My Toronto: Four Neighbourhoods, Three Bars

In my five years of Toronto living, I've lived in four different neighbourhoods and loved three local bars. Here they are, as a timeline of my many moves.

Neighbourhood #1: Main and Danforth

When I lived there, Main and Dan was a very convenient, if not particularly comfortable. neighbourhood. I'm not sure if the unstoppable hordes of gentrification have marched that far East yet; I've been doing my damndest to reverse-gentrify Forest Hill by moving there, along with my stubbornly low bank account. Back then though, the local bars were mostly grim and unwelcoming, so I would walk or subway over to The Only Café instead. It's cash and counter service only, but the selection of beers on tap is large and you can bring in food from the outside world. This was how I discovered Big House Pizza and Square Boy. 

Drink: One of the cask offerings

Eat: '70s Burger Perfection in the form of cheeseburger from Square Boy

Neighbourhood #2: Bloor West Village

The pub offerings at BWV were a little better, but I still wound up travelling to find a place that I really liked, in this case heading north to the Junction. I spent a lot of time in this bar that my brother was working at, but my favourite turned out to be a different place--The Hole in the Wall, which is truly both hole-sized and wall-oriented. It's a nice, unpretentious place, where the music is usually quiet enough that you don't have to scream to be heard, unless it's live music night. If it's live music night, you may as well keep your mouth busy with food.

Drink: Neustadt 10W30

Eat: Brunch

Neighbourhood #3: Vaughan and St. Clair West

This time I only had to walk to Christie and St. Clair to find my bar of choice. Finally, a true local! Dave's only has four taps, but whatever's rotating through tends to be reliable. Currently, it's the Sidelaunch Wheat. I keep on trying to explain what works so well with Dave's. It's basically a bar that's nice enough that you can take your mom there for brunch, but not so nice that going there is a faintly taxing and overwhelming experience. At Dave's you'll never have to turn an artisanal charcuterie plate into dinner, because you can build your own pizza.

Drink: Sidelaunch Wheat

Eat: White Pizza

Neighbourhood #4: Forest Hill Village

Drinking options in FHV are limited to sit-down restaurants and, bizarrely, Aroma, which is a chain cafe. All of these places lack long bars with TVs, which means I can't sidle up and anonymously watch sports while scarfing an entire order of nachos. This situation cannot stand. So once again I hike, headed back west to Dave's. (In defence of the Village: it does offer a classy kitchen store, a classy lingerie store, and a tiny Type Books outpost--and I've even shopped at one of these places!) Anyway, Dave's also has a decently stocked fridge of bottles and cans, along with a weekly trivia night. It will be a good friend to you. It's been a good friend to me. 

Drink: Barley Days' Yuletide Cherry Porter, if it's winter and bottles are back in the fridge

Eat: Nachos. Dave's avoids the weird Toronto bar habit of putting lettuce on t'chos  (as if they expect you to eat hot wilted salad) and gives you salsa verde instead. 

Uphill Battles: Further Indignities from the World of Cycling

Because global warming has turned spring into a pleasing fiction from the past, we quickly transitioned from Cold to Hot here in Toronto. Unfortunately, this means that I play Russian Roulette every time I cycle home from work. Will this day be the day my head finally explodes like that guy from Scanners? Or will that be tomorrow? Or Tuesday of next week?

My apartment is in Forest Hill, which is uphill from my job. Unfortunately, it is also uphill from the border of the prehistoric mega-lake that has since receded into Lake Ontario, leaving behind a  sharp shelf for my little black bike to climb. I keep on trying to find an ideal route that combines low hill grades with Toronto's limited bike infrastructure; I keep on failing.

Instead, every day I slowly pedal my way up Spadina until my face is turned a colour Pantone has named "geranium pink." Woe to any car that tries to cross me as I power through the streets at 0.3km/hour. With my dry throat and slack mouth, my violent threats come out as "If ffnyouuuuuurnntrythattttImmmmaklzznznjnyou," but there's no mistaking the look of murder in my eyes. I'll tear their throat out with my teeth! Or pass out on their hood. Actually, if they would just hit me, they could conveniently drag me uphill.

I could get in better shape. I could buy an e-bike. But at either point, I might just do better to move.

Big City Blues

I never really stuck to one dream job in my youth, but my ultimate goal was constant: get the hell out of Guelph and live in a big city. That Guelph was, comparatively, not all that small or boring was a discovery I was not prepared to make. It wouldn't have fit into the narrative I was attempting to write for myself, of a provincial, lumpy girl about to transform into a sleek and extremely cosmopolitan woman.

This meant going to school in Montreal and eventually moving to Toronto, though I've remained ever-lumpen throughout all of those moves. And yet, with my three year anniversary of Toronto residence having come and gone, I can confidently say that I've achieved my goal.

AND, OH DEAR GOD, I NEED TO LEAVE.

Why? Because Toronto is making me into a bad person. Or rather, Toronto is stripping away the veneer of sweetness I built up in smaller spaces, to reveal the angry hosebeast within.

Almost everything I experience in the city seems to go into my ledger of disrespect. People who walk two abreast and expect me to press myself against parked cars just so that they can pass. People who block the doors on subways. People who sit on the outside seat of public transit so their purse can have a window view, even during rush hour. TTC people who are rude. In fact, let's just say that the entire TTC experience is generally a giant checkmark in the "Go to Hell" column.

