I had a couple of beers with Martin at the Café last night. He was in town for a conference, and after some harried back and forth we managed to hook up.
I met Martin at an ecstasy party in Kensington Market almost fifteen years ago. Of course, we hit it off immediately. I later discovered that he is an astronomer, a musician, and a Gemini, which virtually guaranteed that we would become lifelong friends.
It’s been quite a long time since we sat down, one on one, and talked. With some people, you start to slowly drift away. With Martin, you just pick up where you left off. You survey the failed relationships and the new ones, the creative projects and the condition of your pianos, the bumps in the academic road. Then you bemoan the state of journalism and Canadian politics respectively, before gliding into an earnest discussion about how to get laid.
According to Martin, who is in his mid-forties, you never stop feeling like you’re sixteen. I’m not at all sure I find this reassuring.
As we paid our tab, I consulted with the Café’s proprietor about the upcoming smoking ban. He was suitably defiant, and, waving his cigarette in the air, predicted mass non-compliance. For the sake of our café, I hope that he is right.
I leave you with this surprisingly delicate piece from the Boston Globe, which I discovered in the sidebar of The Eponym. Enjoy.