May 21st, 2008
Radars To The Sky
Late yesterday morning I went to one of my usual lunchtime spots in order to get some, well, lunch. It’s a small organic bakery-type place which make sandwiches and recently started offering small pizzas. I decided that today would be the moment for me to give their pizzas a try, so I walked in.
I was decked out in one of my best suits because I would be attending a corporate function towards 5pm and wouldn’t have time to go home and change specifically for it. I don’t like suits, but I can work one: a very rich black with slight off-black pinstripes, accompanied by a deep green argyle sweater, out of which pops the collar and sleeves of a light blue formal shirt. And I kill in it. I was made to wear this stuff. I honestly look like a success story in that get-up; but I hate it. I’m usually a T-shirt and jeans kind of guy because this kind of costume gives off the wrong signals about me.
Case in point: the stares which had swung my way the minute I walked into the bakery made me feel like I didn’t belong here. The typically casual, earthy, grassroots atmosphere which pervaded the area made me stick out like a slick, yuppie sore. Had it been my usual self, wearing my “Shakespeare Hates Your Emo Poems” T-shirt and worn-at-the-knees blues, I would have never felt this awkward. But there I was, looking like the very definition of haughty corporate flashiness in a humble do-it-yourself setting.
But, oh, irony of ironies, as I waited for my pizza to cook (in the end, it was delicious, in case you were wondering), my cellphone rang. No, it wasn’t bad enough I looked like a capitalist go-getter who’s married to his work, I had to act like one, too. With a deep sigh, I took it out of my jacket’s inside pocket (why the hell did I put it there?) and unfolded it gently to answer the call. Despite it just being my friend wondering if I could bring him back some grub, the damage was done. To the eyes of those around me, I was a gaudy, self-important, show-off.
And I all wanted to do was scream: “No! This isn’t me! I’m not like this for real! It’s a persona! A costume! It’s like acting! Once I’m done wearing this, I’m going to go home to read a graphic novel! I drink fair trade coffee! And tea! I drink both fair trade coffee and tea! I vote NDP! I like to listen to emerging artists instead of FM radio! I swear! Like I recently listened to Radars To The Sky; ever heard of them? I swear they have a song called Victoria which is one of those surprisingly charming pop tunes which calls upon the punchy blast that only a good set of post-punk guitars can deliver, offering up a bouncing, endearing moment of catchy wonder. Singer Andrew Spitse’s longing vocals endow the song with emotional charge, while harmonious guitars surge, swish, and swing together with measured exactitude, supported by ululating keys in the background, the nervousness of it all netted together by fluttering drums. As sweetly enamoring as it bubbles with enthusiastic nervousness, its tale of regret and bitterness exposes a soul in need of purging. How could I know all that if I didn’t listen to that kind of music? Huh? I’m not self-centered! I’m not disconnected! I’m like you!!”
As I paid for my pizza and walked out the door, I pulled out a notepad from my messenger bag and scribbled down a few of these thoughts which marauded through my mind during this experience, figuring it would at least be good material for the blog. And for my therapist.