I Am Practically Live Blogging Halloween

I'm wondering if we'll get any more trick or treaters - there's still lots of candy left and it's not even nine o'clock. In between flurries of kids, I've been looking at tonight's images, and truth be told, watching this over and over.




She's singing

"Trick or Treat,
Smell my feet,
Give me something
good to eat!"

and it floats downstairs from where she is, which is in the bath tub. It sounds both echoey and stuffy, and I'm glad I taught it to her after she came back from asking strangers for candy. Nothing could sound more pathetic than a sick little purple unicorn failing to have the energy to be truly obnoxious.




She's had a cold over the last two days, with night time spiking fevers and big croupy coughs that have had the two of us sitting wrapped in blankets on the front porch, admiring our cobwebby decorations. We talk about Halloween, and why Mommy has lots of little red lines in her eyeballs. Mostly about Halloween though, which has been forever in coming.

"Is it today?!" she asked, when I told her it was time to go back in, just after three this morning.




Tonight, the street was full of life.



Dark, with scurrying and laughing and shouting - so unlike when we braved this not yet gentrified area six years ago. Instead of the former trick or treaters I might suspect of breaking into our car as a trick, we were swarmed with the most adorable superheros and princesses and flocks of ladybugs who wouldn't know a proper trick if it were saran-wrapped across their toilet bowl (just remember - under the seat, if you're going to).

I like having a house kids are happy to come to. I also like having a house spooky enough that a few kids are afraid to come onto the porch, though regret overcomes me and often run down the sidewalk after them with extra fistfuls of treats.




Boo Boo does not care for people, or things on his porch.



After we came home from work, and set the pumpkins out, we brought him in. Every Halloween, Grandma Joan begs us to keep him inside, regaling us with horror stories about how black cats are tortured on Halloween, and how rescues won't adopt black cats around this time of year because they'll be offered up as sacrifices by "those Satanic people". This year was no different, and we appeased her as usual. He's spent the night alternately hiding and hissing at Molly, or looking out the door wondering who these freaks are, these parents in mullet wigs with their tiny dragons and bumblebees invading his night time domain and walking so near his rug where he curls up and has shushies.






In fact, much of the evening has passed like this: Boo Boo sits behind Steve's bass, knowing Molly will get "what for" if she goes near it. Just as the footsteps of trick or treaters hit the porch steps, Molly is tempted to rush to the door, the need to sound her best hell hound "Bow WOOO" an almost tangible forcefield around her. But then Boo moves slightly - not intending to leave his spot, but just exactly enough to cause Molly's tiny little brain circuits to overload by adding indecision to the mix. This may repeat however many times - but eventually, the sight of a tiny Ninja at the door is too much, and Molly must obey her instincts.







We set the big pot of candy by the door...


...and sent our own little purple unicorn out to shill for some Coffee Crisps for Mommy. The Mommy who ate about fourteen...make that twenty...mini Twix bars today. The dark chocolate ones are more than fine by the way; the triple chocolate version? Not necessary. It's going a little too far.




Before she left, the compulsory picture of her in costume:



And I don't think anyone has ever seen such a woebegone little unicorn as this. Hold onto your hearts, but don't fear - you will not be hearing her contagious little raspy "Trick or Treat", for it is now late and Halloween is done. It's been hours since this story started, and I am just finishing it.




But, as I have to tell you, like a brave soldier, she set off with her Knight in Fred Perry Sneakers, to conquer the neighbours' hearts, and spread a few respiratory infection type germs. We couldn't add a broken heart to her list of ailments.


Steadfast, she mounted our neighbour's stairs, and quavered "Trick or Treat", with no exclamation.






Because we are her parents,she had been prepared for the inevitable - "What if I'd like a trick?"

"Then pull my Daddy's finger."

She came home, so excited about the previously unheard of candy necklaces and bracelets. Dumping the overstuffed plastic pumpkin basket on the table, Steve sorted and checked the loot and let me know we were heavy on the chips, low on the peanut butter cups - that's how the world's turning these days, I guess. Josephine chose candy for me, and some for Steve, because she is not yet greedy for even the worst crap like Dots. As she looked at the tiny boxes of raisins, she echoed my "Damn hippies" comment. Some treats, like the individually wrapped guaranteed nut free (and practically cocoa-butter free) chocolate spiders, were so awesomely fantastical to her that we each had to have one bite so we could all understand how she "really thinks it's very good".



