where should we live if we move to edmonton? that was the question i got in an email from two potential new colleagues the other day. no fool, i could see immediately the procrastinatory potential in a city tour, so i stepped right up as colleague of the year and offered to ferry IS and MW about e-town.
first i dispensed with the obvious neighbourhoods. parkallen i see as a grid whose main feature, affordability, has been gutted by the recent market craziness here (though i admitted it would permit you to walk to a bar or 30). belgravia/mckernan: lovely little area, the kind you could show off to your parents. windsor park, where faculty used to buy, is gorgeous -- if your idea of gorgeous is rotting away in a showy piece of real estate you'll never pay off in this lifetime. if you're into the package deal, buy in garneau, and it'll be like the ghermezians said when they finished phase 2 of the mall: "you never need to go to europe again!" i didn't even mention strathcona.
our tour started with mill creek, my single concession to south-side living. i pulled into an avenue -- i'm not even sure which one now -- and parked in a keyhole. "let's get out, and i can show you how beautiful the river valley is here." then i promptly got us lost in said nature. i honestly didn't intend to; it's just that the river valley is so very wild and complex there that it's hard to get your bearings. i walked us unwittingly into someone's backyard. "oops," i said. "is that someone's backyard?," they asked. "incredible!"
we found the car just before a huge thunderstorm took over, but i think they got a decent view of Thunderhead Obscuring the High Level Bridge. i can't be sure, though, since i could hardly see the road. i yelled to the passenger seat, "it's like this in alberta." my would-be colleague yelled back, "what?" rossdale shows well even in the rain, and how can you not be impressed by a 30-minute commute through the woods? oliver advertises itself, those stately old houses on 99th and 100th aves, and although even strangers roll their eyes at the "westmount architectural heritage area" moniker, the neighbourhood is pretty nice. "wow," my companions said, "edmonton architecture is much more diverse than we'd expected." it is? "and it has a lot of designated bike lanes." it does? i will say that 124th street is intriguingly weird, what with its corsets and longboards, greek orthodox churches and money marts, art galleries and worrying numbers of prosethesis stores. (my personal favorite: karl hager limb and brace.)
i had to blindfold my colleagues to drive 111 ave until we got to norwood. the italian centre! zocalo! lotus soul gym! all the yuppie treats, with the barbershops and mustard seed church keepin' it real. what i love best about norwood: all the other report-a-john neighbourhoods "do not tolerate prostitution," but norwood "does not tolerate exploitation." there's a sentiment i can get behind.
finally, the highlands gem, its modest post-war bungalows to the east, ada boulevard mansions to the west. ada boulevard is the most honest high-end real estate in any city, what with its views of refineries and sunsets: cause and consequence in one sweeping vista. and i love the highlands strip. even though rob buttery sold collectiv to move to winnipeg with his filmmaker wife renee baril (incidentally, my next door neighbour in the very last '60s -- no kidding), sabrina butterfly set up shop in his old space. angela's closing swish to sell on ebay, since her landlord jacked the rent, but bacon is full all the time. mandolin books deserves a citizenship medal for sharon's openness to local art, and if i knitted -- right, i was going to take that up as a hobby, what happened to that plan? -- i'd shop at that little yarn store right there.
anyway, i told them, that's my edmonton. you can live in any of those neighbourhoods and be my colleague.
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
Pulling out all the stops
uranium has a shorter half-life than sibling rivalry. i didn't get my dad a father's day gift, which isn't exactly unusual, but when i heard my sister offer to take him for lunch, i figured i better get my act together.
that's how i ended up at the winspear centre for the free concert on the davis organ. of course i've been to the winspear plenty of times; the pipes have become a familiar backdrop. and of course i'm familiar with all the hoopla: the two millon dollar gift, the five semis to get it here, the "world-class" sound -- but there's something so off-putting, so aggressively yet vacuously optimistic, about the adjective "world-class" that i've never made the time to actually hear it.
my bad. because this instrument is magnificent.
they roll what i think of as "the organ" onto the middle of the stage. the players face the pipes, which means they have their backs to the audience. this surprised me, but then i realized it's because that way you get to see the organ itself: all four hand keyboards and the foot keyboard -- "manual" and "pedal" keyboards, i should say -- the 96 stops and the little while buttons that might or might not be the 122 ranks. it is so complicated that i still have no idea how it works, even though my dad explained it all. i'm so flat-footed where these things are concerned that i just wanted to know things like, "where do they hide the rest of the 6551 pipes?" and "how is the organ connected to the pipes?" "oh," said dad, breezily, "it's all electronic."
when marnie giesbrecht and joachim segger started to play a piece by bedard, a canadian composer whose sinfonietta shows off everything this baby can do, i had the terrible epiphany that i have reached the age where i'd probably like to listen to wagner. there's just nothing like that low, low hum, the one you feel in your crotch, the tone so low you can count the vibrations per minute. there it is, augmented by a fifth, then a sixth, harmonics jarring so off kilter that you think nothing will ever be right again in the world, and it's just getting louder and louder, worse and worse -- okay, you want to say, you win! i cannot stand undismayed! -- until the chord resolves and everything is amen and hallelujah and you wonder how you could ever have worried.
as the show went on, i realized that an organ can have a sense of humor, too. barrie cabena takes you from bach to scooby-doo in one unforgivable variation. and, come on: organ duets? who writes a composition for a dozen bellows, four hands and four feet? it's funny just to watch their bums jostle for space on the bench.
the show is part of a summer series of freebies celebrating the year of the organ. (who knew?) once you add up the performers, the copyright fees, the tech, and the front of house, you realize it's a not-inconsiderable gift. especially by my father's day standards.
that's how i ended up at the winspear centre for the free concert on the davis organ. of course i've been to the winspear plenty of times; the pipes have become a familiar backdrop. and of course i'm familiar with all the hoopla: the two millon dollar gift, the five semis to get it here, the "world-class" sound -- but there's something so off-putting, so aggressively yet vacuously optimistic, about the adjective "world-class" that i've never made the time to actually hear it.
my bad. because this instrument is magnificent.
they roll what i think of as "the organ" onto the middle of the stage. the players face the pipes, which means they have their backs to the audience. this surprised me, but then i realized it's because that way you get to see the organ itself: all four hand keyboards and the foot keyboard -- "manual" and "pedal" keyboards, i should say -- the 96 stops and the little while buttons that might or might not be the 122 ranks. it is so complicated that i still have no idea how it works, even though my dad explained it all. i'm so flat-footed where these things are concerned that i just wanted to know things like, "where do they hide the rest of the 6551 pipes?" and "how is the organ connected to the pipes?" "oh," said dad, breezily, "it's all electronic."
when marnie giesbrecht and joachim segger started to play a piece by bedard, a canadian composer whose sinfonietta shows off everything this baby can do, i had the terrible epiphany that i have reached the age where i'd probably like to listen to wagner. there's just nothing like that low, low hum, the one you feel in your crotch, the tone so low you can count the vibrations per minute. there it is, augmented by a fifth, then a sixth, harmonics jarring so off kilter that you think nothing will ever be right again in the world, and it's just getting louder and louder, worse and worse -- okay, you want to say, you win! i cannot stand undismayed! -- until the chord resolves and everything is amen and hallelujah and you wonder how you could ever have worried.
as the show went on, i realized that an organ can have a sense of humor, too. barrie cabena takes you from bach to scooby-doo in one unforgivable variation. and, come on: organ duets? who writes a composition for a dozen bellows, four hands and four feet? it's funny just to watch their bums jostle for space on the bench.
the show is part of a summer series of freebies celebrating the year of the organ. (who knew?) once you add up the performers, the copyright fees, the tech, and the front of house, you realize it's a not-inconsiderable gift. especially by my father's day standards.
