Back to the Future's

*Note: This is a piece (my last, at least for awhile) I originally published on Torontoist.com.

Yup, it's that time again. With sun umbrellas spread wide open, customers in shorts and shades, and pitchers of the finest local brews waiting to be poured, Toronto's patio season is back in full swing―at least for most bars. But unfortunately for a few, and a few very near and dear to our hearts (and livers), some outdoor havens are left stuck in limbo.

It's been far too long since we've heard about the official rulings for Future Bakery and the Labyrinth (nothing since some speculation from when the heat lamps were still on in January and February). We didn't really know what to expect until we saw those glorious doors open, bringing on all we'd hoped for―visions of Oreo cheesecake and Creemore Springs dancing in our heads―that was, until 11 p.m., when the doors closed prematurely, and the patio shut down to our utter dismay. And worse yet, the doors next door failed to open altogether. Skimming the web, we found no recent word from local news outlets, nothing beyond vicious commentary on the blogosphere. It took a few phone calls to find out just what is happening to our beloved Bloor West bakery and its newer neighbour.
Both Future's and The Labyrinth were bought out by Sumit Kapur early last year. And in Toronto, when a bar takes on new ownership, the owner must reapply for two new permits―one from the AGCO and a City of Toronto patio permit for use of a public sidewalk, one that cannot be obtained without the agreement of the community surrounding the patio. Since the sidewalk, as a rule, belongs to the city and its citizens, it is the latter license that came under contention when the transfer of ownership gave neighbours a chance to state their case about the state of the two patios.

Kapur has thus far had two meetings with the Harbord Village Residents' Association (representative of the area of Spadina to Bathurst between College and Bloor and not a part of the Annex as the common reference would entail), the first on January 26, co-chaired by Councillor Adam Vaughan and the residents' association Chair Gus Sinclair, and the second on April 3 with Vaughan and his constituency assistant Dale Duncan. Duncan told us that the first meeting set out to discuss concerns and the second to solidify details―which patios will be open and at what times. Although both patios, under new ownership, inherited a 2 a.m. closing time, some residents with the HVRA requested an earlier closing for The Labyrinth at the second meeting. They complained not of overserved liquor, but of lack of control―no one on the patio to control a few belligerent smokers making early mornings miserable for locals. They say the intention was never to close The Lab's patio altogether, but rather, to start off with a more reasonable time for the more rambunctious patio of the two, with the premise of a later closing time in the future should it prove permissible.

Kapur, however, wanted full-fledged operating hours―when we talked to Vaughan, he told us that Kapur "wouldn't take yes for an answer" when offered a compromise. Kapur rejected the notion to give the patio an early bedtime altogether, refusing to bargain with the residents and agitating an already fragile relationship. It was at this meeting that Vaughan gave what the HRVA refers to as the "garbage-dump analogy," asking Kapur if he then should be allowed put a garbage transfer station in a lot on Brunswick Street that works at all hours of the night and is both smelly and noisy, to which Kapur nodded his head. Strike two. After being denied their request, the residents decided to withdraw their initial offer, leaving Kapur and the patios with the hours under which it currently operates―Future's till 11 p.m. and The Lab, zilch, nada, zip.

Next came a slew of letters. Letters of anger, of annotation, and of apology. The HRVA and Vaughan both received a round of memos, some simply unhappy and some furious, both anonymously and from residents, but all blaming them for the patio's closure. Vaughan sent a letter to the editor at NOW, sending well-wishes for the "return of the Annex landmark." The blogosphere dumped a large share of the blame solely on Vaughan, a man who has served as an advocate for Future's patio―fully in its support―and also a mediator between the owner and the neighbours. And finally, in a letter to Vaughan (potentially spurred by the HRVA in order to encourage cooperation with residents) posted in the comments of a more recent and somewhat unrelated NOW article, Kapur apologized to Vaughan for misinterpreting "his assistance as a hindrance," something for which he was "completely embarrassed":

