Lookie, lookie, another bookie.
A while back when the wonderful staff at Book City in the Bloor West Village found out I had illustrated that dog book, they very kindly put it in their display window for a week. Naturally I had to take a pic of this stupendous event! (even though once again my name's not on the #*&!! cover...)
Anyway, enough about me! I promise to get back to book talk real soon!
It's a working weekend for me this long weekend, but I don't mind too much, because the project I'm working on is a lot of fun. I can't wait to see the finished product, and of course, blog about it, too! But that will come later, down the road.
The weather's been moody this weekend in Toronto. Cloudy and dark one minute, then suddenly bright and warm. In the late afternoon I saw the sun creeping out, so I threw down my brush and exclaimed, "Break time!" (Ok, maybe it wasn't as dramatic as that. But I was very excited).
So out I went for a bit of shopping and exploring. On my travels, I decided to finally venture into a charming garden accessory store close to The Bloor West Village, called Windergarden. Here's a small shot of it's store front. Good gracious, this place is like entering the gates of heaven. If you're passionate about gardening, and you have a weakness for garden accents, then you must explore this enchanting shop. Lovely patio furniture, delightful stone carvings to place in your garden, and a multitude of unique accents to add to your home. I spotted a delightful hand-carved wooden tool box with the word 'Books' carved on the sides, and even managed to barter down the price (only because it was a tad roughed up). I was just about to leave the store, when I overheard a conversation between one of the customers, and one of the ladies at the cash. They were talking about books! My ears pricked up. Snoop that I am, I discovered that the customer had started her own unique fashion magazine, entitled Worn. She brought out samples of the mag for us to see. It sure ain't your typical dull commercial fashion mag you usually encounter – the latest issue includes an in-depth history of the bustline, as well as a history of the Safety Pin, and a detailed discussion of forties shoes. And there's lots of funky pictures and illustrations. So I handed the proprietor of the mag my card, and bid adieu.
Just as I was nearing The Bloor West Village, a fancy car pulled up along the side of the road next to me, and a tall, well-dressed gentleman with long grey hair came out of the car, exclaiming to his son who was behind him, "These strawberries are amazing!" Just as he stood up on the sidewalk, I walked by. I could not help but look at him – he was such a fascinating sight to behold, so well-dressed, and eating a big fat juicy strawberry. He saw me looking at him, and smiled and said, "Here, have one!" In my hand he placed the biggest, juiciest, reddest strawberry I have every seen. I took a bite, and the strawberry juice spilled down my arm. "Isn't it delicious?" he exclaimed. "Yes! Thankyou!" I said. I wished him and his son a Bon Appétit, and happily continued on my travels.
Sadly, the best gift store in The Bloor West Village is closing down at the end of the month, after over 30 years of business. Durie Lane always sold the most attractive, one-of-a-kind gifts. I've purchased many things from that shop over the years. So it was with a heavy heart that I walked in and bought one last item from that store. Everything left over was 50% off, so I got quite the deal on an attractive little brass clock. I'll always think of that charming, cluttered store when I look at my fetching new clock.
Then it was home again, to have a drink and dinner with the hubby, talk about his work day and a show-and-tell of my loot and adventures.
Then up in the studio, and back to work!
I have wanted to write about this little guy for a long time.
Ever since I first set eyes on the Bloor West Village, some 16 years ago, I have seen this man. He is without a doubt, one of the most recognizable characters in that neighbourhood. And he always looks like this. Always. He looks to be in his early 70s, and he is of European descent (I have heard him speak in the past), but I don't know where from exactly. He can't be any taller than say, 5', but he walks like he is ten feet tall. Always decked out in his camouflage gear and black beret, he carries himself like he is the king of the world. And he is always smiling. Always. His arms, which are much too long for his little body, move with such force and determination. Never have I seen such a person so utterly pleased with themselves.
