…continued from previous part.

So have you discovered how your life would be like a living dream if only you could _____________? Excellent!

At this point, many success-seeking guides would jump right into planning. The silly bastards. Now is when one learns to rein in one’s expectations.

Step 2 – I Didn’t Realize It Would Suck This Much

That’s me holding still for 15 seconds. I think it’s fair to say it was cold that night. But, I told myself I had to do it. No not the pose – well, yes, a little bit – but mostly I was there for the sand and surf. The most desolate time of the winter – the starkest of beaches. Way cool. I was extremely happy to be able to grab a warm streetcar back home afterward, don’t get me wrong, but I feel like I really earned these photos. I took every shot 3 times just for good measure.

Perseverance is a must. Plus, you pick up a lot of new things along the way that can end up being very useful later on. For example, I discovered that pure, concentrated pool-strength chlorine ooze can feel like jelly when you walk on it. Except it’s not! It’s the soles of your feet!

Haha! No, seriously, that was my first summer job. Totally unqualified lifeguard at a Czech community centre. I have no idea why they even had a pool; it was on the far end of a good stretch of land, over a steep and rocky climb up the main driveway, which was attached to a very gently trafficked stretch of road that meandered lazily through the valley. The community centre owned the property bordering that road – big enough for a generous public park. The entire summer, I believe we had two, possibly three customers.

I say we because halfway through my stint the management decided to wise up and hire an actual lifeguard. Unfortunately, the slight Asian kid seemed to be afraid of water, and definitely wanted nothing to do with chlorine. He tried to help me add it to the pool once but only managed to spill it on the deck and onto aforementioned feet. He squealed as he dropped it. I’ll never forget that squeal. It’s burned into my memory.

But I should stress that, having witnessed previous similar performances, I kept my expectations of him low and kept near to the water’s edge just in case. Which turned out to be exactly the right thing to do. So back to the topic at hand, if you kind of expect that things might suck a little, that’ll cushion the blow if they actually do. And if they don’t … g r e a t !

I followed the pool job with a jab at slinging hot dogs at Exhibition Stadium. I wasn’t expecting miracles. Nope. Caribana ended up being a total bust. I ended up thirty bucks in the hole — we bought from the people who ran the concessions and sold at a markup to the crowd, if we could sell it. We got an hourly pay but since most events lasted only one to two hours, and after deductions, that was just enough to buy a beer on the way home. I don’t remember if I was old enough to drink yet. Regardless, it was mostly to keep the business legit, not how we got paid.

… Continue Reading

This week, dear reader, I’m afraid we’re going to have to trek rather briskly to get to our final destination. You see, despite some rather tacit posts around here lately, I haven’t spent all the time sitting on my ass. I once again ended up with a glut of photos that at first didn’t seem to want to go anywhere. Woodbine Beach on a chilly winter night (with a slight detour along Gerrard Street), a sunny afternoon at the University of Toronto campus, and an equally cheery stroll around Yorkville; what the hell am I supposed to do with that?

I mean, it was nice to get outside and do some walking around, but the connections were, unfortunately, not revealing themselves. It left me feeling constipated. Until I sat down to enjoy some quality time on my gleaming ceramic throne. C’mon, you know full well that you do your best thinking in there too, admit it! (Okay, shower is a valid option as well – close second, but still.)

Well, you know, at times like those (“ceramic visions”, I call them), I get to thinking about the circle of life. The distance — theologically, spiritually, physically, and metaphysically — that the meal has gone, for example.

Right.

But it suddenly struck me that these pictures kinda remind me of how I arrived at my own station in life, or, “The Three Easy Steps to Ultimate Success”

When this goes into print, the comments will go on the jacket and in the foreword. ;)
When it’s an abject failure, I can point fingers. ;)

Step 1 – Get All Deep And Introspective (or at least fake it)

It’s good to take stock of what one enjoys in life. I kinda stumbled into what I’m doing today but the roots run pretty cleanly back to the early nineties. Ah, the nineties, KRS One was boogieing down, my now-ex had completed planning the first diabolical stage in my downfall (I didn’t even know her yet!), and I was lugging a heavy backpack and being propositioned by unsavoury gentlemen in Morningside Park on my way to be with my beloved computers at West Hill C.I. (collegiate institute = high school – don’t ask, don’t know). And the other classes too, I guess. Oh, and I had a few friends – outcasts. I know, everyone says that. But I really think we were.

