Now the Story Can Be Told

I have been living in fear and disgust since the weekend of Labour Day, when a most disturbing event took away my peace of mind.

I saw a rat. In. My. Apartment.

There were actually three sightings. Once from the corner of my eye, the kind of thing that you're not really sure is really there, but you could swear you saw something. I pinned my hopes on mouse, but thought it was a rather large mouse.

The next was unmistakeable and the most disturbing, as is zoomed across the stove and counter and down behind the fridge. Enraged, I moved the fridge forward a bit, grabbed the broom and did my best 'crazy person gonna squish that animal with a broom' moves. I heard, but did not see its quick dash to freedom.

Then the investigator hat came out. I found a little pile of crackers behind the fridge, which I quickly disposed of, and then I found the emptied box of crackers on the counter. I switched into panic cleaning mode (with some help — thanks Andrew! — and did that kitchen purge of clutter that I should have done long, long ago. A was most helpful in giving the critter a name — Benoit — which I later amended to Benoit XVII, successor to the current pope, perhaps? After Andrew left, I did the cleaning part and now have clean top surfaces, at least, and way more space without the clutter. I should note that every time I walked through my dining room, in which is located my stereo permanently fixed on CBC Radio One, there was almost invariably some kind of rat story being told, usually something about the province of Saskatchewan having an explosion in rat population. Or there would be the program As It Happens making dozens of rat-based puns. All a little too much for me to handle.

Sighting number three was a little foray back from checking on the state of its cracker stash (gone). I spent a rather sleepless night, considering that my bedroom is not far enough away from the scene of the crime.

I called the exterminator. Because my landlord was out of town, I got to choose, so of course called the cute one we used at my old work. (Bonus!) He had a look around, didn't see a lot of traces (so it hadn't been around long?) and left some lovely blue blocks of poison behind the major appliances, with some spares for my use.

I spent the day that day working at home in the front of my apartment. I happened to wander back to the kitchen and froze as I got close. One of the blue blocks of rat poison was now in the middle of the kitchen floor! I had a brief flash of a rat on its hind legs, throwing the block at me and telling me to eat the darn thing! Some quick sleuthing revealed that it was the one from behind the washer, so I put it back.

The next day, returning from work, I checked the block placement. The popular one from behind the washer was gone! Nowhere to be seen! I replaced it with a fresh one from my supply. I discovered the next morning that it was not, in fact, gone. It had been moved behind the fridge. Where once there was one, now there were two! (So glad I didn't see that the night before; I had slept on the basis of a rat gagging on poison somewhere outside of my apartment.)

Two days later, I went to see a movie in the evening and wasn't able to check until I got home much later. Big surprise! Nothing behind the washer. Nothing behind the fridge. That would be three missing blocks of rat poison. Surely that would kill it! I replaced them and went to bed with mixed feelings (yes, poison maybe consumed, but it had been there that day!).

A week went by with no sounds, no sightings, and no more moving blocks of poison.

The exterminator came by today for a follow-up visit and we found a few things. We did find one of the 'missing' blocks under the fridge, chewed upon, which is good. We also found the hole into which the rat was escaping, which had been a big mystery. (It was under the toe-kick of the cupboard, at the edge where there was just a filler board to make the cupboard flush with the wall.). Best of all, he found a body downstairs in the neighbours' outdoor closet thingy. Phew! I am allowing myself to sleep by believing that the body was the rat that was in my apartment and that there were no others.

But I'm watching. I'm monitoring the blocks. And I found some dollar-store steel wool to plug the opening of that hole. So I hope my ordeal is over.

And as for Benoit — and I do mean the pope this time — did you realize that his family name is…RATzinger?!!

Neglect

OMG! Almost two months since my last post!

I was away for a while, busy for a while and lazy for most of the time. I promise to get back to recounting my life and inane thoughts soon.

The thing that I can't neglect, however, is upon us! It is time for our annual AIDS Walk, Ça Marche, and I will again be participating, but have not yet decided who to walk with (since changing jobs, I am not sure that walking with my old group would be appropriate). Maybe I will muscle my way up front and walk with the Farha family and the other Star Walkers. At least that way, I won't come in last like I did last year (seriously, the police cars closing the walk were on my heels!).

The big thing about Ça Marche is the fundraising, so please do sponsor me. You can click here or on the image to the right at the top of the blog.

