The Summer is Magic

It was 1995. It was a hot, sticky summer, the first of many progressively and unnaturally hot Canadian summers, the kind which we have now become rather passively acceptant of. I was just beginning my love/hate affair with spinning music for drunk people for money, to complement and supplement my singing in public addiction. "Eurodance" was all the rage, Pearl Jam had peaked and clubbing no longer included listening to live musicians perform with instruments. The DJ was king. Or queen, in my case.

I blame Eurodance for the ruination of quite a few good common phrases, which have now been indelibly combined with a bad melody in our consciousness: What is love? Please don't go! I like it like that. The summer is magic. Shit. The summer IS magic! Don't make me hum it. Too late, it's already bouncing around my head. Magic, it's magic, uh-oh-oh. The summer is magic. Sigh...Terrible songs, one and all.

People always ask me how is it possible that I can place any word or phrase into song, instantaneously (which, from what I gather, is fairly annoying to those around me). It's not my fault! It's because everything has been written into a song! EVERYTHING! Someone says: "How do I...?" I hear "get through one night without you..." Someone says "I love you" I hear "hums the April breeze". Someone says "Ring the alarm" I hear "another sound is dying, whoa". It goes on and on (my cypher keeps moving like a rolling stone). It's very distracting.

But what I really wanted to write about tonight is how this city, especially in the summer, is an amazing place. I have been rather sad lately, a combined effect of my recent graduation, uncertain future, PMS, low funds and the pending one year anniversary of the death of one of my oldest, best friends. I tend towards walking aimlessly when these depressions hit, and today I put on my green flip flops, as little clothing as possible without looking like an off-duty hooker (it was a steamer today!), and wandered through Kensington and down Bathurst. Not far along, I heard the distant sound of drums, which always sound compelling to me, and strangely, not out of context in this city. I suppose it is because of where I live; Market drummers do their thing all day, everyday here, and unless I have a headache or thinking-work to do, I usually welcome it. Must be my African roots. Or maybe it's just an ancient human instinct. Anyhow, I headed towards the heart of the drumming, which was coming from a park which looked to be filled with people, possible having a barbeque, definitely have a good, old-fashioned jump-up. As I closed in, I was delighted to see young, old, black, white, brown, yellow, cool, nerdy, rhythmically challenged and professional musicians all joined together in celebration (of what, I did not discover). There were hippy chicks modern dancing with purses swung over their shoulders, babies two-stepping with strangers, Asian guys with strange gourd-like instruments, potheads with djembes, happenstancing young urban professionals swaying their uptight hips, locals with wine in Nalgene containers laughing and jiving with each other-- one and all dancing uninhibitedly to the sounds of the Samba Squad, a local Batucada group, who seem to be present at every outdoor event in Toronto-- large or small-- and who I adore.

It was beautiful. If I looked right, there were kids jumping around in the play ground, eating sand and falling off slides; to the left, families sharing picnics at tables with red-checked plastic table cloths; further left, a skater park, full of shirtless teens, scraping their knees and pretending not to notice the party in the park with typical and comforting teenage nonchalance.

I stood there for a while, taking pictures with my cell phone and tapping my feet, wishing I had the courage to drop my purse and wiggle out into their midst, dancing like I didn't care what. Instead I stood off to the side, with the other chickens and mere appreciators trying to quell the teardrops that sprung up behind my conveniently oversized, 5 dollar Market sunglasses. It's okay. Next time I will dance. Today, it was just what I needed.

NOT DEAD, JUST A BACHELOR

So sorry for the lengthy delay in getting back to blogging! The 3 people who actually read this blog are getting impatient and possibly a bit irate, so to you, Mom, Mike and Cate, here I go:

First of all, if you aren't busy tonight, stop by The Gladstone Hotel (Queen and Gladstone, just west of Dufferin) for my very first "reading" as a "published author"! I use quotations because I am still in shock, not because I am kidding. No seriously, it's a real book! Like, in stores and everything!

Tonight we are launching Shift:Positions, the debut publication of OCAD Student Press. Shift:Positions is a collection of 14 essays centering around design, and featuring a forward by Ed Burtynsky. Yes, THAT Ed Burtynsky, and he will be on-site to do a reading as well!!!

The event begins at 6:30pm, costs $5 to get in, which you can put toward the purchase of the book, and at around 7:30 I will be reading from my essay, The Toronto Taxicab Industry: Past, Present, Future.

I hope you can make it! This is a first for me and I will be comically nervous and excited, no doubt!

Second of all, I am FINALLY alumni!!! I have officially graduated school, and am the proud new owner of a Bachelor of Design. This should get me REAL far in life! :) As my father said, when I told him: "so, are you gonna get a job now?" What? being finished school means you have to get a job? That doesn't seem fair!?!

Ok shit it's 2:50 I have to go now... I will write more later!