But in the excitement of angels and princesses coming to the door, and not realizing that a candy necklace string isn't meant to fit over a unicorn's head - some candy ended up on the floor. Judging by the amount of time Molly spent licking her chops, she's the one that ate my lovely plain square of caramel. And its wrapper. And some candy necklace beads scavenged from under the sofa, and a bit of wrapper from some green thing. Perhaps some Doritos. Oh...and I just realized the green wrapper came from a gummy hot dog, and since I don't remember anyone eating that, she ate a gummy hot dog too.

So, well...





And now, the Jack O' Lanterns have been extinguished and I've inhaled the last of that fantastic singed pumpkin interior scent. We brought in the decorations most likely to be stolen, and there's still lots of candy in the pot by the door. Given the choice, everyone, EVERYONE, took a Play-Doh. Especially the big kids - the ones who were taller than me. When told to choose one thing, they chose Play-Doh, and thanked me. So, at the going rate of $2.99 for 25 mini cans, purchased at Target, that memorable elixir was the Belle of the Ball.





Boo Boo is no doubt, fouling the clean laundry in the basement, crushing it with his dense kitty mass and leaving his hairy imprint, and licking his unmentionables as is his wont. Molly is on her chair, curled up and wrinkling her nose at the smell of what I used to clean it. Steve is tucking in upstairs - I just heard him locking the suitcases we store rarely worn clothing in, and putting them back on top of the wardrobe. Why? Because we are the kind of household where a neighbour's seventeen year old daughter will come over knowing that there will be funny clothes to borrow. This year she went away with rather complete cowgirl outfit, and a red velvet and white maribou "Naughty Santa's Helper" get-up that hasn't seen the light of day in four years.



I am downstairs on the sofa with Josephine, who is hot and restless and snorting and coughing in her sleep. I'm just close enough that as she stretches and tosses herself about, her hot feet bump into me in no gentle fashion. Sometimes she kneads my thigh with her toes. She sometimes wakes up a little, opening her eyes to see if Fantasia's still on, and falls asleep without really seeing anything other than that it's there for her.




I would show you an image of her clean hot little bare feet just sticking out, the bottoms all pink and the tops smooth, one sometimes folded over the other neatly when they're quiet - but they are so soft and tender and curled in under the down blanket that you would die of longing to reach through your screen, and take them, and put one on each of your cheeks and hold it there fast, only moving them long enough to inhale their sleepy feetyness, running your nose along the instep and then kissing them a million times, which must be done before they grow big and tough and stinky, and while she is sick and sorry and sleepy enough to barely object.


And now, I am going to do that, just a little, then maybe have some Doritos and the last Coffee Crisp.

The Scariest Pumpkins in the World, Ever.

A certain Bassett Hound that needs another eye operation next week, and is limping. That burning smell is dollars, babies.



A certain Black Cat that may be the source of the three flea bites I found on my sweet baby's back.



I ate a handful of chocolate covered coffee beans to fortify myself with the energy to carve these things. It's after 10:30 and I had to peel myself off the ceiling to sit here for a minute and type this. There is still a mess in the kitchen to clean up.




Because Josephine kept me up all last night with the croup, and was a pretty sick little pumpkin today.

Made You Look * edited with link to great photos

A while back, I was supremely flattered when a friend whom I greatly admire reverse-admired me and the photos I post here, and asked me to take some pictures for the use on her band's CD.

The thing is? The photos here? Mostly happy accidents. And a pretty good camera - not a great one, but a good one. I wish I hadn't dropped it in the ocean. The cheap replacement camera just isn't working out, and perhaps you've noticed it's affecting how often I post? It's true, the photos I take often help me tell a story, and so I've been at a loss for words lately. (Insert jokes here, those of you who know just how rare this is.)

But, following the concept for the CD cover, we attempted a photo shoot in our home. It turns out that the camera I used to use just wouldn't work for the cover image - but one photo did make the CD (which, by the way, Steve designed) and I'm very proud to have it there.