Because I'm young, female, and evidently unwealthy, I'm easy to ignore. However, because of most of those things I am also not actively avoided, and so the daily friction of interaction in this city is starting to take its toll. I've even found myself preparing to be irritated by someone, taking a certain gleeful joy in the thought that this time--THIS TIME--I am going to assert myself and stand up for my right to occupy space in this city! And then I'm actually disappointed when they step aside, and hold the door open for me, or even say sorry.

I started to reflect on my fermenting rage-ahol last Thursday, after an encounter with a TTC employee. I was trying to get to an appointment, was told my one TTC employee to use one gate only to get yelled out by another. While I would like to say that I responded with both kindness and yet an unwavering sense of self-respect, I did not. Instead, I was rather rude and snippy. 

And then the rest of my ride was filled with guilt.

See, the issue is that I have all of the rage inside me, but not quite enough self-confidence to keep the flames a-burning. Instead, I'm tossed between resentment and regret. "Oh! That person thought I could just be bodychecked off the sidewalk! OH! But now they think I'm mean because I glared at them. There's a stranger that thinks poorly of me. WHATEVER SHALL I DO?" What I should do: move to a smaller town. I'll have wide open spaces, homes I could potentially afford, and neighbours who express their aggression with savage gossip instead of face-to-face confrontation. Hooray!

Ontario Cider Week Recap

 

I used to be a cider drinker. I hadn't quite developed my taste for beer, and I didn't get wine, so cider seemed like a fraught-free thing to order. Then I discovered the Snake Bite/Black Velvet (terminology dependent on bar), a deadly combination of stout and cider.

And I'm so very sorry, beer purists. But it's good.

It was also probably the grease on the slope I slipped down into becoming a craft beer drinker. The Guinness lead to other macrobrews, then to similar styles from local breweries, and eventually to me drinking specialty one-off casks brewed with three different adjuncts and twice as many hops. Along the way, cider was left behind.

But only by me. While I was busy with beer, others in Ontario were doing interesting things with cider. In an echo of the craft beer movement they were perfecting the standard pub cider, while also expanding the boundaries of what a cider could be. The options are no longer limited to Strongbow (except on the shelves of most LCBOs) - West Avenue, Brickworks, Puddicombe, Spirit Tree and more are all doing wonderful things to apples, including mixing them in with raisins, cherries, and ginger, and seeing what settles out.

And what settles out is mostly good. I finally reunited with cider last week, after discovering Ontario Cider Week. At the All-Day All-Ontario Cider event at Bar Volo, in fact, I reunited with exactly seven of ciders. The West Ave Crab and Cherry and their Ginger Rhubarb were my favourites, the Crab deliciously tart, and the ginger pleasantly spicy. This was enough cider to dampen my existential life crisis to a dull roar. On the patio, in the sun, chatting with people I would probably never, ever see again, life seemed okay. And cider? It was better than okay.

Never Shop Drunk

I was going to do a book pile for my post, but then the most absurd thing happened to me tonight and I figured I would share:

My brother's a busy guy, but we were finally going to spend some quality spending time together last night. Since he's an East Ender, we had picked The Only Cafe to drink in, which only takes cash. Fresh out, I found a TD and withdrew $60. Broke one $20 on booze at The Only, and another on food at Square Boy. These two places are like night and day. Literally. One has neon lights that shine bright as the midday sun on a fleet of cranky Greek man of indeterminate old age, and the other is black as pitch with two young'uns pulling pints behind the bar.

Now in a slightly inebriated state, I went home, but stopped off at the grocery store first. I picked up a green pepper, some hummus, tortillas and fruit juice. Dropped the green pepper in line. Gave the cashier the split green pepper anyway, telling her I'll take it since it was my fault. Feeling pretty classy, I hand her one of the $10 bills I have in my wallet.

"Uh, I think this one's fake," she says.

This knocks me out of my stupor. Fake? Really? I handle the bill. It does feel kind of weird, and as I would later discover, is completely missing the holographs, though it does have the braille pressed on it - glad the counterfeiters care about accessibility!

"Oh weird," I say, "I just got that in change from somewhere."But I have my suspicions. Between the lights and the combined century+ of counter service experience, I doubt it was Square Boy. The Only, on the other hand? I probably wouldn't have noticed if they had returned a $100 bill instead of a $10, it's so dark. (though it later turned out to be genuine - see note below.)

I hand her my other, acceptable $10 and she hands me a bag.

"Don't take it into the bank," she says, "because they won't give it back." Weird, I hadn't asked for a bag, and doubly weird, why should I keep on trying to pass off a fake bill? Should I go to the cops or the bank? Would they care about a fake small bill, or should I just tear it up? These are the questions that keep me occupied all the way home.

So occupied that I don't notice how weird my bag feels. It's only when I'm almost at my house that I look at the bag and realize what's gone wrong. Either the cashier forgot to give the person her second bag, or she left it behind, because the lady in front of me had the multiple cartons of oat milk I noticed on the till, but instead of my tortillas, green pepper, hummus and fruit juice, I had:
One pack of bacon.
Another pack of bacon.
And a whole package of sausage.

So, I'm out $10, and my groceries. But I do have one thing:

MEAT

2/20 UPDATE: The bill was not counterfeit! The police said so. However, the ill-gotten meat remains in my fridge.

Protagitron Still Has a Cold

The cold has stuck around for a second day, which means I have moved on to watching BBC miniseries while chain drinking NeoCitran. Currently, I would be watching Wives and Daughters (though North and South is obviously the money Gaskell, because Richard Armitage) except my Internet connection is being moody. So I am writing to you.