Thanks for your support!

Meet Grumpy Old Man

I realize that through various 'rant' posts I have revealed my not-so-hidden Grumpy Old Man persona. It's time to make this official by including it as a searchable topic and sharing those little things that set me off.

Well, internally, as I am still a WASP in control of his outward expressions.

Tonight's episode: the rules of the road.

We live in a society with certain rules that exist to protect us from each other. Some of the most delicate balances concern roads, streets, bicycle lanes and sidewalks, especially in a city like Montréal, where the rules seem to be something we don't necessarily follow, but that we love to point to when someone else's free spirit has inconvenienced our own.

Tonight, I took a bus home after seeing a movie at the other side of downtown. While waiting for the bus, I watched with some degree of amusement as four bicycle cops bore down on what they seemed to think was a drug deal in the park. It may well have been, but the small group scattered and that's all the cops succeeded in doing. Shortly after that, it seemed to be the end of their shift, and they set out eastward like a pack of dirtbikers, whizzing past me at the bus stop with mere centimetres to spare. Oh no, I was not perched on the curb; they were speeding from the park across the sidewalk right past me onto the street. Now that's respecting the rules of the road, no? And by the people who are charged with ensuring that the rules are followed.

It gets better.

The configuration below might be familiar to many: the crosswalk. (In Montréal we tend to think of these as 'targeting zones' and don't really believe the cars will stop for pedestrians at them. We are usually not disappointed in our assessments.)

At the corner of my street where I get off the bus, debarking passengers must cross a bicycle path to reach the sidewalk. Luckily, there are crosswalk stripes painted across the bicycle lane at both bus door locations. Do you think my mad cycling police officers stopped to allow me to cross? Not a chance! They whizzed by as I pointed at the crosswalk with my own cross look directed at them.

Good thing they were wearing their sunglasses with the anti-glare feature or they might have been withered by my look.

Thanks for showing us all how to respect the rules of the road, boys!

Guerre des journaux

Il est revenu. Le journal que je déteste, que personne ici ne veut et dont j'ai pensé avoir mis fin à la livraison…est de retour.

Mercredi passé étant la journée nationale de déménagement au Québec, ils auraient dû pensé que la femme qui y était abonnée il y a plusieurs années a décidé de revenir s'installer à nouveau dans son ancien logement. Non, ça ne fait pas de sens, et ce n'est pas le cas.

Donc, je passe à la prochaine phase de ma lutte contre le Journal de Montréal, cet espèce de déchets produit par des briseurs de grève que je trouve devant ma porte chaque matin depuis jeudi. C'est la phase où je livre ce même journal chez eux, par un moyen qui va leur coûter chaque fois qu'ils livrent chez moi. Je les mets dans une enveloppe sans timbre, avec leur adresse comme destinataire et comme source, et je les mets à la poste. J'inclus une note avec chacun qui lit comme suit :

« SVP ARRETEZ DE LIVRER VOTRE JOURNAL AUX [omis] À MONTRÉAL

IL N'Y A PERSONNE VIVANT À CES ADRESSES QUI VEUT LE RECEVOIR

LES JOURNAUX NON VOULUS REPRÉSENTENT POUR NOUS UNE MÉNACE À NOTRE SÉCURITÉ, CAR ILS ANNONCENT DES LOGEMENTS PRÊTS POUR LES VOLEURS

DE TEMPS EN TEMPS, VOUS LIVREZ AVEC LE JOURNAL UNE FACTURE AU NOM DE [omis]. CETTE FEMME NE DEMEURE PAS ICI DEPUIS AU MOINS 4 OU 5 ANS

VOS JOURNAUX VOUS SERONT RETOURNÉS PAR LA POST, NON TIMBRÉS POUR QUE ÇA VOUS COÛTE, CHAQUE FOIS QUE VOUS LES LIVREZ »
Et comme partout, la guerre n'est pas gratuite pour moi : j'ai eu à acheter des enveloppes assez grands pour envoyer ces journaux. Espérant que mon investissement porte fruit.

Mixed Message

The 30th Montreal International Jazz Festival is underway, and the zone in which it is traditionally held is in full construction mode.

The location of the welcome banners is obviously pre-determined and did not take into consideration the street closures for construction work. Here is what greets people at the intersection of de Maisonneuve and St-Laurent:

…and a close-up of that barrier fence across the "entry" way:

Welcome to the Festival indeed!

