July 9th, 2009
Life
This morning, as I planned this post, it was going to be titled “Life is Good”, because:
1) the Joyland Joyathon last night was so amazing and fun and funny and well-attended by awesome people (most of the pictures turned out terrible, due to failures of both technology and technician [though they are still available on Facebook, if you feel the need], but here’s a decent one of Brian Joseph Davis and Emily Schultz kicking off the festivities:
2) I’m heading to pretty Kingston for the weekend.
So, yes, life is good, but it’s also life, and we struggle to keep up as best we can. Onward. I’ll be back in a couple days, with tales of jails and ghosts and Greek food, we hope.
I’ve been an irresponsible son
RR
July 2nd, 2009
Culture Clash
Strangely, this year the Toronto Fringe Festival runs from July 1 to 12, while the Scream Literary Festival will run July 2 to 13. Strange because these are both such amazingly awesome weirdy cultural events that appeal to so many of the very same people (both as attendees and likely as volunteers) that you’d think they wouldn’t want to compete. But who knows, in the world of schedules and venues, what hardships these two teams suffered from, so all we can do is thank our stars we at least have 2 weeks to jam in as much as we can.
If you held a gun/dayplanner to my head, I’d have to come out for lit over theatre, so I’ll be hoping to see you at Stet: Redacting the Redacted, the Joyland Joyathon (well, I’m participating in that!), and of course the big mainstage reading on July 13. But there should be world enough and time to sneak in at least 36 Plays about Hopeless Girls, if not a couple others.
Really, when you have to complain about having too many alternatives for fun, you are really scraping the bottom of the complain barrel. Oh, Toronto, you rule my heart!
Our home and native land
RR
June 15th, 2009
Nice places to read
It’s Toronto-only, plus there’s a definite centre-North skew here, but I thought I’d get it started and hope that others would chip in…anyone?
–Third floor library, window seat (feet on radiator), Hart House, University of Toronto.
–Tiny parkette (three benches plus tree; possibly owned by apartment building), Shepherd just east of Yonge, north side; on benches only (no grass).
—Tequila Bookroom rooftop patio (or anywhere else in that restaurant, really).
—Swiss Chalet, any. Bustling enough that one conversation doesn’t take over, friendly yet impersonal, and you can stay for hours without a murmur from staff. Especially good if you *have* to read something for work or school.
–Front Street median, just in front of Union Station. Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it, but probably not good for serious Proustian reads, either.
—Queen’s Park, northern edge (above Parliament), lying on grass under trees. Benches available but pointless; grass is best.
—Starbucks on Yonge just south of Lawrence, west side. Some people hate Starbucks, I know, but if you don’t, this is the best one, in my opinion. Leather chair by the fireplace (!) is big enough for me plus laptop, notes, several books, plus (sealed) cup.
–Departures lounge, Pearson Airport. Again, bustle drowns out individual conversations, plus Zen feeling of adventure-about-to-begin makes for good reading headspace. Chairs reasonably confortable, floor not bad.
–Desks near children’s area, Northern District Library. Window seats are better for heavy reading, couchs near entry good also (but if you put your feet anywhere near the [vinyl!] upholstry, you risk humiliating reprimand).
–As far from computers as possible, Sanderson Library. Outside the library works too, in a pinch (this is the noisiest library ever; I find that inspiring).
—Futures Bakery patio. Indoors is a bit dark and, I find, slightly damp, but certainly congenial enough on rainy/winter days.
–Grass or benches by Philosopher’s Walk. Benches: any; grass: especially on the east side.
–The 34 bus. Any window seat behind the back doors, particularly the second row on the right.
–The blue chair under my living room window, curled up in a ball. Special permission needed for this one.
Then the bridge disappears / and I’m standing on air
RR
January 18th, 2009
TTC Tribute
It’s hard to believe that the Ottawa Transit Strike is still ongoing, making everyday tasks a nightmare for so much of the population. In Toronto, transit strikes and strike threats are grounds for quick action and, indeed, panic, and I don’t see why that shouldn’t be the case everywhere.
I am grateful (almost) every day to live in a city with a more or less wonderful transit system, to be able to go wherever I want to go without a favour, an insurance policy or thousands of dollars of investment in motor vehicle. This was revelatory when I first moved to a big city, and I’m still mildly shocked that I could, if I put enough thought into it, go to the airport or the zoo at 2am on a Thursday without telling anyone or even being conscious en route, all for $2.75. This should be a basic right of city citizens everywhere, and it’s worth getting upset that the citizens in Ottawa now lack those freedoms.