And I will write about how it is COLD AS BALLS out there. After work, I left to wait for my chariot, the Spadina streetcar, which promptly arrived whenever the fuck it wanted. It was probably only five minutes, but with the windchill it felt like an hour. The crowd of human fleshicles shuffled on, and so the car was already half-full at King and Spadina, which meant it had reached uncomfortable levels of body Tetris by Dundas. This, as any TTC rider knows, won't stop people from trying to ram their way in by sheer will and persistence. Well, not so much will as a stubborn insistence that if you get on the steps of the streetcar, your face butt-level with the last person who tried this, and refuse to move eventually a hole will open in the space-time continuum and they will have space.

Strangely enough, it even works sometime.

So I was all excited to climb over the stacked bodies at Willcocks for a sweet breath of freedom. My joy curdled, or rather froze, as the wind hit me again though. Dear God, I thought, why not leave all this for a career as a toasty and carefree Morlock?

Hopefully this post will shame me when I start complaining about the heat.

The Indignity of Winter Biking

Putting aside the idiotic columnists and angry drivers, getting the Silver Bullet* on the road was one of the better decisions I made this year. As I coasted down hill after hill, free from TTC-induced psychosis, I thought the good times would never end.

And then summer turned to fall, which turned to the fetal winter we're having right now. Snow, slush, ice; all good reasons to stop biking for a bit. I also got a nasty cold in November. With phlegm clogging the bike's engine (ie my lungs) the Silver Bullet was locked up for a week, which stretched into two, and eventually became December. 

And what better month, I thought, to retire my bike for the season and buy a metropass? The city would once again be my oyster, or during rush hour, my sardine can. That lasted for about six days before the card was mysteriously misplaced around Bathurst station. It was kind of like taking $130 and gleefully tossing it out of the back window of the Bathurst bus. 

So it was time to put the saddle back on the steed. The first day wasn't so bad. Sure, my nose ran with rivers of snot, and my legs were as frozen as two fishsticks. My coworker, watching my approach, insisted that a Mercedes almost ran me over, but let's not dwell on that particular indignity. Instead, let's focus on the parade of shame that was this morning's commute. 

I knew it was going to be slushy out there, but I didn't realize how my fender-free tires would liberally spray me with the road's effluvia. Halfway through I regretted my decision to bike, as I opened my mouth to breathe (nose already plugged with cold-induced mucus) and tasted the salty bouquet of fresh road slush. Neither the road conditions, nor tidings of comfort and joy, deterred the drivers from crowding me as I lurched down Spadina. And yet, somehow, I managed to arrive at work (please see "artist"'s rendering, above), only to leave and almost instantaneously go airborne as high winds whipped my bike at the curb, and cardboard boxes and recycling bins at me. 

Which is why I don't understand people who hate cyclists. Save your anger for something else, because eventually the inanimate objects and meteorological events will take us out.

*So named because it is rusty and slow

A 6.0 for Effort

When I was young I decided that I wasn't a very athletic person, and so I decided to resign myself from any and all physical pursuits - volleyball, basketball, tug of war - and pursue a life of the mind.

Unfortunately, the life of the mind has proven as untrustworthy as my own coordination skills, but that's not the point.

No, the point is that yesterday, I strapped on a pair of skates like a good Canadian, and stepped on to the ice at Nathan Phillips square like a good Torontonian.

And then... I stopped.

Skate forward? NO FOR I WOULD SURELY DIE. My mental dialogue was something like "How do you move on skates? How do you MOVE? How how how?" The physics didn't seem to make any sense. Better to stay completely still and not rip a hole in the space/time continuum.

I tried to keep my balance while yelling at my friends that it didn't make any sense. I tried to reconcile the seeming impossibility of my current task (forward movement) with the fact that I used to be able to skate. I could never skate well, mind you, but I used to get around the rinks of Guelph in some way.

Before my brain melted out of my ears and I resolved this paradox by kicking off my skates and wandering to the hot dog cart for a hot dog, Dan held out his hand. I moved forward, like a child learning to walk. And thanks to my trusty personal human post, I ice-walked around the rink. But, damnit, at least I didn't fall.

A Night Out With Protagitron(...'s Overwhelming Stage Fright)

Slide 1 Of My Presentation

Sorry for my sudden disappearance. Duty called. Duty, in the form of a presentation for Toronto's Nerd Nite. Yes, in spite of the crippling stage fright I've struggled against since my childhood, where an annual speech competition meant an annual anxiety attack, I decided I should really get up in front of a roomful of strangers and talk about something. Anything! It could be anything once I got up there, because I would be too nervous to remember what I was actually supposed to be talking about.

However, I had told the organizer I would be talking about comic book films, so I figured I should at least try and give a presentation that was at least 95% about the promised content, and only 5% blank looks and vomiting.

So I dutifully prepared, even through a cold that made me sound like The Thing for a week. Dan made me all of the film clips I requested (awwwww) and I shoved them into Powerpoint (or, rather, Apple's "interpretation" of Powerpoint, Keynote).

Finally, it was go time. But not before ingesting a pint of liquid courage at Tequila Bookworm. Which unfortunately wore off right when I arrived at the venue. Which fortunately was licensed.

