Fame...they come out of the woodwork!

 

My favorite piece of architecture in Hog Town!

 

They’re right!

Once you become famous people (scumbags?) come out of the woodwork.

For example, I was just in Pavillions this morning at the automated cashier, when I suddenly spied - what I would have to call a vague acquaintance through social circles in NYC over twenty years ago - lurking a few feet away.

With no groceries in hand, or shopping cart in sight, it suddenly dawned on  me that he was surreptiously observing me.

Indeed, when I noticed his presence, he started to warble one of those fake whistles as he strode across my path in a sly effort to "unexpectedly" run into me.

What a creep.

I hastily moved on.

Just recently, a middle-aged woman contacted me through my facebook e-mail, and noted that because we were relatives we should stay in touch.

I proceeded to ignore her, at which point, she zipped off an e-mail in which she lamented:
“I’m going to put you on my facebook page” in a tone that appeared to scream:

“So there!

Now, there was no doubt in my mind that I hould give this looney-tunes character a wide berth.
A couple of years ago, I managed to connect with a long-lost brother by mail that I was separated from at about age 7, though, which turned out to be a rewarding experience.

So, one summer on a trip to Toronto, we agreed to meet.

Of course, it was fifty years since we last saw each other in person.

Each morning, I would wake up and catch sight of  my brother Wayne trot into the bathroom to wash up - and carefully don a white or blue shirt, jacket, and tie - before heading out the front door.

I was left behind in my PJ's to munch down on cheerios and watch cartoons on the latest amazing invention: the television!

When I strolled up his front walk that fated day, I was immediately taken by the fact, that Wayne was blessed with my mother’s vivid blue eyes.

To this day, I can rustle up an image in my mind, of those remarkable peepers which mesmerized everyone in her presence.
.
At the time of our reunion, my brother was residing on Lamb St.  in the East End of Toronto, in a home he and his wife Mary (since deceased) once shared with her father (a Fire Chief).

It was a difficult time for Wayne because - although the quaint little cottage had been "willed" to his wife - after she passed (13 years of marriage) it was discovered that her father neglected to have the will signed anf witnessed by an attorney.

Fortunately, my brother's in-laws had a heart.

Although Mary's two brothers weren’t inclined to allow my brother to take full ownership, they agreed to split the house into three shares - one for Wayne -and one for each surviving sibling.

The brothers  initially allowed for a time of mourning, but, soon began to pressure my brother into selling the property.

I noticed right away that in its current state of disrepair that there would only be low-ball offers.

A bit of renovation - and landscaping - might improve its curbside appeal - and likewise - boost the potential sale price.

But, the “brothers” were anxious to get the property off their hands, and move on.

Needless to say, Wayne was under a lot of stress, and depressed at the thought of relocating.
There were so many fond memories of moments he and his wife shared together in their home that were difficult to shake.

To help ease the pressure, Wayne and I would jump in a used vehicle he had recently purchased, and take day-trips North of Toronto where we explored quaint little towns and rummaged  through yard sales and out-of-the-way  shops.

Ah, we had a common interest in antiques!

My brother was hooked on the horse races, by the way, as were  my mother (deceased) and older brother (deceased).

Wayne was a ballsy gambler, too.

When he was down to a couple of bucks, he’d pick a long shot, and end up a winner.

He must have had horseshoes up his a** or - just maybe - it was the luck of the Irish, eh?

I was also amazed at his good fortune when it came to a bet that required the gambler pick three horses - and their correct placement in each specific race - during the course of the afternoon.

Although I surmised that the odds (mathematics bearing down on the situation) were against him - but time and time again - he hit the jackpot.
Whenever I accompanied my older brother to the track (Woodbine) I usually partook in the exciting Sport of Kings.

Unlike Wayne - who based his bets on track record, blood lines, and the competition in the race - I usually bet on a horse based on the name (especially  if I got a psychic impression it was the way to go).

Wayne (and the staff at the ticket line) were amazed at my constant wins!

Unfortunately, I am a cautious with my bets.

Because I only plunked down $2 or $3 for a - win, place, or show ticket - my winnings never amounted to more than 30 bucks!

But, at least I didn't go home broke with hat in hand.

But the adrenalin rush when your horse dashes across the finish line is exhilarating.

On occasion when we went shopping at second-time-around (vintage?) clothing stores, I'd laugh when Wayne would make a beeline for the wildly-pattered silk short-sleeved Hawaiian shirts which he teamed up with a jaunty hat and stylish shorts.