Monday, July 07, 2008
Summer Drop-Bys
The summer drop-bys are starting again and on the first day of a supposedly productive week. This Monday afternoon, Sarah Patterson rings from the VV down the street and pops by soon there after with a synthesized LP and Thin Lizzy woven leather shoes. As another twenty-something retiree, we actually have become ladies of leisure for at least one more summer. Wanting an adventure, or at least a cheap sandwich, but with too many things to do, I summon a field trip out of errands and we're soon on Princess Elizabeth Rd and heading towards downtown.
First stop: Vue Weekly to pick up gift certificates I won in some sort of lottery. Posing as my intern for the day, Patterson picked up an envelope filled with Fiore Cantina gift certificates. But before a complimentary lunch could be had, we drove by the still-burnt out Arlington where security cameras and lights are now fixated on the North/West side of the building. "Who's watching?" I wondered. Clearly no one as this lot is downright shameful. But we pass as I had to drop things off at the Elizabeth Fry Foundation, a provincial or perhaps national NFP that aids the reintegration of women back into society who's coming directly out of the justice system. Getting a tip from Pamela Anthony that they took donations, especially things such as work clothes for job interviews, I had lots of "office" clothes I've accumulated over the years that outlasted many of the jobs they were bought for. Embracing that I should never have an office job again, these items have yet to see their best days.
Next was lunch, and heading down 106 St hill, I had confused Fiore for Chianti, which I wasn't wild about either, but as neither of us had ever eaten at Fiore, this had to be tried. Strange I had never been even through university, living in Grandin, and just simply walking by it on a weekly basis. But after a mediocre bit of surf, bit of turf lunch, there remained no further reasons to return--except to finish off the remaining certificates.
Okay, one reason: a cantina sized drink, which is 3 oz, but oddly enough in a regular sized martini glass, hits you slowly, but firmly. Shopping at Superstore became an overwhelming task. Patterson tried on swimming suits and I seriously considered rhinestone sunglasses. But eventually standing in line to buy detergent, I was again taken aback as to why the shelves behind the customer service counters are completely empty or covered. The 'out of sight/out of mind' approach to tobacco products is probably the smartest move this government has made in a very long time, but I can't help but speculate what they will fill that prime sightline with next.
Next up was the Antique Mall on Gateway Blvd in search of a new kitchen chair. Finding a white chrome table that has made the entire kitchen much lighter, I needed a single chair to match. Going through the various rooms of compacted old farmhouses, I fondly recalled Saskatchewan, where Saskatoon was first painted as the Paris of the Prairies, but then does that make Edmonton the Moscow of the Prairies? Picking up a light wooden chair that I would sand and paint white if I ever felt like doing that sort of thing, we headed back downtown and up 101 St. Stopped at a light with a real assortment of people crossing the street, Patterson couldn't help but ask aloud if "You'd ever see a more rag-tag downtown than this?"
It's true, our downtown just looks like the biggest small town you'd ever seen, and it doesn't look like it's going to change any time soon. We have an informal rating system of Edmonton fashion that varies from a) Going camping b) Just came back from camping c) Still camping. Until this system fails, we'll know Edmonton is still the Dirt City we know and sometimes like.
Stopping last at the Sprucewood library to pick up items I ordered, and doing a bit of weeding before an evening of work, which involves possibly transplanting some vines and investing into the future, it never ceases to surprise me how much easier it is if you just do instead of think.
First stop: Vue Weekly to pick up gift certificates I won in some sort of lottery. Posing as my intern for the day, Patterson picked up an envelope filled with Fiore Cantina gift certificates. But before a complimentary lunch could be had, we drove by the still-burnt out Arlington where security cameras and lights are now fixated on the North/West side of the building. "Who's watching?" I wondered. Clearly no one as this lot is downright shameful. But we pass as I had to drop things off at the Elizabeth Fry Foundation, a provincial or perhaps national NFP that aids the reintegration of women back into society who's coming directly out of the justice system. Getting a tip from Pamela Anthony that they took donations, especially things such as work clothes for job interviews, I had lots of "office" clothes I've accumulated over the years that outlasted many of the jobs they were bought for. Embracing that I should never have an office job again, these items have yet to see their best days.
Next was lunch, and heading down 106 St hill, I had confused Fiore for Chianti, which I wasn't wild about either, but as neither of us had ever eaten at Fiore, this had to be tried. Strange I had never been even through university, living in Grandin, and just simply walking by it on a weekly basis. But after a mediocre bit of surf, bit of turf lunch, there remained no further reasons to return--except to finish off the remaining certificates.
Okay, one reason: a cantina sized drink, which is 3 oz, but oddly enough in a regular sized martini glass, hits you slowly, but firmly. Shopping at Superstore became an overwhelming task. Patterson tried on swimming suits and I seriously considered rhinestone sunglasses. But eventually standing in line to buy detergent, I was again taken aback as to why the shelves behind the customer service counters are completely empty or covered. The 'out of sight/out of mind' approach to tobacco products is probably the smartest move this government has made in a very long time, but I can't help but speculate what they will fill that prime sightline with next.
Next up was the Antique Mall on Gateway Blvd in search of a new kitchen chair. Finding a white chrome table that has made the entire kitchen much lighter, I needed a single chair to match. Going through the various rooms of compacted old farmhouses, I fondly recalled Saskatchewan, where Saskatoon was first painted as the Paris of the Prairies, but then does that make Edmonton the Moscow of the Prairies? Picking up a light wooden chair that I would sand and paint white if I ever felt like doing that sort of thing, we headed back downtown and up 101 St. Stopped at a light with a real assortment of people crossing the street, Patterson couldn't help but ask aloud if "You'd ever see a more rag-tag downtown than this?"
It's true, our downtown just looks like the biggest small town you'd ever seen, and it doesn't look like it's going to change any time soon. We have an informal rating system of Edmonton fashion that varies from a) Going camping b) Just came back from camping c) Still camping. Until this system fails, we'll know Edmonton is still the Dirt City we know and sometimes like.
Stopping last at the Sprucewood library to pick up items I ordered, and doing a bit of weeding before an evening of work, which involves possibly transplanting some vines and investing into the future, it never ceases to surprise me how much easier it is if you just do instead of think.
Sunday, July 06, 2008
Revamping Walking in The City
So the last few messages have been admittedly cranky, and as summer peaks and the fall grows increasingly more real, this site will be going through some content changes.
Aiming to look at Edmonton through the eyes of a few who are interested/intrigued/invested in the construct of this city through various capacities, Walking in The City will now be a shared document between myself, Amy Fung along with Heather Zwicker, Ted Kerr, and possibly additional authors.
A brief primer:
I started this site in 2006 because of this photo*:
You can't really see it, but this was (I think) taken in the fall of 2006 of friends Daniel and Thea walking ahead as we cut through the Legislature. As two of the best people to discuss writing with--and not so coincidentally--to walk with, I grew very fond of this moment frozen in a flash that captured a very significant moment for me as an individual living in this city. D being a vagabond roamer of the city who slept on random roof tops and knew every ridge and fact about Edmonton; and T being a flaneur at heart who was also writing her thesis on the very subject, the two had probably never hung out before or again after this night, but I felt that this deserved a record beyond my own memory bank. Of the night, I surmise that D and I were walking Thea to the foot of the bridge before I crashed on the floor of his then-apartment down on the flats. Fleeting and forgettable, I wanted to begin tracking these transient tales for better or for worse. At the time, these two were always writing short stories about moments in Edmonton, but I was more interested in just tracking the raw unedited versions of what has just transpired.