Perhaps it was the worry over keeping my business a going concern in more uncertain times; worry over keeping my employees happy and with a place to work; worry for my livelihood.....all of these things occupy my attention on a daily basis. Where I went off the rails was in thinking that my business concerns trumped the concerns of the neighbourhood in which I operate, let me tell you: I have finally received the message.
Kapur ended the letter with what he told us was a request to "sort out the patio situation" before the summer's end, noting that he will have to prove himself first with a respectable patio crowd under the current hours at Future's. And in the future, it looks like that is what may be in store. To officially change the hours, the Toronto and East York Community Council must approve the motion at City Hall during their next meeting on June 23. And from the sounds of it, most are in favour of extending patio hours at friendly neighbourhood stand-by Future's (most likely to 1 a.m. for Friday and Saturday nights). Both Vaughan and the HRVA told us they plan to go ahead and extend Future's patio's hours.

The Labyrinth, however, may first have to navigate a messy maze, with its closer proximity to houses and slightly blemished reputation. Vaughan says he thinks that "if [The Lab] can show it is a legitimate and proper business, the community will be open-minded" when it comes to open doors. This current interim period, however, is a chance for Kapur to build a good track record, a temporary "leash" for operation until The Lab proves a good neighbour―and once it does so, Vaughan welcomes The Lab to reapply for its prized patio position. But until then, Vaughan says, "the burden is on [Kapur]."

So that's how the story goes. Prepare for longer hours in the later summer at Future's and keep your fingers crossed for its patio next door, at least for now. But if we may ourselves put in a good word for Kapur and for both businesses in question―so long as the douchebaggery of The Brunswick House is allowed to be in operation, we say both Future's and The Lab are certainly fair game.

SUM 301: Supplementary readings list

in my summer, every day is a (lazy) sunday.

Eggs benny on a thursday at noon, books without deadlines, decaffienated tea because I only realy have to be half-awake anyways. I sit on soft surfaces, only beds, couches, pillows, and carpets. It's all soft, no reads harder than hard news.

My routine is thus, I sleep, I eat, I run, I read, I do yoga, in whatever order I please. I work, but really that's just hanging out with a drink my hand in a wunder-ful place. 

See, the pace is slower here, and the only place I really need to go is upstairs. Outside's still too cold today, but when it warms I can simply take my routine outside and let the sun work its ways on my skin, my hair, my insides, too.

Shit-dis-stuburbing

... well, my mom thinks it is at least. For good times "out west,", but really just east of Edmonton..

• Learn an instrument. Preferably one that is stupidly loud and could not possibly be allowed in a condo, particularly one that's good for rage management. Drums will do.

• Develop a good score-keeping system for Jeopardy. My baby bro, newly accepted into college, with an IQ that makes him a certified genius and more books under his belt a year than I in my lifetime, has come close at beating me at my game ofmastery. But hasn't prevailed yet. Alex would be proud.
  

• Go Walmart-ing. Slightly cooler than go-karting, this activity is when you raid various local Walmarts and new, improved Walmart Supercenters (!) in search of one specific item. Yes, I'm sure it has ruined all local businesses; yes, it is definitely a cult. But they have in-store McDonald's! The way I look at it? Makes me think of that commercial for some credit card witht the two ladies pushing shopping carts: 
  

"So, how much did you save back there?" 

"2 bucks" 

*Stifles a laugh*

"And how much did you save?"

Tonight's mission? Season eight of ER. (Fun fact: I have never watched an episode of ER).

• And when all else fails: Ice cream will do.

prayers for the prairies.

Welcome back to the wild wild west.

...well, minus the wild part. So far Sherwood Park has been, as usual, quaint, pleasant―words sometimes considered synonyms for drab, and dull, but that's a matter of perspective. The pace of the place is, to say the least, a small adjustment from the days of jaywalking the city, but once it sinks in, it doesn't hurt so hard.

Sometimes life out here's like a scene from Full House―with seven people in one house (NOT including a dog named after brand-name amonia), I'm prone to assume the role of Stephanie, the poor middle child who's life is sooo unfair. And as for sleeping in, well, that's not an option when your sister tap dances above your bedroom at 8 a.m. But being woken up my a human sound instead of a machine (I'm talking about YOU, cranes at St. Michael's!) is sorta comforting, as is warm, streaming sunlight that won't be blocked out by a neigbouring condo at 11:01 a.m. (makes afternoon tans tough). 

