Slow Food in the city of Toronto

Now, there is a BEST THING EVER that isn’t a misuse or a misconception in the English language, it is a little ideal called sustainable local organic agriculture aka the Slow Food Movement.  Slow food has been a growing movement within the world for quite some time now with books such as Michael Pollan’s “The Omnivore’s Dilemma” bringing the fight to the forefront by allowing us to participate the journey from the land to the plate.  Overall, in the past twenty years people have become more and more aware of what exactly we’re putting into our bodies and what we’re taking out by choosing such things as a vegan diet for anything other than a moral belief.  It’s not a surprise that many of the metropolotian papers in cities such as New York, Toronto, Montreal, Vancouver, San Francisco and Seattle we’re seeing a rise in the advancements of the “Urban Farmer.”

 

Just this week in NOW Toronto (www.nowtoronto.com)  the feature article is do it yourself gardening within the city.  It features not only ideas for urban gardening in your front yard, should you be lucky enough to have one, or even patio gardening for those of us who live in the many high rise buildings that populate Toronto’s landscape.  It offers ideas for not only recession proof agriculture in the (redundancy warning) urban gardening but how to use the free industrial spaces for an ever-growing green alternative that this country seems to embrace. 

 

I’m greeted with these ideas the same month that I picked up a new cookbook written by one of California’s top chefs from the East Bay Area, David Tanis of Chez Panisse fittingly titled “A Platter of Figs.” 

Misuse and Misconception in the English Language

The idea of tackling the Strange One as he adds cheese to an already incredible chicory salad I just made has to be up there on the list of things that could be considered the BEST THING EVER! (There’s more on the Chicory Salad to come.)

 

The term, “Best thing ever,” is a misconception and misuse of the English language that seems to dominate our everyday conversations in recent years.  Now, mind you, I like it only slightly better than groovy and light years more than hella, yet, I can be heard using it.  In my own defense, it’s a statement learned by osmosis. 

 

I have come to learn however that there are particular categories in the use of this term.  We aren’t talking about sex, drugs and rock n’ roll.  We’re talking about that child-like sense of awe in which we find things that for a single moment bring us an air of whimsy borne on a flight of fancy if you will allow me some clichés. We tend to re-live our childhood sense of awesome (not awe, that IS different) in these moments. 

 

Ironically, many of us under the age of thirty-five can list our best things ever in a variety of ways or even in form of a countdown, as Vh1 has so plagued us.  For instance, Jones Soda Strawberry Lime is the BEST SODA EVER! In n’ Out Burger is the BEST FAST FOOD EVER!

 

I think it honestly comes down to being the way that the minds of this generation 

Life Modeling

A little over two weeks ago, I did life modeling.  It was my first time.  There’s a certain energy about Ontario that is awakening adventurous aspects of myself that I never really recognized.  I feel good about myself and I figured, why not.  I didn’t think about it for very long when I was put on the spot by a friend of my former land lady’s. I merely agreed and went on with my day.  Later, I definitely dissected it into little bits of high school biology imagery. 

 

I would not have done if it were not for the tokes of green goodness that were ravaging my system. 

 

I arrived at the gallery in Peterborough that is nearly just across the street from where I used to love called, The Blue Tomato.  It’s a nifty little place with a lot of eccentric art work from local artists including a locally produced comic.  The lady who managed the place lead me downstairs so I could get into my robe before heading upstairs. 

 

I had no idea what I was expecting! And forgot to overthink the expectations as I changed in those few moments I was only hoping that cockroaches didn’t live in the basement of this place.  Finding a pre-historic visitor to my naughty little panties, not such an appealing thought!

 

I put in the back of my mind though.  I had gone upstairs.  There was only a dozen folks waiting for me, sitting in chairs that surrounded a stage.  A STAGE!  Heh. Heh. Heh.

 

Sidenote: I’ve never been on stage but once in my life.  Social anxiety.  It’s not a forgiving beast.  Okay, twice. New York Bartending is definitely a stage! This was to be my third time and you know that fear of being naked on a stage? Yeah. Hi.

 

I’m shaking! If I hadn’t been so stoned that I was worried I’d fall down the stairs if I were to bolt… there’d have been no evidence that I even existed in that place.  It would just be a blur of motion! But, I was stoned and naked and on this stage.  Three deep breaths and three hours of random poses.

 

I’d do it again.  In a heartbeat! The places my mind went were some of the most entertaining and erotic bits of imagery that I’ve shown myself in quite some time.  I think I wanted to literally run to Toronto to tackle the Strange One. 

Fuckin' Amazing.

Almeria 2008 from Vicente Sahuc on Vimeo.




This was borrowed from Thinking Fluidly. It's an incredible piece of work.

IGNITION CITY IS OUT!

On Procrastination, Ideas, and Rumors...

There's a bed bug infestation in the Strange One's apartment building. They were going to spray last week, but we had them put it off till this week. Now, it's 11:30pm and we have to pull all the furniture out from the walls, empty all clothing and linens from the apartment and be sure to clear off the counters. He's exhausted and we got a late start tonight overall. Partially of a plot I had concocted earlier, going out for sushi, and tackling some book stores. Not the best course of action. Albiet, a fun one for us both.

At dinner a rather odd statement was tossed my way. "I think I need to update my facebook."

My response is the usual, "Oh?"

To which he says, "Yes, there is a rumor going around that you and I may be a relationship."

Rumor or not, it was a fact that both of us had been dancing around and over-thinking and confusing ourselves because we tend to be rather good at that regardless of the situation. Needless to say, this is happening on a night in which my idea for a collective community of comic writers and artists took hold and had a sense of clarity. Enough to which I could write my proposal for work. I'm a bit proud of it.