I can't stand those shirts!

A few weeks ago he remembered my birthday.

So, I may have to venture into Goodwill or Out-of-the-Closet to locate a snazzy addition for his collection, since his birthday is on the horizon (easy to recall 7/11).

He remembered mine in May, which was a total shocker.

I guess I'll toss in a sexy Birthday Card (he adores women) and a racing form to boot!
 
It's kind of comforting to know you're not alone in the world, eh?

 

http://www.thetattler.biz

Memories of my youth...Tom Sawyer style! Tragic loss of childhood friend...

On occasion memories drift back to my youth in the West End of Toronto at about age five or six.

I smile when it dawns on me - that in some respects a handful of my childhood adventures with a neighborhood friend Johnny French - were not disimilar in nature to those experienced by Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn.

Granted, ours were deep within the wilds of the city (Hog Town), but were just as impacting on our impressionable young minds.

In essence, our excursions into the uncertain realms beyond the perimeters of our humble run-down neighborhood, were the bold-faced efforts of two boys to brave the man-made elements (with the ultimate aim of coming to terms with their place in the grand scheme of things).

Just behind our row of doll-size houses, a stretch of railroad track - and a huge tact of overgrown undeveloped city property - beckoned us each waking hour.

When the opportunity arose, Johnny and I would slink away, and take advantage of its bounty.

One of our favorite past-times was to sneak onto the railway line and hop from one tie to the next - as we kept an eagle eye open - for treasures along the way.

Once, we stumbled across a crate full of oranges, which we summarily dragged home (only to be accused of stealing the succulent offerings from a storage facility to our great dismay).

Sometimes we were so engrossed in our fantasies on the tracks - that we failed to anticipate foes that might creep up on us unawares - while our backs were not up.

For example, one carefree morning we were marvelling at a pile of beautifully-charred  rocks by the tracks, when a serviceman for the railroad suddenly appeared out of nowhere on a curious-looking device that rolled along as he pumped a handle up-and-down in the middle of it.

"Heh, you kids! Get outta here. This is private property," he hollered from his lofty perch on the trolley as he sped towards us at breakneak speed flailing his hands and gesturing for us to get out of harm's way.

The most exciting adventures were beneath the very earth.

One day, we happened to spy an opening in the side of a steep hill, where an ocassional puff of steam issued forth from the mysterious depths below.

After a quick look-see, we soon discovered an underground world, that consisted of endless tunnels (it seemed) that stretched into the darkness here there and eveywhere to Kingdom Come (I surmised).

Johnny and I were bent on exploring and conquering each and every one.

Not a simple or easy task.

For starters, there usually was a foot or two of sewer water rushing along on the floor of the slippery tunnel floor - and the smell was enough to knock 'ya out on occasion (in spite of the fact we tried to block out the burning fumes that made our noses water and our eyes smart with kleenex).

Once, I got my pant leg caught on a nail, and ended up with a gaping hole in the flimsy fabric from ankle to knee.

In one section of an empty field, where bushy shrubs and wild flowers reached up to the sky in all their lazy glory, we'd occasionally spy a band of hoboes napping under one or two of the grand old shade trees.

The Hollyhocks fascinated me in particular, as did a myriad of intriguing wild flowers, that dotted the terrain as far as the eye could see.



An old mill, about a mile or so to the south, was another exciting  place for our imaginations to run rampant.

In a rusty old bin one day, Johnny and I found a raft of boxes which contained mixes for cakes and muffins, just left to rot.

Delighted with our find, we hauled a handful of them home, only to be told (in disgust) that the food stuffs had been tossed into the garbage because they were contaminated or spoiled due to expired dates.

Then, as I noted in a post a few weeks ago, a social worker arrived on my mother's doorstep one day, unexpectedly.

Suddenly, my whole world changed, literally over-night.

In one adventurous moment, I was playing alongside Johnny, in the next I was being whisked off to the suburbs to be placed in a foster home.

Unfortunately, I would never see Johnny again, because of a tragedy that struck.

Gramma and Poppa and I were sitting at breakfast one morning when they awkwardly pointed to a news item that was published in the daily paper.

The headline noted that a family - by the name of  "French" - was  burned to death in a devastating fire in the West End of Toronto the previous evening.

Once the investigation was completed, the authorities determined the shocking truth.

Johnny's family home has been condemned by the City inspector months earlier.

