I'm not here

Yikes, has it been that long? Sorry, I've been spending all of my time (re) posting pretty pictures at my tumblr blog. I will update here from time to time, but... Tumblr? I meant Instagram

Wall shots

Another in the series of wall & shelf shots from the man cave. A lamp, probably from the 1930s, made from a hawksbill turtle, with its original silk covered cord and on/off switch.

Shabby chic Adirondack Muskoka Chair

Whatever you call them, Muskoka chair or Adirondack this easy comfortable classic design has been around for a long time.

Today's Yard Sale find o' the day. And this particular one folds for easy winter storage.

shelf shot

Just a few things sitting on top of a book case. What's that you say? What are they?

From left to right: a repro phrenology head wearing a lodge (oddfellows maybe?) cap. A big shell. A wooden sectional sphere which opens up to reveal its segments (a geometry teaching model), a papier maché head (probably Punch), a skep and a single Bradley & Hubbard mastiff book end.

And and arts & crafts picture frame with motto: A good book is the best companion.

The Toronto Vintage Cothing & Textile Show

Yes, it's that time again.

Tomorrow is the big day for the Toronto Vintage Clothing & Textile Show. P's been prepping & fretting for months and now it's time.

Today actually began with yesterday's jockeying for a parking spot and finally got a spot almost in front of the house.

Now, just a weather watch. Last year we had a huge snow storm to deal with and this year's predictions are warm but wet.

Just in case the weather started weathering early I got up and did my load at 7 a.m. and now we're just waiting for the second shift to arrive around 1:00 p.m. so we can load the clothing into Jackie's car.

We should be at the CNIB location late this afternoon with the set up finishing by eight this evening or so. Then last minutes touch ups before the doors open tomorrow morning at 10:00 a.m.



This car is full: no room for anything else, barely room for the two of us.

As for the roof, I've probably exceeded the roof rack's weight specs a wee bit but never mind. I probably forgot something and will have to add it in a couple of hours.

To be continued...

Three pairs of glasses...toast!

This has not been my week for eyeglasses. Last week the large round tortoiseshell glasses I'm wearing fell off the dresser onto the carpeted floor. Soft landing. They broke anyway. Split right down the middle of the bridge. Fine, no panic. I've got others. And rather than repairing these, I'll just have the lenses cut down to fit these smaller Armani frames I've got sitting around. I've got lots of frames sitting around.

So I take them into Ratas, my long time and favored optical dispensary.
A week later I pop in to pick them up. I put a half hour's worth in the parking meter and into the shop I go to try them on.

Can't see. The script seems a bit off. So back they go behind the curtain to work their magic and a few minutes later back out. And I still can't focus. Okay, back behind the curtain. Try again, still can't focus. Cant figure it out, after all, it's not a new script. So it's back behind the curtain they go, as I say: "I'll be back, must put more money in the meter".

Alas, too late, the car's already been tagged.

As I walk back into the shop, I hear "Oh shit" from behind the curtain. I love that curtain. The Armani's frame cracked.

But it's still a mystery as to why I can't focus with those lenses.

This does not seem to be my day and since I'm having a check up in a couple of weeks, we decide to leave things alone and straighten things out with the new script I'll probably get.

After I get home I put on another pair of glasses that I have in reserve, big round, black in your face glasses.
As I'm adjusting these, the metal hinge holding the temple to the frame snaps in half. As I said: not my week for glasses.

Colonoscopy: you bet your sweet ass!

Yep, it was that time again. People will tell you that the worst thing is the prep, not the procedure. They're right. Now, I've gone through this a few times before and have had a different purgative each time, but this one was the easiest.

But I'm jumping ahead.

When your doctor schedules you for a colonoscopy, here's what will happen. First, you'll have a preliminary meeting with the internist or whomever is doing the procedure. They'll ask questions and you'll have brought a nice bottle of scotch as a gift so that your pleadings of "don't hurt me" will not go unnoticed. If your internist is a woman, you might think that you should bring a lovely gift basket of assorted fragrant bath products. Don't fall for this obvious trap, bring the scotch.