*(A notable mention must also go to ACD, who started it all with 90 Avenue, but has since quietly moved on.)
However, a couple of years before this photo, Heather taught the first Edmonton undergraduate course at the U of A. On a whim I registered in the course and four years later has decided to extend the basis into a directed reading graduate course. Heather will once again be teaching the undergraduate course in the winter term and will be directing my course in the fall. This site will most likely be a catch all of ideas from the course, but will hopefully stay more public than academic (a balance that frighteningly remains theoretical).
I left the city after school and returned indefinitely to Hong Kong (where I'm originally from, but wasn't sure if I belonged there anymore). Estranged and alienated in my "home" country, I began wondering more about the sentiment of identity and place. After returning and resuming freelance writing for local newspapers, I began getting involved specifically in the arts and exploring how Edmonton was being construed and memorialized through its contemporary arts. (See Prairie Artsters for my ongoing investigation)
At the same time I started this blog, I met Ted who quickly became a frequent collaborator and continues to be a source of inspiration as an engaging artist/writer/curator/activist/producer etc. As the very definition of "community" through his many manifestations, Ted brings heart and wit to everything he does and is a seemingly limitless individual of action and generosity. Many of my previous posts have involved Mr. Kerr in one form or another, and between the three of us, I look forward to seeing the different views unfold.
Aiming to look at Edmonton through the eyes of a few who are interested/intrigued/invested in the construct of this city through various capacities, Walking in The City will now be a shared document between myself, Amy Fung along with Heather Zwicker, Ted Kerr, and possibly additional authors.
A brief primer:
I started this site in 2006 because of this photo*:
You can't really see it, but this was (I think) taken in the fall of 2006 of friends Daniel and Thea walking ahead as we cut through the Legislature. As two of the best people to discuss writing with--and not so coincidentally--to walk with, I grew very fond of this moment frozen in a flash that captured a very significant moment for me as an individual living in this city. D being a vagabond roamer of the city who slept on random roof tops and knew every ridge and fact about Edmonton; and T being a flaneur at heart who was also writing her thesis on the very subject, the two had probably never hung out before or again after this night, but I felt that this deserved a record beyond my own memory bank. Of the night, I surmise that D and I were walking Thea to the foot of the bridge before I crashed on the floor of his then-apartment down on the flats. Fleeting and forgettable, I wanted to begin tracking these transient tales for better or for worse. At the time, these two were always writing short stories about moments in Edmonton, but I was more interested in just tracking the raw unedited versions of what has just transpired.
*(A notable mention must also go to ACD, who started it all with 90 Avenue, but has since quietly moved on.)
However, a couple of years before this photo, Heather taught the first Edmonton undergraduate course at the U of A. On a whim I registered in the course and four years later has decided to extend the basis into a directed reading graduate course. Heather will once again be teaching the undergraduate course in the winter term and will be directing my course in the fall. This site will most likely be a catch all of ideas from the course, but will hopefully stay more public than academic (a balance that frighteningly remains theoretical).
I left the city after school and returned indefinitely to Hong Kong (where I'm originally from, but wasn't sure if I belonged there anymore). Estranged and alienated in my "home" country, I began wondering more about the sentiment of identity and place. After returning and resuming freelance writing for local newspapers, I began getting involved specifically in the arts and exploring how Edmonton was being construed and memorialized through its contemporary arts. (See Prairie Artsters for my ongoing investigation)
At the same time I started this blog, I met Ted who quickly became a frequent collaborator and continues to be a source of inspiration as an engaging artist/writer/curator/activist/producer etc. As the very definition of "community" through his many manifestations, Ted brings heart and wit to everything he does and is a seemingly limitless individual of action and generosity. Many of my previous posts have involved Mr. Kerr in one form or another, and between the three of us, I look forward to seeing the different views unfold.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Go East?
The notion that most North American cities have their lower income zones on their east side because of the direction of the wind carrying the pollution from each centre's industrial areas seems like an interesting fact at first, but if continued to be mulled over, the idea starts to fall more like trivia about a hierarchy that doesn't matter anymore.
Due to idling, big box stores, and urban sprawl in all four directions (but most heavily west and south), the increasingly privileged unsustainable car-friendly zones seem to have it worse than a bit of shared air pollution.
Forced to drive to even the closest necessities like a grocery store, where thanks to poor urban planning it would take 5 minutes to drive, 30 minutes to walk, and an hour by bus, to purchase trucked in produce whose costs are soaring because of the precious oil in every facet of our lives, so that you can keep your oversized fridge stocked in an oversized house where your utilities are also skyrocketing to pay to heat and light up space that you don't really use all that much.
Formerly a resident of a deep west end neighborhood, where walking became the most lonely and often dangerous activity alongside endlessly curving blocks and sidewalkless roads filled with speeding SUVs and sports cars, the isolation is a real defining experience of the city. It gets easier central, but even in downtown after the end of the business day, though there are certainly more people and activity on the streets these days, the presence of pedestrians is quite sparse relative to the amount of space there is.
. . .
Not entirely unrelated, but having lunch with Kristy Trinier, Public Art Director for Edmonton Arts Council, she tried to convince me that East Berlin is a lot like Edmonton. She's lived there, I've only been there, but I certainly didn't buy the statement. She connects the two through their shared sense of having the image of being an industrial wasteland, but I maintain that the priorities are just too different. I did however bring up the statement the next evening with a friend who lived there for the past year and has returned indefinitely. Claire, who despises everything about this city, and lives in Millwoods, thought about the comparison and said she could agree, but only about very specific parts of East Berlin. There is one area that everyone knows about, as from the train to the airport it is just a stretch of barren wasteland filled with abandoned industrial zones that everyone there thinks is a shithole. Walking through the area one day by herself, self defense kicked in about the sudden isolation she felt about navigating empty streets. This sudden thought that she could be jumped at any point came into her head for the first time in her travels and it reminded her of home.
As most everyone who stays in Edmonton leaves often to connect to the rest of the world, what will happen as our gas-dependency will soon make frequent traveling obsolete for most individuals? Has the last fifty years of lived-in global cultural exchange coming to an end? And will cities like this one be able to continue as a place people settle for good?
Due to idling, big box stores, and urban sprawl in all four directions (but most heavily west and south), the increasingly privileged unsustainable car-friendly zones seem to have it worse than a bit of shared air pollution.
Forced to drive to even the closest necessities like a grocery store, where thanks to poor urban planning it would take 5 minutes to drive, 30 minutes to walk, and an hour by bus, to purchase trucked in produce whose costs are soaring because of the precious oil in every facet of our lives, so that you can keep your oversized fridge stocked in an oversized house where your utilities are also skyrocketing to pay to heat and light up space that you don't really use all that much.
Formerly a resident of a deep west end neighborhood, where walking became the most lonely and often dangerous activity alongside endlessly curving blocks and sidewalkless roads filled with speeding SUVs and sports cars, the isolation is a real defining experience of the city. It gets easier central, but even in downtown after the end of the business day, though there are certainly more people and activity on the streets these days, the presence of pedestrians is quite sparse relative to the amount of space there is.
. . .