Rather than board up the house - or renovate at considerable expense - the landlord simply pasted over the eviction notice and rented the property to the French's.

All thirteen family members died in the tragic blaze triggered by an faulty electrical outlet.

Although I choked up at first, for some reason, I found it difficult to cry.

In fact, it was not until many years later, that I was able to express my emotions over the loss of my best friend.

The only person I'd ever been that close to in my life had been snatched away without mercy.

Why, God, why?
 
 

Old Weston Road Boyhood Haunt!

(1898)

 
 

http://www.thetattler.biz

 

The past...quote!

The past is like a ship

that glides through the night

running silent, but running deep

Julian Ayrs

The Daily Planet

Collection of Poems

www.julianayrs.com

Mother...memories indelibly edged in my mind!

Occasionally, I flash back to my childhood.

One memory of my Mother - though tucked away in the dusty recesses of my mind - remains the Saintliest!

I recall her lovingly washing my wee body in a basin of sudsy lukewarm water as I splashed about and squealed in delight.

In another precious moment, she cradled me in her arms as she sang a popular tune of the day.

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine

You make me happy, when skies are gray

You'll never know, dear

How much I love you

Please, don't take my sunshine away

The other nite, dear
As I lay sleeping
I dreamed I held you in my arms.
When I awoke, dear
I was mistaken
And I hung my head and cried.

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine
You make me happy, when skies are grey
You'll never know, dear
How much I love you
Please, don't take my sunshine away

To this day, I imagine, she was not only singing out those heartfelt thoughts to me, but also to my dear father, Victor, who had just passed away.

J.M. Barrie once said:

"God gave us memories that we might have roses in December."

http://www.julianayrs.com

School Days...Mr. Morgan wore a red ruby pinky ring! I was a terror...

Frankly, I don't why, but last night memories of an old teacher of mine from grade school, popped into my head.

Ah, Mr. Morgan!

If I recall correctly, he wore natty grey suits, horn-rim specs, and a red ruby ring on his pinky finger that winked in the light now and then.

Although, I was clueless about matters that pertained to "sex" back then - in retrospect - I just betcha he was (as we used to say) "light" in the loafers or "musical" at best. (gay)

I was quite the jokester when I was a student.

Because I was on the Honor Roll, the teachers usually let me get any with murder.

Yes, I was quite the cut-up in class.

For some reason, Mr. Morgan was my perfect foil.

I was always pulling gags on him.

For instance, one day at recess, I strolled up to Mr. Morgan (who was watching over the students on break with an eagle eye) and struck up a little bit of idle chit-chat.

"Mr. Morgan, how do you like my ring," I chirped, as I thrust the gawdy over-sized diamond within admiring-distance, for him to take a gander at.

"Very Nice," he politely responded with hardly a glance.

At that precise moment, as my hand was about two inches away from his face, I squeezed a small container of water in the palm of my hand (which was attached by a small tube to the fake ring) and a jolt of water splashed all over his face!

For a second - he glared at me - as the droplets of water slowly dribbled down the lapel of his jacket. Then, he stormed off towards the schoolhouse, in disgust.

Yeah, I was a hard case, alright.

On another occasion, I offered him a stick of gum, which he graciously accepted.

'Ya got it!

It was one of those trick packets of spearmint that turns into a sort-of mousetrap that snares the finger when the stick of gum is pulled out of the realistic-looking candy wrapper.

Gotcha, Mr. Morgan.

But the funniest one was the exploding pen.

Well, sort-of.

One day, as the class was busy writing an essay, I strategically placed a fake pen in one of the aisles on the floor just behind me.

As I anticipated, Mr. Morgan strode up and down in-between the desks, to make sure no one was cheating.

When Mr. Morgan stumbled across the pen - as I surmised he would - he systematically asked each pupil as he moseyed up the aisle if they were perchance the owner of the writing utensil.

At my desk, he called out my name to get my attention.

At first, I pretended not to hear, to ensure he wasn't tipped off about the gag.

Then, I gazed up with an innocent look on my face, and replied calmly.

"Sir?"

Is this your pen?" he asked in a hushed voice.

"No, I don't think so," I responded confidently, as I turned back to my assignment.

Then, as Mr. Morgan started to walk away, I spoke out.

""Mr. Morgan? That might be my pen. But, you'd have to take off the cap, 'cause mine has a special nib."


He paused; then, a wicked little smile came across his face.

"This is one of those trick pens, isn't it?"

Blast!

"Um, no sir! Why, whatever do you mean?"