What makes it interesting, to me, is that like all the photos I love the most, it's evocative. We tried the shot so many ways, stressed ourselves about how to set it up; and in the end, it was about pouring a couple of bourbons and putting on some music to dance to - and hoping for the best. Telling the story of Radio Country - of family listening to music on the radio, is hard because it seems so easy.

And even then, that evening, it took a lot of hoping to get us to the best...

"Okay...okay...like this...but we're too close to the camera and we look just like a dark blob. But you stand just like that Josie! Do exactly that again when Mommy says to! That's perfect! "

"That's better...no! NO! Josie don't look right at the camera!!!"

("STEVE! Your hands are on my butt! You can't have your hands on my butt for this picture!")

"The damn dog walked in front of the camera."

"What? No. No you can't have another jelly bean bribe yet. Move it, Molly!!! Now everybody get back into place. I mean it. No jellybeans until after another picture."

"Oh...wow...that's kind of cool...except for the Basset Hound...but we can crop it out maybe..."

The finished product can be seen on the back of the Rizdales' new CD, Radio Country:


...and the CD release party is at the Dakota Tavern this Saturday (that means tomorrow) night - with Steve's acoustic band opening up for them.

You can hear the Rizdales here, and you might understand why Josie has stars in her eyes when she looks at Tara. She's pretty and immensely talented and made a beautiful baby with her husband, Tom. I know there's a whole band - Tom, the driving force and another huge talent; Mark, Steve's long-time good friend and one of the best drummers we know; Rob, whose lovely family was one of the inspirations for ours; and Brad, our funny and dear buddy who has more friends than we know what to do with - but for Josephine, it's TARA, in big black letters with shadows coming out of them.

Which is why we were able to bribe her with just jelly beans for the photo shoot, and by telling her "it's a picture for TARA" - but that's also why I can't tell her where we're going on Saturday night. "Grandma Joan and Papa Glen are babysitting, sweetie, and Daddy has another gig, and Mommy um....has to um...go vacuum something somewhere and do some work at some meetings...yeah. That's it."



* Great Photos of my Steve, and TARA here.

SPOS'N

Spos'n the folks are making too
much out of Halloweens
manufacturing news stories
and articles
and entire aisles in stores and creating abundance
where there used to be not much -

and then, there's a backlash about having
"green" healthy Halloweens
an' you don't care,
and you don't want to care,
it's just s'posed to be fun, and it's just one night?
Well,-spos'n?


Spos'n those stupid bags of
potato chips
don't fit in the wee pumpkin
basket, so I hate them?
Well,-spos'n?





Spos'n I'm wearin'
my Target Halloween shirt year-round
because it looks like a cheap version of an Old Crow Medicine Show
tour tee? And it's in the laundry, along with the unicorn costume that's grimy from
over-wearin'
and the child is goin' to cry
because she thinks I can bleach it white
because she wanted to be a WHITE unicorn really,
but I can't,
so there'll be crying?
Well,-spos'n?







Spos'n I really like Halloween,
but I'm tired of folks who write that
people should be
tryin' to make it healthier with raisins an'
granola bars
an' stupid little plastic toys that
end up in the vacuum or clutter up the earth
instead of candy?

Spos'n Halloween was just about free candy from strangers again?

Well?! Spos'n?!



And spos'n I'm concedin' to Play-Doh,
because I know my Josephine isn't ready
for atomic fireballsand lemonheads
and gum
and other little kids aren't ready for it either
but I bet even the teenagers will choose it over candy.
Well,-spos'n?

Spos'n I can be trusted to monitor my child's candy intake - or spos'n
I'll even let her eat so much she gets sick,
just once,
So she knows what that's like
because I have got
an "experiential" learner,
not one who is more compliant and content to
follow my directions.
Well,- spos'n?

Spos'n we found nicer pumpkins for less money at
the corner store
than we did at the
hugely expensive Great Pumpkin Farm
and we're happy with them
so we have to remember
we don't need to go so far out
of our way to look
at lots of pumpkins - the toddler CAN be
happy with less.
And so can we.
Well,- spos'n?