I have never spoken to this man, until this past Friday. I was on my way to have lunch with the lovely Hadas, when I saw him coming towards the TTC ticket booth where I was heading, too. Here is a part of the conversation which ensued:
Funny Old Man: Ahh lovely lady, lovely to see you today!
Me: And it's very nice to see you too, sir.
Funny Old Man: Lovely lady. Let's make love!
Me: Uhh... but I'm married.
Funny Old Man: What it matters? It's love!
Me: Well, I think my husband would have something to say about that.
Funny Old Man: Nobody see! Nobody know!
I was making rather merry last night at a delightful Christmas party. It was well after midnight when I arrived at Bloor and Jane, hoping to hail a cab, but alas, there were no cabs in sight, it was bitterly cold, and the warm buzz from the red wine I had consumed that evening was beginning to wear off. So was my cheerful mood. But it's hard to stay grumpy when you're in the Bloor West Village. I stopped feeling sorry for myself long enough to notice a happy young couple walking along Bloor Street towards Jane, decked out in charming Christmas gear. The young lady (who was very attractive) wore a very short Santa dress and matching Santa hat, her long legs moving briskly in the sharp chilly night. Her male friend was similarily dressed in an appropriate Santa suit. They laughed loudly as they walked past me, both shouting with inebriated glee, "Merry Christmas!" Without missing a beat I exclaimed to the male Santa, "Well where's my present?" It did not phase him at all. "I've got it here somewhere," he replied, and proceeded to dig inside the front of his pants, and um, yes, right into his underwear (I assume the Santa suit was not equipped with appropriate Santa pockets). From the bowels of his undergarments he pulled out something small and put it in my hand, then ran across Jane street to catch up with his sexy female Santa. "Merry Christmas!" he shouted through the darkness. I looked down at what I held in my hand. A small bottle of Wiser's De Luxe Canadian Whiskey.
I've said it before, and I'll say it again.
God I love this place.
I'm slowly coming back to life. The past week has been filled mainly with lots of naps, tea, chicken soup, Tylenol and more naps. I haven't been that sick in quite a while. I suspect my body was sending me a not-so-subtle message about dealing with stress.
Before I got so sick there were a few posts I wanted to write, but my heart and brain just were not co-operating. So they are a little late.
Ah, yes, that Bloor West Village. Will I ever shut up about it? No. Not until it stops being interesting, ok? So here are a couple things I witnessed before I became bedridden:
The Bloor West Village is big on holidays. They like to celebrate everything. I'm a bit of a cynic when it comes to holidays, but I must confess that when I see some person dressed up as a giant Harvey-like rabbit giving out chocolate at Easter, even I break into a smile. Or on Mother's Day, when this charming couple all dressed up in tux and tails walks about the Village handing out flowers to every woman that they meet. It even warms my cynical heart. What was it that Oscar Wilde said? A cynic is one who knows the price of everything, and the value of nothing.
So really, I wasn't surprised or cynical at all, when just before Hallowe'en I saw sitting next to me in my favourite coffee shop this charming British lady, all dressed up in clown garb, relaxing with a cappuccino and cake before her gig for the Bloor West Village Hallowe'en celebration. We had quite a nice chat, in fact, about clowns, the neurotic fear of clowns, and what Carl Jung would have to say about the whole deal.
A few days later I was in the Village again, busy with banking and dealing with mortgage brokers and such, and I had to stop at a phone booth to give a quick call to the husband at work. It was a mighty chilly day, and everyone was dressed for the impending winter weather. Everyone, that is, except for this one exuberant guy, who appeared to be very pleased with his physique, so much so, that he was not wearing a coat or a shirt for that matter, just a tight pair of blue jeans and a charming Santa hat. I stood in the phone booth, laughing uncontrollably, trying to explain to the husband what was happening in front of me. This shirtless muscleman stopped in front of me, gave me a big smile, and flexed his massive muscle with glee.
Then my husband said to me, "I remember seeing that same guy last year around this time!"
"But was he wearing the Santa hat, and was he shirtless?" I asked.
"Yes!" exclaimed the husband.