I guess we will find out later what the purpose of the work depicted below will be, but it started out with the removal of some rather lovely flowering crabapple trees that outlined the two little triangle-shaped parks flanking that section of de Maisonneuve, between Clark and St-Urbain.

And I didn't even take pictures of the demolition of the Place-des-Arts parking structure (just to the right of this view of the big hole) or, to be fair, the part of Jeanne-Mance that was apparently completed in time for the Stevie Wonder concert last night. Or mostly completed…

On Making Decisions for Oneself

While the rest of the world wailed, gnashed teeth and moonwalked over the death of an odd recluse who they had never met, something a little more important — in my mind — was unfolding on the floor of the Supreme Court of Canada. The story of that case is here, but let me also express my disappointment with how difficult this was to find on the web site of our national broadcaster (much easier, in fact on several commercial services).

A 14-year-old girl, determined to be sufficiently mature by psychiatrists, had her decision to refuse a blood transfusion overruled by a judge and the treatment was administered without her consent. Yes, she is a Jehovah's Witness, and no, I am not given to defending religiously-based viewpoints. But the notion of being able to consent to or to refuse medical treatment is something I care very much about.

The justices speak of life-saving treatment, and insist that this is not about religious freedom or the attitudes toward what has long been a stigmatized religion in this country and many others. But let's change that example and propose a pregnant child — like the incest victim excommunicated in Brazil for having an abortion when following through with the pregnancy would have killed her — and the point of view of the Roman Catholic church. Would the courts and child welfare authorities intervene to compel such a child to have an abortion to save her life if she and her family insisted that this would violate their freedom of religion? Sadly, I don't think so, and more sadly still, that has everything to do with the perceived legitimacy of the Roman Catholic church, versus the Jehovah's Witnesses.

Not being a child, and not being likely to have any, this still concerns me as an issue as a person living with an eventually fatal disease. I want to know that I am in control of the decisions relating to my treatment, that I will be able to say no, or no more when in the future I have decided that I have done enough. I need to know that the content of my decision will not be used as proof of my incapacity to make it — surely he can't be in full possession of his faculties if he is deciding not to cling to every last second of life.

I probably wouldn't make the same decision this young woman wanted to make, but I find myself firmly on her side with respect to her right to make it (with apologies to Voltaire).

Christo de Farge débarque à Paris

Pour marquer mon retour de Paris, je partage avec vous un petit projet que j'ai fait lors de ma première visite à Paris en 2006. Ceci pour expliquer le geste que j'ai encore posé cette fois, et que je poserai chaque fois que je me trouve à Paris.

Frais d'une réunion à Hoche en compagnie de ses collègues français et de « La Canadienne » de la rue Blanche, Christo de Farge prend le métro et, passant par...

...Stalingrad...

il change de ligneà la station Républiquepour enfin descendre à Rambuteau.
Non pas pour le Centre Pompidou,

mais pour faire un peu de shopping, quoi?

Une petite boutique quis'appelle Why? (en bon français),dont le site internet est beaucoup moins intéressant que l'endroit lui-même.

Ensuite à Mokuba, magasin à rubans, tout simplement pour demander où il peut acheter de la laine et des aiguilles à tricoter. Le beau jeune homme qui s'habitue à répondre aux besoins en rubans de designers est quand même poli et connaît bien le quartier.

Il dirige Monsieur de Farge vers La Droguerie.

C’est pleine de matériel pour le tricotage dont les images décorent l'esprit de notre protagoniste. Il sélectionne une laine rouge et des aiguilles 3,5 mm. Il continue à pied vers le premier arrêt prévu.

En passant par le Palais du Louvre,

le Musée du Louvre,

le Musée du Louvre encore (il est grand!),

l'Hôtel du Louvre et autant d'autres immeubles Louvrés qu'il n'aurait pas eu d'autres prises dans sa caméra s'il les prenait tous en photo!

Ah! De la verdure! Ça doit être le Jardin des Tuileries!

Avec son art moderne...

...son art manquant...

et un marais qui semblait plaire aux canards, sinon à Monsieur de Farge.

Toute de suite après le Jardin des Tuileries, et avant le Champs Élysées,

on trouve la Place de la Concorde, sa destination convoitée!

Elle se distingue par son art volé

(ou, si on peut croire les inscriptions autour, ce « cadeau » de l'Égypte à la République!)

