Gary Roberts

We moved into an old Victorian row house in September, 2007, having lived in a loft condo since moving to Toronto in 2004. The loft experience was great and we made lots of good friends in what was, to us, a new city. Still, we missed the floorspace and instant access to the outside that a house provides, so we took a plunge into the market to see what was available and eventually bought the home we're in now.

We were told by our agent that the house had heritage status and, after doing some reasearch into the Heritage Toronto Plaque program we discovered that, for a fee, we could apply for a brass plaque on the outside of the house to designate its status.

Well, being the keeners that we are, we did so and, after waiting six months, found out today that our application was approved. Which means we'll be having the plaque installed sometime in May.

We're quite happy about this, especially since we're trying to maintain that old Victorian feel of the place by installing two stained glass panels in the entranceway, ones that match the old, existing stained glass window in the living room. El Franco went to night classes at a studio to learn how to make these windows and the fruit of his labour was in evidence earlier this week, after a glazier came and fitted the two new panels in the door.

Here's a picture of his handiwork, post-installation.

Labels: home, stained glass

I was waiting for a streetcar this morning, composing myself for my second day back at the office after the Easter weekend, when I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. A guy on a bicycle had stopped at a red light, getting ready to set off once it turned green. I was still groggy from sleep, so at first I wasn't quite certain what I was seeing--but sure enough, there was a raccoon on his back! It was balanced precariously, somehow just managing to hold on as the cold wind blew at its fur! I couldn't see its face, so I figured it had its back turned to me. I couldn't believe the guy hadn't noticed he had this wild animal perched on his back; he seemed completely unaware of the fact.

And then it slowly dawned on me--the big ball of fur bristling on his back was actually his own hair. A huge mullet, flowing out from beneath his baseball cap as he leaned forward on his bike, waiting for the light to change. I was horrified. I've never been a fan of long hair and rattails on men, and let me tell you this one really took the biscuit. This hair was thick and furry. It was wiry and curly, it had a life of its own and it didn't give a crap about what others might think.

Just as I was beginning to realize I would've preferred it if it had been a raccoon, the light turned green and the guy took off with his familiar displayed proudly for all the world to see.

Labels: mullet, raccoon

We got Keaton from the Toronto Humane Society in November, 2007 - not long after my cat Milo died. He's a grey cat with lots of personality, who follows us from room to room. A regular lap cat, he likes nothing better than collapsing on me in the evening as I'm couch potatoing. He can also be found napping on the bed especially if there's sunlight streaming in, which is how I found him today.

If they're treated well, pets can have such a carefree life and it's grounding to see how little they have to care about. I often wonder what thoughts, if any, pass through their tiny brains:

"Warm light - must lie down and stretch!"
"Human - feed me!"
"Scratch my belly!"
"Purrrrrr..."

Here's a picture of Keaton, stretching in the warm light.

I am Cat, hear me snore!

Labels: cats, keaton, pets

Beautiful day today. The sun was shining through the windows with a suggestion that spring was just around the corner. I'm so looking forward to relaxing on a terrace at our local pub once the nice weather gets here. We were in our local a few weeks ago on a Saturday afternoon, sat next to a couple who were playing Scrabble on a small travel version of the board game. They looked so absorbed in the game, just sitting there in companionable silence, focused on the words.

Being a bit of a Scrabble fan myself, as well as a crossword aficionado, I remember thinking that this was an interesting and stimulating way to pass ones time while having a pint or two. El Franco and I got talking to the couple, who told us how much they loved coming to the pub with their Scrabble board, so we were super-geeky this week and bought one for ourselves, complete with dictionary to fend off any challenges to our cleverly placed, highminded words. We've already had a couple of games at our pub and it's surprising to see how many people are interested in the game, once they see what we're playing. It's a bit embarrassing, but we've already acquired a local infamy; when we went for a pint last night, board and dictionary under arms, we were greeted with a "Hey, it's the Scrabble Boys!" from one of the barflies. It's not quite the same as "Norm!", granted, but it's kind of heartwarming to have our very own version of Cheers just around the corner.

We've been to the pub three times since purchasing the game on Thursday and have played two complete games.

"The scores, so far?" I hear you ask:

El Franco = 1. Me = 1.

I have a feeling there'll be a Sunday tiebreaker tonight.

Labels: pub, scrabble

March 9, 2008 was a milestone birthday for El Franco. It was 40 years ago to the day that he sprang forth from his mother's loins to tell the citizens of the world how they should act, dress, and wear their hair. To help celebrate his birthday, his long time friend Melanie visited us from Ottawa for the weekend. She's a great girl, although she has a tendency to exhibit sociopathic behaviour but who, in the main, tries to be nice to people and give them the impression that she enjoys their company.