One of my friends showed up at my house freaking out that his dad was gonna kill him. Ended up, that didn’t happen :) I’m not sure exactly what it was, but I think the family was connected to bikers, and this was more-or-less a regular drunken ritual when dad rolled in. They sure looked like bikers. Definitely the other side of the tracks.

My other friend threw a murder mystery game at his house. We all came dressed in costumes. I was a gender-neutral doctor (the invite didn’t specify!).

I don’t mean to imply he was gay. No, not that I know of, he was just somewhat eccentric in that Alfred Hitchcock or Orson Welles sort of way. If you get my meaning.

For some reason, I always imagined meeting K. at some time as an arch nemesis. It’s only fitting that we’d have been childhood friends; I could see him receding into the bitter shadows of the world and, after years of silent toil in the darkness, emerging and revealing some sort of terrifying new weapon with which to obliterate the masses. Unless his demands are met. Send in Agent Patrick.

As cool as that would be, I sincerely hope life’s treated him kindly.

… Continue Reading

Allow me to take you on a linguistic journey unlike any other you’ve ever experienced, dear reader. This one is broad-spectrum dazzle machine, from the choice to capitalize final letterS on arbitrary words, to the repeated insistence that this all happened in real life. You know what? Before I prejudice you too much, have a gander for yourself:

The fuzzy part in the corner I had to destroy – Ron put his date of birth and social insurance number on there. Presumably to assure everyone in the public that he’s the real deal. Identity theft is so easy these days. Of course, perhaps you might not want to steal that identity; Ron doesn’t sound like a social climber.

Now I do want to go on record as saying that one’s family should never Robe one, especially not in real life. I might’ve even tossed Ron a quarter, or whatever it was he was asking for. Or .. did he want me to … disRobe him? Haha! No can do, Ron-o!

But where was our Mr. Loeman? One of his competitors came by blurting out, “…whore…holy shit! What the hell is that?!”, pointing at the placard. The drenched-in-urine smell that wafted around the corner with him snapped be back to my senses – you have to admit, the poster is quite mesmerizing. Sucks you in with it’s particular meter and tone. “I Trying To have them Chared in real life…” – haunting, melodic. Tragic (what with the charring and the whatnot).

But I suddenly noted that no one was hanging around the sign. No sign of Doug anywhere.

Guess he’s just trying to get his message out.

So here you go, Ron. Just keep your Robes on and your nose outta trouble. I’m sure it’ll work out in the end.

But what am I supposed to do with your SIN and DOB?

…continued from previous part.

There are a few other things about Honest Ed’s that I find mirrored in Toronto. Probably the most prominent is a fairly deep-rooted sense of history. Okay, I know, it’s no European or Asian history, but it’s a minor miracle that some of this stuff has survived over a hundred years. Some more than that. The weather’s not kind to any structure — frozen water in cracks can split boulders — so I find it kind of impressive that one of the gargoyles on Old City Hall hasn’t crushed anyone yet. Honest Ed’s wears its age in the same way — proud and stalwart.

And I know I’ve mentioned it before, but I think it’s fantastic how many new buildings are being constructed on, outside, or inside new structures. There’s no point in keeping a rotting building standing, but that doesn’t mean something can’t be salvaged. And parking lots, raze and raise anew, that’s a no-brainer. In fact, a well-planned building can significantly increase public parking simply through increased vertical space. Assuming you’d need to drive.

I actually laughed when I read through the whole article in the next photo. I included it extra-large so that you can read it for yourself, dear reader. I hope — I didn’t want to make it too big. The gist of it is, why can’t the queen do something more interesting while she’s in Canada. Among the suggestions of gently ageing attractions is, of course, Honest Ed’s. Honest Ed’s is, in fact, mentioned exactly twice: once in the headline, and once in very much the same phrasing, context, and spirit as the headline, at the bottom of the first paragraph.

