We’re grouped in the sunlit window of T.O.’s Mitzi’s on College – me and K.T., in the city visiting Card*, an old pal who happens to be the most energetic woman I know. A ‘transdisciplinary visual performance artist,’ half-Asian and hardly over five feet tall, Card packs enough nutbar for ten women twice her size. She burbles-up a new idea every 60 seconds.
K.T.’s stroking the recycled foxfur tail on “Creature,” her ancient and eccentric carry-all. I’m sprawled out with one side of the booth to myself, dog-eared pages of a script beside me, and Card’s braiding a swatch of black hair and tapping her foot on the lino. The girl can’t sit still.
The morning reminds me of old times in Uni, three of us talking shop between mouthfuls of huevos and mole sauce – now something about Iran, Card’s riffing on the link between Ahmadinejad and Mad Men: the new bad boy traded his Triumph and Marlboros for Italian loafers and a sharp-shouldered suit – when the bell over the café door goes tink-tink, and in walks this guy who damn near makes me choke on my Americano, though I’m still half tuned in to Card.
“The phony family guy image is sooo over,” she says. “Berlusconi’s courting 18-year olds and ‘not using condoms;’ while Ahmadinejad’s stockpiling nukes like cheap suits. Don’t even get me started on Harper and Angela Merkel. Each looks like the gender-bending version of the other.”
“Dear Harper,” goes K.T. “Please give up the Fozzy Bear act. Those sweaters hurt Canadian eyes.”
I’m swishing a sip of espresso in my mouth like I want to stain my whites, mid-swallow, watching.
“Hell-ooo,” goes Card. “Enterprise to Pipar. Enterprise to Pipar. Are you with us Martin?”
I swallow, abruptly. “Yep.”
“Hummm,” goes Card, looking me over, “I’ve got an idea. You game?”
“I’m fuzzy with a slight hangover. Is it gonna take long?”
“100 words, 10 minutes or less. This will fit perfectly with my new installation, and you can be entry 1 and 2. Give me your most frank and honest personal ad.”
She flicks a sideways glance at Mr. Brown Eyes-Lumberjack Shirt standing at the counter, and then pushes a scrap of recycled paper-napkin my way, along with a cheap ballpoint pen. I know this impish gleam in her eye.
“It’s just an exercise,” she says. “Pipar, you first. What do you really want?”
