As spotted while walking from the pub after hockey to my car last Wednesday night … photographed exactly as found.

Shoes & ShoeBag

In Situ

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Learned to sing songs in Croatian, Macedonian, and Bulgarian. The Bulgarian one was crunchiest, harmony-wise, and very challenging. Yum.

Learned a new definition to the word "hurtling": The sensation of being on a bike, going downhill at 46.75 kmph towards loose gravel. (See beyond the gravel … look past the gravel …)

Snuggled with children and dogs.

Purchased a size 14 bathing suit. Size of last bathing suit purchased, about five years ago: 22. This constitutes a new definition of the word "satisfying".

Remembered the sensation of being on a bike on a lonely road in the country surrounded by sweetgrass and freshly mown hay, listening to crickets and bullfrogs.

Remembered the sensation of being on a bike on a lonely road in the country being chased by an angry territorial dog.
Learned a new card game.

Reached out for friends; found them.

Had doors close, and new ones open.

Found a vocal coach for the fall.

Gave into temptation in the form of butter tarts, s'mores, cinnamon toast and rainbow cake.

Resisted temptation in the form of wine and beer.

Gave stuff away. Acquired more stuff. Why doesn't this part end?

Lost only one night's sleep over something that would have normally had me upset for weeks. New definition for the word "progress".

Still pondering why I left creative theatre/performance work in the dust 20+ years ago. No answers yet.

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For the past two afternoons, I've attended a West African singing workshop at Volcano. How neat is this! We learned music from Ghana and a form of folk song/dance/drumming called kpanlogo. Here is another group of Western white folk demonstrating their kpanlogo skills, although they seem to be less about the body movement than we were.

In Ghana, singers also dance and also drum. There seems to be very little distinction. The objective seems to be to let the music just come out of the body. Concentrating on what feet, hands and vocalization are doing is a major feat in multi-tasking. Of course, one needs to get to a place where concentration is not required, but we Western neophytes need more than a couple of afternoons to get there. In Ghana, babies learn this beginning in the womb, literally.

Instead of determining "key", one needs to determine "foot", as in, "what foot is this in?" Love it.

Prior to each session, the group is being lead in extensive (1.5 hour) vocal warm-up/body work and I'm finding that as revelatory as the cultural part that follows. The whole thing is like a long work-out, physically, internally and emotionally. Risks are taken and respected.

The timing of these workshops is extraordinarily good, or bad, depending on one's point of view. It opens one up emotionally. I haven't been a participant in professionally-led theatre training for over 20 years and I'd forgotten about that part. To really "participate", of necessity, you have to let down your protective layers or strategies that help navigate our complex world. You have to be ready to risk, try new things, play, stretch – and to support others in these same ways. I walk out more ready than ever to witness, absorb, integrate … and almost every other part of my life has provided me ample opportunity to respond emotionally these last few days. The highs are pretty extraordinary and the lows make me wanna vomit.

Let's vote for highs for the rest of the week, shall we? 🙂

Next three days … Balkan singing … stay tuned … 

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So, I've signed up for this bike tour of Manitoulin Island in August. 30-50 kms a day, I'm told. And, I'm told I have to "get ready" for this. OK. I'm up for it.

The list of things to pack has arrived and it refers to "gear". My bike has gears on it, but I don't think this is what they mean. I have a helmet. Is there more? Yes, apparently. I need:

gloves
special pants (two pair)
special shirts (UV protective, wicking moisture away, etc.)
all-weather gear
maybe special shoes

It wasn't this complicated when I was 10 and biking about 7 kms (one way) a day back and forth to the local pool. I had a bathing suit and a towel. I may have been wearing shoes on occasion.  I gather this is a bit of a different kettle of fish.

I like the idea of the gloves, which I've been meaning to get anyway because I can use them in my circuit training several times a week. But the bike pants? I've seen people wearing these pants and they look all athletic and muscular and really rather intimidating in them. The bike shop I'm loyal to (an independent) is a pretty messy, testosterone-laden place and, no, they don't have a change room for me to try on the impossibly small-looking "women's" bike pants, obviously erroneously labeled "L" for "Large". I can't imagine these fitting over one leg never mind hauling up to my waist.

Yet, I'm being asked to pay an outrageous sum of money for this scrap of nylon with a diaper implant. Without even trying the item on. The shop owner assures me that I can return them if they don't fit. As long as the labels are intact. He holds his hand out for my credit card and taps his foot impatiently. Or at least I imagine that is what he is doing. I can't really tell because there is a display counter filled with "bike gear" between me and him.

