One of my nephew’s friends is a gal named Cecilia. Great kid, and they seem to have a pretty solid friendship.
One day her mom came and picked her up from his house. His dad thought she seemed familiar, but couldn’t place her. “I hope she wasn’t a one night stand when I was 18” he thought to himself.
A while later she was over and they were in the front (what has become the music) room, playing records on the turntables. Again, her mom came to pick her up.
“Hey! I recognize that record. It’s Transwave. Cycles of Life.”
Andrew was really surprised. Not something a lot of people would recognize.
“Uhhh...yeah...”
“Wait! You’re Sunboy! Now I remember why you look familiar. I came to your place on Sterling in Toronto and bought some records from you.”
Then it all fell into place for him. He’d been a DJ back in the day, and so had she.
Almost 20 years had passed. Appearances change. Memories fade. He’d moved back to Hamilton, she’d moved from Toronto, and years later their kids ended up as classmates and friends.
Showing posts with label 6°. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 6°. Show all posts
Sunday, 26 March 2017
Wednesday, 18 May 2016
6° of Thievery
I think the statute of limitations has expired, so I presume it’s safe to tell this tale.
(The same gal that features in this 6° story, and this 6° story, is the one I speak of here.)
Blue boxes had just been introduced in London. 1990 or so. My friend Peter informed me that he’d been told they were perfectly sized to hold records. (Milk crates were already being made smaller than 12" because of the problems they were having with people stealing them.) He wanted to nick one. We drove around on a Friday evening trying to find one still at the curb. Finally located one. Into the trunk it went.
That Sunday afternoon, Kathryn, who at this point was still just a friend, was over for a visit. I relayed my involvement in this larcenous escapade.
“That’s weird. Someone stole our blue box.”
“It couldn’t have been us. I think you’re further north than where we were. We were up by the university.”
“Yes, that’s where I live.”
I was pulling out a map at this point. “Are you at the end of a cul de sac?”
“Yes.”
“Is it called Steele Street?”
“Yes.”
“Oh geez.....”
After she left, I called Peter up.
“Uuuhh...listen we need to replace that blue box we stole.”
“What?”
I relayed the conversation Kathryn and I had just had. Peter is howling on the phone.
“What are the odds?”
“I know, but I really like her, but I feel kind of bad. The victim of our thievery now has a face and a name. I feel guilty.”
Later that night, we drove around, found another blue box, stole it, and dropped it off outside of what I now knew to be her house.
She didn’t seem to hold my involvement in this criminality against me, because a while later she became more than just a friend. :-)
(The same gal that features in this 6° story, and this 6° story, is the one I speak of here.)
Blue boxes had just been introduced in London. 1990 or so. My friend Peter informed me that he’d been told they were perfectly sized to hold records. (Milk crates were already being made smaller than 12" because of the problems they were having with people stealing them.) He wanted to nick one. We drove around on a Friday evening trying to find one still at the curb. Finally located one. Into the trunk it went.
That Sunday afternoon, Kathryn, who at this point was still just a friend, was over for a visit. I relayed my involvement in this larcenous escapade.
“That’s weird. Someone stole our blue box.”
“It couldn’t have been us. I think you’re further north than where we were. We were up by the university.”
“Yes, that’s where I live.”
I was pulling out a map at this point. “Are you at the end of a cul de sac?”
“Yes.”
“Is it called Steele Street?”
“Yes.”
“Oh geez.....”
After she left, I called Peter up.
“Uuuhh...listen we need to replace that blue box we stole.”
“What?”
I relayed the conversation Kathryn and I had just had. Peter is howling on the phone.
“What are the odds?”
“I know, but I really like her, but I feel kind of bad. The victim of our thievery now has a face and a name. I feel guilty.”
Later that night, we drove around, found another blue box, stole it, and dropped it off outside of what I now knew to be her house.
She didn’t seem to hold my involvement in this criminality against me, because a while later she became more than just a friend. :-)
Sunday, 1 November 2015
6° of Russack
Years ago my girlfriend was on a flight to Vancouver to connect with a flight to Australia. Woman sitting next to her. A greeting is exchanged but not much more. A while later a stewardess comes around with a meal.
