Dear reader, I must apologize profusely. The posts this week are a bit, erm, delayed. I was wracking my brain for excuses to offer up, and I think that blaming my new morning posting schedule is the way to go. Yeah, that’s gotta be it.

But I want you to know that it wasn’t just TCL that suffered; my place is a total sty and Ollie’s growing dreadlocks. Curse you, mornings!

At least I did manage to get out of doors a bit, get some fresh air, smell the manure. Coming from my flat, the Agricultural Winter Fair wasn’t a big stretch; felt kinda comfortable.

I have to say that I’m not a big fan of animals in cages, even when the cages are nicer. But I figure the animals are there anyway so why not at least show them a few moments of kindness. Besides, not all the animals are destined for my stomach. The milk goats, for example, seemed quite happy to be in contact with humanity. And only one button chewed off my coat!

Other animals were just there for their dramatic looks:

This year the Fair opened with a visit from the British Royals (guess that’s why it’s called the Royal Fair), but gainful employment once again prevented me from attending. Although I have those fond public-school-days memories of coming to the Fair on field trips, I was reluctant to go for any other reason than to see Canada’s royalty (we’re still technically a monarchy!) But those search lights they have on the Ricoh Coliseum gun turrets proved to be irresistible.

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I was the happy recipient of my first ever, bona fide media pass this weekend:

Yup, that’s my real last name. Kinda underwhelming, huh? And you wanna know the strangest thing? Never did the kids tease me with Patrick Gay when I was young. Nope, it was always, “So did you score a hat-trick, Patrick?” “Hells yeah, dumbass,” I’d reply in my best Czech-English hybrid, “everyone in my country plays hockey like stars. Don’t you?”

I remember being friends after that.

Sorry, I’m getting off track. The point was that I was invited to come see an exhibit as a rep of TCL. I went disguised as myself; totally got away with it! Neat :)

This time, security apologized to me for asking me not to take photos. “Oh, sorry, sir. Wish they’d make those tags bigger!” “Hehe, that’s okay. By the way, I need to speak to your superior regarding your atrocious behaviour, swine!”

The power. *shiver*

I would’ve been very interested to see this exhibit anyway, so getting an invite was like a cherry on the whipped cream. With my favourite dessert underneath. Alas, I received no remuneration, alcoholic beverages, or comely female accompaniment, so I feel my hosts could’ve done better in those areas. But good on the Science Centre for inviting a good cross-section of media, even the little guys. *sniff*

And I must say, it’s really nice to be able to share a few photos with you, dear reader, in a much more relaxed manner.

Yeah, not that relaxed. But close.

This was one of those things where I just needed to move slowly and take photos of everything; no rush. The exhibit was all about athletics. Or love. Or something. I think. There were lots of smaller bits in display cases interspersed throughout that provided close-up details of something or other, and always in full colour:

Those are real human body parts, dear reader. Preserved for a good long time through a process called plastination. To sum it up, the sliced-up body part is submerged in acetone which replaces the water in the cells. Under a vacuum, the acetone boils off while a polymer (plastic) gets sucked in.  The cell walls are basically filled in with plastic. Then they add soul-piercing eyes:

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I opened up my fridge today and all that came out were tumble weeds and cobwebs. Strange stuff to have in the fridge, huh?

But no food, which means I get to take a trip to St. Lawrence Market! I guess you can tell by the exclamation that I really dig the place.

It’s got that established old market feel to it, much like Kensington. But I think St. Lawrence is a bit older, and by my sharp eye, a bit bigger. Stores are packed closely together in the two-storey hall (plus one more on the north side of the street on weekends), which is great if you’re either lazy or it’s cold outside. Or both, really.

The north farmer’s market is awash in local produce this time of year. There are some genuine salt of the earth people there, trucking their stuff  in for a 5 a.m. opening on Saturday mornings. The people who sell vegetables have rough, calloused hands with dirt under the fingernails. Much of the food was still in the ground the night before. And if you fancy wild deer, maybe some fresh cottontail, they have that too. The guy’ll cleave you off a sample with his impressive hunting knife. No, blade. And he doesn’t seem to have a good grasp on reality, so it’s an experience.