The suburb's the suburb, it's not worth glossing over. I could spend my months here honing in on what they don't have―which is plenty―but while I'm around, I mine as well take on what they do have to offer. Parks-a-plenty, free and fresh gourmet, old friends, family, and, of course, a room of my own.

Me and the local geriatrics ward Some of the fam who I love very much!

Summer, bloody summer

My summer was all laid out.

Four months in Asia. Fly into Singapore, head North 'till I'd eaten every piece of Pad Thai and Pho on the continent. Hike, skydive, thrill-seek, adventure. Of course, ambition, when planned in pairs, sometimes falls through. I counted up my losses, accepted defeat, and made a compromise.

I set myself out, instead, to head home to lounge with mom and pop, eat Chef Frere's exquisite food, educate my little sister on getting past puberty (now that I think I'm finally over it myself), and, of course, keep a little extra coin in my pocket. I was unreasonably enthusiastic to visit the prosaic prairies, to relax, and sleep in my high school hideout. And then, come July, to rent a flat in Prague, and stroll along the promenade for a month or two. Sleeping in, and drinking Czechvar until I slept again. And I wasn't ever planning to go it alone.

But now, it seems, I am―right here.

Since Sunday, I've hastefully been arranging interviews―of the summer job sort, people pointing the mic at me instead of the school year's opposite―in hopes of earning checks to cover my coffee for next school year, instead of a plane ticket to anywhere the hell outta here. I've stopped trying to sell off my room to some stranger. My little sister will stay stuck to fend for herself at the dangerous age of thirteen. No one will be left to scarf Mike's leftovers at ungodly hours. For me, it's more concrete, more city, more same ol', just with the addition of some occasional sunshine. Those had better be some damn happy rays or I'll be carrying S.A.D. with me all through this sorry summer.

this is the end, my only friend.

It's the last day of summer.

Well, technically it's got three weeks to die off, but my landmark is typically the day before school begins.

So here we are, after months of wishing for summer, it's gone daddy gone. I spent the first half of yesterday in regret, and the second half wishing I had a better tan... but last night I looked through forgotten photos from the four months past. Sasquatch to Seattle, Niagara to New York, B.C. to BluesFest on the beach. I read books I've always wanted to, and some that I needed... I started listening to hip-hop. Some summer it was, and it's not that I'm ever reallyready to go back, but at least I can accept the fact.

So, today I'm spending the day basking in the last of the smoking rays, baking my skin 'till it's bronze, finger painting  and playing at the ex, and dancing 'till it's way past bedtime. I'll come home and sloppily lay out my fresh notebooks, new pens, and my never-been-used schoolbag, and cat-nap 'till class... so what if I show up a little bleary-eyed. Bring it on, fall.

The following is a small memoir to such a sweet summer.

but we're doing it so well

Tomorrow, I'm going to get a fake i.d.

Sure, after many turnaways at Picadilly's, and turn-arounds at the LCBO, it feels legit to be legal here, but it's time I upped the ante a bit. 19? Pff... 21? It's not Vegas, but it'll do. I'll take a gamble with my pride if it means getting into any NYC hotspot or cool dig that I/we choose.

The four of us get in far, far too early on Thursday. We'll probably be groggy like pre-6 a.m. coffee, but unwilling to sleep. Me, I'm unwilling to unpack. It'll be my third ride on the Greyhound in less that a week. I'm not really living at my place, I'm not really living away from home, but for once, I'm really living. I'm not working, nor worrying, I'm just doing it all, and doing it now, as I please.

And as unproductive (and unfamiliar) as this slacker lifestyle may sound, I feel like, for once, I'm getting the most out of summer months.

Whine-ery

Today, I couldn't sleep past 10.