You'll answer all medical questions truthfully while looking around the office for clues on how to answer those seemingly innocent social queries: see the game last night?

Consider your response carefully while scanning the shelves for Habs memoribilia or a Yankees pennant, that kind of thing.

Apply this to religion, politics, tv shows and popular music as well. And watch out for the weather question, it's loaded.


When you make the appointment for the actual thing with the secretary you'll be given a sheet of instructions to follow. Follow them. It's a list of do's and don'ts for the days leading up to the event.

You'll need to buy a purgative.

In the past this has consisted of a foul tasting brew which may involve gallons, yes gallons, of liquids to clean you out. Lately though many docs are directing Pico-Salax. This is the best. By best I mean the easiest, least foul tasting of the lot. Ask for it by name. See if your doc will allow it, if not beg and plead; maybe you should have brought a better scotch.

This stuff is taken the day before and prepare to spend some time in the little room. Be prepared: books, music, incense, a recording device, diary, or live blog if you will.

I cheat. Sort of. I ease up on heavy foods a couple of days prior. It makes things a lot easier.

You'll be told to drink plenty of clear liquids, soups, broths, jello (but not red.) You're tough, you're strong, you can do it!

You need to be totally cleaned out for the procedure to go well. You do not want to be told: Uh...we have to reschedule, you're not clean enough.

When you start expelling an almost clear fluid, stand up and cheer. You've done it. But stick close to the toilet anyway. Just in case.

You'll also be told that someone will need to pick you up after the procedure. You'll be given a drug that will make you drowsy. Normally you'd have to pay some pimply faced kid on a street corner for this, but here it's free!

When you check in at the hospital or clinic, you get a nifty wrist band to wear. Check to see that it's your name that's been printed on it. You'll then be given a locker and instructed to change into two hospital gowns, open at the back first, then on top of that, open at the front. If you feel like a dork, than it's achieved its purpose. You need to be humbled.

An iv line is put into your arm with a little saline solution to keep it open until you're given the real stuff in the actual room.

When it's your turn, you'll be wheeled into the room and the nurse will administer the dope. At this point you may go hush-a-bye-lulu or you can try to stay awake and watch the whole thing on the plasma screen. Do not ask for a different channel. They've heard this line before. Trust me.

You may feel a little cramping (air has been forced in to expand the colon.)

If you do stay awake, this is what you'll see on the screen.


If you nod off, you'll wake up in about an hour or so, saying: I'm starving, who do I have blow around here to get some food?

It's just the drugs talking. Otherwise you'd have said "whom do I have to blow?"

That's it, you're done. Eat lightly until tomorrow. Do not drive, do not operate heavy equipment. Do not play Scrabulous for money.

If something was spotted during the procedure, like a polyp, they snipped it (bottom half of the above pic) and sent it to the lab for biopsy. You should be able to have the results in about ten days.

If something else was spotted, it was probably caught early enough to do something about.

Oh yeah, no booze for twenty four hours. No matter how much you might need it.

How Lucky Am I?

Nephew (he, of the foot from previous posts) was over the other day and mentioned that the real estate prices in my neighborhood had shot up and perhaps I should consider selling and moving. When he recovered from the percussion therapy I administered to his head, I asked: to what end? Where would I go with my new found wealth?

I live in a perfect neighborhood.

I am a five minute (or under) walk to the library, the hospital, David & Wanda (my wonderful pharmacists at Trinity,) the Caldense bakery (garlic bread, Portuguese custard tarts) and various and sundry coffee/fast food mongers (Tim's, Coffee Time, Starbucks, McD as well as local dineries: Musa, Caribbean Fish Shak and Yu-Shan's heavenly dumplings) and all the trendy College St restaurants.

I am a ten minute (or under) walk to my dentist, my doctor, my lawyer, computer stores, movie theatres, Kensington Market, Chinatown and Queen Street.

I am a fifteen minute walk to the Art Gallery of Ontario or Honest Ed's.

I am a twenty minute walk to hospital row on University Ave, to U of T and its lectures, more movie theatres, to the Eaton Centre and shopping, to the ROM and trendy Yorkville, chic Bloor Street and even Whole Foods or Fiesta Farms.