When it’s awful and slushy and cold, it’s about as easy for transit-takers to get around town as when it’s pleasant–not so for car commuters. But certainly, life is less easy for those who operate the vehicles, so between the weather and the sitch in Ottawa, it seems a good time to pay tribute to a random sampling of TTC awesomeness:
–drivers who stop when they see people running
— drivers who give directions, and call you up to the front just before your stop
–drivers who patiently hear out people who don’t make sense and don’t know where they are going, but are very very angry about it
–drivers who smile/make eye-contact/make jokes/just say hi whilst they are navigating through sleet and rush-hour and some woman is screaming about someone stepping on her toe
The TTC often brings out the worst in people, granted, just as being smushed up against strangers often will no matter where you are, but it occasionally brings out some loveliness from strangers I would not encounter otherwise. Life this:
–the man who chased me *off* the bus last night to give me back my forgotten gloves
–the glee with which people leap to give their seats to pregnant ladies and people with canes and crutches (sadly, such a polite city is Toronto is that this does not happen with the elderly, for fear of giving offense to someone who doesn’t consider him/herself elderly. You’d have to be about 150 to get more than a tentative tap and half-thigh raise and questioning shrug.)
–when someone compliments me on my reading material
–when Kerry was trying to explain something to me about a George Michael song opening and I was too dumb to remember the bit, so she sang it, the two old ladies next to her beamed (Kerry has a very good voice).
And now for a list of my very favourite bus and subway routes:
Toronto–7 Bathurst, 25D Don Mills (I never went beyond Steeles, I just like the D), 86 Sheppard (Zoo bus!), 99 Arrow Road, 510 Spadina Streetcar, 352 Lawrence West night bus, and special category prize goes to 122 Graydon Hall, which is technically an awful irregular bus that disappears for half an hour in the least rain, but I love it because I met so many good people whilst cursing it.
Montreal–On STCUM (yes, I know it’s not called that anymore, but that’s really too bad) I particularly enjoyed the 24 Sherbrooke, 80 Parc, and of course the blue line of the Metro.
New York–On the MTA, the A Train seemed particularly nice. I fell asleep on the F Train, which probably indicates a high comfort level.
Boston–To be honest, I never knew what I was doing on the MBTA, but I always got where I was going on those funny about-the-rails tracks, so let’s count it all as a win.
Tokyo–Not there yet, but oh my goodness, how sexy!!!
Soldier on, Ottawa. We transit-takers stand (and ride) with you in our hearts!
My heart only works
RR
November 14th, 2008
Toronto is so nice
I have ever been aware of this. The first time I apartment-hunted here, strangers on the streetcar practically collapsed trying to talk me out of living in what they thought were bad neighbourhoods (this story ends with me and my friends in a police stations with several cops trying not to snicker as they cross things off my list). It’s not *exactly* been smooth sailing ever since, but certainly enough random acts of umbrella-sharing, lost-item-finding, and smile-giving have followed my progress here that I hold the whole town in high esteem.
Nevertheless, it is particularly nice when friends come from afar and the city shows itself off to best effect. And not just the museums and galleries, the zoo (oh, the gorillas, oh the leopard babies!!) and the restaurants. TTC, York Region Transit, shop clerks and strangers in the street, dogs on the street–A+ Toronto. Of course, it does help that the friends who visited are pretty amazing, also. A+ Winnipeg, also.
Anyway, so I’ve been gallivanting all week, which is the reason why that blog-everyday-in-November challenge that I was sort of unofficially doing is now no more. Oh well, we’ll pick up where we left off.
The next writerly reading I’m doing is in Windsor, so perhaps I will find a new city to love. I’ve never been to Windsor, but I hear it is far away, so I’m not sure how many Rose-coloured readers can make it. If you can, or just are curious, it’s here:
Thursday, November 27th
Mark Anthony Jarman, Heather Birrell, Russell Smith, Rebecca Rosenblum at a Salon des Refuses event
Art Gallery of Windsor / 401 Riverside Dr. W.
7:00 pm
And since this entry is already pretty random, one more thing: Journey Prize Stories 20 is out now, and looks gorgeous. I haven’t read any of the stories yet except for the already-beloved “Some Light Down” by S. Kennedy Sobol, but if that’s the standard set here, this is a must-read.
It’s not what you say
RR
August 24th, 2008
On the weekend (an epic photo essay)
There was a journey to Rexdale.
Then Blogger freaked out and wouldn’t let me show the rest of the pictures. But trust me, it *was* epic. You wouldn’t believe how far you can go and still be in Toronto. That’s what I love about Toronto. You wouldn’t believe how thrilling imported sodas (Ting! Faygo!) can be! I tried on the world’s sluttiest dress, and leggings that came down over my toes. I bought a quarter pound of balloons! Good times, my friends, good times.