“Meal for Russack.”
They both answer in the affirmative. Not a very common surname. As they’re both looking at each other with surprise, the stewardess says,
“K. Russack.”
They both answer in the affirmative.
Okay. This is getting weird.
“Vegetarian meal for K. Russack.”
And once again, they both raise their hand.
She was a Karen Russack, a vegetarian from Winnipeg. Mine was a Kathryn Russack, a vegetarian from London, Ontario by way of Australia. Seated beside each other.
“Meal for Russack.”
They both answer in the affirmative. Not a very common surname. As they’re both looking at each other with surprise, the stewardess says,
“K. Russack.”
They both answer in the affirmative.
Okay. This is getting weird.
“Vegetarian meal for K. Russack.”
And once again, they both raise their hand.
She was a Karen Russack, a vegetarian from Winnipeg. Mine was a Kathryn Russack, a vegetarian from London, Ontario by way of Australia. Seated beside each other.
What are the odds of that?
Saturday, 9 April 2011
6° of Law Enforcement
On a gear making forum I go to, I’d been chatting a bit with a cop. He’s a fellow sew ho, but he also makes knives and bodies for Sure-Fire flashlights, as well as sheaths out of Kydex.
In Ontario I know of me, him, a cop up in Sudbury and my pal Andrew Kent that are stitch bitches. Just figured it would be advantageous to get to know one another, to compare tips, teach techniques, share ideas, show off our creations, but also with the idea of group buys and crap exchange. A lot of time you have to buy material in pretty sizeable amounts, which really doesn’t make much sense for people like us who are only producing small quantities of products at most. So group buys might work out well in that instance. Also, we all have sizeable collections of material and hardware, that might not be of use to one of us, but may well be of interest to someone else. Let’s share what we have. If one of us only needs one or two of something, but you need to buy a minimum of 200, but someone else has loads and has no real use for it, share it. I have piles of stuff that I have no real use for, but might be advantageous to someone else. That sort of thing.
On the forum he only listed his location as Ontario. I asked him where he was and he mentioned that he works for the York Region Police but lives up in Barrie.
So we’d been trying to arrange a meet up to have a beer and dork out by showing off what we’ve all made. We exchanged names and numbers and all that.
The very next day I turn on the news to see what the weather is going to be the next day and I catch a bit about a robbery and chase. Then there’s a 2 second snippet with a cop, and it says Sgt. Mark *******, York Region Police.
What the hell?
I asked him about it the next day.
“Yeah that was me, and there is a photo of me in the Star today too. I’m the folliclely challenged one in the center. I happened to be the most senior officer on the scene so they stuck me in front of the television camera.”
The condensed version of the story is that there was a noon time robbery of a jewelry store in Vaughan. A security guard and off duty police officer who happened to be at the mall were shot at by one of the suspects, with some of the bullets whizzing past kids in a school yard. The suspect then forced his way into a home, took two women hostage, put them in their van and led police on a wild chase. The van was eventually brought to a halt, with both hostages unharmed.
An article in the local paper at the time had a photo of Mark arresting the scroat, his head on the cruiser, looking a little worse for wear, surrounded by five pissed off looking cops. I’m sure that since all the arresting officers were white and the “suspect” (come on) black, some liberal do-gooders complained about racial profiling and police brutality and blah, blah, blah. Let’s see: robbery, shooting at police and security, endangering innocent bystanders, including school kids, home invasion, hostage taking, carjacking, driving through traffic endangering everyone else around. The circumstances left no doubt whatsoever as to this skells involvement, and he gets roughed up by the cops when he is arrested? Don’t play the race card at that point. I will gladly buy all the cops who leaned on this scumbags neck a little longer than necessary or dragged his face along the pavement or really twisted his arms up behind his back when handcuffing him, a beer or two. This fucker is a cancer on the face of society and I’m not going to lament what happened to him. There is police wrongdoing, and then there is criminals getting a little extra judicial attention, ie: what they deserve. Bleeding heart types who try to bemoan that shitbag getting his just desserts and trying to turn it into a socio/political quagmire need to shut up.