It’s as pawing and inoffensive (i.e. saying as little as possible), as cheese gets, kinda like Céline Dion (on behalf of all Canadians, I’m deeply sorry). Yet, despite the awful awful writing and pointless drivel (Gary Lautens’ way of saying “I just don’t care anymore”), Ed decided to blow it up, frame it, and stick it front-and-center on his store. It doesn’t say Honest Ed’s is a cheap-hound’s humping leg (note: *woof!*). Nor does it it insinuate that Ed Mirvish may have been unbelievably high on LSD for most of his adult life (note: I’m willing to start this rumour if you are – I think it’ll fly).

In fact, nothing provocative is said about the store at all except that, on average, the writer thinks you’ll spend about half an hour there. And I dunno about you but that provokes nothing in me. Maybe, yeah, I guess I spend half an hour in there? Maybe more? Ooh, sizzling controversy!

And this, writing about a guy who really didn’t keep much in.

What I find both funny and revealing about this is that the strangest people get a voice in this city. Sometimes we call these people special-interest groups – which they obviously are – or loud kooks, or in this case I can’t help but get the feeling that Ed and Gary were chums.

So it’s kind of nice that I can wander on down to the corner and start screaming whatever I damn well please. Or pretty much. Also, even though I most certainly reserve the unmitigated right to continue to be arbitrarily critical, I do like the fact that  ridiculous stuff is getting a hearing. In fact, it almost forces a reply!

Same goes for scandal. Okay, I won’t defend it – of course not; but the fact that we’re hearing about it means that it’s getting uncovered. And sometimes TCL benefits.

Okay, I know that the connection between this version of things and Honest Ed’s is a bit tenuous. But nonetheless true – I saw things differently that day. I’ve considered the possibility that it was just because I’d recently accepted a new job, or because I happened to be a little pickled, and I’ll cede that both are likely to have played a large role. But something stayed with me even to this day. Ed took me to school  (from beyond the grave!)

Really decent prices too.

I came in to work today at about nine fifty. I admit, that’s a bit of a record for me, but that would’ve been a no-no in the past. It’s not that I’m there to do any less work, it’s just that my brain isn’t really engaged at that point in the morning — I work better later in the day. Caffeine really isn’t doing it for me anymore; the brain is still a slug even though the body’s on the move. Taking her out for a spin like that, that’s just reckless.

But I was one of the first few people in the office. Wow.  Different time schedule. I feel like a bit of a brownnoser right now. Totally unintended though, I swear. But still. Wow.

It’s the past that allows us to cherish moments such as these. The past, who recently requested that I fork over the difference for the “overpayment” on my final paycheque. In fact, I got paid less than usual. I expected less, but I most certainly didn’t get more. *sigh* Why can’t the past just go to hell already?

I’ll tell you why – it’s the battle scars we have to bear with us. Mementos to remind us that comparisons may indeed be made. And of course, nothing’s perfect, but one must also be sure to look around and note one’s blessings. Like not walking away with a chafed anus every day. That’s a nice feeling.

And being reminded of the past is instrumental in helping judge not only present but also future prospects. Take Adam “Jammie-Jams” Giambrone; the baby-faced newcomer to the Toronto mayoral race. I didn’t think it was possible to demonstrate that he has any less personality, but Jammers just turned that assumption on its ear. Here’s Jammie-Jam’s announcement he was going to run:

He’s well known for entering politics at a very young age. See? That’s what happens when you do it too young. You end up a humourless log. For a young guy, you think he’d be able to pull a little charm out of his ass, but it seems he’s plum out.

Poor kid. He even foreshadowed his own downfall at his own I’m-loud-and-I’m-proud event:

I like when he talks about learning lessons from the past to build the city of the future. Holy cow! Wasn’t it, like, just yesterday that another kooky decision by the TTC was uncovered? The one about the buses that have to sit idling outside because some Swedish-made system to keep them warm and ready doesn’t operate well in extremely cold temperatures. (GAH! Isn’t that exactly when it needs to work well?!) I only mention this because it could be any one of the dozens of boondoggles and genuine fuck-ups that Jammers is responsible for. He does, after all, run the TTC.

Wow, I mean, if by some miracle Jammie should get elected, that would necessitate me having to redraw my plans for the future. To something more apocalypsy. I’m sure it won’t happen, but let’s just make sure by not forgetting yesterday’s decimated fields of dreams. Trampled on by Jam-master Giambronay. And when I say yesterday, I mean literally yesterday.

