HotorNotTdot

Interior Design Show 2012

HotorNotTdot Rating: (designed to be) Hot

•text, photos and photo-recreations by

Rolyn Chambers (goldenrolyn@gmail.com)

Inspiration for design comes from many sources.  Nature, science, anatomy are just a few. Jewelry design is no exception. The human imagination takes forms around us and alters them to create exceptional items that catch the eye. But design can also borrow from the designs of others. What if jewelry design were inspired by furniture design?

Every winter the Interior Design Show takes up shop in Toronto. Every thing from furniture, accessories, appliances, art, flooring, wall coverings, and fabrics are displayed for both industry professionals and the public. It can also be, for my purpose, a great source of inspiration for jewelry design.

Inspirational Mentions

•Native Trials (nativetrails.net)introduced their line of kitchen and bathroom cupboards made from reclaimed wooden wine barrels.

•Elte (elte.com), a design shop in Toronto, showcased a gorgeous Preston dining room table. Its dark wood slab table with six floating stools attached at the base with circular wrought iron will have your guests talking.

•Living Lighting (livinglighting.com), a huge chain, hung huge dazzling crystal beaded chandeliers to impress guests and press.

•The blonde wood and stainless steel hardware of Andrew Richard Design’s Silhouette outdoor furniture line is stunning in the sun.

Super-Star Stand-Outs

•Jody Racicot, founder of Modern Revision (modernrevision.com) creates whimsically retro items for eclectic homes.  His bug-like wireless stereo speaker unit, HiFi, crafted out of blonde maple is pure joy to look at (even though its for listening to.) “The only thing I regret about HiFi is that it should have been able to walk,” Racicot’s artist statement reads. “Even one or two steps would have been nice.” Now that would have been a merger of old school design with new school technology.

•Upcountry’s (upcountry.com) King Street showroom has always lured me in, even when I haven’t the cash or the credit to spend. Their new stainless steel and leather furniture line by British designer Timothy Oulton, showcased at IDS2012, completely ravished my senses and left me needing more. Credit be damned.

• Flux Chair made of plastic turned many heads. Shipped flat like an unassembled cardboard box, it assembles in less than 5 seconds with no tools… or screws. It’s going give IKEA a run for their Krona.

Strolling along the exhibit booths these products and others stirred up my creative juice. Could they be somehow transformed into jewelry? Of course, I would just have to put on my bejeweled creative cap.

Rolyn Chambers (goldenrolyn@gmail.com)

Toronto Fashion Week-

Robin Kay, Her Wrap’s Okay

HotorNotTdot Rating: Hot (and furry)

Photo-Collage & Text by Rolyn Chambers

Stealthy, silently, I rummaged through the over-packed racks of my favourite Value Village. Something special was needed to match the white and red tuxedo style jacket I had made for the opening of Fashion Week. As I inspect the selection, Starbucks pumpkin spice latté in hand, I pondered a bit. Was it the clothing, the designers, the spectacle, or the free swag that drew me every season, for the last ten or so years, to Toronto’s LG Fashion Week? Actually…neither. Robin Kay? Heard of her? As head of the Fashion Design Council of Canada (FDCC) since 2000, she is responsible for the creation and operation of Canada’s ultimate fashion showcase. She’s why I went, year after year. And every year my reason for going, because of her, changed as well.

In the beginning, I went fresh faced, wide-eyed and fashion struck. I met Robin for the first time on my very first opening night. It was my first year writing my column, Deep Dish, for Fab Magazine. It was a magical experienced altered somewhat by the bright white lights of the runway and a few free, albeit weak, drinks. I can’t recall what interesting outfit she had draped over her small frame that night except that by the end I noticed her caressing a fur wrap. Brown. Perhaps beaver. I’m sure it was Canadian. I can tell you though, that while our conversation was short, I knew there was much about this woman with the slightly slurred speech and glossy eyes that she was not letting me know. And I wanted to know.

Returning home that night, I played my brief interview of Robin I had taped on my Fisher Price tape-recorder. Pressing the bright green “PLAY” button I listened to her somewhat nasally voice and drifted off to sleep. My rest was eventful. I dreamed. I fantasized. My mind took me to places perhaps I did not want to go in reality. But, off it went. Curled up in my down comforter, I fantasized that we, Robin and I, had made sparkly, sticky love underneath the tents of Bryant Park. She in a David Dixon gown made of Cashmere toilet paper and I in the most tapered of Bustle jackets…sans pants. Brooklyn, her daughter, filmed the entire thing and posted it to Youtube. Much to Robin’s chagrin. Sex-tapes were for Hollywood starlets, not grown women who were building an empire. And then I woke-up.

The following year, I decided to not only report on Fashion Week but to also be part of the event. I was by no means a fashion designer but I was known for always wearing unusual DIY custom pieces to certain events. With my arts background I put together a gallery show to illustrate this. Held at the now defunct Spin Gallery on Queen, 20 mannequins were assembled along with 40 of my collection of over 100 unique children’s toy tape recorders. It was all very odd, but the FDCC endorsed it making it an official part of Fashion Week that year. The exhibit, Stylish Report, ran for two weeks and had its big party on a Thursday of Fashion Week.  To my surprise and delight Robin attended with two ladies in tow. As I watched her walk from mannequin to mannequin, clutching yet another fur wrap tightly to her body, I read her body language as she judged each garment. I approached with three glasses of white wine, to see what she thought. Murmuring something about my creative energy, she “hoped to see more of this sort of thing in the future.” Softly, I petted her wrap. I was happy.

Fast-forward a couple years. I’m at an after party thrown by Ginch Gonch underwear at some hotel on King. The Fashion Week shows that night had gone well, and we were celebrating with a few drinks. By this point my friend, lets call her Mamy, had consumed more than her share of free Cosmo-Keiths (what happens when you combine Cosmopolitan martinis with Keith’s beer in a large glass) and was rapping, free style, on one of the tables displaying the brightly coloured underwear. The Ginch Crew, perhaps a little delirious were giving out free underwear…but only if you put them on. In front of everyone. Well, really? I’m not sure what they expected to happen. An underwear party? Any orgy? A wet gotchie contest where contestants doused their cloth covered privates in Mohitos? In the age of cellphone cameras and Facebook? Whatever they hoped would happen, I really wasn’t feeling it, having it, or doing it. So instead of stripping off my slacks, I simply (after a shot of Jack at the bar) slipped them on over my pants. I looked ridiculous but with Amy rapping about how good my bulge looked, I felt like a rock star.

It was at this moment that Robin Kay stumbled in. I was mortified. Me in underwear worn over my pants like some crazed superhero and my friend Mamy, rapping from high atop a table in this upper-crust hotel. Without missing a beat Mamy, who had been rapping about the girth contained within my gotchies, switched to exploring, in spoken word, every detail of what Robin was wearing. Including her fur wrap. This time large and black. A toothless smile formed on Robin’s face as the air in the room suddenly grew cold. This did not stop Miss Mamy of course who proceeded to throw underwear at puzzled guests like they were prizes at some sweaty rave. I greeted Robin as best I could only to have my conversation cut short by Mamy who insisted Robin try on a pair of underwear herself. Yes, this night was quickly going nowhere good and I needed to make a hasty exit.

A couple seasons after that, I was working at the now defunct Circa Nightclub and proposed a partnership between Fashion Week and the new art inspired club. We had already secured the much sought after Greta Constantine show and I was personally working on the Lucian Matisse after party, the Kid Robot fashion show and a Munny doll fashion art exhibit. It seemed a perfect fit. We met with Robin and her daughter Brooklyn one afternoon on the third floor of Circa. Fully prepared I launched into my proposal alongside our team, which consisted of Peter Gatien’s wife Alessandra, our Marketing Director Ashley Macintyre and a few others. Robin, in a Stevie Nicks type knitted wrap, sat and listened intently. She asked a few key questions and the meeting ended well. Circa was now officially a part of Fashion Week that season. But the meeting brought up some questions.

“Was she drunk?” one of my colleagues asked. “I mean, it’s only 2PM!”

My initial response was to come to her rescue. No, she wasn’t drunk I protested. Or thought. “I think she’s kinda’ like Anna Nicole Smith or Courtney Love,“ I said jokingly (kinda’). “Maybe she speaks that way because she has some sort of chemical imbalance. I mean, do you think she would actually attend this meeting, with her daughter, drunk?!?!?” Rude!

“Was she high?” another colleague asked. “I mean, it’s STILL only 2PM!”