And spos'n
I stopped takin' pictures at that place
that was supposed to be a glorious family experience
because it started to suck
and suck
and suck
and it was spos'd to be fun
but all around
each carnival ride cost a latte
the food for humans was awful, and there were no lattes
and the other kids were frantic and dangerous
and
there were petting-zoo animals over-stuffed with twenty-five cent handfuls of corn
not even approaching the fences
they were so full
and that was a perfectly symbolic
representation
of the whole grossly
inflated
Halloween SEASON tripe.




Well,- spos'n?

And when I talk about whining kids,
and about yelling parents,
and we were becoming them

because

just spos'n...

Halloween is the new Christmas when it comes to stress?

Well, I'm spos'n.

Due Notice...

Last night, I showered, shaved, and made sure to run the razor across the area where there's sometimes a little wiry chin hair that begs twiddling when I'm self-conscious. The chance that I'd miss plucking it in my rush to freshen up after work was too great; it had to be done. It was more important that I leave time to try on three sweaters after work - the fail-safe black cashmere, the favourite seafoam turtleneck, the chunky gray cable knit - to figure out which one helps me to present the me I want to be tonight. Today I have to work at the funky little store, and then after coming home to touch base with my family, I'm meeting an old friend.

It's a far cry from when I used to nap after the last class of the day in high school, then wake in the dark, apply masses of black eyeliner, put on my giant hoop earrings along with a small (and I do mean small - not little) black dress, then jump into whatever beater car I was driving to pick up Chrissy for some good times; for we loved to Go-Go Dance on either side of the stage for our friends' band, the Ramrods.

We were the Ramrodettes, twenty (eep!) years ago.

I met Christen through another friend - I think it was also because I took the Ski bus with her older sister - but "Chrissy", as she was known to me then, was great to pal around with - mainly because she was far cooler than I ever could have been. One of my earliest memories takes place in her bedroom: she was showing me how she had to practice sucking in her cheeks a bit because she was a model, and was going to be posing for a swimsuit ad lying down, and the cheek on the lower side would sag if she didn't. The things I didn't know! Oh... yes. A model. Tall, blonde, and a pore-less wonder with pretty teeth. She was polished, groomed in a way I didn't know how to be - but it didn't matter much, because I was the one with the car.

And we'd have fun! Punk kid kind of fun, like driving around with the Ramrods hanging out of the back of the station wagon I drove for a while. We'd all go "diving for donuts" - which meant crawling into the dumpster behind a Mister Donuts to find all the filled ones that had been thrown out at the end of the day. They weren't for eating - we'd rip them slightly and throw them at the cars behind us, and love the splatter on their windshields.

Or, she and I would hit the road. Once on a drive up to Toronto to see the Goos, in yet another of the beater cars I drove back then (as opposed to the one I drive now), we were pulled over at the border, and the guards went through our bags and found some rather naughty black underthings in hers. They threatened to call her parents, but she coolly replied "They know." When the guard took me out to the car to look in the trunk, and I didn't have the key to open it (What do teenage girls need with trunks?), he said, with a despairing grumble, "What would you girls do if you had a flat tire?" I replied "Well then, I guess we'd be screwed, sir. I'd probably just call my daddy." They let us through. That night is such a giddy blur - others from Buffalo had come up for the small gig (I think it was at the El Mo - as it used to be) and afterward we all wandered around and ended up seeing a band at the Black Bull, one with a girl stand-up bass player. The freedom of it, how just plain COOL it felt compared to the Monday after when I'd be sitting in English class, hating on my senior thesis, still resonates a little.

We drifted apart - I graduate,, my family's fortunes changed, and I soon met someone who changed my life dramatically, and was separated from that crowd. One of my last memories of Chrissy is of her in her white motorcycle jacket on the back of Johnny's motorcycle. Johnny Lightning gave that jacket to her. He knew and was so very right, that a standard black one would never suit her. It's true, even back then, she was a star.

But now? She's officially a star.

Last year, when presenting at the Motherlode conference, I browsed the program and saw her name. I swallowed, and emailed.