Happily, my weighing-in place is four doors down from my bike shop, and they graciously allow me to use their washroom to try these special diaper pants on. Quickly, I am put in mind of the situation a few months ago in which I purchased a dress for the first time in 25 years and, yes, pantyhose. I bought three pair of nylons knowing full well that I would blow through at least one pair just in the attempt to put them on. And I was right. Here I was again, dragging what seem to be highly fragile fibres across the resistant flesh on my legs and hips, mumbling a variety of obscenities and being absolutely certain that my fingers are going to rip right through this thin material any second in my strain to get these things covering all the bits they are supposed to cover.

To my complete and utter amazement, they fit, sort of. They look silly as hell, and I feel like I'm wearing Depends, but I got the damn things on. I do not look muscular, athletic or intimidating … but I am a work in progress.

Do I really need them? Do I really need special shoes? And those clippy things? Really?

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Borrowed from Red Pen … Al Gore speaks on climate change and carbon-based fuels.

Quote:
We're borrowing money from China to buy oil from the Persian Gulf to burn it in ways that destroy the planet. Every bit of that's got to change.

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The other morning, as I was organizing my daily allotment of herbal supplements I'm taking to support this diet, my mother's hands flashed before me. This happens from time to time, and it is always a bit spooky when it does.

I remember my mother's hands so well. They were small, squarish. She wore a simple wedding band on her ring finger on her left hand, and her Victoria Hospital graduation ring on her right hand ring finger. She was always so proud of being a "Vic Grad". I remember the physicality of her hands, but I also remember the quality of movement, the line of gesture, the repeated actions I witnessed those hands take, especially in the kitchen. Chopping veggies, kneading dough, washing dishes, peeling potatoes. Distributing meds.

Our huge country farmhouse was home to more than my parents, my two brothers and me. Being an RN, and needing to earn some money herself to support us, my Mom was able to house and supervise seven "patients" from the Ontario Hospital in St. Thomas. These were people with various cognitive or emotional challenges who were stable enough to live outside the institution yet not well enough to live completely independently. So there were actually 12 people in total in our house when I was growing up. Each of the "patients" had specific meds on a specific schedule and my mother would stand at the counter every day with all the little bottles and re-organize which pills were to be taken by which person at which time of day. There were a few very specific gestures, key movements, involved in this … a flick of the wrist, the angle of the bottle against the palm of her hand when shuffling a few pills out, lining the bottles up to the left or right to keep them organized. Her movements were tight and efficient.

I wouldn't judge my hands to be "small" but in many other ways I see the shape, the gestures – both inherited. I wear two rings as well, but on different fingers than my mother adorned. But when I move my hands a certain way, there is a flash of metallic light that emphasizes the movement and for a brief instant I see my mother's hands before me – task-oriented, purposeful.

These were the hands that fed me, herded me from one activity to another, chastised me, taught me, comforted me, healed me. I'm on my own now, and have been for a long time, in looking after myself on so many levels. From time to time, it feels like my Mom reveals herself in me to – pardon the pun – lend a hand. It is reassuring and reminds me how much of ourselves we actually are carrying forward from the foundations laid by others.

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Key word of the day: Stimulus … a sensory feast.

Morning – Evergreen BrickWorks Farmer's Market with Jeff: I've gone several Saturdays with my neighbour Cory and now it was Jeff's turn to discover this wonderful treasure buried off the Don Valley Parkway. Organic produce, crafts, art, the scent of fresh-roasted coffee wafting over the proceedings … and "hungry man" breakfast burritos that are more than worth the wait.

This photo of the bike … that belongs to the young fellas who make and sell their divinely radical chocolate products. It has been modified to carry lots of stuff and, when not in use, doubles as an incense burner. Gotta love that …

I love the "rough around the edges" quality to this market. Stalls are roughly, but not precisely where they were last week. Or not. The use of space is not fully prescribed, charted and regulated. It is inefficient, signage is vague and there is no particular prescribed traffic pattern or flow. Love it. Feels very … organic.

This is the time of year that vegetables start to look so gorgeous, and of course, green. So, thus, eye-catching. I wasn't brave enough to try the sea asparagus but I think I will grab some and experiment next time I see it. I was trying to do something artsy-fartsy with that last photo in the series above and didn't quite pull it off. Lex would have been able to, but I think she slept in.
 