The buzz from my gin and tonic was good until I realized I would be following Tyler Irving's excellent and very funny talk on chemophobia. The bar was set high, and guess what was one of my other regular childhood failures - the freaking high jump. Hooray!

Hands shaking, I let the host, Lauren, plug in my laptop, and faced the audience. I opened my mouth. And somehow, magically, most of what I wanted to say tumbled out.

There was applause, and people asked interesting, attentive questions. My one regret was focusing too much on superhero comics with my answers (Stray Bullets would make an excellent TV series! Saga an incredible series of films! And Fatale as well!) but you can't do everything right.

I didn't vomit, and that was enough for me.

If you're in Toronto and have a topic you're passionate about, think about attending a Nerd Nite, and then signing up for a talk. It's not as terrifying as the speech competitions of your youth, and twice as manageable as the high jump. 

Can't Stop Physics: Bobbie Robbie 2014

Sadly, I was unable to score a signed Rob Ford bobblehead doll this morning.

Now, the important thing here isn't that our scandal-scabbed mayor, who's lied about smoking crack, written reference letters for drug dealers, spewed racist, homophobic garbage, and regularly lost battles with inanimate objects, is selling bobbleheads to raise money for the United Way, or that he's doing so on the eve of the first council meeting since he admitted he smoked crack, or that these bobbleheads have lead to long lines outside of City Hall.

Who cares about that anymore? The Rob Ford Experience, I have decided, isn't a municipal political disaster. It's a piece of performance art, forcing viewers to confront the constructs of power and privilege within the fraught sphere of the "public"... OR SOMETHING. Like any good art experience, there is a gift shop with souvenirs. There are these bobble heads.

And so, the really important thing about the Rob Ford bobbleheads is, that I didn't get one.

This is the greatest miscarriage of wobbly-headed justice since I missed out on a "Marty the Marmot" bobblehad giveaway in Victoria, BC. Now I'll never have a physical memento of the Ford Years, just a bunch of incoherent rantings about NFL TIE REALLY and BIKE LANES GIVE THEM BACK.

But what if I never need a physical memento? What if these years never end, and I'm surrounded by Fordliness forever, in a miasma of Russian Prince? Because I think he might win. By coming out about the crack, then stubbornly moving on, he might just pull it off. It doesn't matter that his critics are justified. The less he engages, the more shrill they'll sound. And then he can talk and talk about how much money he's saved as our mayor. The fuzzy truth of that strong claim doesn't really matter. He's said it enough times, that people have started to believe him. "If he smokes and saves me money, I'll vote for him — " one of my fellow citizens recently said, "even if he's a bum."

It's that kind of high quality reasoning that makes me think Rob Ford's bobbleheaded persona could take on the man himself in 2014. Not only will it "save" at least as much money, but voters will love its positive, can-do attitude! That Bobbie Robbie just never stops nodding.

Sex and the Megacity: Trudeau and Tru-Don't

Isn't your favourite cultural product from the late 90s/early 00's Sex and the City? No? Well shut up, hater. You're probably a Miranda. I, however, am a Fast Walking Background Extra #3. Fortunately, Justin Trudeau's recent  Toronto event - where, for $250, I could meet the man glowingly described as "Dreamier than Mulchair" and "Not Michael Ignatieff" by Canadians everywhere - meant I could finally live out my SATC fantasies. Get ready for...

Sex and the Megacity: Trudeau and Tru-Don't

by Carrie Bloorshaw

When you live in a cracked-out amalgamated metropolis like Toronto, you get your kicks where you can. Maybe you lick the pole on the Spadina streetcar.

Maybe you smoke some actual crack.

Or maybe you try and get on the first wagon headed out of town, to a new city where everything closes at five, dignity matters, and nobody remembers the time you tried to climb the outside of Sneaky Dee's, naked.

I was thinking a move to Ottawa was in order, and I didn't want to do it on the back of a backbencher. I was shooting for Mr. Big Deal - Justin Trudeau himself.

With my eyes on the parliamentary prize, I accepted Justin Trudeau's invitation for a ladies' night. I would get to know him - really know him - in a few hours. Plus there would be booze. A chance to be intimate in all the right ways with our next prime minister, and knock back a few glasses of cab sauv before throwing it all back up in a cab cab's back seat? Madam Speaker, I move to adjourn... to the venue!

I had  maxed out my credit card to buy the right shade of Liberal Red dress. I wanted the Mr. Big of Canadian politics - big name, big hair, big ideas - to notice yours truly. And notice he did.

It was about the time of my sixth Lib-tini of the night. They tasted suspiciously like regular cosmopolitans with little paper Liberal flags stuck in them, but I didn't even want to know what a Paul Martin-i was. It looked old, and sad, and people kept on ordering other drinks after they had one.

And then - there he was. He cut across the room like Stephen Harper cutting through democratic process in order to prorogue parliament. I held myself up with the back of a chair.

"Hello there," Mr. Big Deal said. "What's your favourite virtue?"

Looking into his earnest, desperate eyes, I couldn't help but wonder - What are the dating procedures when the House of Commons Procedure and Practice just won't do?

"Why, Justin" I purred, falling off of the chair and on to the Liberal party leader, "shouldn't you be asking me what my favourite VICE is??"

I shoved another mini-quiche into my mouth.

"Because it's gluttony. Gluttony, and SEX!"

However, Mr. Big Deal was more acrobatic than he looked. Like Jean Chrétien proving a proof, he wriggled out of my grasp.