All I can say is good job Mark!
In Ontario I know of me, him, a cop up in Sudbury and my pal Andrew Kent that are stitch bitches. Just figured it would be advantageous to get to know one another, to compare tips, teach techniques, share ideas, show off our creations, but also with the idea of group buys and crap exchange. A lot of time you have to buy material in pretty sizeable amounts, which really doesn’t make much sense for people like us who are only producing small quantities of products at most. So group buys might work out well in that instance. Also, we all have sizeable collections of material and hardware, that might not be of use to one of us, but may well be of interest to someone else. Let’s share what we have. If one of us only needs one or two of something, but you need to buy a minimum of 200, but someone else has loads and has no real use for it, share it. I have piles of stuff that I have no real use for, but might be advantageous to someone else. That sort of thing.
On the forum he only listed his location as Ontario. I asked him where he was and he mentioned that he works for the York Region Police but lives up in Barrie.
So we’d been trying to arrange a meet up to have a beer and dork out by showing off what we’ve all made. We exchanged names and numbers and all that.
The very next day I turn on the news to see what the weather is going to be the next day and I catch a bit about a robbery and chase. Then there’s a 2 second snippet with a cop, and it says Sgt. Mark *******, York Region Police.
What the hell?
I asked him about it the next day.
“Yeah that was me, and there is a photo of me in the Star today too. I’m the folliclely challenged one in the center. I happened to be the most senior officer on the scene so they stuck me in front of the television camera.”
The condensed version of the story is that there was a noon time robbery of a jewelry store in Vaughan. A security guard and off duty police officer who happened to be at the mall were shot at by one of the suspects, with some of the bullets whizzing past kids in a school yard. The suspect then forced his way into a home, took two women hostage, put them in their van and led police on a wild chase. The van was eventually brought to a halt, with both hostages unharmed.
An article in the local paper at the time had a photo of Mark arresting the scroat, his head on the cruiser, looking a little worse for wear, surrounded by five pissed off looking cops. I’m sure that since all the arresting officers were white and the “suspect” (come on) black, some liberal do-gooders complained about racial profiling and police brutality and blah, blah, blah. Let’s see: robbery, shooting at police and security, endangering innocent bystanders, including school kids, home invasion, hostage taking, carjacking, driving through traffic endangering everyone else around. The circumstances left no doubt whatsoever as to this skells involvement, and he gets roughed up by the cops when he is arrested? Don’t play the race card at that point. I will gladly buy all the cops who leaned on this scumbags neck a little longer than necessary or dragged his face along the pavement or really twisted his arms up behind his back when handcuffing him, a beer or two. This fucker is a cancer on the face of society and I’m not going to lament what happened to him. There is police wrongdoing, and then there is criminals getting a little extra judicial attention, ie: what they deserve. Bleeding heart types who try to bemoan that shitbag getting his just desserts and trying to turn it into a socio/political quagmire need to shut up.
All I can say is good job Mark!
Wednesday, 30 March 2011
6° of Lanark
I lived in the Ottawa Valley for a spell. (Best time of my life)
One of my neighbours Andy had been a forest fire fighter for 16 years. He suggested I should do it. I wasn’t entirely certain about doing it full time, but I liked the idea of at least knowing how to do it, so that if the need ever arose in my neck of the woods I could go and assist.
I went and took a course which trains you how to fight forest fires and which got me my S-100 certification. This is a requirement for Ontario Ministry of Natural Resources to consider you for the job. Great course, great instructors.
One of the instructors was an old guy, already in his 70’s. He had been fighting forest fires for decades, and was a wealth of info. He figured out before too long that I was very comfortable out in the woods, and we chatted quite a bit. During the course of conversation it came up that I was living in Lanark County.
“Oh, I know Lanark pretty well. Where in Lanark are you?”