"You're always disrupting my class. And, I won't have it," he barked, as he turned on his heel and made a beeline for his desk.

"No. I would never do that," I wailed plaintively.

"Well, I'm keeping this pen," he snapped.

"But, Sir! That would be stealing, wouldn't it?"

"I know this is a trick pen," he asserted almost angrily.

At this juncture, he flipped open the drawer of his desk - tossed the pen inside - and slammed it shut with a sharp bang.

And that - as they say - was that.

To this day, I often wonder, did Mr. Morgan ever open that pen?

I like to think that after all the students packed up their books - and trundled off home when the bell rang at three-thirty - that he slowly opened that drawer, withdrew the pen, and gingerly flipped off the cap - albeit - cautiously.

Who knows, maybe it's still lurking in the dark confines of his desk, untouched.

I just betcha, though, he was beside himself that day.

And, that long after we departed, he tempted fate.

KABOOM!

Only Mr. Morgan knows for sure.

And a fly on the wall, perhaps!

Barry Manilow...headlines Vegas; long way from Continental Baths!

Apparently, Barry Manilow woke up one morning to find himself "broke".

His financial advisers either mismanaged his money or simply ran off with it.

Sadly, Mr. Manilow was forced to return to "work".

Before you could say "Memories" the 70's pop star landed a gig headlining in Las Vegas. Now, he's taking his fans on a trip down nostalgia lane.

As I surfed the TV by remote last night, I caught a promo for a new album slated for release to coincide with his current sell-out concerts on the glitzy strip.

There he was doing a kind of cha-cha down a catwalk, occasionally hopping into the packed audience to give a big hug to a fan or kiss the air suggestively near a chubby cheek.

Ah, Manilow magic is thriving in the new millennium.

Is it me, or does Mr. Manilow look a lot like Ellen DeGeneres these days?

I am so glad he didn't go the Elvis route with the flashy threads, a larger than life persona, and carnival-like gimmicks. On this occasion, the diminutive crooner was attired in a classy dress jacket (with a slight sheen to it, which I warmed up to right away) with an open-collared shirt in midnight blue and chic tailored slacks.

No jewelery, though. Did his financial handlers run off with that, too?

Just as I started to wonder what-in-the-heck happened to COPACABANA, he announced to the audience how proud he was of the "new arrangement" which was crafted for an album due to be released.

Barrie, it's God awful. Don't tamper with success, please.

Even still, Manilow has come a long way since the Continental Baths (male bath house) where he first played the ivories in New York as a back-up pianist for legendary Bette Midler.

I wonder how he managed to remain focused on the sheet music - what with all those hot muscular dudes traipsing in and out of the steam room - every five minutes or so.

In the early seventies an old friend - Jeffrey Jones (I knew him when he was just emoting one-liners in high-brow Shakespearean productions, before he played the role of the principal in the comedy "Ferris Bueller's Day Off", and long before his sex scandal hit the tabloids a couple of years ago) invited me to attend a Midler concert at the Palace in New York.

At one juncture, Bette interrupted the show a beat to introduce her back-up pianist, Barry Manilow.

"He's going to be big one day. He's so talented," chirped Bette with a lot of enthusiasm.

Then, with her blessing, he proceeded to show off his stuff in a mini-performance. For the most part, he played a handful of jingles he wrote for TV commercials, and a tune or two he'd written for a couple of name performers.

A few years later, he stepped out of the background, and the rest is music history!

Yes, he's come a long way since the Continental Baths.

By the way, has he come out yet?

I noticed in the clip on the Arts Channel that Mr. Manilow was wearing earplugs. I wonder, were the lyrics being piped in for him to follow?

Personally, I found his distorted facial expressions distracting when the camera panned in, not flattering at all. Also, it was apparent from the way he was stretching the muscles in his neck - and vigorously working his lower jaw - that he was not using his vocal chords correctly.

Understandably, he was incapable of hitting the high notes.

Yes, all that can be sweetened in the studio. But - in a live performance - it's painfully obvious that Manilow is a mediocre singer with limited vocal range.

However, his tunes - although a bit mushy and smacking of sickening-sweet sentimentality that turns a stomach on occasion - are catchy. The memorable melodies have a way of lingering, too; the sure sign of a "hit".

Keep pluggin' away, Barry - you'll turn up another winner, yet.

But, please drop the "new arrangements".

In the final analysis the song stylings are deadly - and sure to kill your career - not revive it.