Speaking of art, I bought a new piece yesterday at the BrickWorks. Visitors to my condo learn two things about me: that I love the colour green, and that I collect images of loons. I'm pretty fussy about my loons. I tend to buy as close to the artist as I can, direct from the artist if I can manage it. If I buy from a shop or gallery, I try to establish that the gallery/shop owner knows the artist personally. I just want some assurance that the artist is actually going to get rewarded for their work. Secondly, the image has to be unique. Anyone can schlep down to the bottom of the Skylon Tower and buy a fake soapstone "carving" (mold) image of a loon. No snow globe loons for me, no sir.  I haven't bought anything new to add to my loon collection for years as my criteria are pretty specific. And there are many common images of the Common Loon. But the right piece presented itself yesterday, and I got to speak directly to the artist, Joanne Victoria … and out came the debit card.

You can see what kind of photo errors / tricks that can be played with photo software. In the first image above, I darkened the matte around the image to dull down the reflection of the photographer (me). In the second, just for fun, I lightened the whole thing to highlight this accidental reflection. Me 'n' mah loon.
 

Noon / Afternoon – Lunch and More Art With Friends: Dry Ice and her husband Martin ventured downtown for lunch, a visit, and a stroll through the annual art show at Nathan Phillip's Square. Dry Ice has blogged about this adventure from her perspective, with more photos. 🙂

The food was indeed yummy, especially the green curry, not pictured here. We ate it too fast! It was so nice to see Dry Ice again after the journey she has been on this year through the mine field of breast cancer, the health care system and all the impacts that has had on her life and energy. She is starting to come back into her own and that is so worth celebrating!

July 08

Martin took this photo of me with my camera. Somehow, all photos taken of me yesterday made me look either like I was about to fall asleep or had just woken up.  Hm.

We staggered from the restaurant south to Nathan Phillips Square to the pretty darn crowded art show. I'd never been to this art show before … and there is a wee story behind that. Once upon a time, I vowed never ever to go to an art gallery, art opening or other such event again. I'd been to lots, more than a lifetime's worth. All the people there seemed more interesting, more worldly, more thoughtful etc. than I could ever hope to be. I was also convinced that I had no visual language of my own, no way of seeing or feeling the visuals that original fine art so depends upon. Going to art galleries, shows, openings made me feel like a little girl off the farm, standing in the middle of the room with her shit-covered wellingtons and wide-eyed gaze.

It seems evident to me that I've acquired some confidence in my visual sensibilities now. Especially lately … it just takes being more open to it. 

Still, I don't always pay attention to the things I'm supposed to pay attention to. For example, I love the view of Old City Hall from Nathan Phillip's Square, juxtaposing the old Victorian architecture against the ultra-modern glass structure in behind. But I couldn't quite get my little point'n'shoot to do its thing.

I took the following shots, with the artist's permission, for Cate. Especially the first one.

This was a really lovely way to spend an afternoon. 🙂 But, I really needed a nap to prepare for the evening's activities.

Evening – Asian Night Market @ Warden / Steeles: Well, actually, there were two events. First, we were invited to gather for refreshments on Jeff's deck prior to the Night Market adventure. Jeff and I added to our collection of photos of each other taking pictures of each other … and I discovered cheese nirvana.

That is Saint Auberge, a not very blue, totally decadent cheese … which is, basically, better than sex. Especially with olives.  And SO not on my diet. I was so very very bad this weekend … bad bad bad … between dinner on Friday to brunch on Sunday … I'm back in diet hell. Uh oh … anyway … It started to rain so we retired indoors for a bit prior to departing. I did my best to sneak in a second nap, what with being the designated driver'n'all … but it didn't work out so well.

Needanap

Off we headed to pick up Gerry at the subway and head north to the land of yummy street food.

No one told me about the stinky tofu. That is actually what it is called: Stinky or Smelly Tofu. Fermented, deep-fried, tofu that is a feature of most night markets, or so I know NOW. The smell really defies description but let's say it isn't appealing to most Western palates. To get to the market proper, you have to walk past about three Stinky Tofu booths. It was a test of will. I resisted the, um, temptation to try eating the stuff, although I'm assured it is worth the effort. I headed instead for the more familiar scallops and shrimp, lamb skewers and smoothies.

