"Hey, Anne R. Key," you might be saying, "how did you celebrate Pride 2014? Did you go to the parade, or attend one of the many social and educational functions available throughout the city?"
No, dear reader. I did not. I spent Pride getting hit on by men at the Commercial Hotel in the heart of Old Strathcona!
While the Fragrant Missus and several of our closest friends marched in the Gay Pride Parade, I elected to see Mr. Eddie Shaw and the Wolfgang at Blues On Whyte. The nice thing about the blues, compared to more popular or prevalent genres of music, is that it is still possible to get up close and personal with some of the legends responsible for some of the most gorgeous, emotive music ever created. Eddie Shaw is a tenor saxophonist who played with Howlin' Wolf away back in the 1970s, just before Howlin' Wolf died, and who has had a successful career with his own band since. Eddie is in his late eighties or early nineties now, so opportunities to see him are rapidly diminishing.
He was playing with his band, the Wolfgang, last night, but I usually elect to attend the afternoon jams. The Saturday afternoon jams place an emphasis on local musicians, so that one can see the feature performer with some local talent. We get the best of both worlds, so to speak. Also, because the performer is often playing tunes that are typically not a part of their regular set, one can see them do some phenomenal work. And, of course, since the afternoon jams are not recorded, they are ephemeral--they are purely "of the moment", brilliant and never to be repeated, and there's a certain magic in that.
And, it cannot be denied, a large part of the experience is the venue itself. The Commercial has been a fixture in this part of town for years and years. It is run down, dirty and dark. It is owned and operated by the Hell's Angels. It's denizens are older and rougher; man of them are bikers dressed in leathers, though not flying any particular colours--one never actually sees the Angels themselves at the Commercial, at least not during the afternoon jams.
One does, however, see plenty of other things one either shouldn't or wished one hadn't. For example, yesterday afternoon, I went in, chose a table next to the dancefloor, and put my stuff on two chairs to mark my territory. I then went over to the ATM to score a bit more cash in case Mr. Shaw was offering cds for sale after his set (he didn't, alas). These cd sales are strictly a cash proposition. En route to the machine, I happened to observe a couple of guys at the table next to me engaged in another cash proposition involving a marble-sized ball of hashish. When they noticed me noticing, there was a brief moment of all of us looking at each other like deer in the headlights. Then I casually looked at the television above and behind them and pretended to be checking the score of the hockey game while casually moving on.
My nonchalance must have impressed them, because no sooner was I settled in my chair back at the table when one of them approached and engaged me in conversation. Now, I have been to Blues On White several times before, and I know what kind of people hang out there. In lots of ways, I rather admire them; they're older, they have clearly been around the block a few times, and if some of them exhibit varying levels of mental illness or social inadequacy, at least they typically keep to themselves and don't pretend to be something they are not. They sit there in their grungy t-shirts and their leather vests with their bellies hanging down over the waistband of their jeans and drink their beer and appreciate the music. The women just want to dance. And I am acutely aware of being in their environment; it's like being in bear country, and there are certain precautions you have to take. Don't make eye contact, keep to your campsite (table), stay on the well-established trails (back and forth to the washroom) and always travel with a buddy. So far, this has worked admirably and, despite the place and clientele being a little rough-and-tumble, I've never needed to use bear spray.
Unfortunately, I had broken the last rule, travelling with a friend. As previously mentioned, the Fragrant Missus was at Pride, my companion for this excursion was under the weather, and I had failed to connect with my sister-in-law, who had expressed an interest in coming. So there I was, a woman alone at the Commercial. I had, however, taken precautions. I was carrying my cane (due to a flare-up of my rheumatoid arthritis), I was reading a book and let's face it, people--I'm not exactly putting out the right vibe for a pick-up in that environment. I am stout and carry all my weight in front, like Winnie the Pooh. Or Poppin Fresh. I have short, no-fuss hair and sensible shoes. I am not, in any way, shape or form, physically alluring. And I was very obviously sending out "not-interested-in-social-contact" signals--the cane disqualified me from dancing, I was immersed in my book and I look like a lesbian. Because I am one. Go figure.
Evidently, however, these signals are lost on some people (i.e. men), because this guy walked up to me and started a conversation about how he must have been bitten by a bug last night in bed, because he had a vivid mark on his arm and there was blood on his sheets. I suggested, as politely as possible, that he change his sheets--having encountered a regular in his habitat, I was careful not to display any indication that I was interested. DO NOT FEED THE WILDLIFE.
Eventually, after determining that it was probably a spider bite rather than a mosquito (or a bedbug), he wandered back to his table to rejoin the herd.
I wish I could report that this was my last encounter, but the second one was even more bizarre than the first. As I sat there reading, I was approached by a drunk guy in a Hawaiian shirt. Now, to set the scene, he was on the dancefloor and I was at my table, which is elevated over the dancefloor by about a foot. It takes two steps to go from the seating area to the dancefloor. So when he approached the railing that separates the tables from the dancefloor, we were roughly at eye level. Hawaii-Five-Oh put his drink down on my table (thereby invading my space without permission) and looked at my cane. I looked at him and he wiggled his eyebrows at me suggestively. I was confused--was he seeking an explanation? Did he want me to hit him with it? Shove it up his ass? I wasn't sure. I remember thinking vaguely that I wanted him to fuck off and leave me his shirt.