I leaped out of bed, laced up my runners, got on my (dad's) bike. I went uphill, then downhill for an hour, and came back inside only to go back outside, out on the water. We went tubing to tunes, and as Mick Jagger crooned, "am I rough enough?"... I slid off the inner tube in sync with his "ooh," and with the aid of my lifejacket, popped my now-throbbing head above water. I came back inside again, and left within ten minutes, with dripping-wet hair only to drive, to sip and sample wine at one of the World's Top 5 Vineyards (at least according to Travel & Leisure), which in reality, made my head pound a little worse. Mission Hill Winery offered "gorgeous, breath-taking views" of the Okanagan Lake, and rows and rows of grape-vines made me want to lay down and nap. Which I, and my little sister did. We lied on the grass and stared at the sky. Got up and ate and ate again, playing dumb to the fact that we'd have to wear our barely-there bathing suits, baring our near-bulging bellies in a few hours. We shopped and strolled the town. We'd scarcely stopped all day in the plus-35, dry heat. And when we came back to our beach home, I caught myself complaining to my dad, like I have (too) many a time.

"I'm bored," I whined, slouching, sinking into the corner of the elevator.
"But you haven't stopped all day," he says, rolling his eyes.
"I know, but...."and I gave up on my defense. All around me is green, lush, summery, just as I've been yearning for... but where is the flashing, scuzzy "Zanzibar" sign. No angry, road-raged, sun-scorched drivers. No 10-dollar pitchers of headless beer. No homeless men to dance with on the streets at night(!).

Parents.... they just don't understand.

Vicious Cycle

Last summer and this one as well, I've been considered a "server", dropping, cheap eggs and otherwise mediocre eats. Last week, I vetoed the online shortcut and opted in favour of the full-fledged, 3-hour Smart Serve licensing class. 'Smartly', I biked sans helmet, in a dress too short for walking, showed up sweaty and inevitably tardy, only  to be told things I already know, and have practiced (however illegally) from the comfort of my very own neighborhood restaurant. Someone copied answers from my government-issued exam, and I left my workbook behind at the practice bar in favor of the faster ride to the real thing. I left the TIB and biked Bathurst to Bistro as per usual, where an spiked Iced Tea would sit, ready to refresh me. I learned just a half hour ago how the 4 shots in one drink would put me and my BAC (which is blood alcohol concentration, not consumption by the way) at precisely double the legal limit.... and I saw that drink sitting there in all it's glory, completely disregarding that my chugging would make me an unlawful, illegal cyclist. Not that's thats ever mattered (read: riding through gardens and throwing bikes over suburban fences in the home-town). 8 ounces and 2 hours later means either a) I'm a standard college student, or b) I'm borderline bar ejection. Who knew it was legal to have intoxicated individuals in the bar? Uh, is there any other point?

 Last time I sat my booty (shorts) at Bistro, I was booted.

 This time, the laconic 'tender gave a wink as he called my posse 'smart girls' for cutting off soon after that last pitcher. True, it's tough to make the call when four shots costs a dozen dollars, but with work and working out and never sleeping in? The sky started spitting the second we stood from our chairs, and I hopped on my bike and headed east. The rain picked up quicker than my speed, and I booted it back, catching drops in my bangs and on my legs as they pedaled with a strange drunken confidence down College. Sure, I took a few confused, nay, misjudged turns, but the ending result was undeniable. Biking through the lit-up quad, surrounded by flowers and that fresh, summer rain smell, I felt no guilt, no remorse, just pleasure. I forgot my iPod and instead, sang on the bike ride home. A little solo karaoke never hurt anyone.

But my dog ate it!

After spending someone else's vacation spending your dollars and theirs, you come to wonder where all the Washingtons went. You look back on a few blurry pictures, but your memory of the night is still fuzzier than the photograph. A few concert stubs, the words fading from the dampness of the back pocket, created by your crowd neighbour's sweaty... whatever. A train ticket, a plane ticket, and a TTC transfer, paid for only by the quarters in change from overpriced drinks. 

And suddenly, it dawns. Money's great, money makes the work go 'round. Money is quite possibly the only material possession in the world that can make every person in the world giddy. Just listen to the Lotto 649 testimonials. But the funny thing about money, honey, is that it ain't worth nothin' till you spend it.

And that's just what we did.