No! Well? Noooooo! I mean, Robin kicked her drug habit years ago in the 80s. The woman spent almost a year in jail for dealing after all. Perhaps its just residual surges of rancid poppy seeds in her system. She can’t be expected to control that. Rude!

That year  though, in October of 2007 an anonymous someone sent about an email attacking Robin Kay hard, demanding her head (and thick tongue) on a platter. DRAMA. The letter cut deep and garnered a few backers with its online petition. The email slammed Robin, her handling of the FDCC and Fashion Week in general. It was a full mutiny of her fashion bounty. As Fashion Week began that year, it as all everyone was talking about. Who cared if Stacey McKenzie would be walking? Who cared if Phillip Bloch would steal the limelight? Who cared if Yazmin Warsame would make an appearance? Who cared where Jeanne Beker would be seated? Who cared which model from whose agency would fall flat on her ass in which show? Who cared if Shinan Govani secretly carried a micro recorder hidden in his Andy Warholian mop? Who cared about the threat of Jay Manuel spontaneously combusting at any moment? Who? Who? Who? Who? Who? Who? Who? What?!? We were all dying to see if Robin would pull another of her trademarked Edwina Monsoon ala TV show Absolutely Fabulous. But, she held it together, held her head high, and pulled it off. In the end Edwina always did. Sweetie.

One of the things that has always impressed me about Robin is her ability to command a room. Her gift of public speaking, even while a little tipsy, inspiring. Perhaps though she needs a little bit of the sauce to loosen the nerves and get up the courage to stand in front of hundreds of people night after night.  Many of them her backstabbing colleagues. But night after night she did. And she usually did it very well. Notes? Not required. Cue Cards? Didn’t need ‘em. Her speeches were creative. Her voice held ones attention. And her messages were timely. Usually.

But Robin has also had some bad moments. Moments when she had one (or six) too many drinks before she palmed the microphone. Lets, be real here. Her love of the sauce (be it liquid or powdered) is legendary. Just do a quick online search of JUST her name alone and the third option Google gives you, after “Robin Kay”, and “Robin Kaye” is, “Robin Kay drunk”. For real. The most notorious of these drunken moments came during Fashion Week of October 2008. I was there. But seriously wished I wasn’t. Robin Kay drunk at a party was one thing (heck who hasn’t been), but Robin Kay blotto in front of some pretty important suits in the fashion industry was another. Speaking with flailing arms, stumbling feet and slurry words (I’m sure I saw drool too) her welcome speech made me want to get up and leave. You can’t make this stuff up. Nor can you find this video anywhere online anymore. It’s like the Fashion Mafia have paid to have it, uhm, removed. My guess is that it’s now sleeping with the fishes, in an ocean of vodka. But we all know the story (it’s legendary) and how it all ended. I just kept thinking; maybe if she had been wearing her fur wrap that night it would have all ended better.

Last season, my last run in with Robin, was equally as brief as my first. Dressed in a very mini mini-dress with a severely high part and very low neckline, platform heels, heavily patterned dark pantyhose, darker than dark eye-makeup, and, yes another fur wrap, she looked hot. As hot as Robin Kay could. My mind immediately went to the fantasy I had of her, on our very first meeting. I wasn’t wearing a Bustle jacket, but I could very well have dropped my pants right then and there. Instead I asked her to pose for a picture. She obliged with a willing smile. Trying valiantly to stand up straight, she swung out her leg to show off her left thigh as her wrap dropped a few precious inches. And then, her boob popped out. The left one. She giggled, swung around and covered her exposed flesh with her fur. Crisis adverted. Though she was still “exposed” no one was the wiser. Ahh. Finally I understood the purpose of that wrap.

—-

The Protector of Rhodes Avenue:

The Reaching Out Child Abuse Monument

HotorNotTdot Rating: Hot (and moving)

All Pictures and text by Rolyn Chambers

A walk along Gerrard St is not usually a beautiful one. For the most part it is one of those streets that weaves in and out of various low and middle income residential areas lined with small unforgettable rundown shops. Today however I stroll from Broadview and Gerard in search of something. I’m not sure what, but an odd feeling inside me tells me there is something along this street that I’m meant to see. Today.

Entering Little India my mood changes. For the better. The people, the stores, the food and the fabulous shiny clothing (which I have purchased and worn on several occasions for various events), all come together to create a unique section of our city. But I’ve been here before. The stores look the same as last, the vibe has not changed, so what is it that has brought me all this way, on this early morning?

As I make my way to Coxwell St, something catches my eye. A monument. Large and silent it sits. But it calls out to me, with arms outstretched. My first instinct is to walk by, as my stomach is taking ownership of my body and thoughts. Nourishment it cries. No, it demands! But summoning up my strength I defer my grumbling belly and walk the 50 feet to take a closer look. My roti will have to wait.

 At first it looks like the monument belongs to the church, which it sits behind, on the corner of Gerrard and Rhodes. Glancing at it quickly, one could possibly mistake it for a post-modern image of Jesus Christ. Perhaps, in the past, it has even drawn confused worshipers to it carrying sacrificial wine, commune wafers and years old fruit cake as offering. But within five feet of this imposing figure I begin to notice that this “Jesus” has many hands. But not like Ganesha or Shiva, the Hindu deities (which would make sense in this area.) The hands of this statue are handprints, arranged in rows across the monument like a Burberry pattern of a coat. Burberry patterns though are fashion. These patterns of hands I begin to realize are much less frivolous. They have meaning.

Shy about stepping onto someone else property I keep my distance at first. In addition to the many hand prints formed in the squares on this monument are words. Words at first I read without understanding.

One square reads, “Where there is life there can be healing. Where there is spirit, it can be free to soar. Where there is breath, we can build trust. We can be hole.” A woman emerging from one of the fingers of this particular hand seems to symbolize some sort of evolution. A metamorphosis.

 Another square depicting a flying bird reads: “The Truth Shall Set Your Spirit Free for it Fears Nothing.”

Another has two adult hands touching a child’s hand and is scripted with, “May Hope Be Passed Through Every Hand.”

In French, yet another square reads, “Si vous soupconnez qu’un enfant est abuse, n’abandonnez pas.”

Then I read:

“I have been to Nam and I’ve been through child abuse and child abuse was tougher.”

It is this square that clues me in somewhat as to the meaning behind the monument.

The figure that this monument represents seems dressed in a cloak. It is on this cloak that row upon row of these handprints within squares are lined. The cloak is large, wide, and tall. It forms a shield or a blanket that seems to protect or hide whatever is in front of or behind it. A guardian angel perhaps or a security blanket of enormous weight and power. The monument, I determine is about child abuse. The figure perhaps is a protector. The messages and handprints on its cloak, most likely real, are of those who have had to suffer.

This is what I was meant to see this morning. After spending about 10 simple minutes photographing, observing and touching this monument I go on my way. Sipping my morning coffee. Not knowing what this imposing figure is truly about. It is not until I get home that I grasp the magnitude of this monument. I Google the “274 Rhodes Ave” and the word “monument.”  My research gathers much.

The hands, I discover, are actually created from the handprints of various children through a project called “Give Kids a Hand Vision for the Child Abuse Monument”. The monument being, “Child Abuse Monument.” Children were asked to draw an outline of their hand on a piece of 8 1/2 x 11 paper. Then on or around the outline of their hand, they wrote or drew a message. There are also hand prints of adults who were once the victims of childhood abuse.

This sculpture is called “The Child Abuse Monument”, and is apparently one of two. This one that sat sideways on the driveway of that private residence on Rhodes Avenue is bronze and large. The elements have given it a green historic patina. With its arms stretched upwards to the sky it stands ten feet tall and is fifteen feet wide. Created by Michael C. Irving, Ph. D., the owner of the house, it honors the “courage of survivors in a healing art form, while also speaking out to eradicate child abuse on all levels.” Irving, himself a survivor of such abuse, has gone on to become a psychotherapist and sculptor.

The entire project took six years to complete with the collaboration of hundreds of people. The sculpted squares on the body of the figure are personalized with an adult or child survivor’s own imprinted hand. In addition to the sculpted squares with their hand and messages, over one million hand imprints drawn on paper fill the inside hallow of the monument. Some of the messages contained include.

“I broke the circle. So can you.” Avril

“We are all in this. Child abuse affects us all, if one hurts, we all hurt…Life together.”

“Every child deserves Unconditional love.” Jessica

“My life is not a pencil. You can’t ever erase your mistakes.”

“Don’t let the anger and mistakes pass on!!! Care for them. Don’t abuse them! Make a new Generation.”

