crushes a small towns economy. I know Lululemon is now a machine of a company and that sometimes changes things but at least they have some semblance of a soul.

On a personal west coast level, this is a business that started in Kits man! I see it as a Stickman or Zulu T-Shirts that made it to the big leagues. Good for them! It’s a piece of Vancouver to me. Like a mountain bike or a latte that you share with a hippy.

So if you feel victimized by those wearing nice pants, i’m sorry to contribute to that. If you think that by shopping under the popular credo “buy more, spend less”, i’m sorry that your head has to live up your ass. Ironically, yoga might help make that more comfortable.

One last bit of perspective…two cartons of smokes costs more than my pants. Pick on someone who deserves it.

February 26, 2012
by Anna Gustafson
1 Comment

Fun With Back Pain

I turned 100 this week. I need a cigar and a dead wife to visit because that is what my posture is saying to all that can see in my window. What have I done Gracie?

If I were to self diagnose I would say ”I let my backbone slide…the left…..the right…..the left.” I went skiing and like a piston-head that grew up skiing in BC, I took my enthusiasm to the local ski offerings here outside Toronto.

The beauty of this part of the world is that you can yell down from the top of the lift to someone at the bottom and they hear you. And by top of the lift I mean the parking lot. When you drive to the ski area, get out of your car and then ski down, you can’t help but lead with an ego so pumped full of Saudan Couloir that you are at great risk of injuring something in a way that will get you extra points on seniors day. I did it, it’s called a sacrum.

Those of you that follow along know I cycle, all year long. In the winter, on a bike trainer. Being on a bike trainer is like being a cowboy on a bull in the chute at the rodeo……..all facing forward and full of adrenaline……but for hours at a time. And the clowns you ride with don’t wear make-up.

As best as I can here, these are my artist representations of both activities from the air:

Aerial graphic of cycling: l

Aerial graphic of skiing: SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

So when bike body only knows this for a few years < l > and you try and make it do this < SSS > bike body say fuck that. At least that’s what it feels like it’s saying.

When your fully functioning frame stops functioning fully, it gives you a very frightening snapshot of your fogey years. You start scrutinizing your partner as to how much help they are going to be. When he looked at me lovingly this morning as I tried to angrily roll off the bed and said “I’m going to get old first okay?” I knew. I love this man and I know he loves me. So much so that he would lift me up off the toilet if I was unable to get up myself. I also know I love him enough to never put him through the horror of that. If he wants to help, he can reattach the towell rod that I peeled off the wall.

By far the most humbling part of this injury is losing the ability to put on my own pants. I have sweatpants with room for six and still could not negotiate the foot in hole, foot in hole, stand and pull that five year olds can do. I’ve been in some humbling and humiliating situations but standing there bare assed – can only do one or the other, underwear or pants – I learned to appreciate my body. The way that it moves. The strength that is has. The way that it will make you pay like an angry basketball ex-wife if you mess with it.

I learned.

You can’t help getting older, but you don’t have to get old – George Burns

February 20, 2012
by Anna Gustafson
0 comments

Valenturkey

Ain’t no party like an unsanctioned party. No Lord was born or resurrected on this day, no parades are getting underway and there is no football to be found. For the sake of just doing it, we had a full on turkey dinner yesterday. Closest holiday considered, we named our party Valenturkey.

In a world of absenteeism, both physically and mentally, once in a while you find yourself with everyone present for whatever reason. Kids are back from school, someones blackberry is broken, no pending holiday avoidance maneuvers are being fabricated. If you build a turkey dinner, they will come. You can always find a frosty butterbird deep in your grocers freezer if you dig. And if you catch people off guard, they can’t prepare an excuse not to attend. Let the unsanctioned gobbling commence.

Any more than two side dishes automatically makes it an event. That’s a rule. Nobody ever wants brussels sprouts but I love brussels sprouts so I made goddamn brussels sprouts. Now, we have a whole new generation of brussels sprouts lovers and it’s going on the official menu for the next official turkey. How would you ever know? This is an occasion where you color outside the lines and make new art.

Screw pumpkin pie, it’s gross anyway. We only eat it because someone, somewhere ignored the fact that it looked like four and twenty infants defecated into a pie shell and made it a tradition. Because of the unsanctioned nature of this event, it’s wide open to exlporation. Experimental side dishes and a whack at homemade bread and only one person barfs spells success. Those that normally wouldn’t eat because they are ill engage fully in turkey dinners. Resistance is futile.

Riesling shmieshling, we had beers. And also naps. When everyone shows up wearing comfy sundays anyway, the time from table to couch is accelerated and acceptable. Instead of football, we jumped from one toxic programming marathon to another. One by one someone would go fetch themselves more potatoes, a piece of bread, a bowl of stuffing. There was no Sound Of Music, just the sound of contentment.

We tried Christmas in August one year. Decorated the cottage with lights, had some presents laid out and prepared a patio turkey dinner served on Melmac. Our youngest cried because she thought it meant that this lame lakeside Christmas was replacing real, two-household, excessive city Christmas so I recommend just bird is the word. Don’t mess with the penned in holidays. Or with your children’s hopes and dreams and wishes. Substituting a holiday will always fall short. Replacing a regular dinner with a turkey dinner will always be epic.

Next up, May Two-Fourkey.

January 26, 2012
by Anna Gustafson
0 comments

Breeze Up Yer Bum

Two articles battled for my limited early morning attention today. ”Stars who aren’t afraid to show a little skin” accompanied by a photo of a star of my vintage and a great deal of her skin. The second article was regarding how short is too short, skirts relative to age. Let the battle begin.