So because we had a guest in town that weekend, we decided to go see the musical Menopause Out Loud--partly because the content seemed relevant to the type of birthday we were celebrating and partly because I knew one of the ushers at the theatre, who'd managed to get us free tickets for the show. Having arrived early to pick up our tickets at the box office, we sat down in the empty theatre waiting for the show to begin. Pretty soon, the room started filling with women of all ages--and I mean women. The males in the audience were few and far between and any that could be spotted in the estrogen-charged audience had a beaten down look on their faces, as if they really, really, didn't want to be there but thought better of going against their other half's wishes.

Some of the women were dressed similarly, making a statement with lots of red hats and purple coats. Most were wearing regular outfits, but there were two older ladies who passed by our seats dressed in fur coats. These people hold a very special place in the Seventh Circle of Hell that is Melanie's heart, and pretty soon most others in our vicinity found themselves listening to a pre-show soliloquy that went something like: "Look at these people in fur coats! How many animals died so they could go around wearing their skins, eh? Do these fuckers know how disgusting they look? These people are fucking idiots! Hey, fuckers - how'd you like to be skinned?" At this point the ladies had moved on and probably couldn't hear the tirade anyway, and I had just squirmed as far down into my seat as possible--wishing the ground would open up--when the lights started to dim for the show to begin.

All in all, the show wasn't bad although it was so obviously targeted towards a specific audience who hooted and screeched and screamed with laughter throughout each and every number. The cast was quite good and there was a real sense of camaraderie amongst all the women in the theatre, with a sketch involving an energetic dildo drawing the most laughs. There was also a cute part at the end, where the four divas came down into the crowd and encouraged women of all ages to get up on stage for a final song and dance routine before wrapping up the show.

After exiting the theatre, we decided to go to the Gay Village where the usher I'd mentioned earlier was set to appear onstage in one of the pubs. The friend I'm referring to works in the same office as me during the day, then at the theatre in the evenings, as well as performing at some of the local bars as a chanteuse and a bit of a comedian. She's quite versatile.

Anyway, we arrived at the bar where she was doing a very short routine, only to find that there are also some drag queens making an appearance onstage. Well, if these weren't two of the oldest queens I'd ever seen! They had to be older than the Queen Mum just before she passed away, bless her, and one of them even got up onto the stage with an oxygen bottle and tubes attached to her nose. And neither one of them had the wherewithal to do a good lip-sync anymore--the first one on stage (Miss Michelle De Berry) looked like she was being dragged down by the weight of her make-up (which had been slapped on with a trowel, by the looks of it) and had this confused look on her face as if she'd just woken up from a sleepwalking episode only to find herself on stage in front of a (not so large) audience.

It was all quite sad, really, and my friend actually made a joke about the bad miming during her own stint onstage. As we were sat at the bar later, Miss De Berry stumbled over and started mumbling and bitching at my friend for denigrating her performance (she didn't actually use those words!). Miss De Berry wasn't happy and accused my friend of insulting her--which she had, of course; but, come on, we're in a gay bar and those types of bitchy comments are the bread and butter of most of the patrons of such places, never mind the entertainers who get up in front of everyone to give a performance, no matter how bad that may be. If they can't take comments like that, then maybe they should stay at home and apply a bit more formaldehyde.

At the end of the day, El Franco admitted to me that this had to be the most depressing birthday he'd ever had.

Labels: 40th, birthday, divas, drag queens, gay village

"Now you've created a blog," a colleague of mine kindly reminded me today "you need to start adding to it." Sounds like good advice, but I've discovered it's harder than I thought. At times, an idea for a story will occur to me and I'll make a mental note of it, so as to revisit the potential press-stopper later in the day. Well guess what? Those little notes in my mind seem to be losing their stickyness, because I can never seem to find them when the time comes to put finger to keypad.

So tonight at home while reluctantly wielding my paint brush and applying Festoon Aqua to the dining room wall, my long-term memories rose to the occasion and saved the day by inspiring me to write about a part of my childhood.

***

I once hid in a bush. Hiding in a bush can be an uncomfortable experience; they’re made of stiff twigs and all kinds of wooden bits and pieces; they’re full of insects that crawl down your neck and bite exposed skin with tiny, sharp mandibles. Bushes are packed with spiders’ webs; cluttered with the dried husks of flies and beetles which, belying their lifeless nature, do their very best to entangle themselves in hair and clothes.