As I read these messages, I think back to my own childhood. Filled with love. But, I remember thinking I had such a horrible childhood because my parents would sometimes discipline me by grounding me or (when I stole something) giving me a spanking. I remember thinking; my parents were the worst in the world. Looking back I know this not to be true. As I read the messages on this monument I think of all the children who truly do have abusive parents and guardians. I could not imagine my parents ever doing to me what some have done to these children. I remember the horrible stories I’ve heard on the news, of parents starving their children, locking their children in basements, sexually abusing or exploiting their children, beating their kids till death or in one child’s case, being dropped into a bathtub filled with boiling hot water until he died. It makes me sick to my stomach to think that a parent or adult guardian could ever do this to a child. It also makes me angry. But anger is not good in this case. Anger will not solve anything.

I believe, unfortunately there will always be child abuse, because there will always be neglectful and abusive adults. What needs to change is how we deal with it and the ways in which we identify child abusers and protect our children. Yes…our children. They may not be born onto you but I believe that all children, everywhere, are our responsibility. Until they are able to take care of themselves they belong to our global home and as members of this home we must protect those most vulnerable. An observant eye and quick action can make a life better and even more, can save a child’s life.

Right now the monument sits at the home of Dr. Irving because it does not have a permanent location. Dr. Irving envisions a park setting for its final home. Somewhere that parents and children congregate. For more information, or to find out how you can help Dr. Irving find a permanent home for this important monument, or to donate funds in building more of these monuments contact:

Michael C. Irving, Ph.D., Artistic Director

Child Abuse Survivor Monument Project

274 Rhodes Ave. Toronto, Ont.

Canada M4L 3A3

For further information check out:

http://www.irvingstudios.com/child_abuse_survivor_monument

You can also follow Dr. Irving on Twitter at: http://twitter.com/#!/ChildAbuseMnumt

DID JESUS REALLY EAT THIS?

A REVIEW OF NAZARETH RESTAURANT

(& ETHIOPIAN FOOD IN GENERAL)                                                                           

969 Bloor St. W, 416-535-0797

HOT OR NOT TDOT RATING: (A very personal and subjective): Not

Photos and text by Rolyn Chambers

A friend of old told a tale of a far off place. A place in the land of Bloorcourt Village. A land where very few tales are told. So when he spoke of this place we all listened, with eyes wide, ears a flutter and mouths salivating. The story he wove was like a fable never heard. Too good to be true we thought. A legend! A fairy tale! A myth for sure!

“At the corner of Bloor Street and Dovercourt Road, near a Pizza Pizza and across from a women’s shelter, exists a most wondrous restaurant,” he said with dramatic sweeping motions of his hand (perhaps indicating the direction we were to travel). “Ethiopian and small it is. But every night villagers from far and wide travel by foot, bike, TTC and sometimes even motorized carriage to gorge themselves on this exotic food…and it’s cheap. It is told than one can dine there for a mere ten dollars.”

He had me at cheap.

“But!” He bellowed loud, with ominous. “Be forewarned! You must arrive early. For line-ups form as sun begins to set at 6PM and can last for 3 movements of the moon. If you are not there early enough you could be waiting for what seems like an eternity.”

Bah, I thought. No restaurant in that part of town could draw so many people to it…no matter how cheap. But, one dark night, on my way home, I happen to pass by this fabled place, and lo and behold, his tale was true. Nazareth, as it is known, was indeed full and a line-up stretched out the door and onto the sidewalk. They waited. Even with another Ethiopian restaurant (which had a slightly more urban decor) just two doors down. They waited. Why? I had to know.

Packing my wallet with magic credit cards, I invite my mother out to sample their wares.

“Ethiopian?” My mother asked with trepidation. Her fingers digging into my arm as we walk to the restaurant. “Uhm, I’m not sure if I’ll like Ethiopian food. Ethiopian?”

How could we not I protested. We’re black. They’re black. Of course we’ll like it.

“Yes,” she came back stopping full in her tracks. “But we’re from Jamaica, not Ethiopia.” (This coming from a woman who rarely ate Jamaican food and preferred Filet Mignon to Curry Goat.)

But, I reply leading her into the restaurant, we all came from Africa! These are our people too. She couldn’t argue with that logic. How could anyone?

Arriving early enough to escape the 6PM line we choose a table near the window so we can see the vast view of Shoppers Drug Mart across the street. Laminated and small, we mull over the menu. The prices are indeed cheap. Our server (who is actually the owner) is a bit standoffish and we have to ask her twice two to wipe down our table before we order. But what she lacks in personality she makes up for in knowledge. The items cost so little we assume that they are all small dim-sum sized portions. So we order about $20 worth of food, each, thinking we may need to order more after. Our initial order consists of Tibs (chunks of beef sautéed in seasoned butter), Chicken (stewed with spices), Gored Gored (cubes of lean beef seasoned in a special Awaze hot sauce), Kifto (fresh minced lean meat seasoned with herbs) and a vegetable dish. 

“Oh no,” owner-server-lady explains. “That is way too much. Take away three items and you will have plenty.”

We do…and we are glad we do. When the large platter arrives at our table about 15 minutes later, it is (visually at least) cmore than enough for the two of us…if we had at it all. And herein lies the problem. We could not eat it all. Not because it was too much food, but because we were unable to eat it all. I know, sounds confusing. But here’s why.

First, Ethiopian food is shared. It’s a familiarity thing that you might want to get used to before going. If you wouldn’t kiss the person across from you on the mouth, you probably don’t want to share one of these dishes with them either. Second traditional Ethiopian meals are eaten without utensils. No knives, forks, spoons… or even shovels. You eat with your hand (the right hand is most polite). And third, Ethiopian food is scoffed up with a special type of bread. The bread actually forms a large part of the meal and acts as a type of round platter for the food (which is on top of an actual platter.) Then, hurray, more bread is served on the side. This bread is used to scoop up the different cooked meats and vegetables, which are on top of the bread platter. It is the bread, this bread, starring up at us that we have the problem with.

It’s grey. It’s soggy. It’s spongy. It’s bitter. In short, it’s not hot. Literally and figuratively. They called Injera. The ingredients on top of the Injera are great. But because the only way we can pick them up and eat is by using this bread as a shovel, our meal is at a stand still. Literally. With every bit of this grey, soggy, spongy, bitter bread I feel like I’m about to throw up. To put it politely. My mother is not enjoying it either. She’s actually stopped eating all together and with one plucked eyebrow raised she gives me the look. We’re used to Jamaican style hard dough bread which is even more dense than Canadian bread so for her to eat this damp bread is like water torture. I wonder if they could just put it back into the oven for a while. “Are you sure the bread is done?” I feel like asking our server. But I don’t. Instead, because I’m so hungry, I skulk over to the bar.

“I know this is probably totally inappropriate,” I whisper to server-owner-lady.  “We are really enjoying all the toppings. It’s all very flavourful. It’s so delicious. It’s all very new to us. But we are having a bit of a problem with the bread.” She puts her hand on her hips, defiantly. Not good. Not good. I continue to pleading. “We are just not used to the bread. Maybe it’s an acquired taste. Maybe. But, uhm, we are finding it a bit…uhm, soggy. So, uhm, we were just wondering if we could…have a fork?”

Big smile on my part. None on server-owner-lady.

“We don’t have forks,” she says bluntly.

“Ohkaaaayyyy,” I respond desperate. “How about a spoon?”

“No.”

 “A knife?”

“No.”

 “A ladle? Anything?”

“We are a traditional Ethiopian restaurant,” she says loudly so all the other guests can hear. “We do not have any utensils whatsoever. You must eat with your hands. You must eat with the bread.”

Traditional? Jeesh! Even the Asians give us an option. An out. And we buy everything from them! If the Asians can provide a fork, you would think the Ethiopians could cough up a spoon or two. Defeated and still hungry, I slink back to the table wondering what to do next.  My mother looks…not impressed. But she is so hungry by this point that she has begun eating the meat and vegetables on top of the soggy, spongy, grey, bitter bread with just her recently manicured fingers. I join her in the process, because I too am hungry. Starvation-nation hungry. But I feel like an animal. The meats are easy enough to grab but some of the vegetables, like the lentils, mashed yams, boiled spinach and such prove harder and messier to deal with. I feel people in the restaurant are watching us. Whispering about us. Laughing at us as we gingerly place mushy food into our mouths with our now greasy fingers. But we’re Jamaican, not Ethiopian I think to them, hoping they can read my thoughts.

I eye the Shoppers Drug Mart across the street.