Not entirely unrelated, but having lunch with Kristy Trinier, Public Art Director for Edmonton Arts Council, she tried to convince me that East Berlin is a lot like Edmonton. She's lived there, I've only been there, but I certainly didn't buy the statement. She connects the two through their shared sense of having the image of being an industrial wasteland, but I maintain that the priorities are just too different. I did however bring up the statement the next evening with a friend who lived there for the past year and has returned indefinitely. Claire, who despises everything about this city, and lives in Millwoods, thought about the comparison and said she could agree, but only about very specific parts of East Berlin. There is one area that everyone knows about, as from the train to the airport it is just a stretch of barren wasteland filled with abandoned industrial zones that everyone there thinks is a shithole. Walking through the area one day by herself, self defense kicked in about the sudden isolation she felt about navigating empty streets. This sudden thought that she could be jumped at any point came into her head for the first time in her travels and it reminded her of home.
As most everyone who stays in Edmonton leaves often to connect to the rest of the world, what will happen as our gas-dependency will soon make frequent traveling obsolete for most individuals? Has the last fifty years of lived-in global cultural exchange coming to an end? And will cities like this one be able to continue as a place people settle for good?
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Eating, Not Walking
Strange phenomenon to have to leave your house, get in a car, drive to a restaurant, circle for parking, eat, and then get back in your car, and drive home to sit down once again. Strange as it's so unnatural--and poor for digestion and your overall experience of life.
finding myself circling this rainy city in between procrastinations, I stop for a mid afternoon meal, in a strip mall on the very north side. stepping out of the car there was a used rolled up diaper discarded in the parking lot. with no sidewalk leading up to the restaurant, or garbage cans, just road and parking, I splashed my way inside, ate an unappealing meal that was lukewarm, while staring into another strip mall across the street, got back into my car next to the used diaper, and drove home, thinking all the while about the lack of confidence this seems to emanate. no pride or value put into place, how else are we going to connect and relate but through disregard?
Looking out my window, just north of 118 Avenue, I see people walking by, most often if not always, looking straight down at the broken ground before them. No one is looking up, looking around, seeing if there is anything worth seeing. I am still foolish enough to be looking around, trying to see what I want to see, instead of what's simply there.
finding myself circling this rainy city in between procrastinations, I stop for a mid afternoon meal, in a strip mall on the very north side. stepping out of the car there was a used rolled up diaper discarded in the parking lot. with no sidewalk leading up to the restaurant, or garbage cans, just road and parking, I splashed my way inside, ate an unappealing meal that was lukewarm, while staring into another strip mall across the street, got back into my car next to the used diaper, and drove home, thinking all the while about the lack of confidence this seems to emanate. no pride or value put into place, how else are we going to connect and relate but through disregard?
Looking out my window, just north of 118 Avenue, I see people walking by, most often if not always, looking straight down at the broken ground before them. No one is looking up, looking around, seeing if there is anything worth seeing. I am still foolish enough to be looking around, trying to see what I want to see, instead of what's simply there.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Jasper Avenue, Saturday night, 2008
It's been Whyte Avenue that the sensible have been avoiding, between Thursday and Saturday, sidestepping the drunken bravados, fist fights, stabbings, gropings, and the overall unbridled debauchery and excessive public urination.
Only it's been creeping up to the north side of the river, slowly taking over with the strongest concentration between 109 St. and 106. Spilling out mostly from the Oil City Roadhouse, a monster in itself, its clientele takes over the entire block of sidewalks, pandering in groups or trying to find one another on their cellphones. Past the point of coherent drunk and raucous in groups, the air is thick with the tension of a fight ready to break at any moment.
Walking by last night shortly before 2 a.m., a couple of cops on bikes stand still nearby. A young man in a white shirt turns around and you can see that he is covered in blood. A small group are slumped in a corner, where usually a homeless person sits or sleeps, and they are now waving toxic swizzle sticks and serenading a birthday pal. Turning the corner two more cops jaunt by on foot, coming from the alley where the cruiser lights are ricocheting down the lane. Somebody yells, a man, or more probably a boy, and I'm warned that there are more cops on this block ticketing jaywalkers more than ever. Because that's the real problem. Pedestrians avoiding fights by crossing the street instead of the establishments incubating this behavior. The aggression on the street is palpable when you walk through it, less so then when you just drive by. Walking through a haze of the delirious, the only sound is traffic and sirens.
Crowds and density are not the problem, as I feel more on guard walking in Edmonton than I do amidst the busiest intersections in the world; the problem is the purpose of density. Density in Edmonton manifests two ways.
- In one, it is in traffic, specifically the arteries of the Yellowhead, Whitemud, and soon enough Anthony Henday that swings thousands of people and tonnes of goods along with burning gallons of gasoline every single day. It is a density-in-transition, something fitting for this gateway nexus, and its transient energy cuts through to how citizens may live and try to navigate this place.
- The second density correlates with the first. Edmonton is a transient stop, the "big" city with over half a dozen satellite cities and counties, whose young and restless blow into town with the sole purpose of getting absolutely trashed on their big night out. Concentrated, destructive, they disperse again leaving downtown and Strathcona sticky and stained. Of course residents frequent these areas too on the weekend, but the overwhelming majority are not. Edmonton is shedding its 'big city with a small town mentality' image with a much more dismal notion of being a small town with big city problems.
Only it's been creeping up to the north side of the river, slowly taking over with the strongest concentration between 109 St. and 106. Spilling out mostly from the Oil City Roadhouse, a monster in itself, its clientele takes over the entire block of sidewalks, pandering in groups or trying to find one another on their cellphones. Past the point of coherent drunk and raucous in groups, the air is thick with the tension of a fight ready to break at any moment.
Walking by last night shortly before 2 a.m., a couple of cops on bikes stand still nearby. A young man in a white shirt turns around and you can see that he is covered in blood. A small group are slumped in a corner, where usually a homeless person sits or sleeps, and they are now waving toxic swizzle sticks and serenading a birthday pal. Turning the corner two more cops jaunt by on foot, coming from the alley where the cruiser lights are ricocheting down the lane. Somebody yells, a man, or more probably a boy, and I'm warned that there are more cops on this block ticketing jaywalkers more than ever. Because that's the real problem. Pedestrians avoiding fights by crossing the street instead of the establishments incubating this behavior. The aggression on the street is palpable when you walk through it, less so then when you just drive by. Walking through a haze of the delirious, the only sound is traffic and sirens.
Crowds and density are not the problem, as I feel more on guard walking in Edmonton than I do amidst the busiest intersections in the world; the problem is the purpose of density. Density in Edmonton manifests two ways.
- In one, it is in traffic, specifically the arteries of the Yellowhead, Whitemud, and soon enough Anthony Henday that swings thousands of people and tonnes of goods along with burning gallons of gasoline every single day. It is a density-in-transition, something fitting for this gateway nexus, and its transient energy cuts through to how citizens may live and try to navigate this place.
- The second density correlates with the first. Edmonton is a transient stop, the "big" city with over half a dozen satellite cities and counties, whose young and restless blow into town with the sole purpose of getting absolutely trashed on their big night out. Concentrated, destructive, they disperse again leaving downtown and Strathcona sticky and stained. Of course residents frequent these areas too on the weekend, but the overwhelming majority are not. Edmonton is shedding its 'big city with a small town mentality' image with a much more dismal notion of being a small town with big city problems.
Then again
this morning mo and i attended the mayor's pride brunch. we were at michael phair's table, and so was doug iveson, one of the recently elected city councilors. ben henderson and laurie blakeman were at the next table over, with the dean of education and the mayor himself. to be transparent about this, mo and i lucked into our tickets when michael found himself with some extras. all the official speakers were full of enthusiasm for downtown, queers and youth. the mayor went so far as to publicly dis joel kotkin, upcoming speaker at the edmonton chamber of commerce later this week and proponent of single-family homes and suburban "nerdistans." as i listened to enthusiast after enthusiast, it was hard to stay unmoved. in what other city in the world right now could you buy access to the movers and shakers for a $40 brunch ticket?
