CDs by the truckload

For the first time, I bought one of those big tubs of compact discs. There are a hundred of them. I also bought seventy five sleeves. There are some things that I have to burn, but then what? (My guess is they will vanish as quickly as the ten packs I usually buy.)

Yesterday was my daughter's baby shower. After cleaning the house all morning, I got summarily booted from the house just afternoon. So I went and bought my March transit pass at the drugstore. I walked to the grocery store, where the deli counter has the best southern fried chicken I've ever tasted outside of Wakulla Springs in Florida. That was lunch.

Armed with my new bus pass, I went to the library downtown. I browsed the CD section for a while - I still find it fascinating that you can borrow CDs. The selection of popular music isn't very good, but the selection of classical music is much better than any record store's. The jazz selection is pretty good, too. In Ottawa, despite there being a huge blues scene and a popular orchestra, curiously, the record stores all serve up the same pop/emo/punk recipe (along with nearly as many DVDs as actual records.) And they can't blame downloading either - it has been this way since the early eighties, since vinyl began to fade away.

I don't have a library card at the moment, so I couldn't take anything out. So I went over to the magazine section, and saw an issue of Discover that seemed interesting - it had articles on strange stellar phenomena and new evidence on the relationship of the Nubians and the Egyptians based on a temple of Aman in Sudan. And as I sat to read about the Nubians, how the Greeks revered them as the wellspring of civilization while the Egyptians loathed them, I fell asleep!

When I got home, I expected - had been told even - the shower would be done. But they were still in the throes of it. So I went into the basement and practiced the music for our praise and worship night (for which we still have not fixed a date yet.) Then I packed up my new guitar and strapped it to my shoulder and went upstairs to tell my wife i was going over to the local pub's "open mic" night.

"Before you go," She said, "This is [daughter's boyfriend]'s mother."

She seemed nice enough. Dead ringer for him, surprisingly. But the house was so full of people that I didn't really get much of a chance to get to know this co-grandparent.

At the pub they made me sing all night. The host would play one or two songs. His daughter would then play a song or two that she had written - she has a fair bit of talent, but since she only plays her own songs, doesn't have enough material to go for too long. And then I'd play, oh, ten songs or so. "I'm hogging the mic," I'd say, protesting. "More, play another one. Do you know any Stones?" Someone'd say.

I wonder if the host is paid. If so, I earned him a good living yesterday.

In the middle of the evening I phoned home.

"So are they done yet?" I asked.

"Mostly. Your daughter's making plans for dinner. They're having to drag her. Still a couple here," She answered. I could hear them.

"Are we still going out?"

"Probably not. This was tiring."

"If it's OK then, I'm going to have... what was it you said was so good here? The shawarma?"

"Yes, the shawarma platter."

I wish I could say I sang for my supper, but no, I paid for that. Not that I mind, of course. Nobody ever goes to the corner pub, which has changed hands five times in the last seven years.

When I left at the end of the night, the host said, "See you next week?"

"No," I replied, "Going to the cottage."

"Ah.. the week after?"

"Maybe," I replied in a non-committal way. Much as I enjoy playing, I don't have the "must play live in bars" bug anymore. Music ministry in church is far more rewarding. But the corner pub has changed hands five times in the last bit, and the owner is a really nice guy who makes good shawarma.

So maybe means maybe.