Brad Mackay : Freelance Journalist

An Era Drawn to a Close
National Post, January 2003

Toronto's Holy Trinity of cartooning bids farewell to its memorable lunches
They came, they saw, they griped. And after 11 years and more than 400 vitriol-laced lunches, Toronto's Holy Trinity of cartooning -- Seth, Chester Brown and Joe Matt -- is calling it quits.
Matt, the creator of Peepshow, the autobiographical comic, is pulling up stakes and returning to his native U.S. to follow love and new opportunities. And with his departure, the weekly ritual that is now as well known as the artists themselves will end.

Shortly after Matt, 39, moved to the Toronto area in 1991, he insinuated himself into the dyad that is Seth and Brown. Seth, 40, is the creator of Palookaville and has done work for The New Times, The Wall Street Journal and The New Yorker. Chester, 42, is the man behind Yummy Fur and Louis Riel.

Their lunches, usually at Sushi on Bloor, became a forum where they could commiserate and kvetch about the state of their industry. It became renowned among the alt-comic literati, mainly because they often depicted themselves and their lunches in the pages of their comics. For example, in an early issue of Peepshow, Chester and Seth are portrayed as ruthlessly browbeating Joe because he can't remember who was U.S president during the Civil War -- much less who won.

Another memorable get-together had Seth listing the reasons Matt didn't have a girlfriend -- his addiction to pornography and the fact that he occasionally pees in a jar to avoid using the shared bathroom in the rooming house where he lives. When Matt insists that any offending smells are kept at bay by a screw-on cap, Seth replies, "Good. That'll come in handy when you eventually start s--- -ing in it. Better yet, maybe you should just start wearing adult diapers. That way you'd never have to leave your room."

It's this level of repartee that has earned the cartoonists a reputation that is part Algonquin Round Table, part Three Stooges.

"It's definitely a love-hate relationship," says Matt. "It's like a Marx Brothers movie where Seth is Groucho, Chet is Harpo, the silent one, and I'm Chico. You know, because he's the one that's always driving Harpo crazy."

This is borne out during a recent chinwag. As they settle into their window seat, Seth finishes recounting a favourite Stooges short (complete with Curly impersonation) before starting a monologue that darts from early '80s punk rock references to forgotten Canadian cartoonists to the melancholy inherent in superhero comics of the '60s. Joe, meanwhile, struggles to keep pace, and Chester occasionally lets loose with a whinnying laugh.

Inevitably, the conversation turns to Matt's 24-year-old girlfriend, with whom he'll live in New York.
"She's great," says Matt. "She's good people."

"Yep. It's a shame she has to grow up," snaps Seth.
Then, after some references to Matt's slow creative pace, the conversation turns to overrated cartoonists and the trio's perverse fondness for the Naked Gun films.
One can assess how deep their feelings for one another are from Seth's words at a recent going-away party: "I have never met an individual as irrational and irritating as Joe Matt," he said. "I have spent endless hours discussing the various merits of puppet styles in View-Master reel, over the proper height and width of a Peanuts book or the correct volume of a urine jar."
So why linger in such a dysfunctional relationship?

"Sometimes I'd get so sick of seeing them I'd try to skip weeks, but they would always come right into my house, right to my bedroom door," Matt explains.

There's no doubt they'll miss him. In his farewell address, Seth offered up this assessment of Matt: "He added a complexity to our little group. He was like a grain of sand in an oyster -- an irritant that stimulates the creation of a pearl."

From left, cartoonists Chester Brown, Seth and Joe Matt make a toast to the future at their weekly lunch on Bloor Street, a ritual often depicted in the pages of their comics, such as Matt's Peepshow. With Matt returning to the U.S., the threesome's famous gatherings are no more.