You might be wondering where I've been the last month (or, more likely, you haven't noticed at all), well, I've spent the last two fortnights digging deep into my pockets, enjoying every pretty penny I pull out. Sadly, now I look kinda like the guy off Monopoly who pulls the lining from his back pockets out of the poor broke ass of his jeans, and puffs out the floppy bottom lip in desperation. Patios, pitchers, road trips, all the summer staples of a cockaigne (word of the day, look it up kids) seem perfect, but the pocket can't take it. My wallet's burnt a black hole, and the sun's not coming to wash away my pain.

So what can a poor girl do? D-uh. Invent a thrifty, spend-free guide to summer in the city! Heed my wise advice and you'll be thankful once October rolls around and your broke ass can't even pay for a ten-dollar Halloween costume.

*feel free to leave further, more conniving ideas in the comments box

Make friends with someone who does good deeds to benefit all of his friends.

Couples and couple of friends bike rides. You can't hold hands but you can bike side-by-side, which is way cuter anyway.

House parties, house parties, house parties. I can't stress this one enough. You will spend money at the bar, and at Big Slice. It's inevitable. Avoid the temptation by mingling with drunken pals old and new, preferably the generous kind who'll spot you a drink―or two―each. And the best part is, you'll actually get to talk to your friends without straining and engaging in a little ear-to-mouth-shout-style convo when you're standing next to the amp. Which is highly beneficial, especially when you're a straight guy trying to talk to another straight guy. Or worse, when someone's got a wild (turkey) case of bourbon-breath.

Hang out at book shops and/or record shops and read and/or listen as you please. No one's gonna stop ya―you're just  learning about your future "purchases". And what wise worker would want to prevent your highly-educated purchase? 

Look for free festivals. Luminato, far past. NXNE, just  missed it. Pride Week's just begun. And even if you don't consider yourself part of the rainbow, evyerone's gonna be drunk, drugged, and crazy. Beats the $16 movies. Speaking of beats.... Beats, Breaks, and Culture―Ladytron, Thunderheist, Crystal Castles... and free haircuts. The madness! And yo, if you like dem Marley boys, you will already know you must be here for Caribana―the ultimate BYOW summer carnival.

And if  the impossible happens, you've exhausted all your options and all of the above fails: walk, nay, run to the nearest park for some quality people-watching. Allen Gardens Crack Park, Trinity-Bellwoods, Ashbridges, the world's your film noir. The only equipment? X-ray eyes and an inquisitive mind. And if you're really curious (like my roommate), bring your pa's binoculars. A little voyeurism never hurt anyone.

back in T.O.wn.

I was web-surfing the other evening, and mysteriously came across a family childhood photo on someone else's website. It looks as if my little brother just peed the pool and grandpa's taking him out while I pout (yet foolishly forget to flee!) Otherwise... uninspired tonight.
I feel under-rug-swept and underwhelmed 'cause I've got nothing cooking on the back burner, with no homework and looming deadlines boiling over I'm cooling off... just like the frigin' weather.
I'm caught up on Gossip Girl (which you can, of course, still watch online) and Rolling Stone (but seriously, Heidi Montag on the cover?! mon-tagonizingly disappointing).
In the last few weeks, I've devoured I'm With the Band, and a couple of books from a couple famous Chucks. My pages are all water-logged from the countless hours I've logged reading in the bathtub (and, admittedly, sweating on them on the stationery bike).

Ah, yes, but one lone discovery as of late: city biking!
Far more interesting (and stunningly dangerous) than biking in suburbia, biking to work is faster than walking, eco-friendly, and just looks damn cool. 'Specially if your bike looks like the one I've got my sights set on. But, lessons learnt: when borrowing a bike from someone less vertically inclined than yourself, ask first if you can raise the seat. Not only do you avoid looking like a clown riding downtown, but your ass will be suitable to be seated within the next few hours (ouch). Bike lanes are o.k. but bike paths are twice as nice! Bike rides to che(er)ry blossoms in high park and new ideas and summertime feelings blooming.
First, however I must conquer getting out of bed.

SAD (seasonal affective disorder).

*Note: This photo was taken April 22, 2008, in Sherwood Park Alberta.
N.B. Sherwood Park is NOT, for the record, located in Siberia.