And this isn't power walking, this is leisurely listening to podcasts and smelling the roses walking.

Doesn't do anything to get my heart rate up, 'cos I'd rather pay to do that at the Y (I mean the JCC, but I grew up with it as the "Y", so "Y" it remains -- a twelve minute walk.)

That's just during clement winter weather. In summer I'm on the bike for anything more than a five minute walk.

I'm lazy that way.

So in order not to antagonize the lucky gods: It's a shitty neighborhood, there's never anywhere to park, too many of the wrong people are moving into the neighborhood (people with money, they're going to, you know, expect things...I'll be getting notes in my mailbox that I'd better paint 'cos I'm bring down the real estate prices...) it's too close to trendy College St.

I hate my neighborhood (*turns head away and spits three times, peh, peh, peh*.)

How lucky am I?

The Best Hamburger in North America

GQ's food guy, Alan Richman says this is the best 'burger in North America. So does Oprah. Me too.

The Le Tub Saloon is located on North Ocean drive in Hollywood, Florida and while not tough to find, it doesn't jump out at you either. We had to do a couple of u-turns.

There's a parking lot which makes things easy and it's free. There's an attendant who helps guide you through a couple of tight turns and eases you back onto the highway when you're done. He works for tips.

The joint was crowded on the Saturday afternoon we went and a nice young couple asked if we wanted to join them. He, Jeffery, an affable type-a workaholic and his bride of three years live in Ft Lauderdale and come often. Sorry, I've forgotten her name but she's a third gen native. They live in the house that she grew up in; she attended the same school her grandmother went to and Jeffery is a German immigrant who arrived with his family when he was nineteen.

They knew the ropes and that made it a very pleasant afternoon; this is important since we were there for close to two hours.

The Le Tub Saloon is decorated in early junkyard with a water theme. Plants grow out of toilet bowls and the outdoor tables are planks laid on bathtubs. And the usual nautical bric-a-brac and definitely not done by a designer.

Since it's located on the Intracoastal there's mooring available for the pleasure boats that frequently pull up.

Sitting outside we were shaded by the rubber trees and palms filled with birds; beware the birds. They clean the crumbs from your table and have been known pick up the tips.

We got to order as soon as we sat down but were told it was probably going to take an hour before the order was filled. It did.

And well worth it.

The burger is huge, ten ounces of ground sirloin. While P and I split one, I probably would have been able to handle it myself. Sorry, I can't describe what makes this thing so good, but it was.

Simple burger, with or without cheese, just lettuce, tomato and onion.

Table condiments are ketchup, mustard and red and green tobasco. That's it.

You don't need anything else.

With a side of fries, also terrific.

This is what the Palm Beach Post had to say a couple of years ago:


By MARK SCHWED

Palm Beach Post Staff Writer

Thursday, August 18, 2005



Alan Richman, GQ's food dude, called Le Tub "a dream of a dump" that serves a "magnificent" char-grilled sirloin burger. "I don't understand how this spot came to have the best burger in America, but it does," he wrote.

The price of fame is ruin. Show up at Le Tub during lunch hour, and you'll wait up to an hour before seeing a menu. Fugeddaboudit on weekends. Whine about the wait, and you'll be shown the door (if they had a door).

Most people wouldn't wait 90 minutes for Le Cirque's braised rabbit in Riesling with spaetzle, fava beans and wild mushrooms. But at Le Tub, they wait. (Go off-hours. We showed up at 3 p.m. and had the pick of the house.)

The payoff: an incredible feast on a paper plate — 10 ounces of charbroiled perfection in an oversized sesame-seed bun. Chomp into it, and the juices begin to flow. The soft bun sops up the sauce so the sandwich doesn't disintegrate in your hands.

The burger itself is infused with smoky charbroiled taste. It is, without a doubt, the best darn burger we've ever sampled.

Burger breakdown

Meat: 10 ounces of hand-shaped sirloin, with cheese, lettuce and tomato. $9.50.

Cooking method: One guy over a stove as big as a closet churns out all the food.

Special sauce/seasoning: No salt. No pepper. No nothing.

