Apparently there’s enough business to have kept this place open for quite a few years:
Fer real?
Fer real.
All I can say is, when Ollie kicks the bucket, there’s no frickin’ way I’m having him violated with cotton (or whatever they use), and then having him permanently buggered in some attack pose. And any animals I’m killing I fully intend to eat; having my dinner plate bronzed might be a better idea.
Yeah, sure I was sore I missed it last year, but c’mon, 8 a.m. on a Sunday morning?! You must be dreaming! (That’s how I missed last year’s marathon.)
But by some perversion of nature I was up at around seven this morning listening to the multitude of road-closure notices being issued over the radio. I thanked Jebus for my continuing ability to walk just about anywhere, and shortly thereafter packed my bag and hit the bricks.
I got out of my hovel to go for a bit of a walk yesterday. No particular direction…
…and then this happened:
Having…
O Smoke’s Poutine!
Our curds and gravy man!
Honest fries in all thy boxes tan.
With drown’ed spuds we fork thee up,
The True North obviously!
From far and wide,
O Canada, we know you love poutine.
French fried poutine gravy and curdy!
O Canada, we know you love poutine.
O Canada, we know you love poutine.
—
The official cold-weather anthem. Night nips these days – ‘fo ‘sho. Single digits at night. And moist. That rain again. Well, I believe that poutine can assist with this. I don’t believe anyone has ever attempted to prove poutine was in any way good for you so one should never be burdened with any delusions when consuming it. This also pretty much guarantees it’s delicious.
I got mine with sliced beef at a nearby Smoke’s. One day I talked to a friend of Smoke Putinerie’s owner, Smoke Junior. The smiling sticker that continues to make the rounds around town are of Smoke Senior, in memoriam. Or so I’m led to believe.
They’re not glamorous locations, I feel I should mention. Often not staffed by glamorous people. But in the coming seasons, Smoke’s is a warm and tasty hearth on vast cold city nights.
I know I’ve advocated imbibing a trifle before heading out for the the evening, but I’m gonna start prefacing that with, “except not to the point of getting shit-faced”.
Weaving between teenagers hardly capable of holding their drink let alone appreciating art of any kind, and the puddles of vomit they leave about the place, to me, kinda cheapens the experience. Not unlike using the English translation of Nuit Blanche.
So that’s the one thing about Nuit that this year stood out loud and sore for me.
Beyond that, I was sure the crowds would dissipate post midnight. Last year I headed out at around one o’clock, this year I was there sometime after two in the morning, but with considerably more people. I suppose that’s inevitable; the event now draws in excess of a million people and I’m sure there’ll be more next year. Clearly single-digit temperatures and the threat of rain means nothing to the swarthy outdoors art crowd.
Okay, criticisms dispensed with. Let’s get to the meat and potatoes, shall we?
So, once again I found myself unable to make it to the elusive Zone C. Since I live on the eastern edge of Zone A I necessarily have to traverse it to get to the other side. It’s about an hour of distractions, crowds, and everything and anything designed to ensure that you never make it through.
For starters, there’s always something going on at Nathan Phillips Square. This year the area in front of City Hall hosted a sprawling performance by Daniel Lanois entitled “Later That Night At The Drive-In”.
Spotted this fellow along Spadina yesterday:
Ladies, could you see yourself meticulously pinning notes to Marc’s coat, perhaps as an aid for when he gets lost? Do you look at this photo and think romance? And love? Then consider dropping him a line.
I was on in a mission tonight…
…hustling down the naked streets…
…ducking and weaving through the market…
*yawn*
It was just sleepy time all over the city today.
There was a brief, bright flash of sun during which I ventured out to eat lunch — I’ve decided Sushi Queen is my sushi joint of choice along the Queen strip, despite incessantly playing Rogers and Hammerstein show tunes over the meal. Fresh sushi / sashimi, good tempura, and a teriyaki that actually tastes and smells good. Surprisingly rare, that last one.
Then it clouded over again in the afternoon, and everything goes kinda hazy again after that.
I believe Sarah Thomson threw in the towel and is now joining forces with George Smitherman in the upcoming election. And maybe it’s a fuzzy recollection but I thought I remembered the Star starting up a new series called “The Smell Test” where they dissect election promises for feasibility. Will the Star-backed champion win, I wonder?
But it may just be fuzzy dream also. Just that kind of a day, you know?
Ladies and gentlemen, Mister Chet Baker on vocals and horn, and Patrick on the shutter:
Go on, press the round play button above.
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