As I stood up, the Lib-tini caucus in my stomach started to behave in a very unparliamentary manner. Where had it all gone wrong? Why wasn't I one of Justin Trudeau's real life heroes? Was it because he was married, or did he know I had secretly voted NDP last time because Jack Layton's mustache reminded me of my daddy issues?

Only one thing could save this night, and it didn't come from a bottle. I pulled out my cellphone and dialed the number I kept under "300 Pounds of Fun."

"Hello, Rob," I said, "are you up for meeting one of your constituents tonight?"

Well, Ottawa might have been nice for a term. But I can never resign from you, Toronto. And the best part is, you can't make me, either!

The Bung Goes On: Cask Days 2013

My sympathies are always with the lost, with the misfits of life. Those who hope for the best, but have to settle for the least-worst. So my heart beat in time, yesterday, with those poor unfortunate souls who asked if we had any lagers or light beers at Cask Days.

"Try this..." I said, looking desperately around at all of the India pale ales, each probably hoppier than the last. "... Cranberry kolsch? I, uh, think there might also be a brown ale that's not too aggressive." 

Perhaps my suggestions were poured out. Frankly, I was too busy pouring more beer to find out. 

I had volunteered for Cask Days in a fit of cheery can-do optimism, the same optimism which has led me in to such undertakings as attending a knot-tying workshop and building a subpar birdhouse. Unfortunately, I had also decided to try volunteering at Canzine the same weekend. However, I managed to slot Canzine in on Saturday, Cask Days on Sunday, leaving little room for usual weekend activity of high-impact slothing. 

So I reluctantly trundled off to Evergreen Brickworks, knowing that my SmartServe card would put me behind the casks. I was worried that would mean seven hours of making irritation-inducing judgment calls about people's sobriety, but it wasn't that bad. You could get a half-pint of beer for two tokens, or a quarter for one. With hundreds of casks to choose from - I worked in just half of the area dedicated to Ontario beers, and we still had at least fifty - increased quantity means diminished variety. People were forced into pacing themselves.

Not that I was much of a help picking which brews were worth a token. Volunteers got free admission on their day "off," but thanks to my other commitments, I missed my chance to sample the beers. I also missed my chance to have a medium-sized t-shirt, so I ended up working in an official Cask Days muumuu. People kept on asking me, perhaps because of the authority conferred by the muumuu, what I would recommend. And I kept on saying "Ha, well, I don't get to drink until five. But a lot of people seem to like the No Chance with Morana, or the Cream in Your Jeans." The guests were pretty patient with that, and I also leaned heavily on the knowledge of fellow volunteer Mike, whose encyclopedic knowledge of beer made me feel like a dedicated Smirnoff Ice drinker.

Staying sober meant I also had a lot of time to observe what worked and what didn't for breweries at Cask Days. First of all, dial it to eleven on the beer name. Cream in Your Jeans, Fangboner, and, well, Tranny With a Busted Leg - which I found problematic, but nobody asks beer muumuu girl - were my most popular pours. The outrageous names dared people to order them, if only for the pleasure of saying Fangboner in a public place.

If you can't be creative with the names, then try mixing up ingredients. Because it's the fall, pumpkin is king, but everyone's had enough typical pumpkin ales, so smoke it or brew it in a porter. Add fruit, add spices, age it in oak. If people made it all the way to the Brickworks, they're going to want to spend their money on something novel. Unless they're light beer drinkers, in which case they're grateful for anything drinkable.

I'm not complaining. I'm not a Barvarian purist - just an observer, hoping one of these experiments will become the next great beer style.

Still, when I was finally released from bending over the casks, I didn't go for a 10% stout. I didn't drink an APA with an IBU of 80+. There were no skittles in my brau. Instead, I cashed my free chips in on a simple honey pumpkin ale. The day was so nice I didn't feel like it needed anything more.

Bike Cavalrywoman Declares War On Lazy Columns

If you need to crap out a column for one of Canada's newspapers, you have some choices. You can take the Wente path, and attack the big money liberal arts complex for the thousands of injustices (critical geography studies!) it perpetrates every day. But if you find yourself too ground down by Big Academia's clog heel to manage that, just write about bicycles.

R: My terror-mobile, temporarily not terrorizing some bipeds

Bicycles! There they are, the rulers of the road, nay, sidewalks even, each one to a man or woman clad in twin vestments of spandex and smugness. Please see this column by Rosie DiManno for proof, or perhaps the accompanying comments section, as there are literally DOZENS of anecdotes of asshole cyclists presented. Clearly, these thugs need to be stopped, or perhaps dispatched by streetcars, so the streets can be safe again. 

If the public safety aspect of these sort of columns doesn't grab you, think of the publicity. Complaining about cyclists is sure to net you many comments and even more page clicks, as the most rabid cyclists and cyclist-haters. So ka-ching, ka-ching, which conveniently rhymes with the ka-clunk, ka-clunk a cyclist's body makes as it is run over.

But let's return to the DiMannofesta: "... those who drive and those who pedal can wipe each other off the face of the city’s streets in this mutual roadkill rush to attrition and Toronto would be better off for it." For, you see, cyclists are "arguably the most sanctimonious breed on the planet: I cycle therefore I am divine." 

But nobody is more "divine" than an "ambulatory biped" like her, who walks everywhere. Everywhere, except when she's in a cab or on a bus. I'm not sure who will drive either of these vehicles once Toronto streets run red with the blood of drivers and cyclists. The roads will belong to the pedestrians then, or more likely, the rickshaws.