Don’t wanna see it on my windowsill
RR
April 14th, 2008
Compassion
I have extremely weak eyes. Aside from being some godawful prescription that renders me unable to go to the beach with people whose hands I feel uncomfortable asking to hold, my eyes also water at almost anything. Pepper, bright reflections, laughter: all render me teary. Wind is the worst–it totally reproduces the effects of tragedy on me. In addition to streaming tears, wind actually turns my eyes red; even the edges of my nose. If I have to walk very far on a windy day, I look like my heart is broken.
Which never used to matter, until I became a pedestrian in chill and populous cities. Now long walks are one of my principal means of locomotion, and I can’t stay home because it’s gusty. Thus, I find myself the recipient of many compassionate stares as I stroll through Toronto, bouncing to my iPod, carrying my groceries, looking like I’m about to throw myself on the casket. People offer tight-lipped smiles, encouraging nods, nervous stares. Bus drivers look horrified, possibly worried I will look to them as authority figures to solve whatever problem I am having (many, it seems, do).
I can’t explain, because no one ever asks. Not once in all my watery years in Toronto has anyone asked the question I see itching behind their own eyes: “Are you ok?” Compassionate people, Torontonians, but even compassion has its limits.
A little boy under a table with cake is his hair
RR
May 28th, 2007
Mid-year review and world report
I usually take the opportunity of my approximately mid-year birthday to look over my new year’s resolutions and see which are proceeding apace, which I’m falling down on, and which were actually stupid ideas. I’ll spare you the itemized list, but it seems I’m basically doing ok, except for the fact that I resolved to spend an hour a week (not much!) on current events. Anybody seen me do that? Um, no.
This is pathetic, obviously. There’s such a thing as a daily newspaper, and it’s not just for fish. I’ll read a six-hundred page novel, but if it’s real, something in my brain just quiets down. This is not an attractive quality, I know.
You, Rose-coloured readers, are encouraged to encourage me, but I am going to take responsibility for this irresponsibility as a global citizen. I’m off to CBC.ca after this report, I swear.
In other news, my weekend was made up of the sort frivolity that regularly distracts me from the serious issues of the day. In other words, it was a really nice weekend. Hanging out in my new (rose-coloured) swimsuit with the gang at a summer bbq, seeing the inner workings and sanctums of Coachhouse Books at Doors Open Toronto, eating Italian food, encouraging my thriving students (those little whippersnappers are *so smart*) and having good conversations near and far. Needless to say, I got little work done, which is bad, but when the sun is shining and life is so entertaining, it’s hard to care.
It’s the pause that refreshes / in the corridors of power
RR
May 25th, 2007
Summerish variety pack
Summer is coming on in Toronto, which means many places are refrigerated inside. This morning, I left the house bare-armed and bare-legged for the first time this year, and momentarily reveled in the air on my limbs. Then I got on the bus and started to shiver. My war with air-conditioning is decidedly lopsided, since I am out of step with most of the rest of the population, temperature-wise. I had dinner on a patio last night, and with the aid of tights and a cardigan, was able to last until well past dark, but indoor deep-freezes are harder to counter.
Enough with the kvetching; I had *dinner* on a *patio* last night. I’m going to a *BBQ* on Saturday! It is summer and life is sweet. Oh, and my birthday on Wednesday was lovely as well, thanks to all well-wishers. I ran and read and wrote and dined: these are a few of my favourite things.
Oh, and this starts out as a complaint, but then improves: I have more or less mastered the 15-pound dumbbells at the gym, but can scarcely twitch at the 20s, and was fuming of the lack of 17-pound dumbbells, at Hart House or possibly in the world. My solution was to do one set of pathetic half-raises with the 20s and then switch to 15s, and hope somehow (by osmosis?) I eventually get strong enough to do the 20s, preferably before one of the big boys of the weight room notices me and comments, “Um, you know you’re not actually lifting those, right?” The good bit? I just feel so *jocky,* having a problem with free weights, when all my other problems concern words.
With regard to that, this is going to be a CanLit summer, because another word problem is that I haven’t read near enough of the nearby literature. There will be exceptions, natch–already, I can foresee that I *must* read Then We Came to the End very soon or go mad with wanting to. But, yes, the bulk of my reading time with go towards my countrymen and -women. Onward, at this very moment, actually, to Clark Blaise, who has been precise and potent and deeply disturbing so far. I’ve been missing a great deal, clearly, and I intend to rectify that.
Get gotten
RR
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