Things everyone else seems to love but I just could not get into:
1. The Beatles
2. Buffy
3. Anime
4. The creative class
5. Contact lenses
If they died tomorrow, I wouldn't bat an eye:
1. Manu Ginobilli
2. Joe Buck
3. Matt Lauer
4. Claire Danes
5. Any of the musician assholes from those credit report commercials
If they died tomorrow, I probably wouldn't leave the house for at least a day:
1. Ernie Harwell
2. Sparky Anderson
3. Samantha Brown
4 Lemmy
5. Chuck D
I think she's fine as hell but would never admit it in a crowded room:
1. Channel 7's Kimberly Craig
2. Michelle Wie
3. Patricia Heaton
4. Caroline Rhea
5. Queen Latifah
Nobody else but me seems to like it:
1. Malt liquor
2. Fig Newtons
3. Dried-out, overcooked chicken
4. The frozen ground
5. The holidays
You'll never, ever talk me into it:
1. The receiving end of a strap-on
2. Base jumping
3. Beekeeping
4. Your religion
5. Cold soup
I will be happy when the popularity wanes:
1. Peyton and/or Eli Manning
2. Kanye
3. Ed Hardy anything
4. Fauxhawks (if you can untease it to keep your boss at Kinko's happy, there is nothing 'hawk about it)
5. The following words: manscaping, bromance, frenemy, douchebag
Sitting in the wonderment-inducing lobby of Toronto's Sheraton Centre, chatting briefly with the missus, I had in my earshot a guy leaving a voicemail message for someone. "Heyyyy Meg [name has been changed for this story], wanted to let you know I just got into TO. Looking forward to seeing you guys tonight."
While generally very much not in the custom of inserting myself into other people's shit, especially strangers, his message hung around in my head longer than it should have. This is like me, to think, to wonder, that hey, this guy might be in town to see some friends, maybe he's here for the weekend, maybe they all go back some many years in their friendship, each of them, like, 20 or 33 years they fucking go back. They probably all grew up together, have splintered off to do their own shit, but always maintained the slack on that line between the, what, three or maybe 5 of them? I came back to reality and we got into a cab, but I keep returning to a consideration of that little imaginary interlude.
You know how it feels. Look, we're all down for our friends, right? But there are some cats that you just love hanging out with. And this is probably because you don't get to see them as often as you would like. That then makes you feel like you don't get to see them as often as you need.
Think of the last time you had a great time in a room half-full with some of the people you decidedly dig the most, but get to see only infrequently. Quickly emptied rock glasses, bottles of beer, wine glasses with that nearly erased tinge of red around the inside, dishes that once held food but are now dotted only with crumbs, and by now, at some point, you hear the laughter of someone you care about. That usually stops most people, where in that micron of second you tell yourself how good of a time you're having, how you don't even want to think about this ending any time soon, how much you love these motherfuckers.
That's how I feel every fucking second I'm in Toronto.
While I certainly do not get out around the country, and the world, as I would like, dispatches from the seemingly requisite trips to Chicago and -- gasp! -- Toronto, are more frequent here than even I would like. Great, John went to Toronto again.
Scoff all you want, but being able to stand in front of places like this kind of excuses our current self-imposed, budget travel ball and chain.
All you really need to ever say about this building, for starters, is that they played Original Six hockey here. That alone crushes. But, but, they love this fucking team, and this building is oftentimes regarded as one of the greatest hockey venues since the formation of ice itself. They no longer play Maple Leaf hockey here, and my foot hurts from repeatedly kicking myself in the ass for not enjoying a game experience there when I had the chance. I loved taking these pictures today, and standing in its shadow early on a Sunday morning before we headed out was an important punctuation on the weekend.
I feel this Toronto love because my wife turned me on to it. She and her family have been coming here since she was a kid. I look forward to creating another decade or so with her brothers and their children.
Before settling in -- and this is what you happens when you travel pregnant [and if you're lucky, you've married a gal who, despite being dead on her feet, will politely ask you if you want to go grab a beer, while she watches or not give a shit while you step out to grab a pint on which to sip at the room late at night] -- we sought dessert.
This morning shaped things up nicely.
You may or may not have noticed a flurry of activity here in the coop. Around Halloween, I declared to myself that I would attempt to post to the Chicken 30 posts in 30 days. And I have accomplished that to a degree. I missed one day. Actually I missed two, if you include yesterday[Editor's/My Note: There will be 30 posts in as many days, probably 32 in 30]. So, to compensate for that, while Mrs. Chicken and I in Toronto, I have decided to attempt some sort of quasi-live blogging from this wonderful city.
We are here because, partly, we have acted on sound advice from lifelong buddy Dirty Jase. When I told Jase that Kerry was pregnant, one of the early pieces of advice he gave to me was this: "In that last trimester, savor every chance you have with each other, just the two of you, because once that baby arrives, it will rarely be just the two of you again." So, I plied Kerry with that notion. And, despite it not being a very prudent time financially -- let's see, we have the holidays coming in, we are prepping a nursery in our home (not cheap), and we are actually paying down debt while putting money in the bank at the same time (not fun) -- we agreed that we needed this time, that this expense is, at this point, every bit as important as a crib or the to-do list. So, here are.