“North of Lanark, the town.”
“Hopetown?”
“Nope, north of there.”
“Brightside.”
“No, even further north. I’m north of the power lines.”
“Old man Lalonde must be your neighbour then?”
Uh, wow, yes. “Well, his son Andy is my immediate neighbour, but he is down the road a ways.”
Turns out he knew Andy from fighting forest fires all over Ontario and points beyond. Knew his wifes name. He knew exactly where I was, knew the names of the lakes and hills around me, could even tell me which sections of forest had burned and when.
It really is a small world.
Wednesday, 19 May 2010
6° of History Teacher
I’d met Carren a few times through my friend Michelle at shows. Michelle and I were at a concert and I mentioned how I needed a veterinary second opinion, and/or needed a different vet.
“Oh talk to Carren. She works for a vet, who happens to also be her next door neighbour.”
I pull out my little phone book to write her name and number down, and ask for her full name so I can put it under the correct letter.
“Carren Elder.”
“Hey my grade 7 and 8 history and geography teacher was named Elder.”
“Uhm...was his name Nelson by any chance?”
“Yeah!”
“That’s her dad!”
He was one of my favourite teachers. In grade 7 history I ended up with, get this, 109 as my final mark. I got perfect on all the tests, one mark short of perfect on the exam, and then he also had a bonus project that people who were doing really bad could do for some extra marks. The project was on Vikings. Uh, hello? Vikings? Awesome! How could I not do something on that!? So I did that as well. Got perfect on it. He said it was the highest mark anyone had ever gotten in all his years of teaching.
Carren and I get on really well, and I’ve been at their house a bunch of times over the years. Kind of funny hanging out with your childhood teacher as an adult. I kept referring to him as Mr. Elder.
I pull out my little phone book to write her name and number down, and ask for her full name so I can put it under the correct letter.
“Carren Elder.”
“Hey my grade 7 and 8 history and geography teacher was named Elder.”
“Uhm...was his name Nelson by any chance?”
“Yeah!”
“That’s her dad!”
He was one of my favourite teachers. In grade 7 history I ended up with, get this, 109 as my final mark. I got perfect on all the tests, one mark short of perfect on the exam, and then he also had a bonus project that people who were doing really bad could do for some extra marks. The project was on Vikings. Uh, hello? Vikings? Awesome! How could I not do something on that!? So I did that as well. Got perfect on it. He said it was the highest mark anyone had ever gotten in all his years of teaching.
Carren and I get on really well, and I’ve been at their house a bunch of times over the years. Kind of funny hanging out with your childhood teacher as an adult. I kept referring to him as Mr. Elder.
“It’s all right, you can call me by my given name you know.”
“Okay Mr. Elder. I mean Nelson.”
And in another funny small world twist, my girlfriend was in a choir that Carren’s mother was in also. The two of them got along very well. Amusing when the connection emerged.
And in another funny small world twist, my girlfriend was in a choir that Carren’s mother was in also. The two of them got along very well. Amusing when the connection emerged.
Thursday, 6 May 2010
6° of Drafting Table
Twenty years ago (okay, maybe a year or two more than twenty years ago) a bunch of friends and I would go to a local club every Thursday for “alternative night.” To be honest, the main reason we went was to hang out together, as the DJ was pretty lackluster and his choice of music quite ho-hum. One of my friends, Peter, brought along a pal from university, Jay. Great guy and we ended up having a fascinating conversation. Afterward Peter gave us a ride home. Jay lived up in the northwest end of town, so we went there first.
When I started out in this whole crazy graphic art field, one of my first gigs was doing mechanical art for a fella named Jody. He was doing T-shirts for various fraternities, sororities, residences, etc. at the local university. I had already been using Macs for a few years, and used them at my day job, but I wasn’t able to afford one myself at that point. At home it was still drafting pens and french curves.
When Jody came by and saw the makeshift set up I was using, he offered to get me a proper drafting table as partial payment for the work I was doing for him. Sure.
