Blog Dis
The backside of Tinny Peete
2024-04-04
I never give up hope because when I willingly give up hope, I lose all hope and have no one to blame but myself for having nothing left to prop up my sagging desires. And so on a normal weekend afternoon, with the sun blasting my 400 UV sun glasses, I ventured into the district of Vanier in Ottawa. I rode the Number 2 bus from Rideau Street to Montreal Road, then proceeded to walk north on St. Laurent boulevard. It was there, at the base of three large condominium towers, where I saw him, my long lost Trans Mongolian railway riding buddy, Tinny Peete. My word... you can imagine my surprise and joy at running into Tinny.
The backside of Tinny glared like a still portrait of wise, old oak trees as his head was buried underneath a black cloth, draped entirely over his shoulders, hunched behind the lens of an antique camera. I saw one of these kinds of cameras many years ago when I was three years old, the kind that photographers used when photography was an art form dependent on the appreciation of beauty and not on the diabolical potential of marketing. But getting back to Tinny, and bumping into him, well I couldn't believe my luck. I stopped cold in my tracks, recognizing that diminutive backside, the now faded but still brazen tattoo in bold capital letters — CONTEMPLATE POST-COMMUNISM inked above his tail bone. I waited quietly, curtailing my heavy breathing because I had to walk up a sloping hill. Slowly, Tinny took his shot and pulled his head out from underneath the cloth. When he turned and looked at me, recognizing my crooked front teeth, we broke out into tears and joyous laughter, hugging each other. Yes, my friends, fate once again would have it that my path would not only cross with Tinny Peete but would collide in grandiose style.
"You returned!" I exclaimed to Tinny, clearly excited to see my wayward friend.
"Russia is the world's teacher," Tinny replied. "Though, admittedly, I'm a bit of a dirty dog who loves old tricks and allegedly I was accused of having engaged in some shenanigans with an ornery Dean and forthwith was kindly asked to leave the country."
Silly administrators, I thought.
Oh Tinny, my Tinny... there had to be more to his story. If Tinny was involved, there always had to be more to the story. I begged him to pack up his camera gear and to join me for a cup of joe at Tim Horton's, despite knowing Tinny detested conglomerates. Firstly, tho' I felt compelled to ask Tinny about his photographic subject matter, to which he said with a smile, "Graffiti of course my foolish friend."
Tiny pointed up high to one spot on the retaining wall, the wall that lead to the stairs, that lead to the entrance of the first tower. "When in Russia," he said, "I was invited to complete an honorary thesis at St. Pete's U, to which I gladly accepted and after giving of myself wholly and without reservation, I determined that the real truth of the human heartbeat could only be found on the walls of democratic countries."
A very curious statement, indeed, and to have occurred in a country like Russia. I surmised he was then inspired to give up his digital camera and to replace it with plates and emulsion film, chemicals and dark rooms. And I could easily visualize Tinny inside one of these rooms, alone, creating and destroying. It was a logical progression for my artist friend and world-traveling auteur. I bought Tinny a very large black coffee with no milk or cream or not even a hint of cinnamon, just plain black coffee because I remembered that he preferred the simple things in life. I was dying to ask him when and how he had returned. I held back as long as I could until I could no more wait for the truth.
"Why did you come back, really?" I asked.
"Mice in Ice and Donald Three Rats," he answered flatly, sipping his black sludge.
"I don't get it," I said. "Please explain yourself, Tinny."
"We are three... I am Donald Three Rats and Donald Three Rats is Tinny Peete and Tinny Peete is Mice in Ice... we are the three wise men."
"Go on! You don't say!"
What a radical concept, an amalgam of fictional characters that inhabit one brilliant mind. Only a brain of such wild and untapped imagination could conjure persons with true abandon and freedom.
"You're every ordinary man's hero," I stated.
"You're such a foolish girl," he winked. "But I like you, Patty-loo, because you write twisted cliterature that has no pretense to be literature and the Universe is made a better place of deeper truths because of it."
"How about you?" I asked of Tinny. "You mentioned a thesis. What was the title?"
"The Fly is a Revolutionary," replied Tinny. "It's a sad statement when the only true revolutionary left in the world is a common house fly."
One coffee turned into twenty, until Tinny's fingers vibrated madly and my head buzzed to such a tilted degree that I had difficulty focusing. I emptied my purse and gave Tinny what I money I had. To be permitted to partake in his adventures, in however a small form, I considered a gift. I wanted Tinny to continue his travels into the unknown Universe of graffiti and photography and unruly thought. I felt like a patron helping a rare genius to shine, to contribute something meaningful to the world.
"Will I see you again?" I asked, watching him sling his camera gear over his shoulder, preparing to leave me yet again.
"Instagram," he replied, short and sweet, without fanfare, without bright lights or cameras, without gum-smacking or bubbles, just the natural light of the glorious sun to illuminate a genuine spirit of simplicity and truth.