We are staying, as we always do in Toronto, at the Sheraton Centre. Toronto is special to us. It represents one of the first places to which we got away in the infancy of our relationship. We had a quickie honeymoon here. We love this city. And we here are now -- cohabitants, married, and parents to be, all in the span of about four years.
We arrived the Friday after :57 Thanksgiving, checked in, chilled and took on the town a little. After some furniture shopping and walking around, dinner was in order, so we started at Torito on Augusta. Specializing in Barcelona-style tapas plates, this hipster enclave was a bit much. The neighborhood was teeming with them, but I just tried to ignore their presence, despite wanting to set many of them afire. We had a Spanish tortilla, which is basically egg, onion and potato.
Not too far away was this bizarre furntiure store. This is the view from the street.
And I'm, like, what the fuck, there isn't any furniture in there, is there?
Torito was cozy, with exposed brick and a crowd that screams the one adjective for which marketing execs and those concerned with shit like branding seem to salivate over -- diversity. You can rub elbows with Kenyan art students wearing oversized eyeglasses, or older butch lesbians. And if you're down for fish ceviche, lamb loaf, pan fried sardines, or Chilean tripe stew, then this is your place. We wanted food-food, so we got the fuck out of there.
We busted wide to Little Italy and after passing six or seven capable dining rooms, Kerry spotted a facade around the corner and tucked away, so we stopped in for what would turn out to be some deliciousness.
Langolinos Wine Bar and Grill on Clinton (off College Street) was on oasis on this Friday night. I started with a couple of their signature drinks, something called the blah blah bomba. While not the real name, it was a delightfully potent, if not kind of nasty, mix of rum, vodka, tequila and ginger ale. I had two.
We started with some thick and tasty bruschetta.
Followed by some eye-popping fettucine with chicken and sausage in a creamy tomato sauce. Damn. I could eat this for breakfast, to be honest
And while I didn't exactly booze it up, I did head to our hotel lobby lounge downstairs for a nightcap. I'll never do that again. I understand prices are inflated in world-class cities, and we drop a nice chunk of change when we are here, especially when it comes to overtipping (waitresses and hacks have tough, oftentimes shitty jobs; and in cities like Toronto you get people who don't get out much and are unclear on the concept of proper tipping, so we try to represent). But I damn near barfed up my dinner when I order a pint of Stella and a shot of Crown, went to the bathroom and returned to find this next to my *nightcap.*
That's roughly all it took for Thanksgiving this year.
I've never minded Thanksgiving. I have always appreciated and valued the day off from work, enjoy the sentiment the day is supposed to conjure, and have never shied away from a dinner table holding several plates of homemade goodness. But I don't go bananas over it. At it's core, it is a meal, presumably one enjoyed in the company of family and friends.
I have had some memorable and forgettable ones in the past. Once, while in my hometown visiting my father -- which I've done every year for the last 20 since I removed myself from the coop -- I drove by my old high school, pulled over, walked around the grounds in a state of nostalgia and, out of nothing more than idle curiosity, pushed open a door whole lock was unengaged, letting myself into the building. That was fun. Another year, with my weekend bags packed, I called my father from downstate at 9 in the morning, to let him know I was en route for the 90-minute drive -- as I've done every year -- only to find out that he himself was on the way out of his door, heading to the parents of his new wife for the day. I played it cool with a couple of "Oh yeah"s, "Have fun"s, and "Don't eat too much!"s, before angrily unpacking my back and skulking around my stuffy apartment, alone, all day.
Recently, since marrying, we have spent the day with Mrs. Chicken's family, a friendly and robust group that has provided a familiar salve for whatever has ailed me over the years. Her parents have a somewhat spartan, nearly collegiate-type existence in their house. If we want to make a big meal, we bring everything, including pots, pans, serving dishes, the whole deal. We then cook, move tables around, eat, clean up, pack up and head home. It is a joyous event, but one that takes about 4 hours and packs in a ton of work.
This year, Mrs. Chicken suggested to her folks that we eat out this year. Her brother and his family had an in-law obligation on his side, so it was just us, her folks and her other brother. Everyone agreed and Thanksgiving Day reservations commenced.
We met at the restaurant at 2, leaving our house with nothing but our appetites. We arrived on time, had a good meal, enjoyed our typical quality conversations amid well-timed jokes. Leaving, we got in our car and checked the clock; 2:57 p.m. We got there at 2.
So, in 57 minutes we did Thanksgiving. No cooking, no cleaning, no hauling Pyrexes full of food in the trunk, no shuffling of the heavy-ass table from the kitchen to the dining room, no temperatures inside soaring to Death Valley heights because of the active furnace and collection of body heat. We left our house empty-handed, spent one hour of quality family time and was home, watching the last 10 minutes of the football game, beer in hand, by about 3:20 p.m.
Thanks, indeed.
1985
Artists and Athletes Against Apartheid
United Nations Assembly
Gregory Hines, Tony Randall, Arthur Ashe, Harry Belafonte, Ossie Davis, Ruby Dee et al.
You, I like:
1. Restaurant Thanksgiving. We don't do this every year/often, but there is a lot to be said for giving yourself a break.
You, not so much:
1. Little 4-year-old girl beauty pageant moms. Assholes, EACH of you.
Not unlike the overflowing, have-to-cram-my-fist-in-the-a.m.-trash bins of the gas station receptacles I endure daily.
I would have bought this CD.