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Pride 2008
if there's a nicer crowd than the one at pride every year, i don't know it. disco and beer unite everybody in a glowy feel-good afternoon: greens, queens and the NDP, organic grocers and leathermen, cops, anarchists, sissies, butches and bears. even the MCs aren't very bitchy.
i feel conflicted about pride. every year i'm undone by the "i love my gay daughter" t-shirts, and i resent it. i am moved by the old queers, who were fighting for recognition years before it even occurred to me to kiss a girl, and i love them. then i see someone in his teens and i realize, god, i'm closer to the old folks than the young studs. the HIV banners always make me cry, reminding me as they do of the late 1980s in san francisco, when pride "parades" were actually endless funeral marches. and i don't know what to think about the hordes of queer teenagers chanting "we love gay camp! we love gay camp!"
i feel ambivalent, i should say, about edmonton pride. i've done pride in a bunch of other cities, and i'm full of untainted, sentimental memories. my first pride was san francisco 1988, shortly after i came out. my security-guard girlfriend and i rode helmetless (and me, shirtless) in the dykes on bikes contingent: i was 24 years old, sporting a skirt and a flat-top. in london for a conference a few years back, i took myself to pride, which wound around and around the old city, everybody getting drunker by the block. toronto 1996, shortly after mo and i got together, and were staying at her ex's place: i wore a leather dress and bought mo some big black boots. at vancouver pride one year we ran into rob, whom we hadn't been able to reach by phone, and then adam, his freshly-ex-boyfriend. dublin pride 1998: just when i thought i would die of loneliness, a few lesbians took me out for a pint. stonewall 25, 1994, new york: we walked with the ACT-UP counter-march (who can remember, now, the dispute), and so arrived at central park in time to watch the mile-long rainbow flag wend its way in.
there's a familiar sense of sincerity and warmth at all these pride events: it's a pride thing, to set aside your reservations for the day and feel the love. so i don't exactly know why i am ambivalent about edmonton's pride. it's not that it's small; i actually liked edmonton pride when it was even smaller, a few dozen of us risking harassment walking around the block in old strathcona. and it's not that it's quiet, though it is that. (note to floats: music! play music! especially if you run a radio station or own a bar!) it's not even that the floats are always a little disappointing, though, again, the floats are usually a little disappointing. and i can look past the insulting fact that edmonton schedules pride here to accommodate toronto's, which will happen next week.
as best as i can tell, it's that edmonton's can-do love makes me feel chary. i want edmonton pride to be better -- bigger! louder! more fabulous! -- but it feels downright mean to want that when everybody is clearly doing their best. on a day characterized above all by non-judgmental warmth and generosity, who am i to stand back and sniff about new york 1994, corporate toronto glitz, or the feisty irish?
in this way, pride is continuous with every other aspect of edmonton. criticizing the city is a no-win prospect. the response is either, "oh, but you're not from here, are you" or "oh, but you're from here." let me come clean: i use both of these responses myself, regularly. we're suspicious of people who choose to stay here. "but why?," i've asked, bewildered, imagining that even a refugee would choose detroit's mean streets over edmonton's soft landing. on the other hand: don't tell me there's no culture here; you just don't know how to look for it. and then, on the third hand, i worry that we're used to being second-rate, and so we expect to be second-rate, and so we accept being second-rate.
my hope is that this blog will help me develop a critical take on the city that's not just critical. i hope it will help me see this place more clearly. if we're lucky, "walking in the city" will become a site for other edmontonians to stop in and speak their minds. in this way, it might become part of the cultural fabric of this place.
so i'll close with two of this year's surprising sights: first, the quakers. yeah, that's right: quakers marching along in the parade, holding a banner advertising quakers in support of same-sex something-or-other. second, a group protesting L ron hubbard's homophobia. they stood in a small group on churchill square and handed out flyers denouncing dianetics' approach to human sexuality in general and to homosexuality in particular. now, you don't see that in vancouver.
(do you?)
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Heading Down to Camrose
ACD and I took one last road trip before her impending departure, and once again, it was a D related trip. Last time Morinville, this time Camrose, where D and Sandy and little Daphne exist in their cozy 70+ year old house, standing strong just a couple of small town blocks from Camrose's historic downtown. The new family is looking good, quiet and away from it all. A glass of wine led to a short field trip to burgers and ice cream at the old Tim Horton's, which has expanded and moved up the street. A blaring drive around the periphery of Camrose, listening to everything from nouveau German pop to the Log Driver's Waltz, and it may be years again until this trio cruises carefree like this down an empty paved road. A quick O.V. at the Windsor Pub, where it was karaoke night and the old timers took it with unlikely gems like 'Barbie Girl' and 'Grease Lighting super remix.' Rounding out with 'On the Road,' we headed back out, towards the twinkling nights of the chemical refineries until we were back in the hood of Edmonton.
Going in and coming out, good talks sped us along the way as soon as the traffic thinned and the horizon appeared. Leaving Alberta for an indefinite period of time, not for ever, but quite possibly for good, ACD and co. pack up and leave on Monday, like far too many people I know right now. The reasons vary, but it all boils down to how unlivable it is here. Yes, you can grind down and bare through it, but is that how we have to live? Not just the winters, which break down our roads and sidewalks that are overused and disconnected, respectively. Not just the lack of a proper public transportation system where you don't have to walk for 10 minutes to a bus stop, wait up to 40 minutes, and still be just half way to where you need to be. It's also not just the lack of dignity rampant in the streets, breaking our hearts collectively. Mixed with the soaring costs of living in a place that already had a pretty high standard of living (especially relative to what you're paying for), and adding it all up, increment by increment, over the years, the weight is palpable.
Even Camrose, a charming little town, with generic big houses spreading like wild fire from the centre, big box stores opening up along the way to the highways, where it's impossible now to look and admire without thinking about the devastation to the land to fuel our consumption, a consumption not at all based on need, but profits that will drain this land dry. If you hate this place, you will hate it until it destroys itself. But if you love this place, can you bare to witness its own self disintegration?
Going in and coming out, good talks sped us along the way as soon as the traffic thinned and the horizon appeared. Leaving Alberta for an indefinite period of time, not for ever, but quite possibly for good, ACD and co. pack up and leave on Monday, like far too many people I know right now. The reasons vary, but it all boils down to how unlivable it is here. Yes, you can grind down and bare through it, but is that how we have to live? Not just the winters, which break down our roads and sidewalks that are overused and disconnected, respectively. Not just the lack of a proper public transportation system where you don't have to walk for 10 minutes to a bus stop, wait up to 40 minutes, and still be just half way to where you need to be. It's also not just the lack of dignity rampant in the streets, breaking our hearts collectively. Mixed with the soaring costs of living in a place that already had a pretty high standard of living (especially relative to what you're paying for), and adding it all up, increment by increment, over the years, the weight is palpable.
Even Camrose, a charming little town, with generic big houses spreading like wild fire from the centre, big box stores opening up along the way to the highways, where it's impossible now to look and admire without thinking about the devastation to the land to fuel our consumption, a consumption not at all based on need, but profits that will drain this land dry. If you hate this place, you will hate it until it destroys itself. But if you love this place, can you bare to witness its own self disintegration?
