Word on the street in pictures

Have you heard the word? A treasure trove of books indeed.

Such a beautiful day for a literature festival in Queen's Park. The balloons and buskers were out in full force.Kiss Machine: A congo line of graphic arts and culture. Such a stupendously spunky magazine.
Here's Mariko Tamaki ( wearing the hat in the centre), the Toronto-based writer of Skim, a graphic novel which inspired Kiss Machine.

This is Kiss Machine's last issue. *sob* They were selling back issues (and the newest issue featured here) at 3 issues for 5$. Such a steal.
And for girls who get it, flock to Shameless. If you look closely you can spot editor, Megan Griffith-Greene, standing in the brown shirt. Another reason to check out Shameless is....
...because I contributed to the newest issue! My review of Lisa Bozikovic's self-titled EP can be found on pg. 44. (yes I am aware that this is shameless self promotion *wink*)

The Women's Book Store booth. They had some on sale for 2.99$

Heading home, hanging in Museum station. This ancient column looked quite friendly. I named him Ya-bub.
Maybe if I stand still enough I can become a permanent fixture. We do have similar noses. What a splendid day celebrating words.

A peek in the window

I walk past houses at night
Peer inside
To see their life
Is it like mine?
Do their feet squeak on the pavement?
Do they sing when no one can hear?
Where is the sign
That will tell me where my toes
Should land
On solid ground?
I might just plunge in,
Being this godly can’t be good for me
I don’t know the steps
But I don’t have to
Today I’ll plod on blind
Walk on air
The blindfold is tied and secure for once
I can’t stare
At your choices
What I see in here is larger than it appears
The blind spots hinder me
So I’ll make it more clear
Wipe off the glass
Take a good look
Where I can’t hide
Behind excuses
I’ll feel my foot hit the ground
And then the other
The rhythm of my pace
Has a kind of grace
That I didn’t plan
Today
I do what I can
To keep my eyes
On my face

Lovely Ladyfest evening at Tranzac

Emma Brender, better know as Party Time, ceases to play the guitar for a moment, at the sound of the cell phone ringing plaintively and audibly. She looks down near her black sneakers and announces, laughing, “Oh, its this phone, that’s funny.”

The crowd gathered at Tranzac on a Saturday night, for Ladyfest’s solo-artist concert seems to think so as they erupt into sporadic giggles.
Emma smiles uncontrollably explaining, “Its not my phone, but I should have turned it off, duh!” She has a short, boyish haircut and wears a navy tee and jeans. When she starts strumming the same tune again most of us seated in clusters can’t contain our laughter. The turn out tonight consists mostly of women, but you can detect a few men seated amongst the tables of tiny flickering candles in the darkness.

“Don’t laugh!” Emma pleads, playfully, and stops singing again. At this point she can’t stop from giggling either, and bends over to retrieve the phone that hasn’t stopped ringing. Apparently it’s her friend’s phone. “Andy, work’s calling. They really want to talk to you.” By now the laughter is unstoppable.

Emma has a very candid way of talking, that’s refreshing and disarmingly cute. She seems used to poking fun at herself in a good natured way. She’s the first to take the stage tonight, as part of a line up of 5 talented, female musicians. Unfortunately I don't get the chance to hear Heather Sita Black and Rae Spoon play. After her first song she tells us that her first set was supposed to make us “rowsy.”

“Rowsy?” she repeats, covering her face with her hand and laughing. “I was going to say rowdy, but I was thinking drowsy and that’s what came out,” she explains, matter-of-factly, smiling. Accompanied only by her guitar chords, Emma’s voice takes on lark-like capabilities, as well as deeper tones that resemble the pebbles brooding underneath a cool, clear mountain stream. Her lyrics are sad, thoughtful, playful and hauntingly true. Her song “Joy,” touches a chord. “The things you said the last time we spoke, make me want to light a matchstick, give it a little flick, and watch you and I go up in smoke.”

On her myspace page she describes her music as so sad its funny. In some cases this is definitely true. One of her new songs, which she is hesitant to play because she’s afraid the words will escape her, is a perfect example. She introduces the song by explaining that, “love is infinite,” stretching her arms. “But monogamy is limited, and limiting, and I’m limiting it. Right now.” One endearing quirk about Emma is that she often appears embarrassed with herself for being so forthcoming, but she always recovers quickly.

“Love doesn’t get lost, it gets recycled. It comes back as a paper plane, or a message in a bottle…What do they think love is anyway? Some magical syrup you pour on your pancakes?” By the end of her performance, Emma has certainly charmed me.

Next on the stage is a personal favourite of mine, Lisa Bozikovic, an alternative folk artist who seems as bonded to the red keyboard she plays as an additional appendage of her body.
Lisa's wearing a grey tank top with thick straps, a thin silver chain and jeans. Her smoky eyes almost match her short, auburn hair as she croons, “push it away, push it away”, her fingers flying over the keys fluidly. She tells the crowd that she thinks it’s incredible that an event like this runs every year, and goes on to say that, “It really sucks that NOW magazine didn’t think LadyFest was cool enough to write an article about.”