He said something innocuous to me (I don't recall what it was, honestly). I responded politely but with detachment, and then Hawaii-Five-Oh grabbed the railing with both hands, relaxed his knees and let them fall off to each side of his body so that when I looked at him, I was forced, briefly, to look at his junk.
Now, I don't know what kind of reaction Hawaii-Five-Oh was looking to elicit from me, but I can pretty much guarantee that it wasn't the outburst of laughter and the covering of my eyes that resulted. I might also have said, "Jesus Christ!" in a tone heavily laden with derision. Thus rebuked, Hawaii-Five-Oh collected his drink and walked away.
Later on, during Eddie's set, Spiderman came by my table and hollered in my one good ear, "I'd ask you to dance, but I think I need some kind of shot!"
Charmer! Does that line work on all the girls?
Anyway, despite my interactions with the regulars, I'm happy to report that Mr. Shaw himself gave a terrific, if abbreviated, performance, and I enjoyed my afternoon. I distinctly remember noticing a dent in the bottom of his sax where it had been set down too hard on an unforgiving surface. Nevertheless, even at his advanced age, Mr. Shaw still told us the time of day and gave his all for the brief time he was on-stage. I was utterly delighted by his bass player, who was big fat black man just beyond middle age, who shuffled onto the stage and slouched against his stool with that big black axe against his chest. He played effortlessly, and did not appear to be even remotely interested in his surroundings. He just stared out at his audience through a veil of pot-scented smoke with sad and indifferent eyes, his mind perhaps on getting an oil change for the car, while his fingers, with the most beautiful coral-coloured fingernails, pulling those fat metal strings and softly gripping the frets.
Afterwards, I shook Mr. Shaw's hand and thanked him for coming to our city to perform. He's a tired old man, but he gave us what he had, and at least I can say I shook Eddie Shaw's hand.
And got hit on by two men on Pride Day.
No, dear reader. I did not. I spent Pride getting hit on by men at the Commercial Hotel in the heart of Old Strathcona!
While the Fragrant Missus and several of our closest friends marched in the Gay Pride Parade, I elected to see Mr. Eddie Shaw and the Wolfgang at Blues On Whyte. The nice thing about the blues, compared to more popular or prevalent genres of music, is that it is still possible to get up close and personal with some of the legends responsible for some of the most gorgeous, emotive music ever created. Eddie Shaw is a tenor saxophonist who played with Howlin' Wolf away back in the 1970s, just before Howlin' Wolf died, and who has had a successful career with his own band since. Eddie is in his late eighties or early nineties now, so opportunities to see him are rapidly diminishing.
He was playing with his band, the Wolfgang, last night, but I usually elect to attend the afternoon jams. The Saturday afternoon jams place an emphasis on local musicians, so that one can see the feature performer with some local talent. We get the best of both worlds, so to speak. Also, because the performer is often playing tunes that are typically not a part of their regular set, one can see them do some phenomenal work. And, of course, since the afternoon jams are not recorded, they are ephemeral--they are purely "of the moment", brilliant and never to be repeated, and there's a certain magic in that.
And, it cannot be denied, a large part of the experience is the venue itself. The Commercial has been a fixture in this part of town for years and years. It is run down, dirty and dark. It is owned and operated by the Hell's Angels. It's denizens are older and rougher; man of them are bikers dressed in leathers, though not flying any particular colours--one never actually sees the Angels themselves at the Commercial, at least not during the afternoon jams.
One does, however, see plenty of other things one either shouldn't or wished one hadn't. For example, yesterday afternoon, I went in, chose a table next to the dancefloor, and put my stuff on two chairs to mark my territory. I then went over to the ATM to score a bit more cash in case Mr. Shaw was offering cds for sale after his set (he didn't, alas). These cd sales are strictly a cash proposition. En route to the machine, I happened to observe a couple of guys at the table next to me engaged in another cash proposition involving a marble-sized ball of hashish. When they noticed me noticing, there was a brief moment of all of us looking at each other like deer in the headlights. Then I casually looked at the television above and behind them and pretended to be checking the score of the hockey game while casually moving on.
My nonchalance must have impressed them, because no sooner was I settled in my chair back at the table when one of them approached and engaged me in conversation. Now, I have been to Blues On White several times before, and I know what kind of people hang out there. In lots of ways, I rather admire them; they're older, they have clearly been around the block a few times, and if some of them exhibit varying levels of mental illness or social inadequacy, at least they typically keep to themselves and don't pretend to be something they are not. They sit there in their grungy t-shirts and their leather vests with their bellies hanging down over the waistband of their jeans and drink their beer and appreciate the music. The women just want to dance. And I am acutely aware of being in their environment; it's like being in bear country, and there are certain precautions you have to take. Don't make eye contact, keep to your campsite (table), stay on the well-established trails (back and forth to the washroom) and always travel with a buddy. So far, this has worked admirably and, despite the place and clientele being a little rough-and-tumble, I've never needed to use bear spray.
