The Alleys of Edmonton: Chianti Café & Restaurant (105th St and 82 Ave)

Everyone has heard of an elephants’ graveyard, but what of pigeons? They too have their own ancestral places of death, which each successive generation is instinctively drawn towards as mortality nears. I’m quite certain that there are many of these spots, each unique to the pigeon culture of a particular neighbourhood. But near Whyte Avenue, the pigeons’ graveyard is unquestionably located in the alley behind a pasta restaurant.

I first realized this sobering fact many summers ago when I was a street cleaner working on the avenue. If my experiences are to be trusted, finding more than one dead pigeon in an alley during the course of a single summer is exceptional. Typically, wherever I found a dead pigeon seemed to radiate some aura that prevented other birds from dying there. It was as if the other birds could smell the taint of violent death in that spot and avoided it.

Strangely, the alley behind Chianti Café & Restaurant seemed to be immune to this rule. During the span of one summer, I regularly spotted dead pigeons in that grease-stained tomb of an alley. The birds seemed drawn there by something immutable, some irresistible urge that compelled them to the place where their forefathers had died, where their children would die, where they themselves would die. This was when I realized I had discovered that hallowed, mythical place: the pigeons' graveyard.

The alley has an aura of spiritual mystery to it. The grease from the dumpsters is so compacted that it seems the whole alley is sheathed in the substance. On hot days, you feel your cholesterol rising as you walk through it, breathing the fatty air. Having been sustained by the greasy leavings of the dumpsters of Whyte Avenue, it is only reasonable that the pigeons should come to such a place to die—rather poetically, the thing they love kills them.

There are no violent deaths in this alley, as there are in the other alleys—no car accidents, no animal attacks. The pigeons come here to die peacefully, supping on grease one last time, gorging themselves until their little hearts, looking like they have been dipped in wax, flutter briefly one last time in joy and sorrow and then slowly, quietly stop.

When touring the alleys of Whyte, be sure to stop by this sacred ground and take in the meditative pleasures of its serenity. There are no maps for places such as this, where death and life merge much like the dumpster grease and asphalt. Like the elephants' graveyard, the pigeons' graveyard exists more in the realm of legend than reality, making this a particularly rare and special opportunity. I urge you not to miss it.

Afterwards, stop at Chianti for some fine dining. I hear it’s excellent.

Country meets town, and the result is tormenting

My parents met 27 years ago at a party. This, in itself, is not at all unusual. What is unusual is how my parents ended up at the same party.

My father grew up on a farm. He spent every summer waking at the break of dawn to milk the cows, work the horses and man the tractors. When school started he did all that, caught the bus to school, and then did more of that before bed. My father didn’t really have a social life--if he had time to fool around he wasn’t working hard enough--and the only friends he had were from Gym Khana (if you don’t know what that is, just understand it’s a farm-kid thing).

My mother, on the other hand, grew up in town, far from the struggles of her farm-born peers. She spent her summers at “the lake”, waterskiing, suntanning and enjoying her free time. Her main focus was school, which she excelled in, and where she also formed all kinds of friendships--some of which are still in place today.

And so, for my father, a country-bumpkin rig hand, and my mother, a somewhat spoiled city kid, to be attending the same party at the same time, fate had to be in play.

Now, as much as this history amuses me, it also troubles me a bit. Because, from this unusual meeting at a party came marriage and then, uh, me. (That’s not the troubling part).

The troubling part is that I, a by-product of country meeting town at a party, have no idea where I belong in the world. Part of me shares my mother’s love of being pampered, and would willingly spend the rest of my days shopping and having my nails done. However, the other part of me shares my father’s urges to wade through the muck or saddle a horse and ride as far away from everyone and everything as I possibly can.

When I’m in the city, I miss the country; and when I’m in the country, I dream of the city. Leaving one to go to the other always kills me inside, and as soon as I’ve arrived at one place I’m arranging the next trip back.

So for now, I leave my heart in the country to work in the city, and thank my lucky stars that I still have the country to escape to when the city gets to be too much to handle.

Farewell Ficus

My Ficus benjamina commonly known as the Weeping Fig, Benjamin's Fig, or just a Ficus tree has finally gone off to plant heaven.

I bought my Ficus tree along with a pot, saucer, and potting soil a few months ago. I thought since I did so well with my outdoor flowers, that I might try my hand at indoor plants.

My Ficus tree had lovely green leaves and the trunk was braided (there were four all together). It was a beautiful tree. My Ficus had a special place in the living room next to the window where it could get lots of sun during the day. It dictated where the lamps would be placed so as not to distract anyone from seeing the Ficus. Now that I think about it, it kind of dictated how I decorated my living room period!

Every day I came home, my Ficus would seem to wave to me with its leafy branches. I'd water it every other day, fed it fertilizer, made sure it got some sun, but then I started to notice leaves on the floor. I freaked out but then I noticed the leaves that had fallen were brown and dried up, so I thought nothing of it. I thought the tree was just getting rid of the dead leaves. I figured it was just like a pet shedding some fur when the weather is warm. I had no idea that it was something bigger. Later, I started to notice the bright green leaves on the floor. I thought something was wrong but shrugged the idea off. I would shake the Ficus and there would be a shower of leaves falling to the floor. I could feel my heart sink to my stomach. My very first Ficus tree was sick!