Atmosphere: Old-time Florida open-air metal-roof shack, with beachwood serving as the deck and tables and benches.

The view: Astounding, especially at sunset or full moon. While we were there, a 4-foot tarpon lollygagged around in the water.

'Tude factor: Severe. One family asked to be seated in the air-conditioned room. 'Next door,' was the reply. Another inquired about the wine list. 'Does this place look like it has a wine list?' Signs declare no credit cards, no children (they are allowed). Also, no takeout.

Company line: 'People don't get it,' says a waiter named Rob. 'It's a bar, not a restaurant.'


---

Would I drive for an hour? After tasting this thing, ya, I would. Would I drive four days? I wouldn't rule it out.

Cost about twelve bucks. Add on fries, pie, a couple of ice teas and tip, you're looking at about twenty five. Add on booze and well...

Oh and we took the Key Lime pie to go. That pie, sublime.

I'll be back.

Stephen Fry

One of my favorite things (take a moment while the Sound of Music plants its little earwig in your brain) is readin' good 'ritin'. Another is reading about the newest consumer technology.

Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, children of all ages:
Stephen Fry's Blog.

Castles in the Air; Castles in the Sand

When we got up this morning and stepped out onto the balcony for our morning view (with high powered binoculars of course), we spotted some activity.

Building sand castles has long been a shore front pastime for kids with little shovels and little pails. And over the years we've seen some pretty spectacular creations often done by pro's who travel the sand castle circuit.

Who knew?

The evening, for our postprandial stroll, we popped down to the beach to get a closer look. The sun had gone down, but the castle was illuminated. And looked even better up close.

Then there was the inscription: Brianne will you marry me?

From the screaming that was going on when we got there, I'm guessing Brianne said yes.

Just 'nother day in paradise.

Good to go, thanks Beria

Things were fine. We'd been making decent time, turning off the interstate at any sign that flashed "antiques next exit" until Beria, Kentucky. That's pronounced "berry-ya" (okay "bury ya") a little town with a few antique shops and an artists' slash crafts colony. We pulled in for gas, filled up and... and... nothing! The engine wouldn't turn over. Click click click. So we did what any civilized person would do. Waited two minutes then tried again, because the car came with a self-healing option and those two minutes allowed ample time for repair.

Apparently I'd forgotten to pay for that particular option.

Numerous people offered to help, they're very friendly in Kentucky. One guy actually crawled under the car to whack my starter motor to beat it into submission (this works sometimes, I've done it myself). No go. Called the CAA/AAA and sat for forty minutes waiting for help. I was stalled in a fill up lane, blocking a pump and tried to push the car out of the way. Forget it. The girls inside at the cash desk were very understanding and said not to worry about it.

When Jim arrived with his flat bed, we (he) thought that it might just be the battery and gave me a boost and the engine turned over. Great! Signed the papers, he left, and so did we. Sort of. We got about thirty feet. Okay, back to the phone, and AAA's sending another truck. This time we opted for a tow to the Ford dealership.

Oh did I mention that everyone so far has been toothless.

Stereotypes abound but that includes southern hospitality.

At the dealership I was told that the battery was shot and that alternator would have to be replaced. They'd have to order it, probably get it by tomorrow and they'd drive us to a motel.

So it's Beria for the night. Motel close by with wireless access (but frankly the wireless at the Dealership was a lot better than the motel.)

Nevermind.

Next morning I walked over to check on progress and was told that we were good to go. The part had arrived at 4:00 am and the boys installed 'er when they came in at 7:00.

Good to go.

Freddy the Freeloader's Christmas Dinner

The first time I really felt like an ACTOR, was on the set of a TV Christmas special called: Freddy the Freeloader's Christmas Dinner. I played a waiter in a snooty restaurant that gives Freddy the "bum's rush" out the door.

We shot this at the Distillery District, in 1981 before it became the DISTILLERY DISTRICT. A great many films have been shot there, at the abandoned Gooderham's plant, and I've worked on a few, but this was my first.

Cobblestone streets, abandoned buildings were only a part of the scene; the art department had done a terrific job, making all of this look like the Depression era Bowery District of New York: the signage on the buildings, desperate looking men huddled around open fires in oil drums, so that when I first arrived and walked through the gates, it felt as though I'd stepped through a time portal into old Hollywood, onto the back lot at Paramount.

