Among my network of close friends and family, we have a doctor in training, an immigration officer, a hairstylist, a chiropractor, a civil engineer, an S-factor instructor, a lawyer, a mid-wife, a translator, a pilot, a restauranteur, a public relations rep, executive assistants, researchers, elementary & high school teachers, students, servers, government workers, csis employees and artists. So how is it that in that there isn't a single electronics mechanic in there?

Last night I had the apartment to myself, as Manon and Adèle left for Toronto that afternoon. Burnt out from the harrowing week of having juggled a big meeting of executive directors at work, a presentation at school, research for a 20-pager due in just over a week, chiropractic ajustments and spending time with my old friend from Halifax, I couldn't muster much energy for anything else when I returned from my hair appointment. So I grabbed some Vietnamese take-out, slipped in the rented "To Kill a Mockingbird" tape and got settled onto the couch in a blanket. I smiled contentedly to myself as I pushed play on the remote, and then - DZZZZZZT. I put my food down and paused for a second. DZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZT. Shit, I thought. After minutes of fiddling around, I had to give up. I wonder what Blockbuster's policy is on destroyed material? And then back to my original question: why don't I have an electronics mechanic friend? The next-best help I can think of is André the engineer, but he's currently indisposed of in the jungles of South America, building bridges and damns to help save communities. Hmph. What about my vcr/dvd unit, who's around to save that? Actually, it's Manon's and unless she's logging on to my site from TO - um, hey there Mans, I can explain - the surprise won't be a happy one when she returns.

So I looked at the bunch of borrowed dvd's I have piled up in a corner and saw an old Audrey Hepburn flick called My Fair Lady. Although I really have to be in the mood to watch the oldies (where the art of editing had not yet been mastered in its typically three-hour long plots), I thought that Hepburn's Sabrina wasn't too bad in a kitchsy sort of way, so I popped in the dvd. Alas, it turns out that My Fair Lady is of the musical genre, my very own personal pet peeve. I stared at the jammed Mockingbird tape, sighed and began eating my vermicelli noodles (which by then were lukewarm and soggy) to the sounds of shrill and dramatic cheesy music. And after three hours of unnecessary scenes, tap dancing and predictability, I've decided to start hanging out in front of local colleges that offer electronic mechanics courses with a sandwhich board that reads "Be My Friend" in bold lettering, with "Fix my VCR" in small print.

**

I woke alone today and, as I do every Remembrance Day, I listened to Henryk Gorecki's beautifully sorrowful Symphony No. 3. I spent the morning with quiet, sobre thoughts of history, war and misery. Sounds shitty, but I'm guessing it doesn't rival the months and years of agony that some poor, unwitting soldiers lived through before either being haunted by terrifying memories as they returned home, or being killed in all their misguided youth and determination. I showered and dressed slowly, taking time to dust off my long black dress coat and fix a red poppy to the pocket. Black cap and gloves on, I walked in solitude towards the large crowd of people gathered near Parliament Hill around the Unknown Soldier's tomb. As I stood shivering in the cold, cap in hand as the trumpet sounded its lone song of courage and sad defeat, thoughts came to me in spurts.

Towards the front stood a glamourous old woman wearing a black wide-brimmed hat garnered with long black feathers that danced in the cold breeze. The sun appeared for a few moments and she turned to her left to tilt her head towards it, closing her eyes to feel the warmth on her face. Around her mouth I could see years of experience being manifested through an expression of pain, and then release, and then peace. The trumpet's lament ended as the giant crowd grew silent, as though in a room of only two.