Given the unpleasant nature of bushes, why would I choose to hide in one in the first place? Did it suddenly pop into my head that it would be fascinating to experience what a bush looked like from the inside out, as viewed through the multi-faceted eyes of its creepy inhabitants? Could it be that I was, in fact, a biologist with an interest in witnessing first hand the small dramas played out by the myriad insects therein?

Or was it more likely that as 8-year-old kids, my friends and I had decided it would be fun to go raid the apple orchard belonging to Mr. Fijakowski, a grumpy old stern Polish immigrant who lived with his wife and children in my home town in the North West of England?

The latter, of course, was true, and after scaling the short fence that separated Mr. Fijakowski’s garden from the large field in which we often played, my friends and I found ourselves surrounded by an embarrassment of apples; none of which were yet ripe, but to our young eyes—and stomachs—they were a feast well worth the risk involved in trespassing on private property.

That risk took the form of a dark and stormy countenance with big, bushy eyebrows and a thick accent, forever ready to reprimand wayward children. And let me tell you, it wasn’t unusual for this tongue-lashing to sometimes be backed by a swift whack on the head should an unfortunately slow-moving brat get within swiping distance of the ‘Old Polack’. Needless to say, Mr. Fijakowski was seen as a kind of ogre to the band of local kids in our neighbourhood—but this didn’t stop us from testing the limits of his generosity when it came to his apples!

It was during one of these raids that, while intent upon picking the ripest of the fruit I was slow to see my fellows-in-crime quickly scatter in all directions. After immediately realising what would make them disperse like that, I had all of five seconds to find a decent hiding place before the dreaded Iron Curtain descended on me! Cue the bush…

On the face of it, it was a fairly good hiding place. It was leafy and thick and it was there when I needed it; although it also had many above average-sized thorns that did quite an excellent job of piercing tender, 8-year-old skin. As hiding places go there were, however, a couple of disadvantages to this bush—a.) its proximity to the fence dividing the orchard from the field and b.) the fact that it was on the wrong side of the fence, i.e., in Mr. Fijakowski's garden, as opposed to the desired freedom of the field. Technically, I was a trespasser-in-hiding whose only hope of avoiding capture was to worm my way deeper into the recesses of the bush in order to become one with nature, so to speak. It was at this point that—having barely made it in time to this dubious sanctuary—Mr. Fijakowski came charging down the garden path to the edge of his fence, not five feet from where I was intent upon imitating one of the dead insects caught in a web.

Now Polish oaths and swearwords can go a long way towards instilling fear in a young mind, especially when uttered within striking distance of the intended target—although my dead fly impersonation was working wonders for me at that point.

Or at least I thought it was, until I caught sight of Conrad.

Conrad was Mr. Fijakowski’s youngest child who was, at that moment, staring right at me through the leaves! He was two years my junior and hadn’t yet reached that age where he could rightfully be a part of the local gang and, as such, had no ties of loyalty to any of the fruit-stealing, orchard-raiding good-for-nothings trying to steal apples from his father's trees. I can still see, in my mind’s eye, Conrad's pyjama-sleeved arm rising slowly to grip his father’s elbow, as he stared right at me and as I sank deeper and deeper into the confines of the bush, which was by then quickly losing its status as the safest place in the world for me.

“Dad…” he said, “I think one of them is hiding over there.”

“Quiet, Conrad—I am trying to see where the little zle dzieci are!” said Mr. Fijakowski. “You should not be out in pyjamas, anyway. Go back inside now!”

“But, dad, I think I can see one of them in that bush!”

“Conrad, I not tell you again—go back inside this minute!” he said, at which point Mrs. Fijakowski, whose English wasn’t the best and who couldn’t quite grasp what her darling little boy was saying, but whose maternal instincts were more than equal to the task of preventing him from being smacked on the head by his father, swept Conrad into her arms and ran back inside as he peered over her shoulder, still pointing at me.

This whole incident of my almost having been discovered passed completely over Mr. Fijakowski’s bald pate, and he was back to scanning the horizon for signs of my troublesome companions. Thank heavens for Eastern European obstinacy, which prevented me from being caught red-handed, scratched, bitten, pricked, dishevelled and scared witless.

After what seemed like an eternity of holding my breath, I finally watched Mr. Fijakowski walk slowly back into his house, all the while muttering and cursing in his native Polish tongue.

After he had gone, I sat in my bush (by then, I considered it worthy of the possessive pronoun) for a long time—thankful for its thick leaves, its thorns, its host of living and dead organisms and, most of all, its sanctuary in times of need—before finding the courage to climb the fence and slink quietly away, never to return to that part of the field again except in memory.

Labels: bush, childhood, england, story