It was the beginning of Fall, 1981, and the scene was dressed for Christmas and it was pure movie magic. During breaks in the shooting, we sat around the fire and listened in awe to Red Skelton's memories of the real depression. Listening quietly and only occasional chiming in was his friend and co-star, the erudite Vincent Price.

Once Red began telling tales, that was it. The spotlight was his, effortlessly. He was around sixty-eight at the time, and full of energy, but his handler always tried to get him to stop so that he could rest. Even when out shopping at the Eaton Centre he was beset by so many fans and well wishers and he would graciously stop and talk with everyone. Red's assistant had to keep nudging him along or he'd never be able to get anything done.

One of the things he told us around that glorious fall fire was that one of his other famous characters, Klem Kadiddlehopper, was actually a legacy from his father, who'd been a circus clown. Red's dad had died just before Red was born and Klem was his inheritance.

It was a lovely Christmas Dinner.

And in the words the Red used to close every show:

Goodnite and may God Bless.

Because we don't know when we will die

"Because we don't know when we will die, we get to think of life as an inexhaustible well. Yet everything happens only a certain number of times, and a very small number really. How many more times will you remember a certain afternoon of your childhood, an afternoon that is so deeply a part of your being that you can't even conceive of your life without it? Perhaps four, five times more, perhaps not even that. How many more times will you watch the full moon rise? Perhaps 20. And yet it all seems limitless."

Paul Bowles, from The Sheltering Sky

A Bethlehem Christmas tale.

In October of 1970 we'd planned on spending the winter on Ibiza with the rest of the hippies. But we ended up in Israel, volunteering on a kibbutz instead.

Mahn tract, gott lacht. (Loosely translated: wanna hear G-d laugh? Make plans.)

We spent that winter on Kibbutz Ga'ash, a small kibbutz about a half hour north of Tel Aviv sited on cliffs overlooking the Med. In addition to the agriculture, there was a lighting factory, still is, well known throughout Europe for its innovative designs and quality products.

I started in the fields pulling ground nuts (peanuts) out of the ground. Not easy. Then to the avocado groves, and to the lemon groves.

Standing in the middle of a grove of lemons really lets you know what your nose is for. Incredible. Nothing like lemon-scented Pledge. Nothing at all.

After a few weeks we wangled jobs in the dining room. This was the best job. Even though the zmanim (volunteers) had it relatively easy on our kibbutz (we only had to work from about 7 am to lunch, other zmanim on other kibbutzim until four), the kitchen was the best.

Our day started cleaning up after the buffet breakfast: stack the tables, chairs, hose down the tile floors, mop 'em, and squeegee the water to the troughs along the walls. Wash rinse repeat. Let dry. Set up tables and chairs for lunch. Break.

The breaks were the best, fresh baked goods out of the kitchen, hot coffee or ice cold drinks. Then, we were free, left alone until first lunch; this meant an hour and a half off. Then back to serve first lunch (there were two sittings).

And that was it, day done.

The afternoons were spent beaching, a five minute walk down the cliff, or day tripping. I'd bought a motorcycle, a little 90cc Yamaha from a departing volunteer and we'd ride off to see the country: Caesaria, Haifa, Jerusalem, Ein Gedi. Walked the Via Delarosa with pilgrims, saw Crusader graffiti, but didn't leave any of our own, climbed the snake path to Masada.

On Christmas Eve, the Kibbutz arranged for all the volunteers to go to Bethlehem, which on that night, was only accessible by special passes available only to tourists.

When we arrived at dusk, the town was packed. Every hippy in the middle east was there, many carrying four foot candles, and mumbling "far out man". Really. "Far out man."

Many were also stoned out of their minds on hash or arak, an anise flavoured drink.

The other kids there were the eighteen year olds in jeeps with machine guns. The kids in the army just keeping a watchful eye.

The midnight mass service at the Church of the Nativity was packed so the service was projected onto the outside wall of the police station. A little strip mall named, are you ready, "Manger Square" stayed open as did the post office so that you could have your postcards franked "Bethlehem, Christmas Eve". Yup, did that too.