On Sundays they sell antiques.

But I tend to relax into my weekends so I’ve not yet been able to hit the north market’s opening hours. In fact, by the time I get there, the place is usually packing up for the week. A couple of people are usually stuck inside with unsold product. I … cannot recommend purchasing any of it. It’s unsold for a reason. You see, all the sleepless geriatrics have picked through every mound by a quarter past five in the morning. By noon, you’re lucky if you get a bug-eaten twig that the label claims is basil while granny cackles over her gold at home. Bitch.

Luckily, the south market is more accustomed to my ilk:

And it’s all still local produce. Even in winter, greenhouses churn out fresh herbs and other potable plants and deliver here daily. It’s a great place to pick up a big bushel of basil for that comfortably fattening pesto. Without even any bugs on it!

Then there’s this place:

That guy made me buy a ridiculously expensive amount of Parmigiano Reggiano; he just kept slicing off sliver after sliver until I had to submit. YES, GODDAM IT! IT’S DELICIOUS! GIMME A HUNK, YOU BASTARD!

But then you sprinkle ample amounts of that over the fresh basil pesto, peppered with pine nuts, and tossed with minutes-old, hand-made pasta … and bastard is forgiven.

You can even come right at the end of the day and scour the “wundolla! wundolla! wundolla!” tables for bargains. At a buck a pop, it’s almost a crime not to pick up a radish or dozen. However, if you insist on paying full retail, the product is good right up until they start kicking people out:

There are also interesting things in the downstairs I haven’t seen anywhere else. Exotic flours for all those PBS cooking shows that call for them (I can have hobbies!), interesting seeds and grains, and a whole store dedicated just to honey. The Tasmanian Leatherwood is like candy, flowers, sunshine, and children’s laughter all dancing across my tongue. It’s really good.

Plus, there are plenty of places to stuff your gob with prepared food if fondling Rambutans isn’t your scene. And if the husband / wife isn’t spending enough time in the kitchen, there are ways to send subtle hints.

Just avoid the place on Saturdays because a) it’s packed with people and b) I’m one of those people and we don’t need one more body in the crowd to jam their shopping basket into my calf, thanks.

Her: “No photos of the artwork, but feel free to take pictures of the architecture. Just make sure no one’s in the photo otherwise you need to get their permission.”

Permission?

Me: “So, basically, no photos.”

Her: “Sure! Just have to be patient and make sure there are no people in your shot.”

Me: “Okey dokey.”

I don’t know why I bother. I mean, I try to be polite and respectful, but why I don’t I just clamp my butthole shut while I’m at it?

First, they made me check in my bag because it was oversize. K, I can dig it. But I was told I could take it in if I wore it around my waist, as another lady with “exactly the same bag” as mine had done.

The bag is a Lowepro SlingShot, one of those single over-the-shoulder deals that’s more or less a thick, rigid backpack. I couldn’t work out the logistics of wearing it around the waist, especially since it would stick out just as far any which way I maneuvered it. “I’ll carry it”, I offered, lowering the bag into a shy, reclusive position between my legs.

The answer was still no.

“Can I at least take my camera?”, I asked. “Of course!”, replied the smiling guard. He had been almost absurdly friendly the entire time and I don’t think I would’ve thought twice about leaving my bag behind, but then his partner showed up. I don’t think a smile had creased her thin lips in years. Crab-ola!

It was a few minutes later as I was entering into the main gallery of the AGO that I had a second conversation with another (and considerably friendlier), female attendant. That’s the first part of this post. I thought that maybe swapping the denials chronologically would make them seem less harsh.

Nope.

You can understand why I was starting to get a bit miffed, especially since just beyond the attendant, in the main lobby, a woman was chasing a guy in a Sasquatch suit snapping pictures randomly and yelling, “Stop, Sasquatch! Stop!” Strangely, he did, while the girl pushed her way through the crowd that had suddenly formed behind him. As soon as she was through, he lumbered off again past cowering, horrified children. Snappity snap McSnap all the way.

Not to mention the sign I found just around the corner. Visitors were advised that they may have their photos taken at any moment for use in promotional material. Only by actively approaching any guy or girl with a big lens and notifying them of your wishes would you be assured that this wouldn’t happen.