It was a total blast, the Night Market. A riot of smells, some really quite yummy, sounds, throngs of people milling about. Complete sensory overload – one hardly knew where to look next, there was so much to see. At one point, I lost my peeps for quite some time, which was a bit unnerving in that massive undulating crowd, but Gerry found me wandering around looking a little bewildered. I think I'd still be there now otherwise. Actually, I think he found me twice – once after I wandered off towards the pretty scallops and got completely disconnected from the gang, and once when I got distracted by the pretty Subarus. It was an environment in which it was easy to get distracted and I sort of felt our little band should be clinging in single file to a rope and under closer supervision.

 Lex did her photo thing and I felt some responsibility to document the documentor.

I'm not sure if these make the prescribed criteria for publication … I have others I could add that I'm even less sure about … 🙂

Bellies full and curiosities satisfied, we made it back downtown roughly around 1:00 a.m.

It was a good day. 🙂

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Once or twice a week, I am asked whether I am watching, following, or otherwise engaging with the CBC reality series "How Do You Solve A Problem Like Maria?" The answer is easy … no, no I am not.

I note the absence of Julie Andrews and the presence of Andrew Lloyd Webber and these two elements are enough to keep me away.

I am, however, amused by the marketing juggernaut that seems to be in place for this show, and the degree to which they have borrowed similar fonts, styles, "look/feel" from the FILM's branding, not the original Broadway stage version's branding. This makes a lot of sense, of course, because not many people remember how the original stage version was promoted. In any case, that was me who burst out laughing in an underground mall yesterday, as I was scurrying from here to there, and my eye caught a huge poster for the show that looked, for all the world, like an ad for the film.

One of my undergrad courses was a thesis course and I wrote mine on the variations in stage vs. film conventions of musicals that made it to screen in the '60's. My subjects were Fiddler on the Roof, The Sound of Music and Cabaret! As it happens, Fiddler was a fairly true conversion from stage to film, employing filmic conventions to communicate the same narrative, using the same characters. The Sound of Music undergoes fairly significant surgery to make it to film, with entire characters and plot lines being added, removed or augmented. Cabaret! is barely recognizable, stage to film, with the essence of a few key characters making the leap, but not much more.

I'm sure if I dug around enough, I'd find the answer to my only burning (well, smoldering) question. Perhaps I'll root around over the weekend. My only real curiosity is this: There is a trend to bring movies to the Broadway stage, occasionally in musical form. As per usual, when you move from one format (film) to another (stage + musical), creative compromises, narrative surgeries, and other "improvements" are made. Will the producers return to the original book for the original 1950's stage play for the re-mounted stage version, or will ALW create an entirely new stage work, leaping off from the highly successful film of the 1960's? This choice would bring the work full circle in a way … stage … film … stage (with a detour into reality tv).

The creative process has really turned in on itself with the notion of an audience watching elements of the creation of a stage work, as the work is in the process of being created. This is like a "Making of … " documentary being available before the subject of the documentary has even taken form. For me, it has the feel of advance publicity on mutant steroids, as if they suspect already that the final product will be pretty awful and will need all the help it can get to re-coup investment. It also feels like the leveraging of marketing strategies used for pre-teen, teen and young adult markets ("You too can be part of it all, stand in line for a week just to be part of the audience, have your 15 minutes of fame, get your picture taken with Tony DeFranco! …") into an older market demographic. I don't recall this leap being made elsewhere in a similar way.

As a creative vehicle, The Sound of Music concept is completely out of sync with current sensibilities. If we are in a post-post modern phase, I would argue that The Sound of Music doesn't really even make it as a "modern" piece. It is classic – good guys, bad guys, romance, barriers to romance, children, faith, crises of faith, beautiful scenery and an escape. Oh, and the music. The good guys win, or at least escape. (Sorry – did I spoil it for you there?) It is opera, or operetta, straight from a linear, straight-forward, no nonsense Victorian sensibility. There is a complete lack of insight, no self-reflexive critical thought, no irony, no commentary or awareness of its own message. These are all elements of what makes creative work watchable now. Adding a reality tv element to the enterprise feels like the documentation of a train wreck, in slow motion.

So, no, I'm not watching and am only vaguely interested. Add Julie to the judging panel, preferably in a bobbed dirndl, and you may have my attention.

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… in a land far far away, I used to do a lot of vocal / movement / performance training. I'm still working on why I stopped, or what I allowed to stop me. But that is for another post.

Isolde sent me this info and I've signed up … sometimes, it is good to be scared.