DiManno is also not entitled like those awful cyclists when she has to catch a bus on her street. "Public transit users need to either squeeze up against buildings or stand in the bike lane — which will get you a blast of invective from the cyclists." She just thinks she can use a lane designed for a flow of traffic as a bus stop waiting lounge: most certainly not entitled. 

In fact, cyclists are so awful that, DiManno tell us, "They have risen to No. 1 on my list of People Who Should Be Shot." Thanks to my intrepid reporting skills, I have found this very list:

Some might say that using violence for rhetorical impact as cyclists die on the streets is a tad... tasteless. They might even add that calling people who bike "ped-aphiles" - like pedophiles, ya know - isn't all that classy either. DiManno would probably come back and say that you don't know anything about taste, as you are probably a ped-aphile wearing a "stupid aerodynamic helmet." These helmets, by the way, will be the first thing online commentators will ask if you wearing if you do get hit by a car.

I am a sexual predator with a bounty on my head - I mean, a cyclist. I stop at red lights, make (often shaky) hand turning signals, and if I don't feel comfortable making a left hand turn, I get off my bike and walk it through through the crosswalk. According to DiManno and some of her commentators, I do not exist. And yet, I persist, not just in existing, but also in biking to work almost every day. 

I do so in the face of distracted pedestrians who wander into bike lanes or even just out into the road itself. I do so in the face of fellow cyclists, who salmon and shoal, pass suddenly without ringing their bell, and glide through red lights while I wait like a chump, or use the sidewalks while I brave the roads. I do so in the face of drivers who cut me off, open their doors without looking for traffic, barely give me a centimeter when they pass, or yell at me to get to the right when I'm in the left-hand side of the lane to make a left-hand turn.  

Not that I am a bright and pure beacon of perfect cycling myself. 

I have made mistakes on my bike. Turns out taxis can go into the bike lane to pick up passengers, so my apologies, Taxi I Yelled At Once. I tried getting around a bus once when I was impatient, and ended up in the wrong lane with nowhere to go. I have salmoned on small side streets, though if I do ever get an $85 fine for doing so, I'll remember with some bitterness the bike cops I saw going the wrong way down Augusta. And that driver who yelled at me for exercising my right to be in the left-hand side to make a left-hand turn? I probably did fellow cyclists no favours by calling her a jackass and screaming at her that I was making a turn.

Rather, in listing all of the things I have to deal with on the road, I want to show that there are entitled, careless individuals in every transportation class. And yet it's somehow always the cyclists who get put through the columnist grinder. 

Cars hit pedestrians: some people blame pedestrians for wearing dark clothes, or trying to rush the countdown. At the very worst I hear that driver is a problem, and they should never be behind the wheel of the car. But if one careless cyclist runs a stop sign and levels a pedestrian, well, all cyclists are dangerous, entitled terrors who must be checked immediately (perhaps shot on sight.)

What these columns like this miss isn't just a real solution, but the real problem. If we can't share the road safely and efficiently, then something is broken. Let's fix it. Rosie DiManno believes that the place for bicycles "should not be any North American metropolis never designed for bicycle-right-of-way." As if a city is a rigid structure, instead of a dynamic organism that can change and adapt. People can too. Build better infrastructure, apply the law well, change it if it doesn't make sense. Then educate drivers, cyclists and pedestrians on what is expected of them, and what others can do. 

But don't write another useless column like this one. Rosie DiManno: I might not yell GET THE HELL OUT OF THE WAY A--HOLE! as you stride through the bike lane and towards the cab that, as a 100% biped, you are somehow using. I will grit my teeth, and maybe glare, as I brake. But I will yell at you to GET THE HELL AWAY FROM YOUR KEYBOARD.

Biking in Toronto: The Much Better Way

A few weeks ago, I started commuting by bike to work on a semi-regular basis. And every time I leave the bike to squeeze myself onto the TTC, I regret it. On my bike, I bike with danger. Cars hate me, pedestrians are indifferent to my presence, and I know so little about my bike I rode three times on an open quick release. The only thing between me and an early death is a charmingly awkward helmet which makes me look I have encephalitis. 

And yet - I love it. Here I am, riding down the hill near Dupont and Bathurst. Riding? I meant flying. I am a flying mushroom in my giant grey helmet, look at me go. And yes, there I am lurching off my bike to walk it up a hill, because my legs stubbornly refuse to do that thing where you stand up and ride for extra power. I don't care. Because there I am not: getting a purse to a face on the streetcar, waiting for a bus that will never come, or peeling myself out of somebody's armpit to disembark at St. Andrew station. I support public transit in the same theoretical way I support open relationships and vegan diets. It's a good thing. But it is also a terribly annoying, smelly good thing, at least as implemented in Toronto. 

That Toronto's public transit is craptacular is not an original thought. And yet, an entire industry of TTC-themed swag exists. T-shirts with streetcars on them! Button pins of the subway walls!! Art with more streetcars on it!!! Bus-themed... well, buses get no love because they're buses. And yet, I'm sure I've spoken too soon, and somewhere someone is crocheting a TTC bus to stuff and sell. I refuse to remind myself of what is often the worst part of my day, and so I am left button-less. Though I also don't buy any of the bike-themed tchotchkes either, because I don't feel like I've earned it yet. I'll get the cruiser-printed skirt when I know how to pump air into my own tires.