“What if I go across the street, buy some disposable plastic cutlery and smuggle it back in?” I suggest to my mom. “Then I could by a birthday cake and put them inside. We’ll leave it on the table and when the server-owner-lady is not looking we’ll whip them out, gobble a couple of mouthfuls and then shove them back into the cake until she’s not looking again.”

My Mom laughs and continues to pick at the plate of food. “Rolyn, I told you this wasn’t a good idea.”

But at the time, the fable told seemed exotic, delicious, tempting and true. Obviously many others do indeed enjoy this place. The mythical line-up had begun to form along the east wall as we near the end of our stay. All were white and all under 40. All waiting to gobble down this grey, soggy, spongy, bitter thing they call bread. I mean Injera.

We end up leaving almost all of the Injera intact while managing to shovel about ¾ of the meat and vegetables into our starving bodies by hand. It’s a huge insult to leave any food on your plate, so when the server-owner-lady comes to collect our platter, we know we have virtually slapped her across the face. But, we explained ourselves, so she can’t be too upset. Or can she? I really didn’t care. We won’t be back. Not because the service was bad (it certainly wasn’t great, but for such cheap prices we didn’t expect anything much), not because the restaurant wasn’t nice (it certainly isn’t stunning what with its cheap metal and vinyl chairs, and traditional Ethiopian artworks that looked like they came from The Ex), it certainly wasn’t because the food wasn’t good (some of it was delicious). No, we won’t return to this (or probably any Ethiopian) restaurant simply because we couldn’t handle eating the main component of the meal. The Injera was simply not a part of the meal that we could ignore (like anchovies on a pizza.) The Injera is the utensil that enables you to eat and finish the rest of the meal. Without it, you are left to starve. Or you are left eating your food like a scavenger.

My mother went home after I’m sure to nibble pasta in the farther off land of Mississauga. I take a stroll down the street to eat butter chicken at an East Indian restaurant. With magical utensils! 

A BIT ABOUT INJERA

Injera is the Ethiopian staple bread. It is a thin crepe like flat bread that the dishes such as Wots, Tibs and Fitfit are served on. To eat the dishes pieces of Injera are torn off and used to scoop up mouthful.

Injera is unique to Ethiopia, from its distinct taste and main ingredient the Teff cereal. Teff is the tiniest cereal and used as a staple food only in Ethiopia (in other parts of the world its associated with common grass). Teff is believed to have originated in Ethiopia between 4000 and 1000 BC. Teff seeds were discovered in a pyramid thought to date back to 3359 BC.

Injera preparation usually takes two to three days to make. The teff is milled into powder then mixed in water along yeast and small quantity of flowers. This mix is set aside at room temperature for 2 days so it ferments and rises. During the second day it starts to give tangy aromas as the fermentation releases air bubbles; this is where the Injera’s slight tangy taste comes from.

After the fermentation process is finished the mix is cooked on hot flat iron pan called ‘Mitad’. A circular motion is used to achieve thin consistency. When the hot pan and the fermented teff mix/batter contact thousands of tiny air bubbles escape, creating thousands of tiny craters/eyes - creating the familiar look of Injera.

The side touching the hot mitad pan gets its flat look, while the one facing away towards the air has the a porous structure with thousands of mini craters. This porous structure allows the Injera to be a good bread to scoop up sauces and dishes.

Restaurants will serve your dishes on Injera and they bring a side dish of injera for scooping purposes either rolled up or folded. When you are about to finish your side Injera attentive wait staff will bring your more free of charge. (NAZARETH CHARGES $4 EXTRA FOR EACH ADDITIONAL ORDER)

Eating with Injera - Handling Instructions

Starting Note: - Side A = With Holes
- Side B = Flat & Without Holes
- Use one hand (left/right - ok)

1) Tear of a small piece (size of your palm)

2) Side A - side with holes is the one that contacts with the sauce/meat.

3) Scoop/Grab sauce or meat with the Injera (similar to Indian/Middle Eastern eating)

4) Use your fingers to control; so pieces won’t fall down as you put the scoop your mouth

5) It’s ok to grab/sample more than one sauce or dish on each scoop-trip

6) Finally you can proceed to eat the bottom/table cloth Injera where the sauce was first served, by now it soaked with all the tasty juices and is full of flavors

Side Note: Gursha / Act of feeding fellow diners by hand

Ethiopians (less practiced outside Ethiopia) often hand feed their guests, or guests of honors during dinner/lunch. This is to show respect (often it grabs foreigners by surprise) sometimes the person receiving the Gursha responds in kind and in turn feeds his feeder. Often gurshas are much larger than the regular scoop due to tradition, so you might find your mouth full from front to back. It’s ok to decline a Gursha if you are uncomfortable, people won’t take offense from this.

A BIT ABOUT NAZARETH

Nazareth is an Arab city in the middle of Israel. The city is home to many Ethiopians, including the family of Nazareth, who emigrated to Toronto in the 1990s. In homage to her native Nazareth, Nazareth started the Nazareth the restaurant. Confused yet? Over the years the restaurant has doubled in size (it took over Pam’s Roti next door) and quadruple in popularity, but has always served the same delicious fare at very low prices. Nazareth could charge almost double the prices and still be less expensive than many other Ethiopian hot spots in town. According to my friend, the vegetarian platter is simply a must. Baked like lasagna, it’s a combination of lentils, spinach, beans and other root vegetables with mitmita spices on a sheet of Injera and served warm. For the meat-hungry, kifto is highly recommendable, as are the tibs.

Though it might not be for everyone (including my mother and I), it may just be perfect for you. But just in case, smuggle in a fork.

CROFT STREET: Present History

HotorNotTdot Rating: Hot (Pantone 186 C) 

Text and Photos by Rolyn Chambers

You see more of the city during the daytime, when the suns up. Visually at least. Who knew? I started to realize this over the summer. Usually my 24 hours are spent thusly: from midnight to 4AM (on weekends this extends until 6AM) I attend events (i.e. partying) or work from home, the next seven hours are spent sleeping/passed out, the afternoon rooster usually wakes me up at noon (2 PM on weekends) and by the time I do my normal routines (showering, cleaning glitter out of my hair, choosing an outfit, fishing for compliments, checking my email, responding to cease & desist orders, trimming my nose hairs etc) it’s about 7PM before I ever make it out of the house. So imagine my surprise as I stroll along College Street one bright afternoon, in my shades, cupping cup of fresh Starbucks. I see most everything. No dark corners. Nothing hidden away in the shadows. The sun showcasing the street like I rarely ever get to see it.

 College Street at night is a wonderful strip. It’s a great pace to go for dinner (especially one of the little pasta places in Little Italy), or go for a drink (the wines of Coco Lezzone are divine), play some pool (ooohhh Andy Poolhall), catch a drag show (haaaiiii El Convento Rico!), see a live band (I never shower before rolling into Sneaky Dees) or a ridiculous DJ set (Mod Club for sure—-whatever happened to those A.D/D promoters anyways?). So I’ve seen it a plenty…but only at night. I’ve even seen some alleys too. But shhhh…mostly for peeing, or upchucking… or groping cute drunk college guys who were either peeing…or upchucking.

But, unbeknownst to me (until now—-because of the sun) exists a laneway with a most interesting history. A laneway unlike any you will venture down (or stumble down or pass out in). May I introduce, Croft Street. Yes it’s such an important laneway, that it’s not even called a laneway. Or an alley. Located near Spadina, Croft St runs north-south between College St. and Bloor St. Most alleys are simply passageways to better streets. Most are the backyards entrances to houses, existing only for residents to park their cars in their garages or a place to store your businesses garbage dumpster. This alley is different. Not only is this laneway well kept with front entrances to unusual lofts and houses, but its history is forever (at least until someone paints over them) illustrated on its walls. And what a history it has had.

Originally, Croft Street was a significant north/south thoroughfare connecting Bloor Street to College. But as the area around it became more developed, it took on many of the functions typical of Toronto lanes, such as the provision of garages and vehicular access to the houses flanking Croft east and west. To this day a number of houses, coach houses, and warehouses remain that reflect the street’s previous life. The Laneway is significant because it is one of the few that the city of Toronto actually gave a name, thus allowing addresses for its laneway housing. In fact the laneway is well known for its cutting-edge home design.

