We attend two concert-hall jazz shows and find ourselves surrounded by unmoving old fossils. We pick up a crummy wooden Quebecois coffee table that some Torontonian Craigslister suckers us into buying. We eat sandwiches at an old-fashioned deli that somehow has no Russian dressing anywhere on the premises — I end up mixing some up myself at the table with ketchup and mayo, stirring them together on a saucer like paint on a palette. (In retrospect: I may have had better luck had I asked for Thousand Island.) We purchase a new tea kettle, after discovering last week that our existing one has been secretly feeding us rust. We hit Fat Bob’s at like 10:30pm for a late dinner of ambrosial barbecued shredded hog. We buy vaguely sci-fi silverware. We are ushered into sleep by fine spirits and stupefying silent films.