Unfortunately, I had broken the last rule, travelling with a friend. As previously mentioned, the Fragrant Missus was at Pride, my companion for this excursion was under the weather, and I had failed to connect with my sister-in-law, who had expressed an interest in coming. So there I was, a woman alone at the Commercial. I had, however, taken precautions. I was carrying my cane (due to a flare-up of my rheumatoid arthritis), I was reading a book and let's face it, people--I'm not exactly putting out the right vibe for a pick-up in that environment. I am stout and carry all my weight in front, like Winnie the Pooh. Or Poppin Fresh. I have short, no-fuss hair and sensible shoes. I am not, in any way, shape or form, physically alluring. And I was very obviously sending out "not-interested-in-social-contact" signals--the cane disqualified me from dancing, I was immersed in my book and I look like a lesbian. Because I am one. Go figure.
Evidently, however, these signals are lost on some people (i.e. men), because this guy walked up to me and started a conversation about how he must have been bitten by a bug last night in bed, because he had a vivid mark on his arm and there was blood on his sheets. I suggested, as politely as possible, that he change his sheets--having encountered a regular in his habitat, I was careful not to display any indication that I was interested. DO NOT FEED THE WILDLIFE.
Eventually, after determining that it was probably a spider bite rather than a mosquito (or a bedbug), he wandered back to his table to rejoin the herd.
I wish I could report that this was my last encounter, but the second one was even more bizarre than the first. As I sat there reading, I was approached by a drunk guy in a Hawaiian shirt. Now, to set the scene, he was on the dancefloor and I was at my table, which is elevated over the dancefloor by about a foot. It takes two steps to go from the seating area to the dancefloor. So when he approached the railing that separates the tables from the dancefloor, we were roughly at eye level. Hawaii-Five-Oh put his drink down on my table (thereby invading my space without permission) and looked at my cane. I looked at him and he wiggled his eyebrows at me suggestively. I was confused--was he seeking an explanation? Did he want me to hit him with it? Shove it up his ass? I wasn't sure. I remember thinking vaguely that I wanted him to fuck off and leave me his shirt.
He said something innocuous to me (I don't recall what it was, honestly). I responded politely but with detachment, and then Hawaii-Five-Oh grabbed the railing with both hands, relaxed his knees and let them fall off to each side of his body so that when I looked at him, I was forced, briefly, to look at his junk.
Now, I don't know what kind of reaction Hawaii-Five-Oh was looking to elicit from me, but I can pretty much guarantee that it wasn't the outburst of laughter and the covering of my eyes that resulted. I might also have said, "Jesus Christ!" in a tone heavily laden with derision. Thus rebuked, Hawaii-Five-Oh collected his drink and walked away.
Later on, during Eddie's set, Spiderman came by my table and hollered in my one good ear, "I'd ask you to dance, but I think I need some kind of shot!"
Charmer! Does that line work on all the girls?
Anyway, despite my interactions with the regulars, I'm happy to report that Mr. Shaw himself gave a terrific, if abbreviated, performance, and I enjoyed my afternoon. I distinctly remember noticing a dent in the bottom of his sax where it had been set down too hard on an unforgiving surface. Nevertheless, even at his advanced age, Mr. Shaw still told us the time of day and gave his all for the brief time he was on-stage. I was utterly delighted by his bass player, who was big fat black man just beyond middle age, who shuffled onto the stage and slouched against his stool with that big black axe against his chest. He played effortlessly, and did not appear to be even remotely interested in his surroundings. He just stared out at his audience through a veil of pot-scented smoke with sad and indifferent eyes, his mind perhaps on getting an oil change for the car, while his fingers, with the most beautiful coral-coloured fingernails, pulling those fat metal strings and softly gripping the frets.
Afterwards, I shook Mr. Shaw's hand and thanked him for coming to our city to perform. He's a tired old man, but he gave us what he had, and at least I can say I shook Eddie Shaw's hand.
And got hit on by two men on Pride Day.
3 comments:
What an exciting life you lead! Some of those guys might have liked the cane action you suggest, and for a select few of them, you could have charged lots of money. Not that I'm suggesting this is even remotely something you would be interested in doing. After all, word might get around, and then they'd be lining up, and where would you be then?
Glad to have you blogging again.
Best advice ever: do not feed the wildlife. I have been feeling a bit like Tim Treadwell when it comes to my doorman at work. Do not feed the wildlife computes to don't be nice. It effs be in the butt every time.
Keith,
I could do with a little less of that kind of "excitement", especially that expressed by Hawaii-Five-Oh! And I'd happily beat these people with my cane for free.
Maven,
I had to tread a very fine line in this particular circumstance--I didn't want to encourage them, but hostility might have been ill-advised.
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