Sunday, December 16, 2007
1st Postcard from Berlin: Greetings from Deutschland
wie geht´s,
i don't know how long I have been here in berlin, only that I have been
either sleeping, smoking, or drinking. mostly in that ascending
order. I came to hang out with my old friend claire, who decided to stay
on after this past year abroad, and i realized on the flight over here
that it was mostly with claire and her former roommate kyla that my
dialogue in art began. we also played hell of a
lot of yahtze. it really could have gone either way.
it's only been few a days, maybe a week, I can't seem to keep track of
time here, but
I completely forgot just how much ms. claire can
actually
drink. as requested, i brought a six pack of bad canadian beer for the
housemates, a case of Wildcat, but claire being claire, drank them all
the first night.
I have also forgotten how I
cannot actuallz keep up with her and
how ridiculous I can get. so the
first night out
already resulted in one bar in which i cannot return. it was mostly due
to unforeseen circumstances, but the beer didn't help. but it's not all
debauchery; I am learning important life skills while in deutschland,
like how to
open beer bottles with a lighter. I also learned that smiling for
no
reason is taken as a sign of simple mindedness. hilarious.
I am
staying on warschauer straßer (east berlin) and it is über deutsch. but
i am picking things up and speaking in a garbled english, fake deutsch
and french (it just comes out)
accent and not smiling. but I think I would like to learn detusch, as
the language is verz beautiful, all staccato and tumbling, and not at
all
harsh or gutteral as I had once thought. the housedudes all talk away
and I hang
back,
drinking and smoking and listening and it's good. I was warned to bring
slippers, and that warning was much needed, but I had stayed in a
house
full of dudes once before and this is far better. not much
cleaner, but much more civilized--they have ashtrays everywhere.
as expected, berlin is chalk full of art and dance and all that
goodness, but I am taking a break even from that. I also have no idea
what day or time it usually is so I am missing quite a bit. but claire
took me to this winter festival thing which was ridiculous, but they had
some serious meat on sticks. seriously, it was like a small broom. a
weapon. but a weapon of deliciousness. then after, we went to this squat
house that she likes to hang in. it is exactly what it sounds like, an
abandoned building where a lot of people squat. only her friends, some
swedish punks, live in the wagons outside of the squat, which is
essentially like the slums, no running water, or hygiene, pitch black
and with large dogs running wild. I can't say it was my scene, and at
one point, there were five people and two large dogs in this wee wagon,
and all we were missing was a large bird and maybe some heroin. there is
to be a large swedish christmas dinner there this week, with all the
trimmings that can be stolen, but I don't know if I can do it. not much
else, just came back from this punk bar and I have met my quota of beer
today. life here is much slower, simpler, with a very high unemployment
rate (16 - 20%), but it means everybody is also more relaxed and happy.
also because the poor can survive here--everything is still very cheap,
so no body is left in the dust which is a nice change of scenery.
okay, I hope everyone has a nice holiday and if there's anything worth
mentioning, I will write again,
amy
i don't know how long I have been here in berlin, only that I have been
either sleeping, smoking, or drinking. mostly in that ascending
order. I came to hang out with my old friend claire, who decided to stay
on after this past year abroad, and i realized on the flight over here
that it was mostly with claire and her former roommate kyla that my
dialogue in art began. we also played hell of a
lot of yahtze. it really could have gone either way.
it's only been few a days, maybe a week, I can't seem to keep track of
time here, but
I completely forgot just how much ms. claire can
actually
drink. as requested, i brought a six pack of bad canadian beer for the
housemates, a case of Wildcat, but claire being claire, drank them all
the first night.
I have also forgotten how I
cannot actuallz keep up with her and
how ridiculous I can get. so the
first night out
already resulted in one bar in which i cannot return. it was mostly due
to unforeseen circumstances, but the beer didn't help. but it's not all
debauchery; I am learning important life skills while in deutschland,
like how to
open beer bottles with a lighter. I also learned that smiling for
no
reason is taken as a sign of simple mindedness. hilarious.
I am
staying on warschauer straßer (east berlin) and it is über deutsch. but
i am picking things up and speaking in a garbled english, fake deutsch
and french (it just comes out)
accent and not smiling. but I think I would like to learn detusch, as
the language is verz beautiful, all staccato and tumbling, and not at
all
harsh or gutteral as I had once thought. the housedudes all talk away
and I hang
back,
drinking and smoking and listening and it's good. I was warned to bring
slippers, and that warning was much needed, but I had stayed in a
house
full of dudes once before and this is far better. not much
cleaner, but much more civilized--they have ashtrays everywhere.
as expected, berlin is chalk full of art and dance and all that
goodness, but I am taking a break even from that. I also have no idea
what day or time it usually is so I am missing quite a bit. but claire
took me to this winter festival thing which was ridiculous, but they had
some serious meat on sticks. seriously, it was like a small broom. a
weapon. but a weapon of deliciousness. then after, we went to this squat
house that she likes to hang in. it is exactly what it sounds like, an
abandoned building where a lot of people squat. only her friends, some
swedish punks, live in the wagons outside of the squat, which is
essentially like the slums, no running water, or hygiene, pitch black
and with large dogs running wild. I can't say it was my scene, and at
one point, there were five people and two large dogs in this wee wagon,
and all we were missing was a large bird and maybe some heroin. there is
to be a large swedish christmas dinner there this week, with all the
trimmings that can be stolen, but I don't know if I can do it. not much
else, just came back from this punk bar and I have met my quota of beer
today. life here is much slower, simpler, with a very high unemployment
rate (16 - 20%), but it means everybody is also more relaxed and happy.
also because the poor can survive here--everything is still very cheap,
so no body is left in the dust which is a nice change of scenery.
okay, I hope everyone has a nice holiday and if there's anything worth
mentioning, I will write again,
amy
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
HIV Then and Now, AIDS Awareness week, Hulbert's Cafe
I came to support Alfredo as he gets back into the lounge singing swing of things, but I stayed for a panel discussion that spanned almost 25 years. Summed up into one sentence: Not much has changed. Drugs are more available, but tolerance is still the biggest hindrance. HIV drums up all the fears of society: otherness in poverty, queer identity, racism, and DEATH. In this disease hides all of humanity's anxieties and skeletons and it's a shame that the awareness is but a week, not a month, or always.
Though the discussion was mostly based around HIV from the queer perspective with some insight from drug use, the fact that today's perception that HIV is an issue in a lesser developed nation (and not an issue for your friends and neighbors) is the largest problem in reaching today's youth. Everyone knows what HIV is now thanks to media, but not everyone still thinks that they can get it. that deathly message is what's still being hidden in mainstream media, as HIV is a disease that's plaguing communities elsewhere without clean drinking water or education. But what needs to hit home is that HIV can infect anyone anywhere and that we each have to take responsibility for our own bodies.
On the way home, Alfredo, who has been living with HIV for 20 years, felt out of place tonight. He had one more song, but it was too late. He was active in home care for his community and awareness, but as he says, that was so long ago, it seems like another life . . . I don't doubt the truth in that statement. He lives his life, openly as a mature gent with HIV in a prominent professional position, HIV activism is not in his life, but in his being, the subtleness in the way he can live his life, that might be the biggest change we've seen.
Though the discussion was mostly based around HIV from the queer perspective with some insight from drug use, the fact that today's perception that HIV is an issue in a lesser developed nation (and not an issue for your friends and neighbors) is the largest problem in reaching today's youth. Everyone knows what HIV is now thanks to media, but not everyone still thinks that they can get it. that deathly message is what's still being hidden in mainstream media, as HIV is a disease that's plaguing communities elsewhere without clean drinking water or education. But what needs to hit home is that HIV can infect anyone anywhere and that we each have to take responsibility for our own bodies.