She plays three new songs that aren’t featured on her EP tonight, and each one accentuates the diversity of her voice. The first has a playfully light sound, and her face fills with emotion as she sings, “and its my heart you’re warming as the weather gets cold….and its not the end, it’s a space in between. It’s a place we’re going and a place we have been.” Lisa often has a look of utter contentment on her face while performing, as if while playing the keyboard, she’s home.

The next song is a departure from the slower, undulating sound of her other tracks. She introduces it by explaining, “I’ve never written anything this intense, so it’s kind of scary.” The notes seem to pound violently, like terrified running in the dark. The song has a dark, emotional horror-like feel, “take this love away, all at once.”

Her last song really showcases her vocal range, rising like the sound of tinkling crystal, and then dropping gracefully like warm, soft shadows breathing amongst the trees. Her voice takes on a surreal yet natural texture, cascading like water. Its painful and mysterious, but beautiful too.

The last artist I was able to witness perform was Dinah Thorpe, who integrated traditional instruments like the banjo and harmonica with electronic keyboard in a very interesting way. Tall, with short brown hair that flares out a bit, Dinah’s unique voice floats over the crowd as she turns her body to the beat.

She has a lingering, Celtic tinged sound, like wisps floating on the breeze. But her songs aren’t something you can brush aside, with bold, political lyrics to match her intense delivery. One song she claims to be sacrilegious mixes pulsing dance beats with church organ sounds. She repeats, “I’m tired of cars, I’m tired of cars…I’m tired of rock ‘n’ roll, I’m tired of rock ‘n’ roll… I’m tired of white men running things.” The fast pace of the song contrasts with her soft, explosive-laden voice.

Her final song, titled Jukebox religion has an in-your-face happy beat that makes me want to trip through empty school hallways and slide down railings for the rush. When she comes in with a fucking rad harmonica solo at the end of the song, my face transforms into a smile. This is what Ladyfest is about, I think.

Queen West Art Crawl in pictures

Photographs complimentary of Claire

Learn to do the candycake corkscrew. Now doesnt that sound delicious?

So I visited a stripclub for the fist time and I have to admit I have acquired a fascination with the sacredly sexy art of pole dancing. Something about all that twisting, turning, undulating, dipping and spreading unleashes some animal instinct, you know? Well that’s how I reacted when I witnessed the art form live. Only the stripper I saw was named Destiny and her outfit left a lot less to the imagination. Pole dancing also looks like damn good exercise, so why not give it a try? Below is a brief instructional video that gives you an idea about some of the signature moves. You may not be as toned as the blonde manipulating the pole, but pole dancing should be more about how you feel, especially if you’re not interested in entertaining a room full of men for money. If you are, then power to you and these moves will surely help you get an extra bill or two in your g-string. As much as I admire the women on the pole I doubt I’ll ever be up on a mirror-lined stage, doing the spread eagle. For now I’m content just to watch. Enjoy!

foray into the eclectic TCB tattoo parlour

I feel like I’ve walked into someone’s personal sanctuary and the green plastic demon-like bunny creature is staring at me accusingly from across the room. He’s smoking a cigar and his eyes seem to say, “what the fuck are you doing in a tattoo parlour, you wanker?”

In truth I just wanted to witness a pin-pricking experience for the first time, and so I accompanied my friend Matti, to TCB Tattoo Parlour on 618 Queen St. West.

This was my first time in a tattoo shop, and I was struck by how each artist’s work station resembles an eccentric dorm room, with walls plastered in strange odds and ends. Each space seems to be as personal, eclectic and cluttered as the art that adorns each artist’s bodies. I happen to be seated across from a collection of dead mounted critters and antlers. By the time Matti’s tattoos are finished, I’ve become acquainted with the smoking demon-bunny and his owner, Wes Dix, who is willing to answer my stream of queries, including those involving his taxidermy trophies. It’s impressive that he can colour in purple clouds on Matti’s arm while simultaneously satisfying my curiosity.

Wes has worked at TCB for about a year and a half, but he’s tattooed at his fair share of parlours in Toronto (the random guy in this picture is not Wes). This is a real tattoo shop, he says, unlike the commercial shops he’s worked at in the past. Here he can be a dick, so to speak. At a commercial joint you have to be nice to everyone, he says, whether they deserve it or not. Somehow it’s hard for me to imagine the guy sharing his peanut M&M’s with us being churlish with customers, but apparently it happens. “Tattooing is not a glamorous job,” he explains. “You have to tattoo a lot of gross, unsavoury people.” He quickly adds, “Not you,” to my friend. We both crack up.

There is a yellow and black checkerboard floor underneath us, classic rock blasting on the speakers, and a bald artist with a client in the work station to the left of us who has taken a very revealing seat. Revealing because I am now have a very clear view of the green and blue talon design spread across his right ass cheek. What a pinch. His client is a wavy-haired blonde in a red skull emblazoned tank top. Today he is extending the already elaborate skeleton themed tattoo which winds around her upper arm. The process has already taken 6 months, and it’s obvious that she has developed a friendship with the artist piercing her skin. “I like to give him a hard time,” she says laughing. The atmosphere is relaxed, as Wes and his co-worker discuss their enjoyment of Project Runway, and the fight they witnessed on ecstasy. You can meet a lot of friends in this profession, says Wes, “I’ve been the best man at a couple of weddings.”

