Friday, September 23, 2005

"You are faster than you think"

The title above: a great ad circa last year on the underground in Munchen, timely in the memoria to Sir Terry Fox, and (less ceremonially) my recent flight path to Toronto.

How else to explain the oh-so-short time from my apartment to an exit from the shuttle at the Royal York. Not a bad place to drink pints of Guinness, is the old Irish Embassy at Yonge/Wellington. Never fully discovered the identity of the classic Irishman skulling a pint pictured above the bar, but will soon enough. Once again, the Irish writers poster featured prominently. And also some acknowlegment of the unheralded aspects of Tom Jefferson's genius, as "america's foremost XVIII Century wine connoisseur and viticultural expert". Who knew?

There is something lovely about flying over/into a city, noticing the skyscrapers and landmarks from the aircraft window (does anyone really call the SkyDome the "Rogers Centre?) and remarking to the fellow passenger that you will be living it up, pint in hand, amidst the downtown in a matter of moments... Get thee there, I say, as old Hamlet quotes the demands to Yorick's skull. Which calls for the full repetition of possibly the loveliest of the (fri)day quotes. Because this time it's by Shakespeare.

But for the reminiscing of the old days of Oktoberfest, "get thee to my lady's chamber" or "a fellow of infinite jest" or "excellent fancy" or "flashes of merriment" or "make her laugh at that" would all serve as excellent titles to the post above. Though I do like the notion that everyone is "faster" than they think. Time wins anyway. Regardless of context. Even versus Tim R. AWOL Cooper. Where are you buddy? Tomorrow is the wedding of Heather Patterson. Pictures to follow. But to the genius of Shakespearean words:
Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio: a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy: he hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? your gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one now, to mock your own grinning? quite chap-fallen? Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come; make her laugh at that.


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