Vocal Technique / African Singing / Balkan Singing

Voice professionals Katherine Duncanson, Kathy Armstrong, and Brenna MacCrimmon join forces in these two workshops designed to reveal, develop and integrate vocal, movement, musical, rhythmic and imagination skills. Class work will be generated through the use of improvisational scores, existing music and text in a co-creative, safe and playful manner. Katherine will open each class with extended vocal exercises designed to free the voice. For this work it is recommended that each student memorize a few lines from a song or a text to use as a source for vocal improvisations.

In the Vocal/African class, Kathy will follow Katherine’s work using songs from Ghana, West Africa in a variety of languages. Emphasis will be on developing inner pulse through the use of movement and rhythm together with the songs. Ghanaian music is wonderful for connecting mind, body and soul and enhancing a performer's connection with their co-performers and audience members.

In the Vocal/Balkan class, Brenna will follow Katherine’s work using folk songs from a variety of cultures in a variety of languages to learn different rhythms and harmonies. Folk songs allow for a great range of expression and interpretation and can be used to great effect. Singing folk music can help shy singers gain confidence and best of all – it's fun! Working from music towards theatre creation is also part of the method used famously by Poland's Gardzienice Theatre, and is now a creation tool used extensively in Eastern Europe.

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This personal account is for anyone who has ever wondered "What is Pride in Toronto really like?" Everyone's experience is quite different, of course – this is mine.

Thursday
Pride begins with a patio dinner @ Hair of the Dog with my new friend, MC. Bring it on!!! I am so ready …

Off to Cheap Queers @ Buddies, hosted by someone I wish well, but would prefer not to be exposed to again. Unequivocally the oddest show I've seen in a while. Or ever. Although there isn't, theoretically, anything wrong with starting Pride off with the evening's emcee showing us her, um, vulva, live and, well, gyrating … through the magic of video and giant screens on each side of the stage. Anything beyond about three minutes felt like overkill. 10+ minutes was a bit much. As was the business with the cell phone and cycling through seven irrelevant messages before getting to the actual intro that was the eighth message. As was singing the entire song The Rose, naked while smearing one's breasts, belly and pubic hair in Elmer's White Glue, pasting fake flower petals against these areas and then jamming a dried flower arrangement in one's butt as the finale. These are supposed to be INTROs to other PERFORMERS … not attention-seeking mini-performance pieces.

"… she's not … no, tell me she's not … not cutting herself. Yep, that is exactly what she is doing. She is cutting her calf, pretending to be shaving … I can't believe this … that's a paintbrush. She is painting the next performer's name in her own blood on her thigh. I do not believe I have vocabulary for this … "

I wish I was joking.

Individual performances were, in some cases, wonderful. Chad Walasek performed a South-East Asian dance (Thai, maybe?) that I would have happily watched much more of – spellbinding. Laura Barrett – quirky, sweet and compelling… really, go to her MySpace and listen. She plays the kalimba like nobody's business. Evalyn Parry – very charming opening act … Micah Barnes is always powerful. Kaleb's striptease was deeply moving in unexpected ways, taking us on a gender journey that combined aggression and tenderness … and joy.

I just wish the show had been hosted by Bob Barker.  I felt sorry for the performers who were constantly being asked to take the stage after the emcee had just pushed the envelope just a bit farther each time, often leaving the audience murmuring and reeling and, sadly, not always "open" to the first few minutes of the next performer's time – which was a shame.

Friday
Pre-Dance Pride Party @ Riv's
" … nice smart funny women … oh, look – there's boob cake! Yay! I'll have me some'o'that … and some wine … yes, more of both please … yes – let's sing a song about breasts … wheeee …"

Drenched @ Opera House
H20 only for me at Drenched, which seemed somehow appropriate. Great vibe, as per usual.

"… wow … who is THAT?"
(person with hearing loss attempts conversation with her friend N over impossibly loud music)
"N, who is THAT? …. What is her name? …. what? … Irma? (that can't be right) … what? … WHAT?… oh, never mind … "

Much dancing and revelry. More H20 for me. As the evening progresses, Drenched becomes more like a rave than a traditional dyke dance … and a pretty sexy rave at that.

I went over to the bar to get another bottle of water.

"… I wish the lesbians would just chill and let loose a bit … these bi-women rock … they know how to party … most of these dykes are irrevocably coupled, or they want to believe they are. I mean, look at that cluster. They are dying to dance with each other's partners. I can read that from here … but will they? No … they'll cling to each other with some patriarchal notion of … wait … omigod … she's coming over here …"

The Most Beautiful Woman whose name I've been trying to determine strides directly over to the bar, stands beside me, looks at me, pulls a five dollar bill from her bosom and says, "What kind of beer do you think I can get for five dollars?"