Damn, my anus hasn’t even begun to heal yet. Have they no shame?!

…continued from previous part.

The reason that Honest Ed’s is kid-safe is because of all the nooks and crannies that the little hellions can occupy themselves in. The place is chock-a-block with weird props from all the retired Mirvish shows, plus a bunch of other stuff that Ed collected over the years. Most of it just lying around. At one moment you’re staring into a fun-house mirror, the next you’re enjoying the thrilling rape of Persephone by Hades (bringing us joyous winter every year). Right next to the dirt-cheap sweat pants.

The valuable stuff is all cordoned off with lazily hung caution tape; basically a wishful suggestion. And if you wander around long enough, you get into parts of the store where even the yellow tape is absent. Maybe the stuff is for sale, but he price seems a bit steep for most of Honest Ed’s regulars.

I don’t want to give anyone any ideas but … c’mon! Isn’t this just asking to be robbed?! What kind of an effort would you have to make? Even if you wanted to play Mission Impossible, that ceiling wouldn’t really pose much of a challenge, would it? It would be a really uneventful mission, totally possible. You’d be sorry you bought all that fancy equipment; probably coulda just waltzed in off the street and strolled back out with a 19th century Thai shrine and a few reasonably-priced stainless steel pots.

… Continue Reading

I had a city-sized epiphany yesterday, and if you’ll grant me a moment of your time, dear reader, I’d like to share it with you. In a few parts. Okay, it was a bit of a tipsy revelation, also part of the reason I’m writing about it today.

It all began with my trip to Honest Ed’s.

Actually, it’d begun earlier in the day when I’d met a long-ago co-worker suddenly turned neighbour — a conversation that self-destructed after we’d conducted it ;) ;) – and ended with drinks and friends somewhere on the west end. Well, technically it ended with me flipping through sickeningly unsteady photos, but that’s neither here nor there.

But I’m pretty sure Honest Ed Mirvish’s disturbed vision had a big role to play in the tone of my thoughts, and so contributed to the epiphany I was about to have in a very big way.

I’m not even sure how to begin describing the place. To try is like trying to squeeze one of those morbidly obese guys — the ones with cowboy hats and aviator glasses and locomoting about on struggling motor scooters — into a standard-size kitchen disposal bag. Ba-tam! Can’t be done.

So this won’t be easy, and definitely not complete, but it’s a start.

Well, I guess the most obvious feature is that Ed’s is the granddaddy of all cheapie stores.

The prices are really really good. And, considering how much you’re plunking down for a set of PJs, you can usually expect pretty good value for the money. Better than disposable, one-use sleeping attire, were I forced to quantify it.

However, that “cheap” tag is really wholly inadequate. I trust that if you’ve been, dear reader, you’d agree. For starters, each and every sign is hand-painted. That’s quite a feat considering the amount of product they carry.

Then there’s the wall-to-wall kitsch.

Most of it is actually left over from the multitudes of productions that the Mirvish family have lavished on Toronto over the years. Most of those are equally kitschy, for-the-masses spectacles. Not my flavour, but maybe I haven’t given them a fair shake. Lots of people swear by them. That’s entertainment!

The walls of the double-jointed store (the alley between is integral to the experience), are littered with the famous names that have been in a Mirvish show, or that have personally shaken Ed’s hand. I couldn’t tell you who a lot of the people are, but they seem like a generally classy lot. Lotsa Brylcreem going on there, seems respectably dandy.

However, if that was all to this store, I really don’t think I’d be able to recommend bringing the kids along. Or a heist crew.

Please allow me to elaborate, dear reader.

Continued in next part…

It’s done, dear reader!

I’ve signed on the dotted line and am now the proud new Senior Flash Developer at Henderson Bas, a downtown ad agency with a bunch of famous clients and awards coming out the wazoo. I normally wouldn’t mention their name but, being so out there, I don’t think they’re averse to being discussed. I’ll just have to refrain from talking too much smack.

The contract was a gargantuan tome, one of the largest volumes I’d ever encountered. A whole adult tree made up just the non-disclosure agreement alone, the rest had to be delivered by freight train. So it’s pretty thorough. I’m fairly certain I’ll have to relinquish my spleen upon termination, but that’s a pretty standard clause. Otherwise, I’ll be slapping stuff together for HB come Monday; incidentally also my birthday (I know, right?)