I often wonder why I want to find certain old friends - is it to recapture parts of me that have gone missing? To relive old times? To find people who know enough of my history that I don't have to recap it in order that they should understand me better now? Since one recent re-kindling with an old friend ended horribly, I ought to be twice shy. And the news isn't often good these days. Take this example from a correspondence with another friend who went to our twentieth high school reunion this past summer:

"...not much to report on the reunion, just a bunch of fat, balding, gray-haired, boring, miserable people with tons of kids. Many couples have been divorced since the ten year and many more hoping to get divorced. I probably talked to just about everyone who was there - about 100 to 150 people. It was very casual, 1st night - drinks and apps at XXX, 2nd night - drinks at XX. A bunch of us went to see H's old band later on Friday (XXX, I think) at some shitty bar in X. That was very creepy, time warp kind of thing but not in a good way (i.e., mullets, Twisted Sister T-Shirts, acid wash jeans, sluts, etc.).

Let's see...B(single, Brain Surgeon) was funny until he got drunk and then you couldn't understand a word he was saying. He kept telling me to fuck off because I still had hair and he constantly told S that she ruined everyone's night because she was so hot and the rest of the girls were so old and ugly. It was kind of funny until other people starting hearing it and were actually getting pissed! Unfortunately, the drunk B has a lot of his father in him...M (married, no kids, photographer for XXX) asked if I wanted to play street hockey Sat. afternoon - I passed...Chatted with T (married, three kids, works at a car wash), seems kind of boring and old, had to get home and go to sleep...S (financial advisor guy), total mess, wife (and kids) just left him, looks very old and gray, he was so drunk he fell and smashed his head in the parking lot behind X."

(So...um...that was obviously edited to protect the pathetic, and because said friend used the word anyhoo and a "heh, heh" after one description.)


On Saturday Christen is performing her award-winning work, Baby Love at the Association for Research on Motherhood's conference. I'm sure it's amazing, because reading this? I'm again, awed by her awesomeness. (That was a deliberately clunky sentence, to contrast her superlative writing. I swear.) I have to work at the store, and be Josephine's mommy and do a million things like fold laundry, and pick up the dog poop in the back yard (Which, I'd forgotten, is not like Play-doh. You can't pick up one large piece and use it to make all the small pieces stick to it.) instead of attending the conference. But tonight, we'll meet up there and attend some events together, catching up as we can.

I'm happy. I'm not all that confident about what I'm bringing to the table, because I've spent the last week wondering what her life is like as I perform the mundane tasks that litter my days, like dumping the compost bin or wiping goop out of the Basset Hound's eye. Maybe it's wrong to expect a certain glamour from her - maybe I'm hopeful some of it will rub off on me again. I've gotten over the fact that she didn't give me ten pounds' notice - it's what all old pals should do, you know. I'm just going to go, and be happy to see her again.

Because, honestly, truly - I am just as curious as can be, and will be glad to meet her tonight however I am, which is sincerely and as always,

her fan.

In Other Words...

A letter from Erella:

As though we had planned it, my colleague Gayle Hermuses, my daughter
Celeste and I arrived for the meeting at the city hall, dressed in red and
black, just like Matador sign. Gayle said these were the “listen to me”
colours to greet the Toronto parking authority.

We shared the elevator with Adam Giambrone’s new Executive Assistant, Pat
Chastang. She introduced herself to me, informing us that the councilor had
some good news for us. Not quite sure what that meant, we proceeded to the
holding area for the meeting room. The last thing I heard was that this
issue was not an agenda item but now I had it confirmed that it was back on.

People started to assemble, at first they were only arriving in small
groups. Familiar facebook friends, music buddies, artists, YMCA members,
musicians, people I know from the Dufferin Grove market, and a lot of
neighbours cheerfully greeted one another. I was glad to see that Vicki,
(who lives above the matador) made it there on her crutches.

Michael Ondaatje greeted her, so did Kitty, who’s likely been the most
consistent, long time employee at the club. The numbers were swelling and
the excitement level was intensifying. My that it would only be my colleague
and my daughter Celeste there with me were disappearing as the room got more
crowded.

Simon Wookey arrived with spectacular Save the Matador buttons that were
quickly snapped up and pinned on. Marla Good, of the Hello Josephine blog
arrived with her young daughter. The age range and variety of people was
remarkable. We talked about the Matador, and how it has changed since Ann
bought the place in the mid-60’s. She raised her 5 kids there while running
the place all these years. A champion for Canadian music, she also made sure
women had their voices heard on stage at a time when this was unusual.

