Ghost town Toronto

And so: king makers made a mis-step//the suburbs got their wishes//a cowboy got his cap//the kids got something to complain about. The subway stalled//the councilors crawled//the gays returned to their ghetto.

Tax is down, the rent's still up//columnists are shooting in a barrel. Pull out chalk sticks and draw a line around the centre//empty day-time scrapers of paper pushers//cycle without worry.

He was hurtled out of Toronto on an aircraft//vote uncounted.

Siren Saturdays

Class War he declared in spray paint on the wall. Sirens and helicopters and news reports tumbled in our heads.

After the storm hit we walked out to assess the damage. Window replacement trucks lined the street; evening workmen held boards and hammered in nails. We walked a familiar city block, traded news and gossip with friendly strangers.

The cops moved in and out of street pockets, leading pedestrians through a maze. A man in a wheelchair screamed the New World Order into a megaphone on the corner. Second Cup served its last latte and bolted all the doors.

We ran forward then back, lost in public panic. The cops shouted North, then South, and North again, held up lines of shields to close off exits. We walked past a gaggle of mannequins in soiled linens, shattered glass, and the dim white glow of American Apparel.

Phone calls were made to lovers and lawyers, arrests of breach of peace. Cab home to fall asleep, hope to dream of peace.

*Photos from FlickR Creative Commons

Twenty reasons to stop trying

Cops on horseback, cops on foot, on bicycle and motorcycle, in marked and unmarked cars. Security stationed on each street corner, helicopters in the air.

Sirens on the streets, paramedics push through traffic; a fire alarm goes off in the mall. Delegates in, homeless out, empty condos fill the sky.

Barricade off closed-door business, let black limousines coast through chain link fences towards pristine hotels; broadcast arrivals on the news.

Let the protesters tear the banks down, throw bricks through windows, eat Front Street alive. Chip off the concrete foundation between skyscrape basements and underground subway stops, feed it to famished mouths.

We need it now more than ever, all ribcage hunger for the beast. We’re dying here, he says: Welcome to the Harper years.

Massive, massive party

The fire alarm kills any chance to sleep this one off. It’s 10:00 a.m. and they are testing every one in the building.

The keys are on the floor and there’s one left in the pack. It’s out the door to light the last up, figure out what happened. There is a stamp on each hand. One from a gala, another from a bar, the photos on the camera say.

Start at the beginning: a text message comes in the afternoon with an invite to an impromptu photo shoot outside the AGO. Nadja is all breasts and nunnery when I show up; we play nine-oh-five on nearby mini vans.

All around us deep pockets saunter by. Men in tuxes refuse to pose for photos and a woman stops to ask if we’re in the band. We are, we say. Which one? The Decemberists, we guess. Whichever.

It’s all a part of some elaborate speak-easy theme spin off, cooked up by Mr. Dean Baldwin, the man who put the lowbrow outdoor patio inside the gallery resto. Dean says he’ll sneak us in, because that’s what a man running a speak-easy must do.

So it’s through the kitchen to the elevator, nod to the attendant. Fill our arms with camera gear, slip by security. Down a staircase towards a DJ, we spin around, look up at the path behind: we’re in.

The cameras roll, the Art Stars do their thing. It was all a bit too easy to sneak past the hundred and fifty dollar ticket to the open bar, we think and scratch our heads. No bother, the free beer comes in large green bottles and the fancy mini grilled cheese sandwiches taste delicious.

The dress is decidedly wedding attire and we wonder what high school formal we’ve ended up at. Still, the booze is more than we have the money for; grin and guzzle down. White wine, red wine, the only hard stuff they have is vodka. We ask for it straight.

At some point new friends and fellow freeloaders decide they’ve had enough. They want to go to some hotel, ask if I’d like to come. We start walking but end up in a cab, re-routed to a college pub.

It’s filled with familiar faces, as it is each and every Thursday night. The Rye-high kids love the place and I’m happy it’s a few blocks from home. I tell them about the gala, but they have not heard of Massive Party, shrug their shoulders and ask if it was fun.

It was, we guess, but are a bit unsure. Either way, somebody knows the bartender and we get another round of covered drinks. Drink up, dress down, stumble back to the apartment.

The lights are off, the head spins, the pillow feels perfect. Take off a pressed shirt, lay down and wait for morning.

set up annnd...art attack!

a prayer to our saviour, Lord Madonna

Dean's patio scene

some summer ski lodge something, stretching to the ceiling

time to make a scene..

back at the bar, shrugging, what happened??

an idea, maybe...?

the fastest way to 905 is to show cleavage, I'm told

Tracy's reaction to the chest hair

Birds at my face

Hitting your city's sidewalks with visiting feet is a chance to re-envision the place you live through another set of eyes. Living in a city of constant transition, I have a rotating front door, welcoming in regular visitors, but my favourites are the ones that want to gallery hop. 

While I much prefer the small-sized studio spaces nestled along Ossington, and sprouting out of distillery-cobblestone, last night we went to one of the continent's biggest galleries, the  AGO. Since the re-design, the talk has all been  Frank, and not nearly enough about the architecture of what's inside. 

Pictured are two of my favourite pieces currently on display. Both bridging the gap between mediums, what's most captivating is the way these works enhance and defy the gallery-space. 

First,  The Index, a sparkling structure by  David Altmejd, part fantasy, part nightmare. Created for the Canadian pavilion at the 2007 Venice Art Biennial, the architecture-inspired sculpture-meets-instillation, is a hit with the critics. But to the afternoon crowd of kids on classroom tours, the testicles hanging off of suited birds' faces are bound to seem more art-bizarre than avant-garde. 

Second is a room that is all pop. Conceptualized by  General Idea, the media-based collective that produced light-hearted-looking, but extra-heavy works of political pop from 1969 until 1994, when two-thirds of the trio died. Famous for artizing AIDS, the room does just that, attacking the eye with sensory over-load of a-i-d-s and a tilted "D". 

Before we could make it down to the bottom floors, the bell rang announcing that our Wednesday night  freebie was over. We walked back onto the street, characters in vacation photos of the gallery's fresh exterior. And as the camera's clicked, I welcome myself back, to my city of art.

How I learned to stop worrying and sing along to Katy Perry songs.

Last week there was a 40 minute display of the human body at the Royal Ontario Museum. Inside the crystal fantasy was a display much more bold and daring than the architecture.

It was a display of human flesh. Naked female bodies, gyrating against each other: Pornographic and insulting. Crude... but sensual. Erotica at its finest. Finally, the ROM has gone in a bold new direction. These are the things the critics might have said, had they seen the display.

The two girls met at the Museum's entrance. With anticipation running down their backs, they hunted for the best place. In these situations, there is always somewhere to go. These things happen, even if we don't see them.

The staff at the Museum saw the girls, but they did not see the performance. The young, warm bodies were the building's best kept secret that night. Even the climax went unseen.

Unseen, but not unappreciated. The singular review is in, and it's good. She says there will be another date.