Category Archives: Toronto

This wacky city I live in.

Restuarant Makeover Touches Me Twice

Toronto

…and not in a good way.

Jump back about a month ago when The Photogs suggest we go to Phil’s BBQ out on College Street for pulled pork. I’ve never been but the idea of BBQ rack of ribs in the middle of January made me squeal with glee. When we walked in we were impressed with the decor but there were things …incongruent… with the space. The east wall of the restaurant has a nice flooring-on-the-wall effect that made the place feel “woody”, like anti-basement panelling that fit the idea that this was a smoke house rib joint. The rest, the lighting, the bar, the space’s table layout, looked contrived. At least the servers were no where near as pretentious as the place was trying to suggest they be. At the time, we all mentioned that the place must have had some gay designer toss a hissy fit and the restaurant was renovated to clash between trendy gay and butch straight.

Scoot to Torontoists’ TV listings: Lo and behold, Phil’s HAS been a victim of the Restaurant Makeover curse, but like some zombie, the place refuses to die thankfully to a strong loyal following. Torontoist has named Restaurant Makeover as one of its Top Villains for sucking the life out of established watering holes and reducing them to near-non functional soulless spaces for the sake of ratings. However in most cases it’s unclear if the restaurants closed due to the interference of RM or if they were headed in that direction anyway and any makeover couldn’t save their failing business. Slippery accusations have been flying, like a Scientologist crying “Hate crime!”

Last Wed, SharkBoy and I decided on a romantic pre-Valentines meal at The Village Town Grill, but upon arrival, the doors were closed, the cutlery still on the table but looking way back into the kitchen, the fridges were bare. The restaurant was made over last year while other businesses in the neighbourhood were being replaced with dollar stores. This particular restaurant might have already had it’s future written before the makeover due to shifting demographics in Cabbagetown, however, before it’s closure, I would look in on the ever changing menu posted in the window and wonder how anyone could afford to run a business with squash soup at $12 a bowl… as appetizer! They moved from cozy chop house to trendy unobtainable without considering the neighbourhood and closed within the year.

I’m officially putting The Bulldog Cafe on death watch. The episode of this RM (watched by 99% of the gay populace of Toronto) had the owner crying like a pageant queen at the reveal and during the credits and throwing a kanipshit over a poorly drawn heart in a cappuccino during the “outtakes”. Drama loves drama.

Worst? Hell It Sounds GREAT!

Toronto

Men’s Health has labeled the Outback Steak House’s Aussie’s Cheese Fries as the worst food in America (via BoingBoing). It doesn’t sound so bad. It’s one serving of gravy away from Quebecois poutine. And they’ve obviously never eaten at a Big Boy.

In Canada I think it’s Dangerous Dan’s “Collosal Colon Clogger Combo”: (hit the MENU tab)

24oz burger served with a quarter pound of cheese, a quarter pound of bacon, and 2 fried eggs. Also comes with a large shake (flavor of your choice) and a small poutine.

“Small poutine”? Pussies!

Back In Black (and Grey)

Toronto

Out of the blue, Ronan called me. How is this news? Well Ronan was the guy working on my tattoo out of a certain closed down tat shop off of Yonge Koffkoffkingoffoolskoff. He’s starting up a new shop called Imperial Tattoo (Myspace site, real one coming soon, they tell me) down at 9 Ossington (just north of Queen) and let me tell you, it’s an impressive space. He’s in an old architect’s space with big industrial windows, exposed ceilings, hardwood floors and not a lick of gloomy skulls or goth sentimentality. Looks like he’s going after an upscale clientèle (read: old guys going through mid-life crisises who want to keep the last shred of cool by getting a $1000 tattoo. Read: me). So the robot tattoo is back in play with the spaceman getting filled in. Expect pictures of that as soon as it stops scabbing up!

I do have some lovely food pictures from Sunday that made the waitress at the Coach House Restaurant snarkily ask at the end of our meal: “Care for some coffee? Tea? Something else to play with?”