He called me up on Sunday and said he had a line on a good one. Said he’d come by that evening and we could go and have a look at it. He picked me up and I read the classified ad as we drove. Sounded very good indeed. We ended up in the northwest part of town, driving down the same road we had driven down on Thursday night, and eventually at the same cul-de-sac we had dropped Jay off in. Okay, this is weird. Jody checked the address and we started walking towards a house, go around to the back, and Jay opened the door. Wow this is really weird.
So a guy I had met a few days before, ended up being the person that was selling a drafting table. Odd coincidences abound.
When I started out in this whole crazy graphic art field, one of my first gigs was doing mechanical art for a fella named Jody. He was doing T-shirts for various fraternities, sororities, residences, etc. at the local university. I had already been using Macs for a few years, and used them at my day job, but I wasn’t able to afford one myself at that point. At home it was still drafting pens and french curves.
When Jody came by and saw the makeshift set up I was using, he offered to get me a proper drafting table as partial payment for the work I was doing for him. Sure.
He called me up on Sunday and said he had a line on a good one. Said he’d come by that evening and we could go and have a look at it. He picked me up and I read the classified ad as we drove. Sounded very good indeed. We ended up in the northwest part of town, driving down the same road we had driven down on Thursday night, and eventually at the same cul-de-sac we had dropped Jay off in. Okay, this is weird. Jody checked the address and we started walking towards a house, go around to the back, and Jay opened the door. Wow this is really weird.
So a guy I had met a few days before, ended up being the person that was selling a drafting table. Odd coincidences abound.
Wednesday, 4 November 2009
6° of Geardo
One of the gear forums I go to, I listed my location as being “Niagara Escarpment”. Suitably vague. It runs right through southern Ontario.
I got a PM from a member, who asked me where I was.
“I’m from St. Catharines originally,” he told me.
I told him I was in Hamilton, and mentioned some of the major landmarks around me.
”Hey that’s weird. I’m in Hamilton as well, and it sounds as though we’re right near each other.”
I asked where he was and it turned out he was about a three minute walk from where I am.
I got a PM from a member, who asked me where I was.
“I’m from St. Catharines originally,” he told me.
I told him I was in Hamilton, and mentioned some of the major landmarks around me.
”Hey that’s weird. I’m in Hamilton as well, and it sounds as though we’re right near each other.”
I asked where he was and it turned out he was about a three minute walk from where I am.
He was a designer for Pacific Safety Products, and responsible for some awesome gear for JTF-2.
We’ve become pals in the interim. although sadly he moved to Toronto, not too long afterwards. Bugger.
Saturday, 24 October 2009
6° of Cameldam
A part on my CamelBak broke a few years back. The Hydrolock, which acts as a shutoff, to prevent the inadvertent leaking of all of your water from the bite valve.
Rats.
I’m a regular at several outdoor and military gear related forums, so I asked if anyone else had run into this. Were they successful in repairing it, or did they have to bite the bite valve and buy a new one.
One poster who lists his location as being Amsterdam NL, says “Hey I have the very part you’re talking about, it’s of no use to me, it’s still in the packaging, and since you’re a fellow Dutchy, send me an email with your addy, and it’s yours.”
Wow, neat.
I send him an email with my address, thank him profusely and ask him where in Amsterdam he is, telling him where I lived.
He writes me back, and tells me that he lives in a town just on the outskirts, Diemen.
Hey I know Diemen really well. My dad coached baseball there, so my every weekend was spent in that town.
He writes me back to tell me that he used to play little league ball and baseball as a teenager with an organization called T.I.W. in Diemen.
Okay that’s weird, my dad coached for T.I.W. Turns out he played at the baseball field that I practically grew up on.
When his package arrived, I thought the address looked quite familiar. Turns out he lives in an apartment building one over from the building my brother lived in during the 70s.
Rats.
I’m a regular at several outdoor and military gear related forums, so I asked if anyone else had run into this. Were they successful in repairing it, or did they have to bite the bite valve and buy a new one.