Maybe experiencing something that is both painful and transformational with someone inevitably leads to some kind of bond. There is also a certain intimacy that comes with the contact of tattooing, and the fact that you are altering someone in a significant way.

A few work stations away sit a set of rock’em sock’em robots, and a majestic sailing ship figurine atop a shelf. Matti is taking the pain like a champ, and proof of his battle wounds are visible as he turns over on the table, leaving blood stains on the paper sheet cover. He says that on a scale of 1-10, he’s experiencing a pain factor of about six. When I ask Wes what his experiences are like with female tattoo virgins he says it depends on how he reacts to the situation. “If you feed into the drama it can get fucking out of control. They start whining, stopping every second, crying and shit,” he explains.


TCB has two tattoo artists who are women, and I was able to witness one complete a particularly painful looking tattoo on the inside of a man’s lip. Aside from the advantage of gazing into a pretty face Wes feels that, “you get a lot more business if you got boobs, I tell you that. Boobs business. A lot of guys will get a tattoo just to get one from a girl.” Personally he would rather worry about the quality of the tattoo on his skin than the sex of the artist creating it, “If you’re a good tattooer then it doesn’t matter what kind of plumbing you got.”

By the end of the tattoo session Wes is used to my constant scribbling, and takes my interrogation with good humour. So when a co-worker offers to get coffee, and Wes places his order, he anticipates what I’ll jot down about him next. “Likes muffins.”

He wonders if the impression I got from watching shows like TLC’s Miami Ink has changed since visiting a real shop like TCB. I replied that even though famous tattoo artists may own night clubs and expensive watches, the common factor is that they are all just guys, underneath the big bank accounts. Even though Wes’s paycheque is smaller, he’s still doing what he loves, what he’s wanted to do since high school. Plus he has the freedom to be a dick, but if you bring a muffin he’s sure to go easy on you.

A sexy killer indeed

Sexykiller is a lurid foray into gore, fashion and one woman’s agenda for reckless murder. Oftentimes over the top, director Miguel Marta has created a campy, irreverent world where death is delivered with style, in a senseless, yet calculated, manner.

The mood was festive at the Ryerson Theatre, where the Toronto International Film Festival’s Midnight Madness program attracted students and refined movie-goers alike to the promise of blood and comedy, on Friday, Sept. 12. Marta and his lethal leading lady, Macarena Gomez, were both present at the world premier of Sexykiller on Ryerson’s campus. Gomez looked classy and sleek, and less like a killer than her on-screen persona, until she pulled a mock gun on her director and asked with playful flair, “Shall I do it?”

Sexykiller follows the reckless rampage of Barbara (Gomez), a Barbie-inspired Latin beauty who gets off on hacking heads at a medical campus in Spain, and then harbours the remains in her refrigerator. Her desire for revenge is insatiable, spurred by anything from unsatisfactory sex with a partner whose cock barely penetrates, to the unlucky woman who purchases the red dress she has her eye on.

You have to hand it to her, Barbara knows what she wants, and she goes for it. Mixing death and pleasure is her forte, in a field of expertise where women aren’t expected to wield a knife. In fact, the disbelief is raised by some of her male victims. But Barbara has no time for sexist attitudes. She declares to the shaking young man she means to kill, “You know what the problem with the world of serial killers is? Too much male chauvinism.”
She kills her victims with as much skill and precision as she dedicates to her beauty regime and accessories, and with deadly results. Using sexuality as another foolproof weapon in her arsenal, she litters the university with corpses, and takes the time to describe her precise chilling techniques to the audience with cooking show finesse. During a particularly educational segment she explains to the viewer that the three basic tools of murder occupy every household kitchen: masking tape, a handkerchief and a plastic bag. Watching her next victim hop hysterically around her apartment, blindfolded and suffocating inside plastic, it’s easy to appreciate the humour of the stylish and inventive murders that dispatch those who piss her off. The slaying spree thrives until Barbara falls hard for Tomas (played by Cesar Camino), a student who cuts up cadavers and invents a method for witnessing the final moments of the dead. She mistakes his penchant for blood as akin to her own, and gets wet at the thought of a kindred spirit in crime. But when Tomas discovers that the campus killer the authorities have been hunting down is his lover, and Barbara discovers he’s not a murderer after all, their twisted tryst ends. For Barbara, being tied down to a man would terminate her opportunities to tie down and mutilate others. And that isn’t about to happen any time soon.

Barbara isn’t your stereotypical horror flick female evildoer. She isn’t possessed and tied to a bed, or some demon who devours children in the dark, or some cursed woman crawling in a crablike manner down the stairs making unnerving creaking noises. Barbara stirs shit up, and those who stand in her way, whether they deserve it or not, are punished. Whether it’s death by stiletto or a being strung up by your ribcage, the merciless mamacita of this gag-filled comedy turns murder into a fatal fashion statement.

*Featured in Mutedmag.com