And I am suddenly, completely and utterly without intelligible speech.

"… gawd, I love Pride …"

Saturday – Dyke Day

TDgenderequity

The street festival part of Pride always seems to have the same beginning for me, going on over 20 years now. Sometime around noon on Saturday, which is now brilliantly and perfectly known as Dyke Day, I walk along either Gloucester or Isabella towards Church, already grooving to some beat or other, either real or imagined. The sun is usually shining and something in me at a cellular level just starts to open up. I pause for a good long while before actually entering the swirling mass of humanity on Church, looking up and down the street. The street will be half full at this time on Saturday, meaning it looks pretty damn full already. About four hours from now, and for most of tomorrow, it will be almost impossible to move along sections of Church St. To my right, a few blocks up, will be the Dyke March marshalls and they will be scurrying around, looking at their watches, barking into their headsets and wondering where all the registered Marchers are already. In front of me, and to the north and south, will be booths from various artisans, organizations and corporate sponsors. Speaking of corporate sponsors, TD finally decided to move towards gender equity in their exposed flesh marketing campaign. I'd be happy to debate the relative pros and cons of the corporate presence at Pride, however I will state that I am in favour of the TD movement towards gender equity.

"… yet another person has brought their dog to Pride. Poor doggie – it is hot, crowded, people are behaving unpredictably. Dogs do NOT have a good time at Pride. They don't look proud – they look scared. This is SO avoidable … poor doggies … why would anyone bring their dog to Pride … mumble, grumble … "

Texting – texting – 1-2-3 … how did we ever do Pride without text messaging?

Have you ever noticed that some lesbians don't look very happy about it? There are so many subsets and tribes in the dyke community and I noticed one in particular this year. The Grumpy Lesbian. The Grumpy Lesbian looks like she has been practicing her Grumpy Lesbian Face for several weeks leading up to Pride. This is usually a partnered person who is "holding her partner's hand" (read: dragging her chosen one through the crowds) with both of them looking like they'd rather stick pins in their eyes than be at Pride. Occasionally, but not always, sporting a mullet – in fine lesbian tradition – and often seen in a golf shirt. Best to stay out of their way – handy to have in front of you if you are trying to get through a crowd quickly.

"… hi … nice to meet you … wow -  you have really beautiful arms. Seriously. Those are the arms I want when I've done a few more months of circuit training. How many push-ups??? Whoa …. alrighty then, maybe six more months of circuit training … "

"… no, seriously … DO NOT bring your damn dog to Pride … poor thing … did you at least remember to pack some water? Did you? … no, obviously not … even if you did, the poor dear is too stressed to actually drink it … "

"Why do dykes march and 'gays' parade?"

"… wow … look at that gorgeous woman … mmm … I wonder if there is an increase in incidents of whiplash on Pride Weekend … "

" … ooo … yummy boxers … ooo … yummy environmentally-friendly bi-women … yummy mommies … call it a march, call it a parade … I call it yummy … "

"… there she is again, the MBW … don't stare, it's rude … why can't I get her name to stick anywhere useful in my brain? … where is my wine? … a conversation about guitars, yes … this will help me to not stare but does nothing to help me nail down this woman's name … where is my wine?…"

"You are leaving? Now? (long pause) I am profoundly sad about this." So, now I'm drunk and speechless. Not good. 

She leaves, taking all the air out of the room with her. I stare at the space she just occupied, my mouth moving, helpless, like a fish trying to breath out of water.

Finding oxygen outdoors on the patio, I recover. I dance. I make new friends. "Chips – anyone want some chips?"

Time passes, I run out of wine, and it is my turn to be ready to go. "Bye everyone … nice to meet you … thanks for the great party!"

Note to self: When leaving this apartment building, do not mistakenly (or drunkenly) press "GR" in the elevator. I now know this stands for "Garbage Room" or "Garage Rear" or "Gone wRong" or some such. I was promptly deposited in an outdoor, fenced area where garbage bins are stored. There are no handles on the doors that have just slammed behind me and I am now fenced in with giant waste bins behind a restaurant and beside a parking lot. Somewhere out there, close by, even at this hour, techno-beat is thrumming away. I see only fences and bins. 