Brunchday

Fry horse

And finally an Xbox 360 at HMV with a Circle of Death. No real significance, just thought it was funny:

Ring o Death

Laundry 911

Toronto

Law and Order DUH DUUNNN! noise
Cabbagetown Laundromat, Saturday 10:15am

I’m doing my laundry see? Well, just watching the last of it drying, thanking the robot god that I’m almost done now that the laundromat is filling up and this well dressed chap in a sporty cap comes in and puts his laundry into the last three machines. Checks his pockets, he’s got no quarters and so he leaves to go next door because the attendant isn’t here and the sign says to go next door to the dry cleaner, see? And he’s gone maybe 3-4 minutes. Then, this large, squat woman with a cart full to her sagging tits comes in and starts yelling loudly about who is in what machine and then spies the three unattended machines. She yells out “Who’s are these?” and nobody claims them. But this small guy bravely says “I think he’s gone to get change…”

“I DON’T FUCKING CARE!” she yells like she’s Bush and the unattended machines are Iraq! Out comes his laundry.

In comes the guy!

He says he was just away a moment, she says tough, buddy and he says Oh don’t worry you’ll never be my buddy you fucking goof.

At this point I had to haul one of my loads home. I wanted to stay and hear the rest but from what I gathered, the small guy freed up a machine while I was gone and the put-out guy started to load his laundry into that. And from conversation I heard from the girl washing those satin duvets, he called her a dyke and for that, the squat gal needed to go next door and call 911. If you ask me, the put out guy looked a little fruity himself, so I don’t know where the hate crime comes in.

CopsOkay at this point I came back to grab the rest of my laundry and the squat woman is in the dry cleaners yelling at the top of her lungs for them to call 911. The put out guy is standing outside the laundromat, shaking his head in disbelief.

I go back in and about 10 minutes later, the cops arrive. Three cars. Three. Cars. For a laundry dispute.

Yeah you can get my name.

Duh Duuun!

Letter to Dalton

Personal Bits, Toronto

Sent via his site:

Honorable Mr McGuinty,

As I type this, my father has been in Toronto’s St Michaels emergency ward for well over 24 hours, waiting for a bed to come available in any ward that will “donate” a bed to the Gastro-Intestinal department. The GI ward only has three registered beds and has to ferret out free beds from other wards that might be able to offer them one. My father entered St Micahels yesterday (Wednesday) at 3pm to address his on-going pancreatic problem (we’ll not even begin to touch on his wait to see a surgeon) and at 12:30 am Thursday morning, he finally was able to see a GI doctor who admitted him into the hospital.

Well, in paperwork, at least.

He spent the night (and day) on a gurney in one of Ontario’s most busiest hospitals. When I saw him at 8am this morning, he didn’t look any better purely because he was exhausted. I’m writing this at 3:30pm on Thursday afternoon after receiving word that he still has no bed, which means he’s been in a hectic and loud environment with a stomach that will not let him relax unless he’s drugged up. 24 hours in an emergency ward, Mr McGuinty. That’s a long time to be listening to other people’s problems.

Granted you’ve been doing it for a few years now, but that’s why you get paid the big bucks, eh?

My question, sir, is exactly how are you going to retain my faith in the work you are doing towards reducing emergency room wait times, as this site so proudly boasts?

Thank you for your time.

The first visit

The second visit

The third visit

St Michaels Threedux

Personal Bits, Toronto

Dad calls at 4:45 when I’m packing up my desk for the day, last night. He’s in pain again. We agree to meet in the waiting room of St Michaels again.

After 4.5 hours (2.5 in the waiting room, 2 hours in the emergency corral) Da is finally given a drip with some pain killers in it (gravol/morphine). I stayed with him as long as I could but started to nod off at 11. Da was groggy enough to sleep and sent me home.

Barf HatIt’s so sad and maddening that Emergency is full of whiny, spoiled, adult children, fakers and tweaked out crackheads. All of them clogging up the system for people who are legitimately needing urgent care. Two curtains over, a woman with second degree burns on her hand was loudly complaining to anyone who could hear her. Of course she needed to be seen but her behaviour while at the hospital just mired down the staff. Her cell phone calls (I thought they were banned? No nurse challenged her to shut it off) to her “boyfriend” who would hang up on her repeatedly (“and that is just duressing (sic) me more!” she shouted down the phone). During one of her many calls, she snapped at 2 nurses and the doctor on duty because they interrupted her to take her temperature and demanded to see “The Manager of the Hospital”. She was taking names and kicking ass! When threatened to be left alone and/or discharged, she started to cry and became apologetic – to the entire Emergency department, security guards and other patients. Clearly she was more lonely than sick.

