City Chicken

Gopher

nobody@vox.com(City Chicken) — Mon, 07 Dec 2009 23:18:13 -0500

I used to fetch lottery tickets for my parents when I was a kid. Tickets back then used to look this way:

Ready for it

nobody@vox.com(City Chicken) — Fri, 04 Dec 2009 17:16:27 -0500

It's going to start snowing around here one of these days. And I will not have much confidence that I will have seen the last of it until around the middle part of April 2010, at the latest.

I feel ready.

Ready for it

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It's as important, if not moreso

nobody@vox.com(City Chicken) — Fri, 04 Dec 2009 09:29:11 -0500

When running through the Rules of Fight Club, many people remember firstly and seem to recall what was identified as Rule No. 1 (and 2), the order requiring one not to speak of fight club. But, often overlooked is the highly underrated yet wholly applicable No. 7 rule.

7. Fights will go on for as long as they have to.

Making sure of it.

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A primer

nobody@vox.com(City Chicken) — Wed, 02 Dec 2009 16:31:54 -0500

Wallace

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Sitting on things

nobody@vox.com(City Chicken) — Mon, 30 Nov 2009 20:07:10 -0500

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

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So good, it can go by only 2 letters

nobody@vox.com(City Chicken) — Sun, 29 Nov 2009 14:21:59 -0500

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 not peppered with only 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.

Barn

Barn2

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.

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TO dessert

nobody@vox.com(City Chicken) — Sun, 29 Nov 2009 00:07:35 -0500

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.

Prior to that we had dinner, an unremarkable yet nourishing display of brew-pub greatness at Mill Street, where she had a huge burger and I the halibut, amid the house brew. Left to her devices, before branching out for dinner, Baby Momma hunted for dessert options and scored a trophy kill.

She found this local gem.a local chocolatier that does some amazing shit. They make all of their own everything here.

Beans

We bought a bunch of truffles to take back to the room for later. It all worked out really well for our sweet teeth, not to mention our sense of what is right with the world.

See this? This looks like a record store or CD shop. But no, that is bricks of chocolate.

Soma1

And this,

Dessert2

Desser2

I had a pint here at the Black Bull down the street.

Blackbull1

Whitbread

It is 12:01 a.m. on Sunday morning and from my hotel room I can hear the chimes from City Hall across the street. I heard it ring thrice in the afternoon yesterday and into the nine's last night. It's nice to get the dozen.

We covered a ton of ground today. We are both beat, feet and legs tired and sore, and still, the best piece of real estate I feel we covered all weekend could be crystallized in this one doorway. That's right, those are rubber chicken door handles to a comedy club. And while I am not in the custom of visiting such venues, you have to respect this attention to detail.

Bestdoorhandleever

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Toronto II

nobody@vox.com(City Chicken) — Sat, 28 Nov 2009 16:16:52 -0500

This morning shaped things up nicely.

We started with one of the things we first discussed when we decided to come to Toronto, one of our favorite pasttimes, crepes on Queen Street.

About four blocks away from our hotel is Cafe Crepes. Options abound and all it takes is one of these bad boys to set you right. I had the maple syrup, while Mrs. Chicken enjoyed spinach and feta cheese.

Crepe2

Cafecrepe

We walked a bit through the Financial District,

Croissant

where we saw these two, chilling in their Escalade.

Bros

Kerry headed off to her massage, while I tooled around town a bit. We later attended this thing, which helped us knock out a little holiday shopping. After walking around all goddamn day, our wheels were screaming, so we dropped back to the room to take a rest and make dinner plans.

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Semi-live from Toronto

nobody@vox.com(City Chicken) — Sat, 28 Nov 2009 11:29:15 -0500

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.

Spanish tortilla

I enjoyed also a Phillipino beer, San Miguel. Both were nice.

Sanmiguel

The neighborhood had a certain charm, with rows of indie international restaurants, a couple of bookstores and a record store, stretched out along 6 or 8 dimly lit blocks. The market on the corner was kind of cool.

Oxford market

Melons

Not too far away was this bizarre furntiure store. This is the view from the street.

Furn1

And I'm, like, what the fuck, there isn't any furniture in there, is there?

Furn

Well, I stood corrected, there IS a dining room table set. Such a great scene. I wanted to walk in and say, "Hey, you motherfuckers got any used La-Z-Boys in here?"

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.

Bomba

We started with some thick and tasty bruschetta.

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

Pasat

We ate delicious on our first of two nights. We made it an early night. When traveling pregnant, it takes on an entirely different landscape. We were back to the hotel in mid-evening, lying back for a little before splashing around the indoor/outdoor pool here at the hotel. The water was not as warm as I recall and we stayed in the pool in probably half of the amount of time we normally do. It takes an adjustment when traveling with a pregnant wife. Things are not what they used to be, when the two of you would get liquored up until 3 in the morning. I got it good, though. Mrs. Chicken is always about my own personal happiness and makes it a point to say "Hey, I'm going to bed in a second, but if you want to go out and booze it up, honey please, by all means go." And she says that sincerely, as only the type of wonderful woman like her can do.

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.*

Fuck you

Unbelievable.

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:57

nobody@vox.com(City Chicken) — Fri, 27 Nov 2009 08:51:55 -0500

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.

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