" … uh oh. Groggy … Think. … Well, if I call upstairs, they'll never hear it. That fence doesn't look so high … I think I can manage it … "

The knapsack went over first. Now, I'm committed. I got half way over and I heard footsteps running across the parking lot and a commanding-sounding female voice hailing me. It would seem, from the parking lot side of the fence, that I look like I'm breaking into a private event.

Did I mention that I think women in uniform are really hot?

Sunday – Pride Day!
*slight pout* " … I wish I'd made some arrangement for brunch today … rats … "

Two phone calls and one instant message chat later, I've secured a brunch plan. It is a very Michigan moment for me.  I like it. Loved the dim sum too … whoa … that was a whole lotta dim sum … we sure can pack it away!

Once more into the breach, my friends … also known as Gloucester and Church.

" … more texting … where is everyone and do I really want to watch the parade this year? Yes, a bit of it perhaps … texting texting … shady spot on Gerrard with Sister Crisp and Co … sounds great! …wait … I want a massage first from that lovely woman in the hat … nice massage chair … mmm …"

OK – now, I'm ready for the parade and I start down Church St. towards Gerrard.

" … ok … you, with the EIGHT WEEK OLD TERRIFIED-LOOKING PUPPY in your arms!! Are you fucking serious with this?? Honest to Pete, you are so damn lucky that there isn't a Grumpy Lesbian barreling her way between me and you, honey … wait a minute … in this moment, I AM a Grumpy Lesbian … harrumph … "

After about 40 minutes of the sheer fabulousness that is the Toronto Pride Parade, I've about had it. Unfortunately, that means less than one third of the parade. Here is the thing though … and if this long, rambling, mostly random post has a punchline, it is right here: The amount of sheer energy, human celebratory energy, gathered in a few city blocks, is mind-blowing. Sure, some people are there for the party atmosphere. Some people can't really see the political perspective of it – and, yes, the politics of this event are up for debate. What is NOT up for debate is that 95% of the people present – well over a million people from all over the world – are having a terrific time being in a place where the answers to central identity questions about orientation, attraction, gender – the answers DO NOT MATTER and whoever you are, you can find kindred souls here, somewhere, in the melee.  And, for some, this is still the one place, sometimes only once a year, where that can happen. We are so lucky in this part of the province. We forget that the Rest of Canada, even the Rest of Ontario, is not so free and easy with the social issues around our individual and often swirling sexual identities. Pride draws in the people who need to be here and feeds them on some deep level that the rest of us who have the privilege of drinking from this well of societal and self-acceptance as often as we like would do well to remember.

The other 5%? Those are the Grumpy Lesbians although, in truth, I think they are actually enjoying themselves too. They just have a funny way of showing it.

Stormthreatens

I make my way back up Church.

"… hope the weather holds out … "

It did, actually, although it looked pretty threatening from time to time. That building on the left in the photo is the almost abandoned Maple Leaf Gardens.

Just slightly north of MLG, I acquire two new temporary tattoos. An air-brush stencil of a gecko on my left arm (green of course) and a water-applied arm-band of musical notes on my right. The lovely TD goddess left me with a TD tattoo yesterday, so I'm all stenciled up now.

Just north of the temporary tattoo booth is the SPCA booth.

" … mmm … another woman in uniform …"

" …excuse me but have you noticed all the people who bring their dogs to Pride? Why do they do this? Is there anything that can be done to encourage them NOT to bring their dogs? Arresting them perhaps on charges of cruelty to animals? No? Oh. (pause) OK – Damn. I'll take some plastic bags then, please. Are these bio-degradable? … so, how long have you been working for the SPCA? … "

Incoming text … beer possibilities at 519. From where I am standing, on Church south of Alexander, the 519 might as well be in Timmins but, undaunted, I begin that crazy thing that you do mid-afternoon on Pride Sunday. The hunched-shoulders, slightly sideways shuffling walk through crowds thicker than those found on a Tokyo subway platform. Four years later, upon arriving at the 519, the entry line-up is eight miles long and the beer garden is full anyway. Via text, I accuse my friend of having slept her way in there however, looking at the bear-like security guard on shift, I think that is unlikely.

