Holy F...

Toronto, empty no longer.

Everything ends.

Our era ends

Sneakers, a bowtie, and black polka dots under a shining smoking jacket, I grinned like the boyfriend the Betsey girls didn’t have back in high school. Prom night. Time for sloppy wet kisses, screaming sentimental secrets, and dance floor anthems we’ll never forget the words to.

It was the last dance. We threw it ourselves, knowing our school is not the type for banquets or balls, homecoming or black-tie affairs. We rented out a bar. J-Prom, Carly called it, as she handed out little red tickets during our last days of lecture hall.

We cabbed west on College, finding a tiny bar filled with familiar faces, ribbons and balloons. Knowing we wouldn’t be all together like this again until convocation, if ever, we bought each other drinks, toasted to semesters past, then to moment; finally the future.

We chose our most likely to: become a CBCelebrity, take down the man, and teach our kids when they go to college years from now. (For medicine or law, we hope, anything but what we did.)

The DJ spun a few last classics always requested at prom, and we filled the floor, wrapping our arms around each other, and spitting out the lyrics.

So we crooned: A singer in a smoky room, a smell of wine and cheap perfume. For a smile they can share the night. It goes on and on and on and on…

And we held on to that feeling.

Snowed in.

On my morning walk to work I passed by a familiar face staring back at me from the cover of an alt-weekly lodged into a newsstand. Having been gossiping just last night with a friend who met Mr. Maddin in the deep end of the Sargent Park Pool, I was ecstatic to see my former city's most famous film-maker on the cover of EYE.

Guy Maddin is renaissance man if the city has one. Best known for his creepy cuts in films like Tales From Gimli Hospital and the Saddest Music in the World, Maddin is about to be talked-about for more than his movie-making.

A man after my own heart, Maddin hosts collage-parties for his artists friends, where they country's most creative cut and paste together pictures that will become large scale prints at a later date. And now, Maddin is trying his hand at my other love, writing.

Below, is an excerpt from his new book,which shares a title with his film, My Winnipeg.

Winnipeg.
Winnipeg.
Winnipeg.
Snowy, sleepwalking Winnipeg.

My home my entire life.
I must leave it.
I must leave it.
I must leave it now.
--

Always winter.
Always winter.
Always sleeping.
Winnipeg. Winnipeg. Winnipeg.
--

We Winnipeggers are so stupeed with
Nostalgia we’re actually never quite sure.
I never really know anything for sure –
Except that after a lifetime of trying
And many botched attempts,
This time I’m leaving for good.
Again.

Thanks for making my morning, Mr. Maddin.

Mornings are no time to say goodbye.

For those of us not born in this city, province, or even on this side or country, there's a constant feeling in the bottom of our stomachs, pulling West. And on Thursday night, we said see-you-later (not goodbye), to yet another Western Wonder.

A future broadcast-journalist, possibly doctress, and currently clever blogger, Ms. Kasandra Bracken makes doing it all look it easy. Slipping in rock shows and vintage shopping between sports practices, she'll defy all who stereotype her volleyball-legs.

That night, friends crowded into the small condo we currently share, poured drinks, and tried to talk about anything but the school that binds most of us together. And late into the night, the last of the crowd, having dwindled down to just two, headed out to share one more pint. And when she returned, ready for her red eye, the kitchen sink was clean, and I'm sure that she breathed a sigh of relief.

Until soon, See You Later,
Ms Bracken.