There was a stage set up and choirs from around the world were lined up to sing. Ministers and services and speeches and sermons.

We left around two in the morning and were driven back in an open canvas topped lorry, freezing cold, but a great view.

About an hour outside the city, I looked into the pre dawn sky and saw the Star of Bethlehem poised over the town.

Big, bright, magical. A Hallmark moment. Really. No booze or hash involved.

I'm told it was Venus hanging low in the sky.

That's what I was told anyway.

Peace.

Clip Clop is a Real Word

While clearing the snow from the sidewalk in front of my house the other day, I heard a nostalgic sound. Two officers of the Mounted Unit were slowly clip clopping down my street. Fine, the officers weren't clip clopping, their mounts were. The cops were saying hello and waving to a couple of kids walking by. Not an unusual sight downtown on the main streets, but this was a first for me down our side street.

Being a downtown city kid in the fifties this was a sound I heard almost every day: our bread, eggs and milk were all delivered by men in company uniforms driving horse drawn wagons. Ice and coal, too. The horses knew their customers, dutifully stopping at the appropriate houses on their routes.

We would run out to give them the occasional sugar cube, carrot or apple.

This was very brave of us, little fingers gingerly heading towards Dobbin's giant teeth.

And for our courage, we would be rewarded with horse shit. Watching animals poo was always a great amusement.

I don't think that's changed today. I don't mean for me I mean for kids.

Then we'd grab shovels larger than we were, scoop it all up and spread the manure on our lawns. I can still smell it.

One summer in the early seventies, an experiment by City Hall allowed carriage rides in the city core and we used to hear that clip clopping going by our house as we drifted off to sleep and they returned to their stalls on the Exhibition Grounds. Too many traffic issues put an end to that experiment.

I love that sound and it was wonderful to hear it again.

Then I went back to shoveling snow instead of horse shit.

It's about the oil.

I like my latkes thin, crispy and rustic looking.

Happy Turkey Day

A few years ago I was working on a picture called Choices of the Heart about the life of Margaret Sanger the extraordinary woman who founded Planned Parenthood. She lived in a time when you could go to jail for talking about birth control. And she did.

Her part was played by Dana Delaney.

I was the assistant bad guy and the real heavy was played by Rod Steiger.


We were between shots just hanging out on Queen St, east of Victoria and he was talking about the time he was driving through Switzerland with his wife Clare Bloom. They were on the way to visit Charlie Chaplin and his wife Oona, a friend of Clare's. Chaplin took to Steiger that night and they had a wonderful time.

And I'm sitting there thinking, six degrees of separation. I'm having dinner with a guy who had dinner with Charlie Chaplin.

It was a blustery kind of night, not terribly cold but there was a wind and there we were out on the street sitting on a couple of director's chairs.

And it was American Thanksgiving.

Rod was missing his family and really wanted some turkey.

His driver was there having a smoke and Rod called him over. "Go across the street to that restaurant" he said,
"and give 'em that living legend shit. See if they'll do me a turkey."

No happy ending. The restaurant was duly impressed with the "living legend shit" but didn't have a turkey on hand.

We made do from the craft table.

I didn't make the cover, but at least I got billing.

Why me?

Old story: a ninety year old woman has the good fortune to be able to live by herself and keep her independence even though she has a few medical problems that limit her mobility. She's also fortunate enough to have a much younger neighbour who does her shopping and runs errands.

Sadly the younger friend dies.

The ninety year old's response? Why does everything happen to me?

My mother has survived the war, cancer and now cataract surgery. However one eye still had a slight problem. This was corrected in the ophthalmologist's office with a ten second laser blast.

None of her friends had this problem with their cataract surgery. They were, according to my mother, all out playing golf within hours. Hours!

Why does everything happen to me?


I'm havin' too much fun on Facebook. No good can come of this.

The Legion of Decency: 10 THINGS YOU CAN DO TO SUPPORT THE WGA

The Legion of Decency: 10 THINGS YOU CAN DO TO SUPPORT THE WGA