I flew from sandal tans and shoulder sunburns, not to be measured in miles, but degrees—all 35 of them.
-10 snowy, and all-around-gloominess in Edmonton, +25 and tropical in Toronto.
I left the house once day, to find a pair of rainboots (which I have a pair of, in Toronto, but foolishly didn't think I would need for my short stay out west). Maybe now that I have the means to go outside, I will do so tomorrow.
I'm generally an active person—I walk (almost) everywhere, I get full use out of my free gym membership, I can't stand to spend a whole day indoors. Today, I slept 10 hours, watched t.v., read the paper, read a magazine, read a book, napped while my mom drove, and napped while my mom cooked summer. After dinner, I read in bed and only got up to sit at my desk.
Alberta folk speak of the "gorgeous weather" when the snow (sorta) turns to slush, some sun pokes out, and the mercury hovers 'round 0. It's safe to drive when your round-the-corner skid time maxes out at two seconds instead of six or seven.
Drinking grey tea instead of pink lemonade, eating chili cause its too chilly for sorbet.
I went out for a week straight, bare-legged in the city. Now I won't leave the house bare-fingered for fear of losing feeling.
Pity me.

The In-Betweeners.

A quasi-familiar feeling tonight.

My laundry's halfway done—the clothes are clean but lying crumpled on the floor.

My schooling's 49 per cent—essays and assignments complete, exams yet to be written.

I'm halfway up the stairway to health, with smoothies and salads during the day, but hot dogs and re-heated cookies at night.

I'm somewhere between sobriety and bacchanalia, somewhere in the 150s of a 300-page book, stages of sleep and rest confused between the bed, the couch, and the floor.

I can't decide between super-sweet Sugar Ray and The super-sick Sonics.

The only thing I've completed is the (fully-necessary) full glass of water in front of me.

Spring's here, but summer's peeking its red-hot face 'round the corner.
Evenings are long, but too short to be considered the epic nights of an endless summer.

I'm queen for a day, but joker for the night.
The glass sits half-full, and half-empty, but either way, it's at tipping point.

Read, write, repeat.

I remember the day when I first discovered the word "repetitious".
'Twas once upon a time when my age was just one digit, in my neighbour's living room, listening to a little Marvin Gaye ditty, a song I thought was entitled "Sexual Feeling". I didn't found out its actual title 'till a couple years ago, but what I did learn was that when the same words (or as I would later see, activities) repeat themselves over again and again, and this means they are "repetitious".
Now, I can only dream that repetition means simply listening to Marvin Gaye on repeat.

Every day, I wake up and write (at least some) notes in class, read my 'readings', write for a blog, read books for English, write down orders at work, read e-mails, write replies, read news, write my own version of news, repeat. My life as of late resembles some never-ending laundry cycle—brain-wash, rinse, repeat.

I started reading for pleasure (about pleasure) in I'm With the Band, the Pamela des Barres epic where she reveals vivid detail of the sexual feelings and healings of her wild-child, effortlessly-cool, hippie-chick youth. Not only have I had to cut myself off from social life and living in general, but I had to cut myself off from living vicariously through the enticing life of a groupie extraordinaire. School and serving have me home(and)working all the time, and no time remains for workouts or working the rest of my life out.

TSN turning point (and possible internship, but more on that later):
Forecast for tomorrow: 13 degrees. So what if its raining, I'll sing in it. 19 days, nine-teen days 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19. I'm going to be such an optimistic person.... soon...

Go your own way.

For so long I've wished I could stretch my too-long legs further and straddle the two cities where my life lies. Sherwood Park, home sweet home, place of all good things old and nostalgic, and a select few of the most perfect people.
Alas, one can only reminiscence on the "glory days" for so long (and preferably no longer than a year or two, lest I be caught dead wearing my grad sweats on the streets anytime in the future). Scrumptious summer is starting to spring out of this half-hearted sunshine, and I can't see it the same driving around in SUVs, staying stagnant inside, and coming home to curfew. Especially the curfew.

Toronto offers work, weather, and a thousand-and-one more ways to enjoy it all. I can't imagine deserting this haven, how could I leave behind an entire summer's vacation? I've already begun two to-do lists, of wants and wishes. Suite 1005's staying alive for a sweet, sweet summer.