But, get this! Croft Street was not always known by this name. The name Craft comes from a man whose image is painted on its laneway walls. Originally named Ulster Avenue, this narrow lane was re-named in 1908 after John Croft. Croft, sadly, was the sole fatality of the Great Toronto Fire of April 19, 1904. 
I know? A fire?!?! I had no idea the city almost burnt down to the ground not once but twice. I thought only lame-ass wooden Montreal had that problem. But yes, the city was almost destroyed for a second time in 1904. But no one actually died during this fire. Which is amazing. But the cleanup that followed was another story. It seems that on May 4, Croft, a 38-year-old explosives expert, was clearing ruins near Front and Bay streets when a charge he had set failed to detonate. As he attempted to disable it, the charge exploded. Croft eventually died of his injuries the following day. A husband and the father of three, he is buried in Mount Pleasant Cemetery. I vow to go visit it and pour some wine I’ll smuggle out of Coco Lezzone on his grave. Out of respect.

All of this information is written and illustrated on the west walls of this laneway thanks to a stunning and surprisingly informative mural, a partnership between the City Of Toronto and the Harbourfront Community Centre. Heritage Toronto contributed an official standing plaque, reminiscent of museums and art galleries. You can even snub your nose at the people on bikes as the peddle by if want a more gallery like feel. Snooty! These murals beautify the alleyway, teach us a bit about Toronto history and encourage City-community centre partnerships, which allow youths to express themselves creatively. Strangely many business owners put this type of urban art in the same category as ‘tagging’, and thus refuse to have anything to do with it. This is not even in the realm of regular graffiti art, which too is head and shoulders above tagging.

The east walls of this laneway are also worth the trip. They have nothing to do with the history of Toronto but the graffiti art displayed here are indicative of the present. Many of the cute rabbit like caricatures painted on Croft’s east walls have been popping (or hopping) up on laneway walls all over the city for a few years now. Created by a graffiti artist who goes by the comical name Poser, his animated rabbits sometimes look like a spray can come to life. Some smile at you, some laugh at you, some snarl at you, but all are there, I think, to brighten your day. The combination of these two walls, one historical (and sanctioned by the city) and one present (and somewhat illegal), make for an artistic, intellectual, political and legal tug of war.

Slap on some shades, bring a along a cup of java and take a stroll down it soon before Mayor Rob Ford in his ridiculous anti-graffiti zeal has it painted over. Just watch out for the occasional bicycler.

A WEE BIT OUT THE GREAT TORONTO FIRE OF 1904

The fire was first spotted at 8:04 p.m. by a constable on his regular street patrol. The flames were rising from the elevator shaft of the Currie Neckwear factory at 58 Wellington Street West, just west of Bay Street (now TD Bank Tower). The factory was situated in the centre of a large industrial and commercial area. The exact cause of the fire was never determined, but a faulty heating stove or an electrical problem is suspected.

The fire began on the evening of the 19th and took nine hours to get under control. The glow of the fire could be seen for kilometres in all directions. Firefighters from cities as far away as Hamilton and Buffalo came to Toronto’s aid.

Even with 17 fire halls, 2 engine companies and 1 hose company proved to be no match. The fire destroyed 104 buildings, but killed no one. It caused $10,350,000 in damage and put five thousand people out of work, at a time when the city only had 200,000 inhabitants. As a result of the fire, more stringent safety laws were introduced and an expansion of the city’s fire department was undertaken.

It was the largest fire ever in the city, although a previous large fire had consumed many city blocks on April 7, 1849 when the city was much smaller and constructed mostly with wood.

WATCH THE SKETCHY CROFT ST YOUTUBE VIDEO

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P4-LZEABrZ0

MIGHTY JACK & HIS CANE OF HOPE:

Defender of Mankind

HotorNotTdot Rating: Hot (Eternally) 

Text, Artwork and Photos by Rolyn Chambers

I crawled. Back into bed. The news of Jack Layton’s sudden death shocked and saddened me so much that when I heard, I had to go back to bed. My pillow became wet with tears as I sought comfort from underneath the sheets. Like many Canadians I too had hopes that Jack would win his new battle with this new cancer. I had hopes that he would lead a long life championing the many things that he believed in. I had hopes that he would return to public office. I had hopes that as federal leader of the Official Opposition he would lead our country in a new direction. This is what I had hoped, with perhaps blind optimism. Good thoughts I thought would do much better than negative ones. Having witnessed how cancer has been quickly destroying and taking the life of my best friend for the last year, I hoped. I prayed. I was desperate for Jack’s survival. I hoped this for Jack, but secretly I also hoped this for my best friend. I felt if Jack could do this, if he could survive and conquer his cancer, then my friend too would survive.

My bestie has gone through many painful radiation treatments that burned him and has taken in massive doses of chemotherapy that left him weak. For a while he got better. And I was hopeful. They had caught it in time. I hoped. The treatment had worked. I hoped. And hoped. And hoped. But as the weeks turned into months he began to change. I watched frightened as he slowly became bed-ridden. Unable to walk, unable to stand, unable to sit and unable to use the washroom. Unable to be himself. I watched as his life, slowly a first and then rapidly, was being taken away from him.

Just a few short weeks ago we watched, my bestie, his mother and I, as Jack announced he was stepping down, temporarily, as national leader of the New Democratic Party. We, like many others were stunned. Stunned by what we were witnessing. Stunned by what we were hearing. Stunned by what was happening. And numb. Watching it with my best friend I recognized the disease in Jack that not even his make-up could hide.  Thin, pale and frail, Jack mirrored my friend. But Jack looked better. This was not the man I remembered, having met him many times at various official and unofficial functions. I’m sure the three of us, my friend, his mother and I, were thinking the same thing. But we refused to acknowledge it or say the words aloud. But I thought, if this is happening to Jack, what about Dean?

As Dean lay silent on his daybed that we had built for him in the living room, I watched his face tense and his fist clench. It is from this daybed that my bestie stayed 24 hours a day. Day in and day out. For months now. His cancer literally eating him alive, leaving him unable to walk. He did everything from his bed. From here he brushed his teeth, did his routine of facial cleansers, ate, entertained friends, researched new cancer treatments online on his iPhone, went to the bathroom and watched TV. Unlike Jack who was able to travel across Canada during his cancer fight, during his election campaign, the living room was Dean’s world. The TV a window into the real one. The world outside is one that Dean knows well. He is a nature freak. Long bike rides, trips to the beach, outdoor tennis matches, walks through parks, hikes through forests, were what he loves best. Now, he could not even walk to his deck, teaming with flowers and plants, less than 40 feet away.

We watched on TV as Jack captivated our nation. We witnessed his rise and cheered along with so many others when his party became, for the first time ever, the Official Opposition. We were giddy that night. Our talks were animated. We spoke with hope and optimism of the future. Of our country… and of Dean’s. We spoke of the true nature of Jack’s character. Cancer was far from our conversation and thoughts as the day drew to its end, but it was still always present. How could it not be? Dean could not join me that night was I headed to a party to celebrate Jacks’ historic win. Instead he stayed, as he had done for months now, in his bed and watched the rest of the late night news.

Three months pass by. We watched the news again. This time Jack was not triumphant. This time he needed to withdraw from public life to fight another battle with cancer. This time in private. This time we saw the disease. This time I saw Dean in Jack’s face. The TV screen might as well have been a mirror Dean was holding. A mirror I found hard to look into.

At that time, it had been months since Dean had received any medical treatment to fight the cancer ravaging his body. There was nothing more the doctors felt they could do. The radiation had not worked. The chemo had not worked. An operation to remove the growth was now out of the question. The tumor grew back bigger and faster. It had spread. And was spreading faster with each passing day. Nothing more could be done they said. This was it. The doctors were leaving him to die.

Though Dean held strong, I knew inside he was scared. It was evident in his eyes. But, we stubbornly held strong in our belief that Jack would fight and win. He was a scrapper. But Jack (at least on the outside) had changed. His voice weak and small echoed loudly in my mind. “I have a new cancer,” he said from the flickering screen. Flash bulbs of the media captured his gaunt face as he said the words that took our breath away. Dean did not cry. Not in front of me. At least not on this day. But many tears have been shed, both privately and publically. For himself, for Jack, for everyone battling cancer. 

When Jack didn’t win this battle, and he died we cried together. Like many Canadians, his death just weeks after stepping down came as a, to pick a word, shock. A huge blow that left us sick with despair. How was it possible that he died so quickly? I thought, he was either downplaying his cancer or the disease it seemed must have been very aggressive. Aggressive was the word Dean’s surgeon had used to describe his cancer as well. Now as he lies in his bed reading Jack’s words in the paper, his final letter to all Canadians, the cancer has spread, again.