I waved goodbye to Tinny, wondering when next I would see him. My eye followed him, absorbing and remembering his gait, as he trundled off, to a new destination, as yet unknown. I realized Tinny had inadvertently imparted to me another life lesson on my sunny afternoon and it is this: mystery is found in the Universe in the most unlikely, ordinary people.
Until we meet again Tinny Peete...
The backside of Tinny glared like a still portrait of wise, old oak trees as his head was buried underneath a black cloth, draped entirely over his shoulders, hunched behind the lens of an antique camera. I saw one of these kinds of cameras many years ago when I was three years old, the kind that photographers used when photography was an art form dependent on the appreciation of beauty and not on the diabolical potential of marketing. But getting back to Tinny, and bumping into him, well I couldn't believe my luck. I stopped cold in my tracks, recognizing that diminutive backside, the now faded but still brazen tattoo in bold capital letters — CONTEMPLATE POST-COMMUNISM inked above his tail bone. I waited quietly, curtailing my heavy breathing because I had to walk up a sloping hill. Slowly, Tinny took his shot and pulled his head out from underneath the cloth. When he turned and looked at me, recognizing my crooked front teeth, we broke out into tears and joyous laughter, hugging each other. Yes, my friends, fate once again would have it that my path would not only cross with Tinny Peete but would collide in grandiose style.
"You returned!" I exclaimed to Tinny, clearly excited to see my wayward friend.
"Russia is the world's teacher," Tinny replied. "Though, admittedly, I'm a bit of a dirty dog who loves old tricks and allegedly I was accused of having engaged in some shenanigans with an ornery Dean and forthwith was kindly asked to leave the country."
Silly administrators, I thought.
Oh Tinny, my Tinny... there had to be more to his story. If Tinny was involved, there always had to be more to the story. I begged him to pack up his camera gear and to join me for a cup of joe at Tim Horton's, despite knowing Tinny detested conglomerates. Firstly, tho' I felt compelled to ask Tinny about his photographic subject matter, to which he said with a smile, "Graffiti of course my foolish friend."
Tiny pointed up high to one spot on the retaining wall, the wall that lead to the stairs, that lead to the entrance of the first tower. "When in Russia," he said, "I was invited to complete an honorary thesis at St. Pete's U, to which I gladly accepted and after giving of myself wholly and without reservation, I determined that the real truth of the human heartbeat could only be found on the walls of democratic countries."
A very curious statement, indeed, and to have occurred in a country like Russia. I surmised he was then inspired to give up his digital camera and to replace it with plates and emulsion film, chemicals and dark rooms. And I could easily visualize Tinny inside one of these rooms, alone, creating and destroying. It was a logical progression for my artist friend and world-traveling auteur. I bought Tinny a very large black coffee with no milk or cream or not even a hint of cinnamon, just plain black coffee because I remembered that he preferred the simple things in life. I was dying to ask him when and how he had returned. I held back as long as I could until I could no more wait for the truth.
"Why did you come back, really?" I asked.
"Mice in Ice and Donald Three Rats," he answered flatly, sipping his black sludge.
"I don't get it," I said. "Please explain yourself, Tinny."
"We are three... I am Donald Three Rats and Donald Three Rats is Tinny Peete and Tinny Peete is Mice in Ice... we are the three wise men."
"Go on! You don't say!"
What a radical concept, an amalgam of fictional characters that inhabit one brilliant mind. Only a brain of such wild and untapped imagination could conjure persons with true abandon and freedom.
"You're every ordinary man's hero," I stated.
"You're such a foolish girl," he winked. "But I like you, Patty-loo, because you write twisted cliterature that has no pretense to be literature and the Universe is made a better place of deeper truths because of it."
"How about you?" I asked of Tinny. "You mentioned a thesis. What was the title?"
"The Fly is a Revolutionary," replied Tinny. "It's a sad statement when the only true revolutionary left in the world is a common house fly."
One coffee turned into twenty, until Tinny's fingers vibrated madly and my head buzzed to such a tilted degree that I had difficulty focusing. I emptied my purse and gave Tinny what I money I had. To be permitted to partake in his adventures, in however a small form, I considered a gift. I wanted Tinny to continue his travels into the unknown Universe of graffiti and photography and unruly thought. I felt like a patron helping a rare genius to shine, to contribute something meaningful to the world.
"Will I see you again?" I asked, watching him sling his camera gear over his shoulder, preparing to leave me yet again.
"Instagram," he replied, short and sweet, without fanfare, without bright lights or cameras, without gum-smacking or bubbles, just the natural light of the glorious sun to illuminate a genuine spirit of simplicity and truth.
I waved goodbye to Tinny, wondering when next I would see him. My eye followed him, absorbing and remembering his gait, as he trundled off, to a new destination, as yet unknown. I realized Tinny had inadvertently imparted to me another life lesson on my sunny afternoon and it is this: mystery is found in the Universe in the most unlikely, ordinary people.
Until we meet again Tinny Peete...