On the way home, Alfredo, who has been living with HIV for 20 years, felt out of place tonight. He had one more song, but it was too late. He was active in home care for his community and awareness, but as he says, that was so long ago, it seems like another life . . . I don't doubt the truth in that statement. He lives his life, openly as a mature gent with HIV in a prominent professional position, HIV activism is not in his life, but in his being, the subtleness in the way he can live his life, that might be the biggest change we've seen.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Pina Bausch, Tanztheatre Wuppertal, NAC, Ottawa
okay, so this isn't what I saw, bausch herself doesn't dance anymore, but this is far more apocalyptic and enchanting, but what I did see, "Nefes", was gorgeous nonetheless. I couldn't just include a still, as you need to see the movement. this piece, which was inspired by Bausch's trip to Turkey, surrounds itself with water (much like Turkey is also). Obvious images of servility, the city/bazaar/bathhouse, and a magical roaming carpet sequence (text encrypted light?) filled in between moments of pure exhaltation and moments of trickery.
Far less ironic than the works I've only read about, there was certainly more colour than what I was expecting as well. the beautiful tapestries that were the costumes, the music that was everything from modern berlin electro to turkish to tom waits, this was a very elaborate and theatrical piece with a string of solos, the whole show lasted close to three hours in length (I am use to 50 minute pieces, so this was a treat and an endurance test). the surrounding comments I overheard were about how grey everything was, how the set needed colour, how this is boring compared to la la la human steps, and some actual overheard comments included: "their physicality reminds me of circus de soleil." (maybe in the second half, but this comment was made during intermission) / "I love all that combine fever with jazz!" (they didn't actually) / "If I see that move one more time I've going to scream!" (what move, not sure, but it was a treat to see some of the world's best dancers like Rainer Behr, Daphnis Kokkinos and the others who I can't match a name to their static photographs.) for dance of this calibre, especially since it's a restaging of a 2003 production, I don't want to critique, but just enjoy. you can't just think about dance, but settle into your body and feel it.
beautiful, exhiliratng, the accumulation of sound-image-movement-in presence, it's all there.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Writing in the city . . .
Maybe this should be called writing in the city, but then writing and walking seems intrinsically linked activities. Yes to Rebecca Solnit.
Had a meeting with the AFA on Monday about community presenting, another hat I may try on this year, but while talking to the appropriate program officer, the issue of multidisciplinary activities came up. As a non-fiction writer (and non creative in the traditional 'biography' sense), there was no other category but multidiscplinary that I could apply for. A catch all, I was discouraged from applying for this program again as it was too hard to fit this time around. Because the field of art criticism has commercial appeal, same with graphic arts, no support has been provided for someone like me who falls through the cracks (their words, not mine). Only, looking at fellow freelancers both text and graphic, especially those with roots in the weeklies and dwindling funding of arts magazines, do the morsels of change in the commercial realm really count for sustainable income? are not these underfunded artistic pursuits also contributions to the vitality of the arts? I am forced to sound utopic, a voice I often discourage, but the sting of being displaced from the system (shrug, what you do just doesn't fit in) is making me ponder about my place in this city. This just all continues to reaffirm my thoughts on the future of corporate funding. As it snowed on Tuesday, new beginnings. Fresh start.
Had a meeting with the AFA on Monday about community presenting, another hat I may try on this year, but while talking to the appropriate program officer, the issue of multidisciplinary activities came up. As a non-fiction writer (and non creative in the traditional 'biography' sense), there was no other category but multidiscplinary that I could apply for. A catch all, I was discouraged from applying for this program again as it was too hard to fit this time around. Because the field of art criticism has commercial appeal, same with graphic arts, no support has been provided for someone like me who falls through the cracks (their words, not mine). Only, looking at fellow freelancers both text and graphic, especially those with roots in the weeklies and dwindling funding of arts magazines, do the morsels of change in the commercial realm really count for sustainable income? are not these underfunded artistic pursuits also contributions to the vitality of the arts? I am forced to sound utopic, a voice I often discourage, but the sting of being displaced from the system (shrug, what you do just doesn't fit in) is making me ponder about my place in this city. This just all continues to reaffirm my thoughts on the future of corporate funding. As it snowed on Tuesday, new beginnings. Fresh start.
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
It's been a while . . .
Not that I haven't been walking, but mostly writing, and working, and forgetting. Prairie Artsters has taken up almost all of my online writing time, and my misadventures across the city are lacking.
As an update, I am leaving the ranks of the day job once again. The point of getting a job is to secure credit, obtain a house, and all of that, but it's now done, why am I still doing it? Maybe I have yet to recognize that you need to do keep doing something you don't enjoy to obtain material possessions you don't necessary want. So we will see what happens now.
As part of looking into my independent career, I had asked Pamela Anthony for advice. In turn, she invited me to her 'Art Babes' potluck. Very gracious and a good point of reference for contacts. A beautiful house just off 99 St on the southside, the main floor with a major grouch living below. Brought Gerry and Nutto and some stinky cheese, ital bread and grapes that I don't think anyone remembered to eat. ladies can get pretty raunchy after a couple bottles of vino, so yes, it was fun. Saw a lot of faces that I never knew the names to, but gathered together, there was an immediate bond. But one of the older women (whose birthday it was) who I gave a lift home had very pessimistic feelings about going back to the arts. But was burning out from working 5 jobs at a time. My future? Not how I wanted to cap off the night, but it's not stopping anything. Not yet.
Hope to check in more often than not.
As an update, I am leaving the ranks of the day job once again. The point of getting a job is to secure credit, obtain a house, and all of that, but it's now done, why am I still doing it? Maybe I have yet to recognize that you need to do keep doing something you don't enjoy to obtain material possessions you don't necessary want. So we will see what happens now.
As part of looking into my independent career, I had asked Pamela Anthony for advice. In turn, she invited me to her 'Art Babes' potluck. Very gracious and a good point of reference for contacts. A beautiful house just off 99 St on the southside, the main floor with a major grouch living below. Brought Gerry and Nutto and some stinky cheese, ital bread and grapes that I don't think anyone remembered to eat. ladies can get pretty raunchy after a couple bottles of vino, so yes, it was fun. Saw a lot of faces that I never knew the names to, but gathered together, there was an immediate bond. But one of the older women (whose birthday it was) who I gave a lift home had very pessimistic feelings about going back to the arts. But was burning out from working 5 jobs at a time. My future? Not how I wanted to cap off the night, but it's not stopping anything. Not yet.
Hope to check in more often than not.
Monday, July 23, 2007
A man at the bus stop
On Sunday as I was walking towards the bus stop near the giant aluminum bat, there was an older man sitting near the bus shelter with his belongings near him. It's been pretty common this summer to see homeless men perch out at bus stations and curb sides, and for the most part, I haven't paid much attention.
As I was about to walk by him, something flew out of his hand and bounced onto the road, a plastic bottle cap or a rock? He quickly and stiffly got up to cut off my path, said a greeting of sorts, and picked up the lost object as I continued passing on.
Standing there for another few minutes, someone else was coming towards the bus stop. this time, I saw that the man was shooting something out of his hand on purpose, that he cut off this other person in the exact same manner and timing.
Confrontational yet not aggressive, the man demanded to be noticed. he forced a casual interaction beyond being invisible. and for once, I did pay attention to this other person living and sleeping in the same neighborhood and city.
As an afterthought: I couldn't help but think this would be great performance art.
As I was about to walk by him, something flew out of his hand and bounced onto the road, a plastic bottle cap or a rock? He quickly and stiffly got up to cut off my path, said a greeting of sorts, and picked up the lost object as I continued passing on.