In the same way that I won’t talk smack about HB, I’m not going to go into the gruesome details of why I left my current position. Let’s just say that there were some … issues.

… Continue Reading

Do people even know what the word racism means anymore? I’m not suggesting racism doesn’t exist, and I’ve experienced my fair share of bigotry (on the receiving end too), but the term has become so distorted that at times it’s almost meaningless.

From Taxi News:

[Addai] said racialization is defined in the Human Rights Code as, in addition to physical features, characteristics of people that are commonly racialized, including: accent or manner of speech, name, clothing and grooming, diet, beliefs and practices, leisure preferences, places of origin and citizenship.

“In one way or another, I would say that segments of this Code apply to everyone in this room,” he stated.

Point in case: consider the recent Star article about taxi licensing in Toronto. It begins with a rather miffed-looking Asafo Addai claiming that City Hall imposes a racist policy through two-tier licensing for cabbies. He’s so miffed, in fact, that he’s taking it before the Human Rights Tribunal, accusing the city of systemic discrimination against minorities and newcomers. The words racism and racialism are tossed around like so much wilted salad.

What’s got Asafo in a huff is the “Ambassador” license that the city issues to all new cabbies. These require the driver to solely own and operate their vehicle, unlike the older “standard” license that allows cars to be rented out and ownership to be transferred. Obviously this severely limits the driver’s ability to make extra income and, with the cost of buying existing standard plates running in the quarter-million range (yup, $250,000), it’s usually not an option.  Sure, I can understand why he’d be upset about this, and I’d definitely support changing it. And Asafo’s claim that this is, “inhibiting a group of people from ascending”, is absolutely correct if you ask me.

But what group of people? Is Asafo suggesting that only black folk drive cabs? Or just immigrants? Or people with argyle socks and dollar-store slacks? I can tell you with absolute certainty that that’s not true.

As a teenager I tried to join the police force but because of affirmative action, got the hand in the face, being told unapologetically it was because I was white. In hindsight it’s better I didn’t become a copper, and even though I didn’t like it, I ultimately understood the reasoning behind the hiring practices. But I know what it feels like to be denied something for no other reason than being a certain colour.

That’s really my whole issue with people bandying around the term “racism”. When individuals like Asafo play the race card, they’re actually doing a great disservice to real complaints of bigotry, injustice, and disparity. In fact, Asafo is the one making (or trying to make), a distinction based on race (or ethnicity, or income, or source of slacks, etc.); everyone else in the same boat as him are just people — white, black, and every other colour that can fit into the driver’s seat of a cab. Between Asafo and me, I’d say I came a lot closer to blatant systemic racism. (And I wouldn’t really call that racism.)

The other problem with Mr. Addai’s assertion is the fact that Toronto currently only issues one type of taxi licence, not two. The Ambassador program started in the late nineties specifically to address the problem of inequality — the other type of license was discontinued at that point (still exists, just not being issued). It doesn’t matter what colour your skin is, how much money you have, or even how nice your smile is, the Ambassador license is the only one you can get. No one’s picking on Asafo because of his race, his place of birth, his age, his weight, etc. — he’s getting the shaft just like all his cabbie brethren and sistren. Just because most of them happen to be immigrants doesn’t make it racism.

And saying that racialism is some random mix of attributes that varies from person to person — that’s just dumb.

By the way, did you know that Toronto has a monthly newspaper dedicated to the local taxi industry? Neither did I, until I found a copy in the disheveled racks at Metro Hall. That’s where I discovered that silly excerpt at the top of this post. It doesn’t seem like the most upbeat publication around town, but then again, being a cabbie doesn’t sound terribly glamorous either.

What’s the shortest distance between two points?

“How would you answer that?”

What a good sport.

Katrina waited for me for probably, oh I dunno, forty-five minutes at a Starbucks location that repeatedly failed to register in my mind. Oh no, she said it quite clearly, it just seemed to ooze right out of my ear the moment I heard it.

I spent about thirty minutes waiting at a nearby location and then, after a brief phone conversation, hastily made my way to another completely incorrect one. Sheepishly, I repeated this process once more. Not that that helped any. I thought better of re-confirming at the third wrong coffee shop I’d hit, choosing instead to try my memory. It’d been a while.