So I broke the rules. But after I had wandered a bit, I realized that, probably, that’s what was necessary in a place like this. Some unfettered appreciation. Do you think the artists would mind?

Like a digital reproduction could ever do it justice! I mean, you can actually commit a heinous crime and totally wreck some major artwork, that’s how close you’re allowed to get to it. And, to keep you interested, each new room is fronted by an outstanding piece from the collection:

Once inside, the pieces are respectfully spaced but I have to say, the signage s-u-c-k-s! They’ll have two paintings side by side, four labels next to each one, and one in between just for good measure. Halfway through the Impressionists, some young girl went to great lengths to embarrass herself to her friend as she described the flowing, smooth style of Gauguin in the painting in front of them. Wrong label. Wrong painting too.

But I shouldn’t be overly critical. There were a number of pieces on display that I didn’t particularly get but that had genuinely excited buzz around them:

Yup, there’s a lot of stuff to see; the Art Gallery is actually quite large. The piece that runs along Dundas is just for show; the building behind it is the actual gallery and it runs upward about five storeys via that crazy spiral staircase in the lobby. And it’s art all the way up; old, new, and stuff that I sat on.

I should probably take a bit of that back. I didn’t mean to imply that the part along Dundas is totally wasted:

The inside is genuinely impressive, but I still think the architect is a hack. I saw a documentary where he demonstrates his creative process: He’ll take a stiff card of cardboard, then crumple it (not too tightly), then flatten (not too much). Then point to it and say, “okay, now you guys build me that.” The team go sprinting out the door while Gehry leans back in his chair and takes a sip of his coffee. Hack-ola!

Ha! Listen to me go on like I paid for the experience or something! No, dear reader, Wednesday evenings are free. I think they probably have special exhibits that are off-limits to all us freeloaders, but since this was my first visit since the reno, it’ll be a while before I get bored.

In the meantime I’m going to work on getting my bag to wear like a fanny pack. I’ll show them!

It’s been a soggy couple of days in the city. When it wasn’t outright raining, a maritime mist kept everything slick, and the fog that followed ensured it stayed that way. I was starting to feel a bit under the clouds as I sat on the Dundas West streetcar, wondering what the heck I was going to write about today. See how much I care about you?

I was flipping around the idea of mentioning some of the outrageously asinine conversations I’ve been overhearing lately on the same route, but that was quickly dismissed when I spotted this thing:

A giant demi-sperm stuck to a wall; brilliant! At first I thought it might be an installation that spilled across the street from the AGO, but a mere two photos later, a goggle-headed face appeared from behind the glare in the window beckoning me in.

This actually happened some time back in March. I kept putting off writing about it until I completely forgot. Until today, that is.

I was schlepping groceries from Chinatown on my way home when I spotted the worm (called Nessie). Steve Mann’s get-up initially startled me, mostly because he looked like an extra from a Mad Max movie. But those dreamy eyes…

Without a second thought, I lept up those steps with bags, camera ‘n all, and parked myself in the middle of the space.

That’s Steve at the back there.

As you can see, the stuff inside is even more interesting than the halved spermatozoa stuck to the outside. The bathtub is actually being fitted to become a musical instrument called a Hydraulophone. Instead of blowing air through the pipes as you would with a standard instrument, this one uses water which vibrates various pipes, each of which is tuned to a produce a different frequency. In this case, the instrumentalist sits inside the tub, which is often done up for public appearances to look like a real bathing scene. Except here the lady sings and plays the tub. I know, I’m blushing too.

It’s an exact science and Professor Mann’s the man in the field. He does the Hydraulophone thing professionally, between stints as a teacher and a cyborg, I guess. I can barely hold down a job and a blog, so I have to respect the guy. He’s also got a permanent Hydraulphone exhibit in front of the Science Centre. I accidentally dropped one of Oliver’s  poops while disposing of them behind the building; it’s probably still there. Just doesn’t really compare somehow.

At least I managed to go the whole post without making any off-colour references about music being made by inserting fingers into wet holes. See how much I care about you?