One poster who lists his location as being Amsterdam NL, says “Hey I have the very part you’re talking about, it’s of no use to me, it’s still in the packaging, and since you’re a fellow Dutchy, send me an email with your addy, and it’s yours.”
Wow, neat.
I send him an email with my address, thank him profusely and ask him where in Amsterdam he is, telling him where I lived.
He writes me back, and tells me that he lives in a town just on the outskirts, Diemen.
Hey I know Diemen really well. My dad coached baseball there, so my every weekend was spent in that town.
He writes me back to tell me that he used to play little league ball and baseball as a teenager with an organization called T.I.W. in Diemen.
Okay that’s weird, my dad coached for T.I.W. Turns out he played at the baseball field that I practically grew up on.
When his package arrived, I thought the address looked quite familiar. Turns out he lives in an apartment building one over from the building my brother lived in during the 70s.
Wednesday, 14 October 2009
6° of Australia
Every once in a while I think of a song I haven’t heard in years, and type it into Youtube to see what comes up.
One time Killing Moon by Echo and the Bunnymen popped into my head. I type it in, there are some official videos, and some covers. Down a ways is a cover, and I don’t for the life of me know what caused me to click on it. Young girl, with an acoustic guitar, doing a cover. Great voice. I look in the little description, which is in Spanish. Blah, blah, Emma Russack, blah, blah, Australia, blah, blah. Look at her more intently. Same nose, same mouth, eyes, hair. She essentially looks like she could be her younger sister. She can definitely sing. Okay, that’s weird.
Google her name, turns out she has a MySpace page. Go over there and write her a note. “This is likely a really odd question, but do you by any chance have an aunt called Kathryn, and one called Allanah?” I explain how I know them.
She writes me back and says “Yes! I’m Robert, the oldest Russack boy’s oldest daughter.”
One of those very cool, yet totally freaky instances. I randomly click on a video and discover my ex-girlfriend’s niece. She definitely has the Russack genes. And it would appear that the ability to sing runs in the family.
One time Killing Moon by Echo and the Bunnymen popped into my head. I type it in, there are some official videos, and some covers. Down a ways is a cover, and I don’t for the life of me know what caused me to click on it. Young girl, with an acoustic guitar, doing a cover. Great voice. I look in the little description, which is in Spanish. Blah, blah, Emma Russack, blah, blah, Australia, blah, blah. Look at her more intently. Same nose, same mouth, eyes, hair. She essentially looks like she could be her younger sister. She can definitely sing. Okay, that’s weird.
Google her name, turns out she has a MySpace page. Go over there and write her a note. “This is likely a really odd question, but do you by any chance have an aunt called Kathryn, and one called Allanah?” I explain how I know them.
She writes me back and says “Yes! I’m Robert, the oldest Russack boy’s oldest daughter.”
One of those very cool, yet totally freaky instances. I randomly click on a video and discover my ex-girlfriend’s niece. She definitely has the Russack genes. And it would appear that the ability to sing runs in the family.
Saturday, 19 September 2009
6° of PostContemporarity
I went to a Clan of Xymox concert in Toronto in 1989.
After the show, my friend Len introduces me to two guys that he went to college with.
Obviously twins, but trying hard not to look like twins.
We start to talk and it turns out that they were the people behind a record that I had bought recently, Empirical Sleeping Consort.
One of them mentions that he would like to go back stage and say hi to the band.
“Yeah me too. They’re from Holland and so am I and I think it would be neat to say hello.”
“Hey my brother’s girlfriend is from Holland too.”
We start to chat, in Dutch and she asks me where in Holland I’m from.
“Amsterdam.”
“Yes me too. Where abouts in Amsterdam?”
“In the new south district, the river borough (all the streets were named after rivers in Holland)”
“I don’t know the neighbourhood I’m from, but I was born in and lived in the KrommeMijdrecht Straat.”
Music was playing in the club, so I wasn’t certain I had heard her right. But I got a funny tingle down my spine. “What did you say?” I asked incredulously.
“The KrommeMijdrecht Straat.”