Elle contient aussi l'inscription qui confirme que c'est bien l'endroit ou a tricoté il y a des siècles une certaine Madame de Farge, inspiration au de Farge moderne, lorsque la noblesse a rencontré son destin incontournable.

Comme il n'y a pas de bancs, ni d'ombre, notre héros retourneau Jardin des Tuileries, plus spécifiquement au Café Veryafin de se préparer pour sa tâche.

Il roule en balle sa laine, se désaltérant avec un « ice tea pêche » comme disent les citoyens, encore en bon français.

Il commence ensuite son tricotage, malheureusement pas dans l’endroit de son inspiration, mais tout près quand même.

Il monte les mailles et il tricote trente-seize rangs, pour ses années sur la terre et ce, avec un café crème au bout de ses doigts.

Il prend une longue marche pour trouver l'autre objet de sa mission...

...le Pont Neuf...

et il continue jusqu'à la Place de la Bastille,

d'où il prend le métro vers son hôtel, en passant, bien sûr, par...

...Stalingrad!

Il tricote ce soir-là les rangs 47 au 161, pour la placesur la liste d'ancienneté d'un objet de son désir du passé, été 1981.

Il se lève le matin et il tricote encore 14 rangs (au 175),même s'il préfère ne pas arrêter à un rang dont le chiffre est divisible par 5!

Il prend son petit déjeuner au Café Bleu et il marche jusqu'à l'Opéra.

Sur l'escalier devant l'Opéra, il tricote les rangs 176 au 199.

Il est difficile à dire si les touristes,qui prennent en photo l'Opéra (au lieu du McDonald's ou le Hard Rock Café!), sont plus amusés par son tricotage ou par le sérieux du garçon qui s'est installé sous l'indication « Poésie lyrique » pour écrire, il est certain, de la poésie lyrique!

Il marche encore, cette fois se dirigeant encore vers le Jardin des Tuileries, plus spécifiquement aux trampolines qui s'y trouvent, pour tricoter les rangs 200 au 222.

(Pas de photo de ces trampolines, parce qu’ils n'étaient pas si intéressants et personne ne les utilisait!)

Avec une vue sur la Place de la Concorde, Monsieur de Farge s'approche de l'expérience de son homonyme en tricotant les rangs 223 au 249.

(On remarque comment il est soucieux d'éviter les arrêts divisibles par 5, après sa défaillance du matin!)

Deux rangs seulement (250 et 251) sur un banc devant le Petit Palais.

L'escalier du Grand Palais était en rénovation, et il manquait des bancs visibles!

Il traverse le Pont de l'Alma pour se retrouver dans le Parc du Champ de Mars, où il termine son projet (ou presque!) avec les rangs 252 au 285.

Tout cela devant la Tour Eiffel. Plusieurs touristes japonais l'ont trouvé tellement intéressant qu'ils le prenaient en photo.

(Oui, le chiffre 285 est divisible par 5, mais il porte une autre signifiance pour Monsieur de Farge qu'il garde pour lui-même.)

Une petite bouchée dans la Place des Invalides (un bon mélange de l'asiatique et du français),

et il arrête les mailles devant l'Assemblée Nationale.

Monsieur Lafarge passe sur le Pont de la Concorde, par la Place de la Concorde, dans le Jardin des Tuileries, où il prend le temps de boire un autre « ice tea pêche » et il dévoile pour la première fois la nature de son projet.

Il marche le long du fleuve vers le Pont Neuf, cette fois plus près de l'eau que de la circulation. Il remonte et il traverse le Pont Neuf jusqu'à l'île, où il descend sur le Quai des Orfèvres. Il « emballe » l'anneau qu'il y trouve avec sa création et y attache son message de souvenir à 17h15, le 26 septembre 2006.

« Garry Rossy. m. 22 mars 1992 à Montréal.

Je porte toujours et partout mes souvenirs de toi. »

Il n'y a pas de moment ou de manière inapproprié pour rendre hommage à ses amis.

Mission accomplie, il retourne à l'hôtel, en passant une dernière fois par...

...Stalingrad!

• • • • •

Mercredi de la semaine passée, je suis allé au Pont Neuf pour encore attacher un ruban rouge à la mémoire de cet ami.

...tout comme je me promets de faire à chaque fois que j'irais à Paris.