"It is our goal to bring together the fibers that create the independent comic industry in order to weave the tapestry for a community that is dedicated to the fans and patrons of our growing industry. For too long we've grabbed at loose ends and whored ourselves to the machines that at times reward mediocrity and nurture the regurgatated ideas that form the classics of our industry. It is our goal at the Comic Collective to raise the standard as well as give once ignored or unheard voices a forum in which to showcase their arts in all forms. We hope to bring awareness to publishers, patrons, and old fans alike in our own personal journeys towards the creation of the tales that live in our minds. We seek to not just push the envelope, but draw out a new line.

Welcome to our sandbox."

My mission statement, of sorts. Here's to dreams becoming realities.

A Letter to my father...

This isn't edited. This isn't something that will be found anywhere but my blog and it's most likely not anything that will be seen on this site again. I don't know if my family reads my writings here, I don't know how many people who I know who actually read my writings here. But I need to write it. I need to write it in order to wake up tomorrow morning as something new.

Now if my older brother would get me a drink.

I used to write these letters to a father that didn't exist for a character that didn't exist anywhere except for in my mind. She was a daddies girl, never having known her mother. All my life I craved to be the center of my fathers universe. All my life I wanted nothing more than to make him proud and to accept me. To tell me to follow my dreams because I had a gift.

Instead I got my father.

This letter is for all the women, all the girls. Every female being that has daddy issues.

Dear Mark,

I can't call you Daddy anymore. Let alone Father. You are neither of those things to me. And you never can be. You made a choice when you left us. I don't ever want to hear that it was a choice you didn't want to make, you can never tell me that it was forced upon you. As I have made the same decision. When you choose to leave a life that you helped to create behind, you can't look back. You never look back. You have to hope that life will forgive you and seek for you in time, on their own volition. Not because it is what you want. Not because you could no longer live with it.

I don't know if you ever realized that or cared to realize that my first memory. The very first, is the day you left. Before then is only snippets, and those snippets consists of hearing the fights between you and my mother on the other side of the wall. They'd keep me awake at night. I'd curl into the fetal position under my bed and cry myself to sleep. I was so scared that you'd leave. And you did.

You walked out the front door, breaking my little pink doll's bed in two when you stepped on it. You couldn't move it out of your way. You just stepped on it. I wish my heart broke as cleanly as that stupid doll's bed. I wish my mothers heart broke that cleanly, or my brothers. You didn't think about that though. You never thought about us. Of course, if you were to tell the story, you thought about us every step of the way.

I'm more like you than you ever thought. And I didn't think about my son when I walked out of his life when he was five months old. I was too self-absorbed and only thought about myself. I know you did the same, you wanted the pain to go away. What pain though?

I can't call you and tell you how much I hate you, how angry I've been for twenty two years that it was me who took care of my younger borther when you left us so fucking poor that we learned new and amazing ways of making canned tuna. I've never told you how pissed I am that it's taken me most of my life this far to learn that someone can love me. That love isn't sex and that every man isn't going to throw me away.

Do you know this pain, Mark? Did you?

Did you ever care t realize that my fucked up ideas of home come from not knowing where I would live because you always told me as a child that everything was temporary until you'd come after me? Until I could come live with you? Did you?

I began smoking because everytime I got caught smoking at school, you'd come back into my life. Sure, it was just to yell at me. But you'd be there.

That was until I realized that the only times you'd come around were when I was in trouble. And if I wasn't getting into trouble, the way you talked to me, the way you questioned me, made me feel guilty. Nothing I did was good enough. My grades could always be higher, I could've gotten more promotions at work. And hell, I'd never make it as a writer.

Fuck you, Mark.

Did you ever read my writing?

Did you ever ask anyone what type of literary voice your child had?

And not just me, have you ever listened to your sons music? Read his lyrics?

Do you even know what our favorite colours are? What our dreams are?

No.

You don't.

You never did.

You loved the story of where I waited in the car while you went garage sailing, the day you met Marsha. How I stayed in the car because I was being an angsty teenager who wanted to sleep all day. What teenager isn't angsty? And what teenager doesn't sleep all day? Nevermind that was the last time I came to visit you of my own choice. After that visit I realized just how self-absorbed you were. That your kids had to fit into your world or you had no space for us at all.

We were always a part of your inner-competition. Your kids had to be more successfull that your friends kids. We couldn't be anything other than who we are. And we've never tried to be anything else. My daughter is too liberal, she's silly and naive. My son is useless. Do you know how many times I heard those words out of your fucking mouth?

Do you?

Your son is brilliantly intelligent. He has one of the most compassionate and giving hearts I've ever come across in my life. He is a fountain of talents that has to be nutured because he is delicate. He aims for approval and support. He never wanted to be anything more than himself. You pushed him into areas that he had no interest in and cursed him when he failed at it. The military? That was worst thing he ever could've done! And you pushed.

Me? You followed me to the ends of the States and beyond, you would try to buy my approval and used me when it was convient. You used me to come home with the one card you knew you could play. My grandfather. And now he's gone. You have no more cards to play. Instead you try to bring me back with emails of lies trying to validate the decisions that you made only to yourself as I chase after men who are just. Like. You.

Fuck you, Mark.

For the first time in my life, I am estastically happy, I'm on the road to having my dreams come true. I am on the verge of being successful according to my terms. I'm living in a place I can call home and I'm falling for a man who is more like my mother than anyone I've ever met. I don't care if he stays or leaves. And for once, I'm not scared. Force once I don't give two shits about your approval. And yet...

All I want to do is call you and say, "Daddy, look at me. I love you."

Fuck you, Mark.

Your daughter,

The Nunabutt.