I must have had the most stunned look on my face.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
“This is really going to freak you out, but I was born in the KrommeMijdrecht Straat!”
“Whaaat!”
(Now this is not a street that ran the length and breadth of the city, but a one block street!)
When we explained to the English speakers around us what had just transpired, they were equally amazed.
“Do you remember the number you lived at? What year were you born in?” I asked.
“I can’t remember the street number, and I was born in 1967.”
Same year I was born in.
“What school did you go to?”
“We moved to a different city when I was three.”
We continued to talk for a while longer and exchanged addresses (which much to my chagrin, I lost shortly there after.)
About five years later I walked into my friend Jarkko’s house, and there are two twins trying hard not to look like twins sitting on his couch.
“I know you two.”
They were looking at me with one of those I remember you, but why looks. “You do?”
“Yeah. Your girlfriend was born on the same street as me!”
“I remember you!!” They both shouted in unison.
And we’ve remained friends ever since.
Thursday, 10 September 2009
6° of Typography
In April of 96 there was a typographic symposium in Toronto with lots of big names that I very much wanted to meet and hear. The cost was out of my reach (being a type designer will do that) and much to my regret I couldn’t attend.
The event was on a Friday and Saturday. I consoled myself by going out to a little electronic music shindig on Saturday night, and ended up having a phenomenal time. The next day I went out for lunch on Queen Street with my friend Jean-Michel from France. As we left the restaurant, we hadn’t walked more than two dozen paces, when I passed some men speaking Dutch. I figured they were just tourists and kept on walking. A few paces on however I realized that I recognized one of them. “Wait here” I said to my companion and ran back.
“Excuse me, but are you Gerard Unger?” I asked in Dutch.
“Yes I am,” he said with a rather surprised look on his face.
“Hey, and you’re Just van Rossum and you’re Erik van Blokland.”
I introduced myself, explained who I was and what I did. We proceeded to stand there and chat for several minutes, I showed them what I did, and we exchanged cards.
“Yes Paul Sych was telling me about you. If I had known about you before hand I would have snuck you into the conference,” Gerard Unger said, much to my chagrin of course.
But I still thought it was hilarious to meet the three people at the symposium I most wanted to meet, completely by chance. If I had left the restaurant thirty seconds later, I would have missed them. The other amusing thing is that Just and Erik were both born around the same time as me (Just in 1966 and Erik in 1967) are both as tall as me (2 meters), they’re Dutch and they design type.
They inquired where a good place to eat would be, and after discussing the many possibilities, I pointed out the direction to a good Indian restaurant. This happened to be in the direction where my neglected friend was. He had waited patiently for me this whole time. I introduced everyone and Gerard Unger, being a very personable man (I think avuncular would be a good term to describe him) asked Jean Michel what he did.
“I’m a DJ,” he replied.
“Ah, my son is a DJ in Amsterdam.”
“I know several DJs from there. I actually played a record last night by two guys from Amsterdam, Remy and Sven from Global Cuts.”
“Ah yes, Remy is my son and Sven is my nephew.”
My brain was pretty much reeling at this point! One strange small world incident was followed by another in rapid succession.
A while later I got a call from Joe Clark, a writer who specializes in design.
“Hey I hear you accosted Gerard Unger and Letterror on the street.”
“Yeah. How did you know?”
“David Michaelides from FontShop told me.”
“And how did he know?”
“They told David because they were utterly flabbergasted that someone in Toronto not only recognized them, knew who they were, and could speak to them in their native tongue.”
The next day I was on the phone with Patric from Thirstype.
“So I hear you bumped into the Dutch boys on the street.”
“Yeah how did you know?”
“Just told me. He thought it was hilarious that you knew who they were, and went up to say hello. He said it made him feel like a famous rock star.”
But it gets weirder. FontShop published sheets with bios and small portfolios of notable type designers. Gerard Unger was one of them. It made mention how he got his start at a very famous Dutch ad agency Total, run by esteemed typographer Wim Crouwel. I showed this sheet to my mom for her to get a sense of who I had met.