A couple arrived. She was wearing a hand painted white tshirt with STOP the
Matador scrawled on and her husband had the similar one with CLOSE the Booze
can on it. I recognized them. George and Diane, they run a store on college
street, that I have used in the past. They install super loud audio systems
into cars. They oppose the Matador and want a parking lot in its place? Go
figure. I understand their anger about finding used condoms and needles
behind their place. I feel the same way when I find similar debris. These
things are found in back alleys all over the city. Their frustration is
misdirected and unrelated to the issue at hand with the Matador.



We were ushered into the meeting room when they were ready for us. Kyle Rae
asked for the matter to be reopened and it was. He then asked to take into
consideration a letter that everyone had before them from Adam Giambrone
stating that he no longer was asking for that property be appropriated. It
was that simple, since the councilor changed his mind, everything changed.
The TPA agreed not to pursue the property for parking and it was all over.
We were thanked for our time. This all happened so quickly. After so much
work, we got the result we wanted and now it was over.

We thanked the council. As we were ready to leave, George, the lone
dissenter, addressed the council with questions about finding used condoms
and needles. Passionate and out of order comments escalated until he was
asked to leave. He started to perform for the many news cameras.

Microphones in our faces as we left the meeting room, we were asked what we
wanted for the space. I replied that it wasn’t my business. This is a moment
for the Matador’s owners to dream. I was glad they have time to decide what
is appropriate for their space. This is a right that all property and
business owners take for granted. I was horrified that the city was taking
this away from them and now it was rescinded. There is no question in my
mind that the process is wrong in a situation like this. Expropriation is an
extreme action that should only be undertaken when no other option exists.
Of course, I want the space to be used for musical pursuits, but that isn’t
up to me. I was just happy that flexibility is possible and that the
expropriation process was halted.

Johnny Dovercourt was walking beside me. I introduced him to several
reporters as a person that I would like to see doing programming there. So
much excitement, so many options ahead. I was very pleased for my part in
this process and the huge number of supporters that took time to be there in
solidarity in person, and on line, in letters as well as in spirit. There
was a huge group that worked together despite differing socio-political
backgrounds and we assembled, making it happen. I was so grateful for every
person there in any form. The council did listen to us and changes were made
in our favour.

For this, I thank you.

Most sincerely,

Erella Ganon
Committee to Save the Matador

Erella's attention to details, as shown by this letter, proves that I am no reporter, and will have to strike any "keenly aware" descriptions from any biography of me. I was just there, others made things happen. She also made sure to greet everyone warmly and enthusiastically, and was just shining.

My City Was Gone *edited with the results

Lately, I'm more often like a duck on the water - rather quiet the surface, but paddling furiously underneath. There's a lot on my plate these days, and this is just one thing:

Today, I'm taking Josephine to a meeting at City Hall, regarding the planned expropriation of the Matador by the City of Toronto OSTENSIBLY in order to provide twenty parking spaces for the nearby YMCA, who has stated it doesn't need them. You can find links galore, and read about it here.

With all there is to worry about in the world, this seems like not much to fret over; but for me, it is one more name to add to the list of places I've not just fallen in love with in my years here in Toronto, but more - at - that are now gone.

Eleven years ago, I met my Steve at a Melody Ranch matinee at the Brunswick House. We had our first dates at the Idler, and the Stonecutter's Arms. After work, sometimes we'd meet for drinks at the Silver Rail. There's not much information on these places to link to, because they're long gone; but more because, for a certain kind of Torontonian, these places, they're not just watering holes, they are historical and live in our hearts, not in the news or on the internets. These are just the places I remember that are dear to me - other places that were huge parts of my life here have also been obliterated: I worked at the Harbourfront Antique Market, then Birks at the Eaton Center with its amazing vaulted ceilings, and Ritchies - the auction house's old building that's currently a hole in the ground. Gone, Gone, Gone - so many things just GONE.

I recognize that cities must move, and change, and alter themselves to fit the people that use them. I'm not about preserving things just so I can go see them. But I know for a fact that Nashville would never tear down Tootsie's to make a parking lot for the Ryman, let alone for its YMCA.

To add the Matador to this list would break my heart, if it's only to become a parking lot, and especially if Ann Dunn is forced to accept their measly offer. It shouldn't happen this way.