“To other Canadians who are on journeys to defeat cancer and to live their lives, I say this: please don’t be discouraged that my own journey hasn’t gone as well as I had hoped. You must not lose your own hope. Treatments and therapies have never been better in the face of this disease. You have every reason to be optimistic, determined, and focused on the future. My only other advice is to cherish every moment with those you love at every stage of your journey, as I have done this summer.” 

We read those words over and over. We must head them I told Dean. We must continue your fight. We must not give up on hope. We continued…. our fight. His fight. There were no medical trials that would take him. Researching and ordering a treatment not approved or recognized by our medical system seemed Dean’s last chance. We ordered this new drug. And began. And hoped. And fought.

Jack was a fighter. If anyone could have defeated this, I thought it would be him. He was Mighty Jack. The man who over the years had worked hard to rise through the political ranks. Unlike some politicians he did it the hard way. Through determined hands-on work, an honest vision and a real connection to the people he served. He did this work, not for money, power or fame, but because I believe he wanted to help create a better world. Be that world a small section of Toronto, the entire city, our entire country or this planet we all live.

I first met Jack many years ago in college. As a student politician myself heavily involved with the Canadian Federation of Students, I remember how he actively helped us fight to reduce tuition fees. I remember him riding his bike through the city meeting us for rallies. I remember watching him on the news years ago as a teenager as he fought landlords of buildings who wanted to evict tenants solely for being gay. I remember years later being so proud of this straight man, wondering why he was fighting for the rights of people who were not like him. Gay rights were not the “in” thing to champion back then. I remember him fighting to have Gay Pride Day officially declared by the Mayor Lastman and watching him happily march in the annual Gay Pride Parade alongside his equally tenacious wife Olivia. I remember my heart going out to this remarkable couple. I remember the genuine connections I watched him have with most everyone he met. His eyes spoke the truth inside his soul. What you saw was honestly who he was.

One of my most cherished movements of Jack and Olivia came by surprise. It was at a little club on Queen West called Stones Place. I was there covering an event called Big Primpin’ for Fab magazine with my photographer. Tony was snapping pictures of the boisterous young crowd and I was dancing and being just a bit out of control. I turn around to see Jack and his wife Olivia Chow standing behind me with National Post columnist Mitchel Raphael. The place went crazy. Everyone wanted their picture with Jack as he walked through the bar while Olivia smiled and laughed beside him. A crowd quickly formed around them. Flash bubs clicked and people were screaming his name. They were curious and equally in awe. One hipster-boy groupie even called him” J-Lay” and professed his love for him. Jack was like a rock star but without the negative trappings. It was this ability to connect with people regardless of situation and regardless of age, class, race and sexuality that made him an unforgettable politician and a wonderful man. It was what these young adults, the future of our country, wanted and needed to see in a leader. Someone real, who honestly cared about them and their issues. In his final letter he addressed them:

To young Canadians: All my life I have worked to make things better. Hope and optimism have defined my political career, and I continue to be hopeful and optimistic about Canada. Young people have been a great source of inspiration for me. I have met and talked with so many of you about your dreams, your frustrations, and your ideas for change. More and more, you are engaging in politics because you want to change things for the better. Many of you have placed your trust in our party. As my time in political life draws to a close I want to share with you my belief in your power to change this country and this world. There are great challenges before you, from the overwhelming nature of climate change to the unfairness of an economy that excludes so many from our collective wealth, and the changes necessary to build a more inclusive and generous Canada. I believe in you. Your energy, your vision, your passion for justice are exactly what this country needs today. You need to be at the heart of our economy, our political life, and our plans for the present and the future. 

The future that Jack wanted for this country, for these young Canadians and for future generations is still possible. I felt this even more so during his state funeral at Roy Thompson Hall. Not knowing if I would be able to secure one of the 600 seats available to the public, I got up at 5AM on a Saturday morning. This was a first for me, I think. Usually I’d be going to bed around this hour. Groggy, I hopped the all-night streetcar and made my way down to Roy Thompson Hall, hoping the line-up would not be too long. I arrived, just as the sun was beginning to rise. A deep fog had already rolled in. The top of the CN Tower was hidden and the air was wet with moisture. Roy Thompson Hall was ominously quite when I arrived at six that morning. The quiet though hid a huge line that snaked around three sides of the massive concrete and glass structure. The line was near silent, except for huddled conversations. Some had been here all night. Others were now arriving, hurrying in silence to take their place at the back of the line. Some, who had been here for almost a day were wrapped in light blankets, waking up from naps in sleeping bags, sitting on folding chairs, sipping hot beverages and chatting with new friends they had met and grown to know in the line. I heard Jacks name whispered many times as I walked along, to take my place at the back. Old, young, people from all nationalities and races had come out in hopes of getting a seat inside to say a final goodbye to this man. I held my head down…out of some strange shyness but also because I was on the verge of tears…again. Sadness…and elation overcame me.

This man had touched so many. By just being himself. Selfless. I wondered if I would ever or could ever be this selfless. I wondered if could devout my life to serving others. I wondered if I could be as true in character as he seemed in action. I wondered if I could be like Jack. I now held my head out of shame…and fear. I did not think I could.

After hours of waiting, I was presented with my purple wristband, guaranteeing me a seat inside Roy Thompson Hall. I had hoped to attend the ceremony with my best friend’s mother, Marlene, who was an even bigger Jack fan than I. If that’s possible. She had flown here from Kelowna BC to help take care of her son, my best friend. It had been an interesting and tumultuous three months. They had had a very strained relationship. But here she was, taking care of her son, everyday, like any mother would. I wanted her to come with me, but it was better that she stayed with Dean. That they be together, she by his bedside, to witness this funeral as mother and son. Things like this funeral, these emotional moments, were slowly repairing their relationship. Bonding them, bringing them closer together. As mother and son.

With wristband secured I went home to change. My black suit was pressed and ready. Dressed, I carefully attached the orange Jack Layton mustache pin I had made to my lapel, and put on my colorful orange and green NDP eyeglasses I had bought three months ago. The day Jack and the NDP won big. The day the NDP became the official opposition. A day I call, “Opposition Day.”

I sat in the balcony between two women at Roy Thompson Hall. One was dressed in casual khaki shorts and the other sported flip-flops.

“You dressed up for Jack?” one of the women asked, surprised.

At first I was a bit disgusted by this question. Honestly.

“Of course,” I replied. “Why wouldn’t I?!” I sneered inside at their vulgar casual attire thinking this was a huge insult to Jack. How dare you not put on your finest for this man?! How dare you enter this space in flip-flops?! How dare you chew gum and strum your leg through your Gap khakis?! How dare you! But, I realized, they were in fact…nervous…and sad…and here for Jack. I did not matter what they wore. They too were here for Jack. Jack would not have made it a requirement to dress up for his funeral. He would have wanted everyone to come out as they were, or as they wanted. It took me a while to realize this. It took me a while to understand that. But I did. I wanted to be more like this man, yet here I sat judging these women. This is something Jack would never have done. I thought about this more. What could I do to keep Jack’s vision alive. To carry his torch? As my mind filled with ideas, as my mood began to shift from sadness to one of inspiration, Olivia entered the room. All eyes were on her, and her family. The applause inside was deafening. I clapped through my tears. Tears for Olivia. Tears for Jack. Tears for my Dean. Would I be soon attending his funeral too?

When Jack’s casket entered the stage, covered in a Canadian flag carried by eight men of the military I somehow felt great pain. Not just the emotional pain of being there at that moment and remembering a life taken. But a physical pain. I felt that casket, as If I was one of those men carrying it. With every step taken and with every foot closer to the centre of the stage, I felt its weight. Jack was in there. Jack lay there. Jack Layton was dead. I could feel his weight. And I realized, as I stared at that casket, I did not want to carry my friend’s coffin. I did not want to feel his weight. On my shoulders. In my mind. In my heart. I did not think I would ever be able to do that. I would crumble. I would stumble. It would be too much. I would pass out. I could not do it. I almost fell over the balcony.

This weight, on this day was on all of us. The weight of Jack’s vision though, I know now was not meant to wear us down, weigh us down, suffocate or sadden us. It was meant to lift us up. Even in his death and even in my friend’s darkest hours I must remember this.