Standing there for another few minutes, someone else was coming towards the bus stop. this time, I saw that the man was shooting something out of his hand on purpose, that he cut off this other person in the exact same manner and timing.
Confrontational yet not aggressive, the man demanded to be noticed. he forced a casual interaction beyond being invisible. and for once, I did pay attention to this other person living and sleeping in the same neighborhood and city.
As an afterthought: I couldn't help but think this would be great performance art.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Sunday, July 08, 2007
The Last Friday and a Sunday
Can-Can Canada Day
On Canada Day, Ted and I went for a stroll across downtown to catch the fireworks. A stop was made at Concrete for Jazz N'Art, put on by The Works and SAVA/CAVA. Everyone was speaking french, everyone but us, and after some cheeseballs, we kept on our way to the square for green onion cakes. The best spot to view the fireworks, I deemed, would be on the patio of the Hotel MacDonald. Unbeknowst that there would be a wedding taking up most of the patio, as well as the fireworks being stationed to the west more so than I recall in former years, the fireworks down in the valley appeared far away and tiny. People looked on in wonder, but I wasn't moved.
The surprise of the night was running into our friend Trevor and his ladies, Tash and Tandie, all who were dining in the Confederation Lounge before heading for The Roost. Sunday night drag show, Canada Day style. Ted and I were graciously invited and tagged along as so, before running into more folks on the patio and outside, where the drunkard revelers had quickly climbed up from the valley and were not finding ways to keep drinking and celebrating something.
Inside the Roost, it would be a completely different atmosphere. Everyone stood around waiting for the drag show to start. Being maybe the third of fourth one I've ever seen, the ladies put on a good effort and shilled out canada day swag like pros. The night was made when they did the can-can, all that Trevor wanted to see and poof, the night was over.
Eartha Shit (Photos courtesy of Ted Kerr)
What can I say? After a dismal evening watching Feats Dance Festival in a heated tin can, KO showed us what was what in a northside Boston Pizza.
Thursday, June 07, 2007
Trying it out (on 97 St)
this one's for vince:
for as long as I've lived in edmonton, which counted recently, has accumulated to 19 years, I had always passed the BBQ house on the SW corner of 118 Ave and 97 St, now sitting cozily next to Big Daddy's Tats Parlour. Never knowing what to think, I finally went on in one day after getting off a stop too early and passing a window full of people milling about. your typical combos, bbq duck or pork with rice or noodles ($6-7), three egg rolls for $2, even wonton noodle soup. I loved this stuff when I lived or visit Hong Kong, but no place here or Van or even San Fran ever really matched that same flavour. I was hoping the place on 102 Ave just further south on 97 would do, but two words: fatty duck. True that this place doesn't match my nostalgia either, how could any place match the immediate freshness of eating in those busy filthy streets, but I'd say this is as close as I've found anywhere. and the fact that's within walking distance, well, it's trouble.
on the road up 97 the other day, garden errands abide trips to la rona, I stumbled upon sprawling parking lots that led me to Shumka: Ukrainian Foods Restaurant. a small take out and eat in place, also a place in kingsway mall, the snack plate consisting of perogy, cabbage roll, nalysnyky and kobassa, one each, $4, hit that spot that only a perogy can hit. and I should have known what-was-what when the lady ahead of me ordered two dozen nalysnykies to go. that one--it wasn't enough, but enough for me to go back. "Traditional Quality and Original Recipes since 1975". Bacon, ya know I love ya, but until you make me some nalysnyky, I have found another.
and on the same day as discovering shumka, I pulled off 97 St at 127 ave, behind the toyota dealership, to check out that Italian grocery store I had only ever heard about. I believe there was a write up about it in the paper not too long ago, as one of those secret town favorites, and I can see the charm. like a small scale Ital Centre meets Sceppa's, tried the cannelloni and veal parmigiani ($13) that fed me twice. charming that nobody spoke english either. actually, also at shumka's, the bbq houses, and this place, of which the name eludes me, all give the impression of a small family run affair. whatever it is, it makes the food taste better and the days just a little bit brighter.
for as long as I've lived in edmonton, which counted recently, has accumulated to 19 years, I had always passed the BBQ house on the SW corner of 118 Ave and 97 St, now sitting cozily next to Big Daddy's Tats Parlour. Never knowing what to think, I finally went on in one day after getting off a stop too early and passing a window full of people milling about. your typical combos, bbq duck or pork with rice or noodles ($6-7), three egg rolls for $2, even wonton noodle soup. I loved this stuff when I lived or visit Hong Kong, but no place here or Van or even San Fran ever really matched that same flavour. I was hoping the place on 102 Ave just further south on 97 would do, but two words: fatty duck. True that this place doesn't match my nostalgia either, how could any place match the immediate freshness of eating in those busy filthy streets, but I'd say this is as close as I've found anywhere. and the fact that's within walking distance, well, it's trouble.
on the road up 97 the other day, garden errands abide trips to la rona, I stumbled upon sprawling parking lots that led me to Shumka: Ukrainian Foods Restaurant. a small take out and eat in place, also a place in kingsway mall, the snack plate consisting of perogy, cabbage roll, nalysnyky and kobassa, one each, $4, hit that spot that only a perogy can hit. and I should have known what-was-what when the lady ahead of me ordered two dozen nalysnykies to go. that one--it wasn't enough, but enough for me to go back. "Traditional Quality and Original Recipes since 1975". Bacon, ya know I love ya, but until you make me some nalysnyky, I have found another.
and on the same day as discovering shumka, I pulled off 97 St at 127 ave, behind the toyota dealership, to check out that Italian grocery store I had only ever heard about. I believe there was a write up about it in the paper not too long ago, as one of those secret town favorites, and I can see the charm. like a small scale Ital Centre meets Sceppa's, tried the cannelloni and veal parmigiani ($13) that fed me twice. charming that nobody spoke english either. actually, also at shumka's, the bbq houses, and this place, of which the name eludes me, all give the impression of a small family run affair. whatever it is, it makes the food taste better and the days just a little bit brighter.
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
Frank O'Hara
Peering into the postcard shop on granville island yesterday, after a fruitless day of walking around downtown Vancouver as I always do when I arrive, and when I leave, who is looking back out from a black and white portrait in a wicker chair and tight long sleeve black shirt than none other than heart of all hearts, Frank O'Hara.
A true flaneur of the 20th century, like no other writer who wrote simultaenously with heavy and light heartedness to dear beloved friends about friends, movies, lunch, and art, oh, need I say more.
this reminds me, I must take a photo of City Trust for Daniel, who I also picked up a copy of the postcard for. all for his wedding gift, reminders of the city he left, he once roamed, as mummified mementos that can now just hang on his wall rather than in his heart.
this blot should really be accredited to him, as he is one of the wo walkers in the photo in the original post, and probably someone who has walked this city on all levels more than any other person I know. To find Frank in a postcard, for some reason, really bookends a certain era that never really began, but certainly faded.
A true flaneur of the 20th century, like no other writer who wrote simultaenously with heavy and light heartedness to dear beloved friends about friends, movies, lunch, and art, oh, need I say more.
this reminds me, I must take a photo of City Trust for Daniel, who I also picked up a copy of the postcard for. all for his wedding gift, reminders of the city he left, he once roamed, as mummified mementos that can now just hang on his wall rather than in his heart.
this blot should really be accredited to him, as he is one of the wo walkers in the photo in the original post, and probably someone who has walked this city on all levels more than any other person I know. To find Frank in a postcard, for some reason, really bookends a certain era that never really began, but certainly faded.
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