Incoming text … Lex, Ger, Nancy and Andrea have secured a table at the south stage. Ever the glutton for punishment and tempted by being able to spend even more time, beyond dim sum, with these fine people, I breathe deeply and plunge back into the seething masses.  At Wellesley,  everything stops.  No surprise.  Total log jam. On my immediate right, almost standing on my foot, there is a beautiful woman wearing stunning aqua-green glass earrings. She may have been wearing clothes but all I saw were the earrings. They were, of course, green and thus of interest. I asked her whether she got them at a booth here and if so which one? She said her girlfriend, who appears immediately in my line of vision, brought them for her from Argentina. I compliment them on excellent taste as the earrings were really lovely and the girlfriend says, "Well, then, I guess you are supposed to have these." She reaches into her bag and pulls out a small paper bag and hands it to me. Inside the paper bag were identical earrings in amber glass. "Seriously? Really? You are giving me these?" She nods and smiles. I hug her and am slack-jawed at her generosity.

Prideearrings

I  put my ring in for scale but I'm not sure it helps. Amazing.

Several decades later, I reach the south stage and, miraculously, the queue to get in isn't terrible. Well, not as terrible as at the 519. I seem to get waved in swiftly. Must be the gray hair – good for something, I guess. You know, Pride is about many things and queuing seems to be one of them. After some blissed out moments actually seated in the shade with my peeps at the south stage, peep-watching, I decide I'm ready to stand in several lines for tickets, beer and food. While standing in the beer ticket line, which isn't too bad really, I notice the following happening directly front of me. A youngish straight couple, chipper and cheerful, starts a conversation with the two gay men in front of me, carrying on as though they are old friends. It becomes clear that the youngish straight couple have never met the gay men in front of me – here we have a case of line-jumping. However, I must say they were so charming and cute about it that it was really hard to get mad at them. I tried hard to put on my Grumpy Lesbian Face (clearly, I need to practice).

" … excuse me, the end of the line is back there. … um, yeah … well, ok … shit, it is Pride, what the hell …  I suppose it is ok … Gordon? Nice to meet you, and Andrea … so, how are you enjoying Pride? …"

I got sucked in.

I acquire my tickets and head back to the table to check in with my peeps for a few minutes, then head off to find beer. I notice my New Best Friends, Gordon and Andrea, are in the line beside mine, miles ahead of me, chatting away, almost at the beer pouring place. I smile to myself, shake my head and suddenly, Gordon spies me. He yells my name and waves his arm, saying "C'mon – We saved you a spot!" All moral and ethical values I have previously held about line-jumping flew out the proverbial window as I joined the dark side.

An example of event-specific marketing – I love it! (Who knew there was instruction required?)

HTT-1

HTT-2

Time passes … I'm exhausted, every fibre of my body wants to rest, it is roughly between 7 and 8 p.m. and I have one more thing to do – Jully Black at the Wellesley Stage.

I make my way in, lean against a fence to stage right, exhausted. Chat with two lovely men from Belleville, one of whom graciously lets me sit in his chair while he heads off to stretch his legs before the show. He returns in a while and I give him his seat back, and return to leaning on the fence, waiting. The scent of something not quite legal is in the air. A man comes dancing up to me. He has a necktie tied around his head like a bandana and several cigarettes jammed behind ears and in the bandana. He looks like he left his office on Friday, hasn't changed his clothes, and has been partying since then.

Man (staring at me intently, still dancing): You have beautiful breasts.

He then cowers, literally, as if he thinks I'm going to get mad. He must have mistaken my Tired Lesbian Face for the Grumpy Lesbian Face.

Me (quizzically): Thank you …?

He whoops, high fives me, and dances away.

Nearly frantic texting … where are you? I am standing in front of the disability tent? Where are you? Why aren't you here? What do you mean you are "in front of the blue tent"? There are six "blue tents"? Which light standard? Argh! The show is starting … and there are suddenly 10,000 more people here than there were five minutes ago… I can't move!

JB

This is where I was … and I ran into CC and Mrs. Martin which was a wonderful treat. Fabulous show.

It is 10:00 p.m. and I stagger home along Wellesley, exactly the same route I staggered home along the night before. There is something comforting in routine, I guess. The streets are starting to clear, a bit, except for a very popular burlesque show happening on a smaller stage in front of the Wine Rack. I squeeze through and stagger past. I'm done.

I prepare to rest my weary bones, drink lots of water, get into bed and fire up my laptop for my last, actually only, scrabble moves of the day. Oh, look, there are messages. The woman with beautiful arms has written me – cool! Who is this next one? I don't know anyone named … wait … yes, I do … it is the MBW.  🙂

"… gawd, I love Pride …"

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