I sat focused on Olivia, her family and the stage where a choir sat behind the Jack’s casket. The casket lay ominous. Dark and still. Quiet. For some odd reason I was surprised by how still it was. At times I even imagined that it would levitate. That it would rise. Slowly. Triumphantly. A light guiding its path upwards. I was also aware that directly below my balcony seat sat our countries most powerful political leaders. So close I could literally have spit on Stephen Harper. But I didn’t. Also seated in his section (close to an exit for security reasons I assume) were Gov. Gen. David Johnston, Interim Liberal Leader Bob Rae, Interim Bloc Québécois leader Louis Plamondon, Ontario Premier Dalton McGuinty, Former Bloc leader Gilles Duceppe, Former Liberal leaders Michael Ignatieff and Stéphane Dion, Green Party Leader Elizabeth May, Former NDP leaders Alexa McDonough and Ed Broadbent and Former prime ministers Paul Martin and Jean Chrétien. I also saw Toronto Mayor Rob Ford talking with Harper, but I think they sat him a way back. Way back.

Part funeral, part a call to action; the service was a remembrance and a celebration of Jack’s life. And it was loud. With every point made in every speech by every person who spoke, the crowd inside erupted in a standing ovation. It was in these moments I would glance down at Stephen Harper and his ilk. They were always the last to stand. I wondered; would this reaction ever happen if you died tomorrow? Stephen Harper? Would people be so overwhelmed with emotions that they would line up for more than a day to bid you farewell? Dalton McGuinty? Would your person, your being, your spirit, your values, bring people out to the streets by the thousands to watch as your casket went by? Rob Ford? Would your memory leave people not only with sadness, but also with hope? I don’t think so. But then again, I don’t think many of us could do that either. But this was Jack. But, but, but…as Jack and Olivia believed, what was in Jack, is in all of us. What drove Jack to be the person that he was IS in all of us. Somewhere. “Defender of Mankind”, he had been called. Now, having died in his finest hour, we must defend each other and ourselves. And I must defend my Dean.

The fact that Jack was so at peace with his death that he was able to plan this funeral, his funeral, in advance was something that truly amazed me. Every part of this ceremony though beautiful, was meant to deliver a clear message to all Canadians and I’m sure it touched everyone differently. From Brent Hawkes a gay man of the cloth preceding over the ceremonies, to Assembly of First Nations National Chief Shawn Atleo performing an aboriginal blessing, to showing a well crafted video tribute called “Together, we’ll change the world,” to Stephen Lewis’ ideological eulogy, to the more personal eulogy delivered by his two children, to Steven Page’s heart wrenching version of Leonard Cohen’s, Hallelujah, the message was clear. We are all one and we are all here together. And it was all created by a man who knew he had more to do, much more, but did not have the time to do it. But, he was at peace with this knowledge.

If this new treatment does not work, and if my Dean is to be taken away from me at this time, I hope that he can reach a peace, like this. I hope for him to find the strength to accept what is happening. I hope for him to plan and ready himself for his next journey. I hope for him to leave this world a better person. To enter the next world calmly. I want to hold his hand, to look into his eyes and know that he leaves us behind, that he is ready for what is ahead. I can’t have him taken from me, from us, from this world without him being ready to go. I could not bear it. The weight. The weight of that is not something I can carry.

Jack’s ceremony was not a time of mourning, though we all mourned that day. This ceremony was an awakening. Wake up Toronto! Wake up Canada! Wake up world! There is much to be done! And we, the people must do it. Waves of sadness would sweep over me, followed by rushes of inspiration all throughout the ceremony. I was delirious. When Lorraine Segato performed Rise Up, and we all clapped along, together, as loud as we could…and we all sang, together, as loud as we could, I was delirious. Delirious. At one point I actually expected Jack rise up himself and throw open that casket door and join in. His voice loud and booming. His cane raised in the air in defiance. In jubilation. That moment, I was, delirious. Jack did not rise. But I believe his spirit did. As I looked around that room, filled with thousands of people from all strides of life, all singing for this man, I felt electric. The waves and rushes of emotions having energized me. Jack, you did it! You did it. You may have naysayers. But look at this room. Look at the people on the streets! Look at all these people across Canada and the world watching this ceremony from home on their TVs (like my Dean and his mother). You did it! Your message got through. Perhaps we can be a better people

As I laid down to sleep that night, I cried again…some more. My pillow wet with tears, again, as I sought comfort from underneath the sheets. Again. But this time I found that comfort in Jack’s final words: “Love is better than anger. Hope is better than fear. Optimism is better than despair. So let us be loving, hopeful and optimistic. And we’ll change the world.”

I close my eyes. I think of Dean. Our fight continues. I know that tomorrow and today, in whatever way, I will change the world. For the better. Our fight continues!

Rest in Peace Jack.

And thanks.

Rolyn

24 Hours You’ve Got 24 Days To Clean Your Box

HotorNotTdot Rating: Not (Extra! Extra! Read All About It)

Text and Photos by Rolyn Chambers

Toronto is a beautiful, safe and clean city… that is littered with a few eyesores. Some of the most glaring examples are the poorly maintained 24 Hours newspaper boxes. Their once bright orange exteriors are now covered with street grime, graffiti, stickers and posters. This is more than a sign that Sun Media who owns these boxes does not care about its image but it is company that has little regard for the communities they place them in. It’s like a bad neighbor who doesn’t weed or cut his lawn. No one wants them on their street.

But the streets are where these boxes live but instead of thriving they are quickly deteriorating, dying before our eyes. When 24 Hours newspaper boxes began to pop up on city corners a few years ago I was slightly confused. Why would Sun Media, who also own tabloidish newspaper The Toronto Sun, choose to produce a smaller version of it…and then give it away for free?  It’s all about keeping up the Jones’. This time the Jones’ were Metro News.

Introduced 2 years ago in September of 2009, the redesigned boxes were launched with much fan fare. It was a huge deal that has since become an ordeal. Sun Media hired a firm to literally roll out the red carpet. In a one day marketing blitz, the boxes appeared on red carpet runways in media industry-heavy regions of Toronto. Photographers were hired to take photos of passers-by and paparazzi interviewers were hired to engage them in conversations about the redesign. The goal? Steal shares away from main free daily competitor, Metro.  

 “Sugar Media has created a brand experience in a real-time environment that will help to communicate our new identity,” said Chris Brockbank, vice-president, marketing, Sun Media. “We expect it to be a great success.”

Well, I guess he’s eating crow now. The boxes are not a big success. In fact most are not even being used. They are eyesores that wasted a lot of money, time, and resources. Instead of keeping up with the Jones’ these big orange boxes have become nasty pimples blemishing our streets. Hey Sun Media, do you not have maintenance crews on your staff to ensure these boxes are presentable? Or are you too busy paying big money for regurgitated Reuters news stories? Or maybe it costs a lotta money to run a page of crosswords? Really?!?

Your appearance is the first things people see. Even before you open your mouth and scare everyone away with your bad breath or bad teeth or annoying voice or in the case of 24 Hours, bad articles. Stores keep their storefronts clean, cabbies wash their cars, strippers trim their bush, so why can’t 24 Hours give their box a much needed scrub. A clean box is an active box. I know I don’t wanna put my hand in there, unless I gotta glove on.  And these are just the boxes that are in operation.

Oddly, 24 Hours and some other freebie publications have abandoned many of their own boxes in favour of cheap paper pushers. These unfortunate souls are stationed outside of every subway station begging busy commuters to take one of their stacks of free papers. No one was picking them up, so now they are being shoved down our throats like a sales pitch from those annoying charity binder kids. If we didn’t pick them up in the boxes, maybe we are trying to tell you something. Like to a neighbor who doesn’t attend your dinner parties because they know you’re gonna whip out 300 slides from your trip to the Detroit, perhaps we choose to not pick up your copy so that we don’t have to read your poorly constructed magazine.

And there are many boxes that have been abandoned. Maybe they changed delivery routes? Maybe the person filling them up forgot where they are all located? Or maybe they are just being given up on, like an orange foster child that nobody wants, because people are colourists. They’re also typists too. But the reality of it is Sun Media are just lazy, sloppy, disorganized uncaring neighbors who are depreciating our property value.  But we too are turning a blind eye. Instead of complaining we allow this to happen. We allow their yard to gather weeds. Their boxes are starting to look like the abandoned house on the hill. Rumours will soon start.

“Once, a long time ago a somewhat interesting newspaper once lived in there. But it was murdered years ago (by lack of interest). You can still see pieces of the horrible crimes scene in the box, if you look carefully, beyond the dirt, beyond the old Coffee Time coffee cups, cigarette butts, and the odd undergarment tossed in from a wild weekend night. Now they say the box is haunted, old news stories (and a smell of urine) scaring people away.” That’s what they’ll say.

