In considering politeness, one wonders what happened to the time when people weren't so damn adamant about being nice. It seems, when watching professional sports, or attending an art opening or literary event, or walking down the streets of New York or Toronto or Montreal, that everyone is so unequivocally nice. I appreciate the niceness of people. I like to be asked how I am, to be offered something that I might need or want. I like to have things liked on Facebook, and I understand it's good to have a lot of Twitter followers. But there are times I am suspicious of this behaviour - in myself and others. It's as though life has become one big popularity contest. We can blame the Internet. But we are its willing participants. Lack of privacy aside, there are days I feel like I'm in high school, permanently, a kind of purgatory. Other days I feel like I'm constantly trying to sell or buy something. Do you want my face? My post? My photograph? Do you like this brand of me? New and updated? (Sadly, though, not enough cash is involved. Maybe this 'liking' is in lieu of adequate payment. Or, as Allen Ginsberg once asked, When can I walk into the supermarket and buy what I need with my good looks?)

The Last Eccentrics

I live in a building full of eccentrics. Italian Elvis walks Clark Street in an old beige wool coat. He wears fat sunglasses and a giant cross. He talks to himself but is always happy to talk to you. Occasionally he'll stop his talking and break out into an Elvis song, a cappella style.

Then there's Sylvain, the last Quebec communist. From his steps a flag from the USSR waves; he shouts at the passersby: Vive Le Communisme! Sometimes he can be seen carting massive amounts of potato chips up Clark with his little red wagon. Rumour has it he eats them through the night while he plays violent video games on his old television screen. Sylvain is pushing 60. He makes a living selling pencil crayons, $2.50 a box. He has a sign outside his house advertising it. He's always trying to sell me things; once my girlfriend bought a beaded curtain.

His house smells awful. He lives with his two dogs. He hoards things. Yesterday it was cans of tuna fish; he came home with 160 cans of the stuff, not sure where he got it, certainly he didn't pay a cent. Once I asked him if he had anything I'd like. He offered bicycle chains, a dolly or Hitler paraphernalia. Sylvain doesn't speak a word of English. He is confused by the sexual proclivities of my generation. He is a 6 year old in a 60 year old's body.