I'll admit - it's been a while since I've seen the daylight peeking through the crack under that door to the left of the stage. Josephine is only one of the reasons I prefer a single-digit bedtime these days. But the memory of how Steve and I last two-stepped to "Is Anybody Goin' to San Antone", the Rank Strangers playing our heartstrings, well, it's still as vivid as the morning after that. Which means it's a bit fuzzy, but still very sweet. It's nights like that - those times helped build all we have now. If those nights were missing, all would be different for us.

So, I watch this video, and already I'm mourning. I know by the time that Josephine would be old enough to stumble home from the Matador that it couldn't be the a same place I remember as being the site of my first real catfight (and the fights there were always shushed up so quickly, so the place didn't get in trouble). But I watch this video, and see my old friend Chris Dignan spitting out that lemon rind - and I'm in my early twenties again and I'm glad that the Matador was the kind of place where I was a Barroom Girl. When I look through the list of the people who performed, or visited there - and I was there sometimes too, I'm proud by association. I want that for others too. So after I tire Josie out with a trip to Riverdale Farm, I'm bringing her to the meeting. Both places are important parts of who we are, in a funny way.








*EDITED

A VICTORY! The city will not expropriate the property.

Now, that doesn't mean that the Matador has achieved landmark status, or that it will be there for Josephine to two-step in one day. But it means that it likely won't be a twenty-space parking lot anytime soon; and that most importantly, Ann will have time to receive and accept a favourable offer when she chooses to sell.

This will be all over the news in Toronto tonight, and the paper tomorrow; and I can say that I'm proud to be friendly with Erella Ganon, who was instrumental in rallying the troops for this movement, to show the city that many people think that what was propositioned was ill-advised.

It must also be mentioned that only two in attendance opposed the movement to Save the Matador were a married couple who live and rent apartments nearby. Their complaints were of finding needles and other fallout from this "boozecan", and that it should be closed were loud, disruptive, and misplaced.

The meeting's purpose was not to keep the Matador fully functioning - it was to prevent the city from forcibly taking it from Ann Dunn and her daughter, expropriating it purportedly for a parking lot, when most likely the city would later allow it to be developed otherwise. It's just not fair that Ann shouldn't be allowed her full due. The value of such a property is more than what was offered to her. The city was lacking transparency there.

While the couple's dissent, home-made tee shirts and all, will likely get a lot of play - that's not what this argument was about. It's understood by all that the Matador has barely been open over the past two years, and that Ann and her daughter can't maintain it as it is in perpetuity. But, the Matador, and what it has done for Toronto's music scene deserves some respect - not the strong arm. It deserves preservation in some form, for sure. But it is not, and never was, the sole source of all of the drug and after-hours problems in that neighbourhood. It was just a place, and having been there, I can say that if people weren't using it properly, they were ushered out. Nobody there "shit where they slept". Besides, everyone knows that junkies don't waste their money on bad hot dogs and warm pop, and they probably never tip the bands.

What I do know, and what I said to Jeff Gray from the Globe and Mail is the truth - I wouldn't have Josephine if places like the Matador weren't there for me then, back when I was falling in love with Steve.

Articles already appearing here.

Does This Ever Happen To Anyone Else?

Does anyone else's family ever go to a relative's Thanksgiving celebration and come away as the new owners of an albino corn snake named Machiavelli?




(crickets)

Happy Day! Days. Happy Days!

It's that time of year...



...time for my contributions to the family's Canadian Thanksgiving Dinner yesterday, and the friends' one today.



Feel free to copy if your pies need that little something extra too.



Recipe here.

This and That

I spent way too much time over at the other place with this post this morning. Some of it was going to go here, but it was easier to wrangle everything all at once. I lumped it together, pinned it down, and shaped it like dough. Stick a fork in it, it's done.

In other news, while I no longer have to fear that I will be packing a small purple unicorn around town daily, as the enthusiasm for the outfit has run its course - I will say this about that:

There is nothing like having a small sleepy purple unicorn crawl into bed with you on a fine Sunday morning.
I left her sleeping with her Daddy while I went off to take a class. She slept in until 11 am. If stuffing her in a furry lavender sack will make her sleep in more often, we're going to be encouraging more of that.