And without missing a beat, the shirtless man with the Santa hat dropped on the sidewalk and proceeded to do what seemed to be an endless number of push-ups, as the crowds of shoppers walked by.
"Now he's doing push-ups on the sidewalk!" I screamed with glee.
"He did the same damn thing last year!" said the husband.
God I love this place.
I've lived in Toronto for 16 years, all of that time spent in the west end of the city. When you live in the same area for that length of time, familiar landmarks and faces eventually become imprinted on you, and in a sense, they become an extension of who you are, because without meaning to, you create personalities and life stories around these markers in your neighbourhood. There are familiar faces that I encounter on a regular basis whom I have never spoken to, but in spite of not getting to know them on a more intimate level, I have created their entire life stories, just from observing their appearance, their behaviour, how they react to the world around them. Is that strange? I hope I'm not the only person who does this. Of all the many people I see in my neighbourhood, I think these two gentlemen above are the most fascinating, the most mysterious. They certainly have elicited a lot of stories from my imagination over the years.
They are brothers, though I am not sure if they are twins. They certainly look very much alike, except that the one brother is slightly taller. They look to be somewhere in the range of 65-70 years old. I have come to the conclusion that they are of Italian descent, though of course I have no way of knowing this, unless I ask them, which of course, I will never do. The one thing I know for sure, of course, is that the one brother is blind. The two are always together, the blind brother's arm gently holding on to the arm of his sighted brother, the leader, the guide, the rock. I have never seen the sighted brother walking alone. Ever. Fate has deemed them to be separated conjoined twins.
Every time I see them in the neighbourhood, so many stories enter my mind. How did the one brother become blind? Was he blind from birth, and so the sighted brother has always had the responsibility of being the guide? Or was the blindness the result of some illness later in life, and thus the sighted brother had to change his life plans in order to help his brother? Perhaps the blindness was the result of an accident, and in fact it was the sighted brother's fault, and so he gave up his life as a way to make amends to his now blind brother, who perhaps in his previously sighted life was a gifted artist? Or perhaps it was a vow made to their cherished mother on her deathbed? I can just hear the mother, her frail voice, whispering in her haulting English to her sighted son, her breathing strained: "Promise me, Vito, promise me ... you'll take care of Tony!" And Vito, the full weight of his future pressing down on his aching heart, knowing that he can no longer marry his one true love, Lucia (who unbeknownst to the both of them is carrying their unborn son, who will spend the rest of his life searching for his birth father), says to his beloved mother, the tears welling up in his eyes, "Yes, Mama, yes. I promise Tony will always be safe with me."
See? So many possible stories. And other thoughts occur to me, too. Why did the blind brother never make an effort to learn to cope on his own? Perhaps the sighted brother deeply resents his lot in life, and welcomes the day when he no longer bears this burden. No, I can't imagine that. The care he takes in his brother is too real, too kind for there to be any bitterness. I hope, anyway. Other terrible thoughts enter my mind. How will the other cope, when one of them is gone? I cannot imagine either brother's life without the other, it's simply too painful to think about. And yet, I know it will happen one day. Lately the blind brother has been looking very weak and frail, and my heart aches for both of them, for the life they have had to live, for the devotion they have for each other, for the pain that they carry together every day, with such silent, gentle grace.
I'm adding a new category, 'Seen in the Village'. Hopefully I'll keep it up, not like my sadly neglected 'Seen in a Bookstore'. I promise I'll add more to that category soon!
I live about a half hour walk from The Bloor West Village. That's where I hang out to buy books and coffee, meet friends and clients, and generally just shop and people watch.
As well as people, there are usually a lot of dogs. On Saturday I saw this sad little creature (forgive me, but I have just discovered that I don't draw bulldogs well). Yes, when I first saw the poor thing, I laughed, as did every single person who walked by and looked at him (her?). You know, I'm not a big fan of bulldogs, but really, who the hell would dress up a poor dog in a polka-dot tutu?
Some things should just not be done. No matter how funny they are.
