Leaves and Petals

I wonder how Joe Fiorito would feel about me using a line from a Go-Go’s song as the title of a post about his book. He’d probably think it was amusing, think I was a character and would sit down and ask me many questions and then write about me, adding me to his list of interesting people who make Toronto what it is.

If the name Joe Fiorito is familiar to you, you’re likely a reader of the Toronto Star, where Fiorito has had a column for the past few years. I read his work regularly because he seems like a very genuine person who truly cares about the people he interviews, and in part, because he lives in my neighbourhood and can often be found expounding on why Parkdale gets a bum rap.

Fiorito’s book Union Station is a collection of essays on the human condition as seen in this, the centre of the universe, Toronto. Collections of essays on the human condition are a dime a dozen – every writer has a pile of half-finished character sketches of a neighbour or a professor or a particularly memorable blind date. But Joe Fiorito’s ouevre is not just that he is able to write about the people he encounters, but he is able to do so with such insight that it pulls at the heartstrings. Without being sappy.

The introduction sets the tone:

Nobody likes a winner.

This is a distinctly Canadian thing. Toronto won all the marbles a long time ago, at least the ones that matter most. How you feel about that, and how you feel about us, is the least of our worries. We don’t have time to care. We have to go to work.

That’s us, according to our reputation.

We are smug, aloof and in a hurry. I say “we” because I live her now, in a city that is, pound for pound, the richest, meanest, poorest, coldest, cheapest, most diverse in the world, among people who have the softest, smuggest, hardest, biggest hearts.

You don’t like us? You are not alone.

He spends an evening with the guys at the local fire hall, tagging along on calls and watching them cook pasta with “Al Pacinos” (jalepenos), he explores the life of a crack-addicted hooker, buying her lunch and a pocket knife for safety in exchange for her story. Shelters, seniors homes, street health clinics, Kensington Market, a citizenship ceremony, even the story of a shoplifter, Fiorito tags along, asks the right questions and in the process tells the story of Toronto and the people who call this city home.

Union Station is a collection of stories from people from all walks of life, but it is also the story of Toronto; who we are, who we were, who we will become.

The most intriguing story is that of Lee Sew. When Fiorito finds an old Chinese cookery book on the shelves of a vintage book store, he begins a search to find the author, learning bits and pieces of his story from local restaurateurs and historians, ultimately tracking down a grave in Mount Pleasant Cemetery where the chef was buried. In the process he crosses lines of culture, digs up old prejudices and learns about the history of Toronto’s Chinatown.

This collection may not appeal to anyone not from Toronto. We are a self-indulgent, self-centred lot on occasion, and like people from every place, we like reading about ourselves more than we like reading about people from somewhere else. But I think most folks will recognize themselves in at least a few of the people Fiorito includes in his book. For , as he proves time and time again, we’re not all that different deep down.

I don’t often come across films that I consider adding to my personal Top 10 list. It’s pretty damned hard to knock Muriel’s Wedding and Vampire’s Kiss out of those top spots. But this little movie just grabbed me by the heartstrings. And not in a sappy kind of way.

Directed by Mike White, Year of the Dog stars Molly Shannon as a wallflower office lady whose life is turned upside down when her adorable dog dies suddenly. She is inconsolable and slips into a depression, taking on an uncontrollable German Sheperd that has been abused in her desire for companionship.

At the same time, under the influence of an animal worker who befriends her, Shannon’s character Peggy changes her lifestyle, becoming a vegan, and joining animal rights groups to protest animal abuse. Her enthusiasm alienates her family, friends, neighbours and co-workers who are all trying to force their own brand of happiness upon her, and culminates in some poorly thought-out decisions that affect everyone, including the one thing that every animal lover longs to do – take home every dog from the shelter.

Based on the characters she has played on Saturday Night Live, one would expect Shannon to play the character loud, brassy and slightly obnoxious, yet in this role she is quiet, reserved and shy. She is genuine and believable, as are all the characters in this film played by Laura Dern, John C. Reilly and others.

Because of it’s quirkiness, this film was a quick blip at the box office. I don’t even remember it hitting theatres, and only came across it at the video store. Director Smith (Chuck & Buck) is known for his off-beat films and Year of the Dog is definitely quirky. But it’s also compelling and engrossing and very, very sweet.

I’ve got a new food blog. Yes, another one!

I’ve teamed up with the folks at the Toronto produce delivery service, Wanigan, to run a blog about the weekly box of produce they send me, and what I cook with the contents.

The first box arrived today, and I start cooking (and posting) tomorrow.

Please check out The Fork in the Road.

A block away, there is a mattress and box spring sitting out at the curb to be taken away. They are in front of a tiny little rowhouse cottage built in the 1880s, and probably by necessity, the box spring has been sawed in half, revealing the inner stuffing.

This fabric pulp is mostly grey, but is dotted with various splashes of colour. On further examination, the colour becomes actual chunks of fabric; a teal blue silk, some red wool, a swatch of green jersey.

I examine that fabric pulp almost every time I pass it, which is two or three times a day, depending on which route we take to walk the dogs. And every time, I can’t help but wonder what masterpieces were destroyed to make that melange of threads and fibre.

When I ran a vintage clothing store, back in the 80s, one of the questions I was asked most often was – where do you get your stuff? Where do these clothes come from? This was usually asked by someone figuring they could go directly to the source and cut us out as the middleman. The assumption being that we spent a lot of time at the Sally Anne or Goodwill.

In fact, most of our merchandise came from the US, from a number of rag factories in and around Buffalo, NY. This is where people always did a double-take. Rag factories? Like, where they make rags??