Meanwhile, the occupant in the curtain cube next to Da was farting and burping a lot, which made me giggle. I stopped giggling when the doctor came to tell Farty that the blood test they got back indicated that he might have had a mild heart attack, hence the acid reflux. While he was jovial the entire time with the doctor, when he got that news he became deathly solemn. He took out his ire by muttering that Lonely Burn Woman needed to “shut the fuck up”, which got Da giggling and passing comments back to Farty. They bonded a bit then.

Farty was wheeled out and replaced with a family who laughed and joked but would instantly become grave and frail when the doctor came to investigate. Can you say “I need a doctor’s note”? They kept up the party until Da was taken from Emergency to the Gastronomic floor, at 7:30am.

He’s sleeping now after spending a morphine night in that god awful room.

St Michaels Redux

Personal Bits, Toronto

Da, SharkBoy and I are at St Michaels Emergency ward again, waiting for a gurney for Da to come available. Yet again, the goober in my father’s gut rears it’s ugly head and dehydrates him to the point of a hospital visit for IV. But this time Da has a magical note from his doctor not just to dump a few litres of liquid into him, but to up the pain killers (Da was hoping for morphine. Great. Seventy five and a junkie on the streets).

Any writer who wants to convey the weirdness of humanity should go and sit in a hospital waiting room. Across from us there was a reasonably calm youth in handcuffs with accessorized policemen on either arm. He announced loudly “No. I am through with laughing. I am through with laughing at the police. I am through with making fun of the system.” Suddenly we’re privy to his studio skills as he breaks into timed ranting rapping (Which was horrible. His metering was all off and I don’t think he understood the concept of “rhyme”). Midway through this show, enter the nurse and calls him in. He stands, not an easy feat with cuffs, continuing with his little song and gets sucked into the system, cops in tow.

The TV is blaring about the US Primaries. I turn to my father after a long pause. “Who’s your favorite Democrat?”

“Oprah,” he grimaces through his discomfort. Still has it!

After a while, they wheel in an elderly gentleman across from us who’s illness is not obvious, other than he looks groggy. Moments later, another youth, sans police escort, enters. After placing a magazine on a chair, the youth sits on it, believing he’s beat any surface viruses. He snaps up the receiver of the public phone beside his chair and makes a call. Within seconds, he falls asleep with the phone wedged between shoulder and ear. Another cop, who had brought in a woman in pajamas, shakes him awake, only after letting the entire waiting room see this stupendous stunt of balancing. “I was just I had I fell asleep because thanks okay sure!” he mutters. Enter a cabbie who announces loudly “Deedenyoneorderweeltranz?” We all look at each other and wordlessly transmit What did he say?

“Deedenyoneorderweeltranz?” he repeats faster, louder.

“Uh,” says the groggy senior.

“Whereyougo?”

“Spadina and mumble.”

“No. You are not my ride. Deedenyoneorderweeltranz?” No reply. Exeunt cabbie and dazed youth.

After a two hour wait, an plump Irish nurse comes out of the emergency doors and with hands splayed, offers “We haven forgetten ye!” in thick brogue. Da is in heaven. He’s taken in a few minutes after that. He was swallowed up too, past the doors of Emergency, given the drip and I don’t hear from him until the next day, groggy from the morphine.

Halloween 2007

Toronto

This year Sharkboy and I outdid ourselves. The last few times we went to Church Street for Halloween we’d get one or two people asking for our pics with the somewhat fun costumes (cat & dog, devils, etc). This year…

From Halloween 2007

…we were swampled (swamped and trampled). Link above to full gallery. We had maybe 15 min gaps between thousands of pics with little Asian girls. With no pockets or belt loops, I had to carry my camera and subsequently couldn’t get too many pictures. So no “WTF?” and “Best of…” categories. Just pics. Enjoy! I certainly did!