“Oh I know Wim Crouwel,” my mom says.
“Huh?! Are you sure?”
“Yes your dad used to play baseball with him.” (My father was a really good pitcher and played on the Dutch national team in the 50s and early 60s.) “Yes I’m certain of it, Wim Crouwel. He was a catcher.”
So there I was, thinking my dad used to lob baseballs at the head of a luminary in the world of typography. Wow. As I was to discover later, it was another Wim Crouwel, born the same year, but a physiotherapist who lives in Amstelveen. So, a weird coincidence, but not that weird a coincidence.
The event was on a Friday and Saturday. I consoled myself by going out to a little electronic music shindig on Saturday night, and ended up having a phenomenal time. The next day I went out for lunch on Queen Street with my friend Jean-Michel from France. As we left the restaurant, we hadn’t walked more than two dozen paces, when I passed some men speaking Dutch. I figured they were just tourists and kept on walking. A few paces on however I realized that I recognized one of them. “Wait here” I said to my companion and ran back.
“Excuse me, but are you Gerard Unger?” I asked in Dutch.
“Yes I am,” he said with a rather surprised look on his face.
“Hey, and you’re Just van Rossum and you’re Erik van Blokland.”
I introduced myself, explained who I was and what I did. We proceeded to stand there and chat for several minutes, I showed them what I did, and we exchanged cards.
“Yes Paul Sych was telling me about you. If I had known about you before hand I would have snuck you into the conference,” Gerard Unger said, much to my chagrin of course.
But I still thought it was hilarious to meet the three people at the symposium I most wanted to meet, completely by chance. If I had left the restaurant thirty seconds later, I would have missed them. The other amusing thing is that Just and Erik were both born around the same time as me (Just in 1966 and Erik in 1967) are both as tall as me (2 meters), they’re Dutch and they design type.
They inquired where a good place to eat would be, and after discussing the many possibilities, I pointed out the direction to a good Indian restaurant. This happened to be in the direction where my neglected friend was. He had waited patiently for me this whole time. I introduced everyone and Gerard Unger, being a very personable man (I think avuncular would be a good term to describe him) asked Jean Michel what he did.
“I’m a DJ,” he replied.
“Ah, my son is a DJ in Amsterdam.”
“I know several DJs from there. I actually played a record last night by two guys from Amsterdam, Remy and Sven from Global Cuts.”
“Ah yes, Remy is my son and Sven is my nephew.”
My brain was pretty much reeling at this point! One strange small world incident was followed by another in rapid succession.
A while later I got a call from Joe Clark, a writer who specializes in design.
“Hey I hear you accosted Gerard Unger and Letterror on the street.”
“Yeah. How did you know?”
“David Michaelides from FontShop told me.”
“And how did he know?”
“They told David because they were utterly flabbergasted that someone in Toronto not only recognized them, knew who they were, and could speak to them in their native tongue.”
The next day I was on the phone with Patric from Thirstype.
“So I hear you bumped into the Dutch boys on the street.”
“Yeah how did you know?”
“Just told me. He thought it was hilarious that you knew who they were, and went up to say hello. He said it made him feel like a famous rock star.”
But it gets weirder. FontShop published sheets with bios and small portfolios of notable type designers. Gerard Unger was one of them. It made mention how he got his start at a very famous Dutch ad agency Total, run by esteemed typographer Wim Crouwel. I showed this sheet to my mom for her to get a sense of who I had met.
“Oh I know Wim Crouwel,” my mom says.
“Huh?! Are you sure?”
“Yes your dad used to play baseball with him.” (My father was a really good pitcher and played on the Dutch national team in the 50s and early 60s.) “Yes I’m certain of it, Wim Crouwel. He was a catcher.”
So there I was, thinking my dad used to lob baseballs at the head of a luminary in the world of typography. Wow. As I was to discover later, it was another Wim Crouwel, born the same year, but a physiotherapist who lives in Amstelveen. So, a weird coincidence, but not that weird a coincidence.
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