I didn't now what to do. I thought maybe I could save it before it was too late. So I bought a new pot where the water could drain out, I put it in fresh potting soil, I gave it Miracle Grow (the liquid and the sticks), I put it outside when the sun was out, I misted the leaves with water, and I moved it to a new spot thinking all this would help. I didn't see any improvements, so I did some research.

What I found shocked me. Apparently EVERYTHING I was doing was wrong! Here’s just few things I did:

WRONG - I put it next to a window thinking the sun would be good.
CORRECT – Moving away from direct sun and windows due to drafts.

WRONG – Putting tree in a pot that wouldn’t allow water to drain out.
CORRECT – Put in pot with drainage dish to prevent root rot.

WRONG – Not misting the leaves (I started too late).
CORRECT – You’re supposed to mist the leaves twice daily because it's sort of like the humid climate the plant originates from.

Apparently, the Ficus is a creature of habit and hates change. I thought I bought a low maintenance tree. Oh how wrong was I!

I tried everything I could to save the Ficus. I tried resuscitating it with plant CPR, I tried the plant shock paddles, and gave it double doses of Miracle Grow but nothing. All I got was a flat line. I finally had to call the time of death and turn the monitors off.

So, I am saying my last goodbye to my high maintenance Ficus. May you find everything you need in plant heaven. I must move on and your high maintenance demands will certainly not be missed.

The naked truth

Nudist colonies are just plain gross. I don’t have anything against the human body. After all, the Renaissance showed us that nothing could be more beautiful than a man’s junk carved out of marble or a topless woman with no arms. But David and the Venus de Milo are the last naked bodies you’re likely to see walking in a naked wonderland.

For one thing, you’re not going to see hot, nubile bodies sprawled out sensually on the beach, sand clinging to moist skin, like in that Chris Isaak video. Youth is that time of your life when you’re most likely going to have that tight, healthy, smooth body that society deems attractive, and yet young people are most self-conscious about their shape and its details. But as you get older, you begin to develop that “fuck you/whatever” attitude that many old people possess.

Normal Person: “You have saggy moobs [man-breasts].”

Proud Nudist #1: “Fuck you.”

Normal Person: “I think those gray hair patches originated in your ears.”

Proud Nudist #2: “Whatever.”

As you get older, you get a better job than being someone’s bitch in retail or food services. You then get a bigger paycheque. From there, you can get your life together (new clothes lead to increased self-confidence, which brings happiness, which in turn brings about the desire for the ultimate freedom: being bare-ass naked in public).

But you also get old and wrinkly. That’s okay, and kind of beautiful in a circle of life, Lion King kind of way, but not in the buff. Not when you hear Gramps grumble about “still finding sand in all sorts o’places.”

Nudist colonies aren’t evil and I certainly wouldn’t ask that they all be shut down. I’m just saying different strokes for different folks—as long as they’re not stroking themselves…. Well, I won’t go there. But maybe if you go there, you’ll trim some of those wayward hairs, perhaps do some sit-ups.

Whatever.

- Girl on the Corner (baring it all in the name of truth)

My Bubble

I live in a bubble. I love my bubble. I find that news stories make me angry and sad and I don’t like that. I don’t want to read about feral children, and beheadings on busses, and teenagers shot at house parties. I want news to go back to how it was when I was a kid. When times were simple and, well, let me give you some examples:

1992 – A 35-year-old car mechanic, a housewife, and a teenager involved in a torrid love triangle. Joey Buttafuoco, a prince among men, started an affair with 16-year-old Amy Fisher. Joey treated Amy like a queen—he had sex with her in seedy motel rooms and then went home to his wife and children, he set her up with an escort agency when she was low on cash, he even gave her herpes. So, of course, it was totally understandable that she would fall deeply in love with him, so deeply in fact, that she figured out a way to get rid of the other woman, Joey’s wife Mary Jo. Amy shot Mary Jo in the face. Didn’t kill her, but you could tell the intention was there.

1993 – If you marry a guy with a hillbilly name, he’s probably going to be trouble (I know that sounds like maybe somebody famous said that, but really I just made it up on the spot.) Lorena Bobbitt found that out the hard way. Her husband, John Wayne Bobbitt raped her, forced her to have an abortion, abused her for years until one day she got so fed up that she cut off his penis. Then, she got in her car, penis still in hand, drove for a while and threw it out the window into a field. She then called 911, they found the severed penis, and sewed it back on. The best part of this whole episode, though, is after John Wayne got his penis back, he became a porn star. Seriously. A porn star. I think that just speaks for itself.

1994 – Remember when you were a teenager, and there was always that girl that was just a little bit better than you? Maybe she played the flute better or played basketball better. And maybe you mentioned this girl to your boyfriend, and being the type who only wants to fix your problems he took a bat and attacked this girl after practice one night. That’s what happened when figure skating champion Tonya Harding’s husband, Jeff Gillooly heard about little Nancy Kerrigan. What’s funny is that I’m really not sure how big of a story this would have been if Gillooly wasn’t such a fun name to say.

I’m sure Mary-Jo, John Wayne, and Nancy didn’t think these were such amusing stories, but for the rest of the world, they were entertainment. It’s these stories that I allow in my bubble. So now you know.