I guess that makes me a cyclist, though I'll never change in some ways. A few weeks ago an Audi (of course: it's always an Audi or an Acura) really crowded me on Bathurst. When I caught them at a red light, I did not hit their car with my bike lock, or yell, or do anything except tap politely on their window and say - once the driver had rolled it down: "Um, you kind of really crowded me back there, so if you could give cyclists more space next time, that would be nice. Yeah..." And then I biked away, into the day, the mushroom-headed cycling avenger.

My OCB Week Days 3-6: Farewell, My Liver

Since my last week turned out to be so hectic - I blame the siren call of tall ships and brunch - my week of OCB-themed posts didn't happen in a timely fashion. Instead, enjoy this digest-style edition of the week my liver died.

Day 3: To Routine
On Wednesday, OCB-stamped activities were happening all over the city, but I was sitting next to four taps only. Wednesday night is trivia night at Dave's on St Clair, where the revolving roster of my team, Vegan Summer Camp, puts in a weekly appearance. I love Dave's beyond all reason. The food's good, there's a bunch of kitsch on the walls, the servers are friendly, and Steam Whistle goes on special for trivia night. On a personal note, I have fond memories of Dave's. It's where I cemented my friendship with an old roommate by crying on his shoulder over some guy, and where I went on a first date with another boy, who hasn't made me cry on anyone's shoulder yet. It's good to have a local where you don't have to yell to talk. And there's something to be said for a weekly routine, with a reliable beer - Steam Whistle may not be as exciting as a smoked fruit beer with three kinds of hops, but it makes missing the Four Tops question go down easy.

Day 4: To Change
However, the next day I figured I should take advantage of the festivities. Black Oak (and board games) were supposedly on feature at The Only, one of my favourite east end bars. Unpopular Toronto sentiment: the west is nice, but the east is where it's at. It's less... you know... scene-tastic. There are places where you can mail a letter, and not just bars that will sell you a fourteen-dollar cocktail. Also, there was a Popeye's within walking distance of my house. Go biscuits! Anyway, I started off the night with a Black Oak brew, their marmelade saison. I thought it too fruity and a little flat, but I really liked the Cameron's Obsidian Imperial Porter I used to chase it. Cameron's makes perfect "dad" beer, bottles that are balanced and not too showy. The Obsidian is probably one of their more extreme offerings, aged in rum barrels and with strong coffee notes. It's also 9.2%, which really helped take the sting off my Ticket to Ride defeat.

Day 5: Back to the Neighbourhood
Feeling tired, broke, and possibly a little gassy, I desperately wanted to be housebound on Friday. But I still wanted to have beer. So I went local at the LCBO, and bought cans of the Kensington Brewing Company's Augusta Ale and Hockley Valley's 100 to bring over to the suitor's house. He lives mere blocks away from Kensington, so the Augusta seemed appropriate. And the presence of a new beer from the mysterious Hockley Valley, not a member of the *official* Ontario Craft Brewers, rarely spotted at a beer show, was intriguing. Hockley is uncommonly common on LCBO shelves, but not on social media, when the reverse seems to be the rule in the craft beer world. For a while I thought the brewery had actually folded, leaving a store of beer that was being slowly liquidated. Well, here's the 100 to prove me wrong. The beer isn't scoring well on Rate Beer at the moment, but either we got a good can or we've both gone insane, because the suitor and I thought it was pretty drinkable. And since he had the notion of putting curry mayo on our BLTs, I feel like he's at least on the ball.

Day 6: Finale
"I am full of food and high alcohol Indie Ale House beer. I feel great." - Me, to my brother

3D Printing and Winning

Greetings from bed, dear readers. One of the many ways I fail as a woman (blow dryers? how do they work?) is that I cannot handle one day - one fully day - of wearing heels without having to take a recovery day the next. This is how I imagine you better-disciplined folks feel after a spin class or a half-marathon. I feel your pain in pursuit or outfit consistency. In spite of my aching limbs, I did manage to make it to Autodesk this morning (a Saturday morning, for Christ's sake) for 10 am to take part in the Ladies Learning Code 3D Printing Workshop.

I had unfinished business with 3D printers. Back when I lived in Victoria, I went to the Makerspace's 3D printing workshop. I was the only girl. I tried to print a cube. And I somehow managed to break the Makerbot printing a cube in such a way that a piece of it went flying across the room, to punctuate my incompetence. I had to make things up to myself and my gender.

Success! An important step in equality has been made. It's hard to see - and I really should have held out for a printer loaded up with coloured plastic - but that's an octopus on a pendant. No machines were harmed in its production. The people at the workshop, particularly Matt Compeau and Bi-Ying Miao of Hot Pop Factory, were great and I couldn't have successfully made this without them. So sign up for a workshop and learn something new. Or even just to get even with the past.

Greetings from the BiMonSciFiCon

I was in Montreal on Saturday, and I'm here in Guelph on Monday. But where was I on Sunday? Considering my proximity to LeVar Burton, Patrick Stewart and Jonathan Frakes, it must have been the command deck of the U.S.S. Enterprise. But really, it was the basement of the Toronto Convention Centre. And there was a rotund man in a leopard thong somewhere over my left shoulder. 

My ex-roommate (and preferred friend) Basement Joe had invited me to Toronto's Comic Con. I went because, in spite of my nearly impeccable nerd credentials, I had never been to a real convention. I had been to zine shows and the Toronto Comic Arts Festival. But actual conventions were a step too far. Even though I could name an X-person for nearly every letter of the alphabet. Because I could name an X-person for nearly every letter of the alphabet.  Angel! Bishop! Cannonball! And so on, until X-Man. That's knowledge best left to wither in the brain.