Last night I attended a soiree at a posh, historic Toronto golf club and was encouraged to wear “Country Club Casual.” That was all the information I got. Considering it was January, wearing the good skorts was out. My go to reference on such occasions has always been any scene in Pretty Woman, however, that movie took place in California where they don’t know they’re having one until the seasonally applicable faux-corations start to adorn all that is still.

The outfit mirror is on the back of the bedroom door so with the clarity of a tornado siren, when the door is closed everyone knows to take cover. Battle stations as the lady creates Country Club Casual from a closet that mumbles Canadian Comedy Chic.

My first thought as I stood in my closet was “I have far too few gigantic sweatpants for the lifestyle I have chosen.” That’s what i’m doing later.

What would Kate and Pippa do…the Duchess of Cambridge and the Queen of Lady Style? Skirt. You could pull off proper in a skirt, yes? Note to self: “Self, buy more skirts with stretch in them for next January when this happens.” How people go away in the new year and wear bikinis after a Christmas Holiday of over indulgence I will never know. I suspect the skin baring stars that we see plastered all over the tabloids during this time of year only allow themselves one tiny turkey smoothie and three shortbread flavored jelly bellies and that’s it. A Very Cabo Christmas indeed.

Being that I have two step-daughters that could outrun a drag queen in heels, I have been slowly seduced into buying ridiculously high shoes. For some reason, you can adorn a very respectable dress that when paired with these types of heels, instantly becomes something you’d see heading towards a pole. Don’t get me wrong, after a glass of wine and a couple years of hard cycling, I looked phenomenal. Just not Country Club Casual. Or my age.

In the end I went black pants and a white shirt with just enough embellishments so as not to blend in with the waiters. I walked in with false confidence and searching eyes for a familiar face. Contact! A waiter that I used to work with at a different private club came over to say hi. I suspect he was subsequently taken out to the first tee and shot for fraternizing with the guests because I never saw him again.

It was Robbie Burns night and turned out the place was full of ancient men with thin ginger comb-overs wearing red checky skirts. Each and every one of them brought back to life by a winter breeze up their wrinkly bums. Had I done more research, I would have ironed my plaid pajamas, tossed the cat blanket jauntily over one shoulder and shown up Out-Of-Her-Class Lass Casual. Next year.

January 17, 2012
by Anna Gustafson
1 Comment

Ugly Time Five

I’ve looked at five from both sides now, from drunk and fit, and still somehow, the five a.m.’s I can recall, I really don’t like five, at all.

Five in the morning means a lot of different things to a lot of different people. It’s not a time of day that many see or seek. Fact of the matter is that if you’re up at five, it’s because you have to be for whatever reason. I’ve been that person, i’ve tried to love it, it’s nearly impossible. It’s got red-headed step child written all over it.

I have frightfully undomesticated blonde bed head at this time of day and not a trace of make-up, that’s my five a.m. look whether anyone is looking or not. Seeing it from a different perspective, Tilda Swinton has marched that look into every awards ceremony she’s ever attended and undoubtedly carried it right through until five a.m.

It can be a stunningly beautiful time of day when morning has not yet even thought about breaking. Where you’ll find the stillest of still, and the most perfect piece of peaceful but it’s still five. As a fishboat deckhand, i’ve rolled on cold damp rain gear, stood in the stern of a boat not far south of the Alaska border and watched it happen, this five a.m. Lines go in the water around that time because EVEN FISH AREN’T UP YET. They must be taken by surprise when they get up for breakfast. Like teenagers.

Sun hits the sky like it’s surprised that anyone is there. Hey! And then slowly lights the place up like it’s happy to see you. A porch light when you’re walking up someones front steps that loves you.

Backing up a good day of planned cycling can make you face the ugly time. From the hours you’ll be out to the time you have to leave, reverse engineering your nutritional needs can push you back to five. Making something, eating it, and then digesting it is an investment in time I just don’t have the nards for most days. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to having a peanut butter sandwich and a red bull in the car on the the way to meet the team. They’ve smelled it on me, I know. That’s why I stay at the back, downwind.

I’ve never had a baby so that covers that. Cat gets up often at five but you’re allowed to ignore and not feed a cat if you feel like it, baby not so much. You’re also not allowed to whip a baby into the front yard when it’s bugging you.

The coming at the five from the other side, can’t say that I even remember what that’s like. I know i’ve done it, loved it and sometimes blown right past it and gone straight to school. There’s some kind of magical second wind chemical pumped into comedy clubs, I think it’s called Agent Casino, because I seem to be able to do the second late show where you’re not even on stage until bedtime. The fact that I just referred to second show time as bedtime is your clue how often it is that I stay up super late. I don’t think i’m able to do five from the back end unless it’s motivated by crisis or adrenaline or both. Why would you?

This is why. Jokes can be noted and figured out later but ideas need to be acted on or they disintegrate. Had I woken up and scribbled “five” on my bedside note pad, this morning I would have written “…guys walk into a bar.” If you lay your head down at night and ask for something, pay attention if it’s given to you at five and get the hell up. If you don’t want it, go back to sleep and it will be given to someone else.

Moon Shadow and Morning Has Broken were on the same album. Cat Stevens sat where i’m sitting right now, all crazy haired and looking out the window. I suspect as inspired as he was at five, he too staggered back to bed shortly after six upon spellcheck completion.