But, as I mentioned, Katrina’s a good sport. I found her at the back of Starbucks with nary a sign that the effrontery she’d just been subjected to had affected her. Just a nice smile and a warm handshake.

Destiny: bitch or what?

“I flip-flop whether or not I believe in destiny. Some days it feels like there’s not and then other times it feels like it had to be destiny. [I lean toward] making your own destiny, I don’t think things just happen.”

I pulled out my little digital audio recorder and asked if she was okay with it. I had to hope she was, you know, given the track record up until then. Without that little wonderful device, I wouldn’t be able to write what you’re reading now. It’d be something more like: yeah, so I met this local artist name, urm, Cat — something. Except not spelled that way, I think. Oh yeah, and she’s a shaman.

But thanks to modern gadgetry, I can actually call myself a liar on the spot. “Katrina” would’ve been close, but the “Schaman” part is the family name, and pronounced shaw-mn besides. And I got the distinct impression that Katrina’s folks are most likely not practicing shamans either, despite all appearances.

Jesus Christ, overrated?

“I would have to say no, or my mother would murder me. I’ll say underrated.”

I’m referring to Katrina’s art, of course; it’s wholly organic in the same way that a peyote button is (though I think the word psychedelic doesn’t do the work  justice). Deeper into the conversation, Katrina explained to me how her consciousness intrudes onto the canvas in a way that can be disastrous.

“One decision can ruin the entire painting.” When the painting starts with a predefined form, she says, it runs the risk of becoming stale. But when it starts with some abstract swooping arcs, a more dynamic (yet oddly recognizable) image emerges naturally. And those are my words — “I start off abstract…”, are hers. “I used to take a piece of paper, draw exactly what I wanted to paint, and then I’d transfer that drawing onto the painting. It was almost like a paint-by-number at that point … it got really stressful.”

I studied design exactly 0 years. I mean, I’ve read some library books and pored over the pretty pictures, so I kinda feel I know what looks good, but I couldn’t tell you much more than that. But I was pretty sure that Katrina’s paintings weren’t done by an amateur, for whatever that’s worth. The lines are bold and sure, and it doesn’t feel like a square inch of canvas is wasted.

Fashion is for people who don’t know anything about technology. Discuss.

“I wouldn’t say that’s true. In certain ways, technology is fashion; or technology is the fashion for people who don’t like typical fashion.”

And I was right! Katrina had studied fine art at Queen’s. And in case you were thinking her some bohemian layabout with an education, I ask you to consider how readily she made a side journey to digital with Adobe Flash (I guess you already know how I feel about that), and web design – both pretty technically inclined. She’s also produced a number of other pieces, most notably a vibrant children’s book that incorporates her paintings as fills for the illustrations. I know she’s proud of it, but I think it’s fair to say that for Katrina, painting’s really where it’s at.

The choice of the acrylic medium is a mostly practical choice. As Katrina aptly explains, “I can paint a layer, go to the washroom , make a sandwich, come back, and it’s completely dry.” With oil, that wouldn’t be possible. Hard to argue with. And the size of the canvas, that’s mostly market-driven. She and I both agree that we’d rather have giant spectacles on our walls, but at a minimum of thirty-six hours at the canvas, smaller seems to be the going trend.

If you had a hammer, what would you do with it?

“I’d probably break all the junk in my house that I needed to throw out but that was too big to fit into the garbage chute.”

In retrospect I feel kinda funny about asking Katrina about her inspirations; it’s a little like asking who she’s trying to emulate. But luckily we never had to broach that subject as she gently walked around the who of the question: “Generally, if I see something that I like the colours of, or I’ll see something I like the composition of, I’ll try to work that into a painting.”

Yup, she came across a smart cookie. And even though I kept her waiting for that long, and despite running on only a few hours of sleep, she was a still a gracious question-answerer. And, again, take it for what it’s worth but I happen to think she has mad skillz.

A few of her pieces are exemplifying how living spaces could look at the Interior Design Show, and she also has a few tentative dates at various galleries around town (I’ll post details when I get ’em). But if you can’t make it or, like me, are surgically attached to your couch, there’s always Katrina’s web site. Even if you can’t quite see what she sees on the canvas, chances are good that you’ll enjoy what you’re looking at.