Well, no more Sun Media. We are taking back our streets, one dirty box at a time. You are officially on notice. You have 24 days from today, August 24^th to clean up your 24 Hour boxes. That’s plenty of time. You have two choices:

1)   Remove all the dirty, disgusting 24 Hour boxes from our streets. Please give, sell, donate this another company sp they may reuses them (once they are cleaned of course)

2)   Clean ‘em up! Scrub ‘em down! Hose ‘em off! Polish ‘em up!

Simple! We want to be proud of having you on our streets once again (even if your new stories insult our intelligence.) We have no problem living next door to the hot MILF with the orange spray on tan…as long as she washes her box.

It won’t take that long or cost that much money. It’s like a cheap paint job. You can do it. If not, here’s what will happen. We, the sidewalk citizens of this fine city will take mattes into our own hands.

If you do not meet those 2 very simple requests, the  “24 Hour Guerilla Art Makeover Project” will be launched.

Within the next 24 days (from August 24^th to September 17th) you the citizens of Toronto are asked to post a picture and location of one or more unkempt 24 Hours box to www.24HourBoxMakeover.tumblr.com.

A call to all artists, designers, craftsmen and creative souls who would like to participate in this project is now being made. Email in your design makeover ideas to 24hourmakeoverproject@gmai.com. Make it as wild as you like, but it should be something that can be done within a one-hour period. And keep in mind you may actually need to clean them first (but not always.) The canvas is yours. Paint them, stencil on them, graffiti art them. Cover them in plaster and make creatures out of them. Decoupage them, Papier Maché them, cover them in fake flowers, cereal, buttons, fake gems. Make a fashionable summer outfit for them. Turn them into go-carts, mini bars, shelving units. Plant flowers in them. Make a birdhouse out of them. Any idea is almost acceptable. Just keep in mind that the goal is to make the box better not worse. Better not worse.

By day 24, if our requests are not met by 24 Hours and Sun Media, The 24 Hour Makeover Crew dot will assign one box to each of the artists signed up. On a day and time that will be kept shhhh-secret all participating artists will hit the streets (with assistants in tow) to transform these boxes into something of our own. Document your creation and your process and post them on this blog. Send in a picture to 24 Hours as well with a note perhaps that simply reads, “You’re Welcome!”

It’s up to us to keep or streets beautiful…and interesting.

A BIT ABOUT 24 Hours NEWSPAPER

•24 Hours and 24 Heures is a chain of free daily newspapers published in Canada by Sun Media, a subsidiary of Quebecor Media. Five different English editions are published in Toronto, Vancouver, Ottawa, Calgary, and Edmonton, and a French edition is published in Montreal. The Montreal paper was originally called “Metropolitan”.

•On November 14, 2006, 24 Hours launched two new editions in the Ottawa Valley area—an English edition published in Ottawa, and a French edition published in Gatineau. The Gatineau version stopped publishing on May 9, 2008. The Vancouver edition of 24 Hours was a joint venture of Sun Media and the Jim Pattison Group; Pattison sold his share of the Vancouver edition in 2007.

•In fall 2009, 24 Hours and 24 Hours were given an extensive makeover. The paper was given the alternative name 24H; while 24H is short-form for “24 Hours” in French, the name was applied to all editions. The paper’s color scheme changed for the Montreal edition, from black and yellow to blue and orange, to match the other editions’ colors.

•On January 3rd, 2011, the Montreal edition of 24 H had reached an agreement with the Société de transport de Montréal (STM) for exclusive distribution in the underground Montreal métro network, replacing the Metro newspaper.

•Most 24 Hours are published 5 days a week (Monday to Friday) because its target readers are commuters heading to work. The paper averages about 32 pages in an issue, slightly less than half being news, and relies heavily upon wire services such as Reuters, the Canadian Press and the Associated Press The rest of the pages cover lifestyle, travel, entertainment, sports.

•Oddly enough, P.J. Harston was the founding editor-in-chief of both 24 Hours and Metro.

 Toronto Squirrels Are Crazy Fun

HotorNotTdot Rating: Hot (and fluffy)

Text and Photos by Rolyn Chambers

 Adapted from the song “Friends” by 80s hip hop band, Whoodini

 “Squirrels.

How many of us have them?

Squirrels.

Ones we can depend on

Squirrels.

How many of us have them?

Squirrels.

Before we go any further, lets get

Squirrels.

It’s a furry rodent we see everyday,

Most the time we wish that they’d just go away.

Now don’t get them mad or in a quarrel,

If you take their nuts, you’ll see mad squirrel.

And if you ask me, I couldn’t be much help,

A squirrel is something that you shouldn’t pet yourself.

Some are OK, and they treat you real cool,

But some might mistake your nuts for a tool.

We like to feed some, because they look like bunnies,

Others come around when they need some honey.

Some you feed bread, around the way,

And now they eat stale bagel almost everyday.

Furry through the Summer, Winter, Spring and Fall,

They’re grey, black or brown and not too tall.

And this list goes on, again and again,

But these are the rodents that we call squirrels

When I first saw my squirrel, we barely knew each other,

When I met one I had to meet another.

But in no time at all, you became my #1 squirrel

Me and you, one on one, against the world.

Talking in the park for hours at a time,

Or else I was at your tree, trying to climb.

Then came the arguments and all kinds of problems,

Besides scaring the pigeons, we had nothing in common.

It couldn’t last long because it started out strong,

But I guess we went about the whole thing wrong.

Cause out of nowhere you became a scoundrel,

Because you’re just a rodent, a furry little squirrel.

Squirrels.

How many of us have them?

Squirrels.

Ones we can depend on

Squirrels.

How many of us have them?

Squirrels.

Before we go any further, lets get

Squirrels”

 ______________________________________________

Toronto, we are so lucky! Really. No nuts about it. We have the cutest and most friendly squirrels in the whole darn world. Take a walk through a park today and visit one. They’ll love you for it.

Squirrels thrive in the city. They have been known to live up to 20 years. But in the wild they last only about six years. Usually four. I think it’s all the leftover McDonalds they get fed. That shit will preserve anything.

Squirrels breed twice a year; from late winter to early spring and then again in mid-summer to early fall. That’s a lot. Can you imagine humans having babies twice a year, every god dammit year?!? Ugh, the stretch marks. Not to mention a loose cootch.

On average squirrels have a litter of two to five young. Twins maybe cool, like if you gave birth to the Olson Twins of squirrels or something. Think of the marketing opportunities! Squirrel Twin Candied Nuts, Squirrel Twin Twig Bedding, Squirrel Twin Fluffy Tail Combs, Squirrel Twin Tree Climbing Boots. The possibilities are almost endless. But having five babies, like the Dionne Quintuplet’s?!? Now that may be a bit much.

Mother squirrels, by the way, are very protective of their young and if threatened have been known to attack people and pets. So stay away or be prepared to get some acorns thrown at your nuts.

Get this, it is not uncommon for a mother squirrel to have several nests at once; this helps with the distribution of food for their young. Nests are found in the crowns of trees, high above the ground to protect the young from predators. It’s like having multiple families. Like Sister Wives or something polygamous like that.

Some natural predators are hawks, foxes, weasels, minks, raccoons, skunks, snakes, owls, ravens, domestic cats and dogs. They love humans though. They love us like that lazy relative who refuses to work or fend for themselves and depend on you to pay their bills and bring them food. I think they’re using us. But they’re so cute so who cares.

Squirrels are active during the day and sleep at night. Totally my opposite. They do not hibernate over winter. You may not see them that much when it snows, though. They’re just inside their tree condos doing crossword puzzles and watching reruns of Oprah.

The Eastern Grey Squirrel is the most common type found in Toronto. It can be identified as being black and brownish grey in colour. It has a long tail that provides the squirrel with exceptional balance. Even when drunk on partially consumed bottles of Smirnoff Ice left in parks ever weekend, they can scale a tree like its nobodies business. And it’s not. So stop suggesting they go to AAS (Alcoholics Anonymous for Squirrels) and get off their tails. If they want a little booze, so be it.

Squirrels play a big role in tree propagation. They carry and bury nuts under the ground. It might look like all fun and games to you and I but this is some serious shit. Every park is really like the stock market floor. Lots of trading, buying, selling and stuff going down. When the nuts are all gone the stock market crashes and the squirrels go nuts! Some even commit suicide by jumping out of trees. You’ve heard of Black Friday? Well, the squirrels have Brown Nut Sunday. It was horrible.

Over winter they tunnel through the snow to retrieve their buried nuts. About 10-20% of buried nuts are lost under the ground. It is these lost nuts that will grow into the trees that beautify our natural landscape. Thank-you squirrels! We love you so! Have a nut….on me.