The Street

Random babble!

A few weeks ago, Saint Aardvark and I switched rooms. Now I’m in the living room by the south window and he has managed to cram all 82 of his computers into the little “second bedroom” where I used to sit. I have a different view of the street now. And twice as many windows. And a rocking chair that I really need to ship to New Brunswick.

It’s strange that with these two giant windows, I can see all the people who live across the street stacked next to each other, all looking out at the street and at me, but because they’re side by side, none of them can see each other.

GATS is missing. His Hamilton Beach drink mixer sits lonesomely on his windowsill. Perhaps he is camping with friends, drinking Molson Canadian (or Kick!) from a styrofoam cooler, toasting marshmallows, telling secrets, skinny dipping at midnight. I hope so.

But the Man Who Watches is watching from the darkness of his living room, backlit by the fluorescent light in his kitchen. The Man Who Watches wears his shirts tucked into his pants. He wears glasses. He stands at his window and looks out. That is all. Eventually, he closes his blinds. He is probably a little embarrassed at having to watch me sit here and scratch my chin, evening after evening.

Car stereos play 50 Cent and The Clash. People who were striding up the hill towards the beach a couple of hours ago are now streaming down it to get back to the train station. My standing, rotating fan blocks much of the noise. Now and again a rumbly cycle drowns out the fan. Then my screams drown out the cycle. Ah, life.

We watched Wedding Crashers tonight at the new Paramount Theatre where there is a TacoBell and I didn’t even say hello to it. I just got my $8 popcorn and my $5 pepsi and took my seat. So, I want to move in with Vince Vaughn’s brain. And, in this film, Rachel McAdams has the prettiest raspberry-stained lips I have ever seen. I just learned she is from Ontario and was in “The Notebook.”

Listened to several tracks from “Rock Swings” by Paul Anka today. He performs many covers of contemporary tunes with his talented big band, including “Eye of the Tiger,” “Wonderwall” and Van Halen’s “Jump!” The rocker boy two listening stations down from me was previewing the new System of A Down record. He had his back to the wall, nodding his head defiantly at the shoppers. By contrast, I huddled closer to my listening post and tried to conceal that I was listening to Paul Anka. But then I started to think how funny it would be if Paul Anka covered the System of a Down song about waking up…and putting on a little makeup (you wanted to!), the song that first endeared them to me. And then I felt better about listening to Paul Anka. It’s not like System of a Down is cool or anything. In the cool olympics, Paul Anka and SOAD would not only compete in separate events but I think one would be winter and the other summer. Actually, they probably wouldn’t even qualify for the cool olympics so what do I care what the rocker boy thinks. (different post, another time.)

Most importantly, neither Paul Anka nor System of a Down sounds anything like Coldplay. OK, at first, 5 years ago or whatever I didn’t like Coldplay because I found them kind of boring and whiny. And then lead whiner Chris Martin married Gwynyth Paltrow or at least got her preggo (or at the very least stopped her from making Duets II) and they had a baby named Apple and I actually think that’s OK. I like the name Apple. But all the buzz about Coldplay I just don’t understand. I like “The Scientist,” but that’s it.

Actually now that you mention it, I prefer Aimee Mann’s cover of “The Scientist.” Stupid Coldplay.

And then, this past week did occur The Coldplay Incident, which has me referring to anything and everything I don’t like or which irritates me as “Coldplay.” (Rob Feenie breathes a sigh of relief; up till this week, everything was “Feenie!” with a real exasperated tone.)

Around 11:30 pm this past Tuesday, the unmistakeable strains of Coldplay began to sound in our bathroom. Then, impossibly, the volume went up. Then I noticed that the Man Who Watches was watching the street so I thought maybe Coldplay was playing a show on Thurlow Street? The buildings around here create quite an echo so Coldplay could have been anywhere downtown, playing live. But they weren’t; they were being blasted from the apartment next to us. Our neighbours had taken the bold step of playing the new Coldplay album in its entirety at, er, how loud do stereos go? 11? 17. Playing the new Coldplay album in its entirety at 17 rather than just inviting us over for cocktails and then surreptitiously putting on a CD. Oh, is that Coldplay? I didn’t realize…

Anyway, since Tuesday at around 11:45 pm, I have been hearing Coldplay everywhere. In hip hop, grunge and soul. In “Wedding Crashers.” There was only one credited Coldplay song in the film but there were many imitators in evidence. I predict Pandemic Coldplay by the year’s end.

Peace Out.