Mattress and upholstery stuffing needs to come from somewhere, and there were/are a number of factories dedicated to the sole purpose of grinding up old fabric to make a fibre pulp to put in furniture.

We would drive down to these places once a week, don dust masks (and sometimes goggles), and sort through mountains of old clothes for the gems in among the trash. Because hidden under those piles of dirty underwear, stretched and torn t-shirts, faded curtains and bed linens that reeked of cigarette smoke, urine or worse, could be a dress that needed rescuing.

In the 80s, there was still lots of true vintage around, and it was not uncommon to come back with silk ballgowns from the 50s, wool jackets with massive shoulder pads from the 40s, velvet opera cloaks, sharkskin zoot suits, and even the occasional beaded gown from the 20s or Victorian-era items. Designer pieces popped up occasionally but rarely; a Salvador Dali tie, a Chanel suit, a monkey fur muff. Anything that was in good condition and could be cleaned or repaired was pulled from the piles and brought back to Toronto at a buck a pound.

Everything left behind got removed to a separate room and sent through the shredder, a great massive piece of equipment in a room of its own, covered in the fine dust of tiny thread particles that filled the air. Ladies with invisible faces; hidden behind masks and goggles and hairnets; hacked away at garments with giant scissors to remove buttons, snaps and zippers – anything that could jam the grinders and break the machine. It didn’t matter what the fabric was, or what the name on the label read, if it wasn’t wearable, it went to the shredder and on to more machinery that mashed it all together into that fluffy pulp that fills mattresses across the land.

I think about all the beautiful pieces we tossed to the  harsh jaws of the shredder simply because of an unfixable tear, or an impermeable stain. Of all the beautiful items lost over the years.

And as I walk the dogs past that abandoned, chopped open box spring, I can’t help but wonder what each of those little fabric chunks once was. Dior? Chanel? Balenciaga? Someone’s wedding gown, or prom dress, the suit someone wore when bringing their baby home from the hospital? A favourite sweater? Or maybe the apron that Grandmother always wore on special occasions?

Abandoned articles carry secret stories of past owners. Abandoned mattresses have stories that are X-rated. But I don’t care about what happened on the fabric covering the mattress… I long to know the story about the fabric inside it.

Sometimes, this city just offers too much to do.

I’m not complaining, mind you. But it’s been an overwhelming summer. It’s said Toronto is a city of festivals and pretty much every weekend from late May until the end of September, there are multiple things to choose from. Just about every neighbourhood has a street festival now, there’s Caribana, Gay Pride Week, the Outdoor Art Show in Nathan Phillips Square, Doors Open, Taste of the Danforth, Taste of Little Italy, the Vegetarian Food Fair, piles of cultural events at Harbourfront, the Beer Festival, the CNE… it just goes on and on.

All of this culminates in one weekend of craziness. This past weekend saw two marathons (Toronto Waterfront Marathon and Run for the Cure), Word on the Street, the literary festival that takes over Queen’s Park, and Nuit Blanche, a 12-hour all-night art event that encompasses most of downtown. Pity the fool who tries to actually drive anywhere.

Nuit Blanche slipped under my radar last year, and I wasn’t super psyched about it this year, but as one of the 3 zones was in our neighbourhood, we wandered around to check out a few things. We watched parkour athletes climb and then descend the nearby train bridge, we wandered the Gladstone Hotel looking at the exhibits there. Then we headed east, stopping at galleries along the way until we got to the Great Hall where we stood amazed at what appeared to be a storefront filling with water and being taken over by giant fish. We picked up a chunk of carpet from where a group of artists covered a road on the CAMH property with the stuff, then headed to Lamport Stadium to see a giant inflatable locust. This was probably the most fun and interactive piece we experienced – kids were climbing all over the thing, crawling under it, bouncing against it. It was nothing more than a giant balloon, really, but people were truly having fun, including a group of drunk girls who repeatedly bounded into the face of the thing only to bounce back and end up on their butts on the astroturf.

We didn’t come anywhere close to staying out all night or seeing everything (pretty much technically impossible), but we enjoyed what we did see. The best part was really the energy and excitement that was palpable in the air. Even if I didn’t love all the art I saw, it was definitely an experience that I will plan for a bit better next year.

Word on the Street was, of course, the usual craziness. Too many people with too many kids and too many rolling suitcases. I know what it feels like to go a little crazy at Word on the Street and have too many books to carry home comfortably, but the folks who show up with empty carts or little rolling suitcases to haul home their purchases have to realize that they need to watch for other people’s toes.

And now, suddenly, that’s it. Thanksgiving brings an abrupt end to the insanely busy weekends. Where only a few weeks ago, there were half a dozen options of things to attend, Saturdays stretch long and languorous, full of cups of tea, plates of scones and a leisurely read of the papers or maybe even the luxury of, dare I say it? – a book. Sundays promise not a string of cultural festivals and bad representations of national dishes served up from steam trays, but a real brunch, consisting of multiple coffee refills and freshly made hollandaise sauce.

I’m looking forward to relaxing for a while, I must say. I need the winter to build up my strength to face yet another summer of roasted corn vendors, art shows, and mediocre bands. I need long walks in the snow to offset the hours spent in the middle of a drunken crowd in the sweltering heat of a Toronto summer day. I need nights full of windy blizzards to make me forget the drone of the Indy, the ear-shattering airshow, or the monotonous Soca music of Caribana.

I love that Toronto offers so much to do, but I also love that, come winter, we know how to take a break.