 

And yet, as the years go on, you become more comfortable in your own skin, or at least your own X-Men t-shirt (XL, little boy's department, Zellers, 2004.) Which had unfortunately gone missing before this weekend, but mentally I was ready. And so I took the long ride to the convention centre. The closer I came, the more costumes I saw, so I didn't even really need the address to find the building. The assorted Stormtroopers and Catwomen made a trail to its doors. And then down the escalators, to the basement, where we belonged. You could get the cast of Star Trek: TNG to sign your stuff, and you could definitely buy that stuff, but sometimes the con seemed as much about being seen as not. Like some sort of pop Bois de Boulogne, the crowds shuffled around the centre, admiring and being admired at how accurately they had dragged their favourite fandoms into reality. 

At the ComicCon, signs get flipped. Dress up like a sexy lady TARDIS with a phone booth hat and wander around the Eaton's Centre, you'll get looks. Dress up in a plain skirt and shirt while almost buying a Golden Age crime comic, and you'll get more. I was a part of this group, but not, and when I checked the price on the polypropylene bag, I just felt poor. 

Domestic Saturday: Indie's Community Nut Job

I would love to bring Domestic Thursday back as a regular thing. Unfortunately, while I've kept up with the beer drinking, naturally, I've fallen short on the other domestic front (even laundry tests my limits these days.) So it's a good thing there's a special beer for a Saturday special edition.

Behold, the Indie Ale House Community Nut Job! Community because it's a joint project between three of the better places in the Junction: Indie, 3030, and Hole in the Wall. Nut Job because a Bulk Barn's worth of assorted nuts were thrown into the brew. And I know because I was there.

My brother works at 3030 (swing by, check out a show, tell him to shave), and because he loves me, he let me take his place during the brewing process. Indie's Jason and Jeff kindly put up with what little help I could offer (thanks limited upper body strength!) and answered all of my questions. I even fetched the odd tool or two out of the sanitizer buckets. The hardest part of the day was knowing that I would have to wait for weeks to taste the finished product, but at least the wort tasted rich and nutty. And now I've had the fermented result, from 3030's cask. It's not nearly as nutty in the glass as the wort I tried, but there's still an initial rich taste which reminds me of the walnuts, hazelnuts and chestnuts we tossed in. It finishes off like chocolate, and if you're getting it from the cask there's very little carbonation. Sadly, it appears as if people who worked very hard for this beer still have to pay to drink it. Workers of the world, unite. I have nothing to lose, and a whole cask of beer to gain.

The Reluctant Giving Tree: Volunteering, With Limits

 Future set of Passion Under the Maples. Source: SimonP

This week I'm searching for volunteer positions in Toronto with demented zeal. And while I should do something meaningful like work in a food bank or man a help line, I find I'm skipping over those positions. And right into things like "giant panda ambassador" at the zoo, gardening, or a docent position at a local museum, The Tollkeeper's Cottage. I have been by the Tollkeeper's Cottage. It's more like the Tollkeeper's Shack, or Tollkeeper's Hovel. And since you have to docent in historical clothing, I feel like your chances of getting an equally historically accurate case of consumption or pleurisy are high. But I wouldn't care - a costume! And the chance to overwhelm any visitors with my tale. For I would be the plucky Tollkeeper's Wife, forced to take the tolls as the Tollkeeper would be too busy with the Tollkeeper's Drinking Problem and Tollkeeper's Brothel Prostitute to man the cottage. Also, the Tollkeeper must never know of my secret passion for the local schoolmaster, although my long walks with Mr. Duffy and our passionate discussions of Lord Byron's poetry have set the local gossip's tongues wagging.

See, wouldn't that be worth the two-dollar admission?

Spinning my tale of forbidden love in Upper Canada (working title: Passion Under the Maples) at least distracts me from wondering why I can't handle the harder stuff. I did try last year, and spent about a month surveying a local food bank. I went on Tuesdays, and every week would cycle through dread and depression. Either I liked the people I interviewed, but felt helpless to do anything for them, or I couldn't stand them and felt guilty about it. I feel like so many volunteer positions end in that feeling of grating futility. And since I'm already spending at least 9-5 on weekdays dealing with people - their needs, their anger, their constant, constant questions - I can only handle spending more if I can do it behind a panda mask.

Please don't judge me.

Take This Waltz, or the Mild Inconvenience of Indecision

It's been a few days since I caught Sarah Polley's Take This Waltz, and I finally figured out how to describe the plot. It's Twilight for CBC listeners! Seriously, Michelle Williams' Margot - Toronto cred proved by her Pages tote bag - is torn between nice guy werewolf cookbook writer Jacob Lou, and the dangerously sexy vampire rickshaw artist Edward Daniel. To be fair to Polley, Waltz does have moments of genuine emotional honesty where Twilight has troubling gender politics, but there was still a main character with problems she would prefer not to solve. So the slow motion and golden lighting started to feel a little much. As endearing as Michelle Williams can be, my sympathy to any character who will gain mournfully into an oven door while sweating buckets is minimal.

Fellow Torontonians might appreciate spotting beer bottles from local breweries, or triangulating the location of Margot and Lou's apartment using local cafés and cinemas for guidance. My guess is Little Portugal.