It’s never too late for a fresh start. Just be sure you get a good breakfast. Maybe somewhere new? Rather, somewhere very old.
I keep meaning to go to the Ovaltine Café. You’ve seen it before, the place with the sweet potato pie in Jose Chung’s From Outer Space. It’s still there, on Hastings, in the worst neighbourhood in Vancouver, in Canada, probably. Since 1943, the Ovaltine Café has been there, still with the neon, still with the lunch counter, still with the diner classics. I finally made it this year, just before Christmas, while I was in Chinatown buying presents. The place is just up the street. Follow the neon. The customers have changed, more mismatched second-and-thirdhand clothes than men in hats and ladies in gloves. But the waitresses treat everyone the same. Everyone needs a good breakfast. Everyone deserves a fresh start.
Remember when you first played Nintendo, when you first played a video game with both hands instead of one joystick? You probably played like I played, jumping the controller when Mario jumped, turning it left and right when you wanted your car to move, even if you were 9 and had never been behind a wheel. Your friends probably made fun of you, too. Especially if, like me, you’re a girl and they were boys.
This is Pole Position: Remix for iOS. The graphics are the same, but now controller is also the screen, and when you want your car to move, you turn it left and right, just like you’re behind the wheel.
Those boys you used to play with can suck it, because this is what videogames were always supposed to be.
The best hockey players have always been Canadians and Europeans, and Canadians and Europeans have always been hipper than Americans.
(Unless this is about Sidney Crosby’s moustache, then I don’t have the answer. No one does.)
I slept until noon. I woke up to snow.
The best view of the race is in the beer garden.
Tonight, a man playing the violin on the corner of Burrard and Georgia, a dog with antlers asleep at his feet, and a sign written with blue pen in a propped up spiral notebook: This is a cold cold place.
Poachie the egg poacher, the latest in a line of egg-related stocking stuffers.
There were the Useful Presents: engulfing mufflers of the old coach days, and mittens made for giant sloths; zebra scarfs of a substance like silky gum that could be tug-o’-warred down to the galoshes; blinding tam-o’-shanters like patchwork tea cozies and bunny-suited busbies and balaclavas for victims of head-shrinking tribes; from aunts who always wore wool next to the skin there were mustached and rasping vests that made you wonder why the aunts had any skin left at all; and once I had a little crocheted nose bag from an aunt now, alas, no longer whinnying with us. And pictureless books in which small boys, though warned with quotations not to, would skate on Farmer Giles’ pond and did and drowned; and books that told me everything about the wasp, except why.
Dylan Thomas, A Child’s Christmas in Wales (1955)