Hey Kids! No Comics!
How the comic book almost disappeared
CBC Arts Online, February 2005

Uncle Scrooge. Little Lulu. Mighty Mouse. Captain Marvel. For years characters like these ruled corner store comic racks across North America, earning a loyal fan base and selling hundreds of thousands of copies each month. As any comic connoisseur will tell you, these titles stood out thanks to charming art and clever writing that addressed both the joys and fears of childhood.

Take Little Lulu for example: a proto-feminist in curls and a red dress. Her misadventures throughout the 1940s, ’50s and ’60s featured kids who were perpetually getting into trouble in an adult world, only to giddily stumble out again. Then there was Carl Barks's beloved Uncle Scrooge, which for 23 years weaved together colourful characters, slapstick humour and adventure in a way the Disney Empire has rarely duplicated.

Thing is, as you’ve probably read over the past few years: comics aren't just for kids anymore. The ongoing and well-reported shift towards a more mature audience is the result of a veritable landslide of challenging, complex graphic novels over the past 10 years. As clichéd as it sounds, these really do represent an evolutionary step for the medium - there’s no point in arguing that. But the new wave has had its costs, chief among them being the near vacuum that’s been left in what was once a thriving market for well-crafted kids’ comics. If you need proof, just take a stroll through your local 7-Eleven. You'd be hard pressed to find any evidence of kids’ comics or the iconic racks they used to call home. That’s because the continent’s largest convenience store chain did away with wire comic racks over the past decade, citing a lack of demand for kids’ comics. If comics of any kind are even carried you’ll have to root through copies of People and Electronic Gaming Monthly to find them.

This might not seem like much of a loss to grown-up readers of such comics as Chris Ware’s Jimmy Corrigan: The Smartest Kid on Earth or Chester Brown’s Louis Riel, but it’s a matter of grave concern for those within the industry. Michael Chabon, author of the novel The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, devoted his keynote address during last summer's Eisner Awards to the matter. In an eloquent and wistful speech, the Pulitzer Prize winning writer and occasional comic scribe took dead aim at the industry’s dirty little secret. “Children did not abandon comics," he said to a packed hall of comic professionals. "Comics, in their drive to attain respect and artistic accomplishment, abandoned children. The adult reader of comic books has always been the Holy Grail, the promised land, the imagined lover who will greet us, at the end of the journey, with open arms, with acceptance, with approval. … Comics have always been an arriviste art form. And all upstarts are to some degree ashamed of their beginnings. But frankly, I don’t think that’s what’s going on in comics anymore. I think we have simply lost the habit of telling stories to children. And how sad is that?”

In addition to being sad, it’s also posing a serious threat to the future of the industry. What comic companies are worried about is this: typically, children who devour lots of comics tend to grow up to become happy, comic-buying adults. As the quantity and quality of kids’ comics drops so does the number of children reading them, which eventually will cut off the supply of adult readers who are willing to spend $40 on a hardcover comic. The free-falling circulation and readership numbers experienced by the North American industry over the past 15 or so years is evidence of the theory in action. There have been many attempts to remedy this, and all but a few have proved embarrassing.

To the comic world’s credit, there have been earnest attempts to recreate the Golden Age of Kids’ Stuff, including Measles, Scatterbrain, Yeah! and Little Lit. But despite such A-list talent as Los Bros. Hernandez, Charles Burns, Art Spiegelman and Ottawa’s Dave Cooper, they fell flat. In 2002 they even resorted to giving comic books away through an industry/retailer initiative called Free Comic Book Day. The annual event has participating publishers donate comics to be given away gratis at comic shops across North America. The scheme managed to grab some headlines, but failed to grab that many readers. The whole affair seems like an expensive exercise in desperation.

So aside from single-handedly eliminating video games, extreme sports and other modern distractions, what’s a cartoonist to do?

Well, if you’re Jay Stephens, you trade in your alt-comic credentials and start drawing kids’ comics. Stephens, who lives in Guelph, Ont., made a name for himself in the early ’90s with SIN Comics– a decidely adult comic that masqueraded as a kids’ comic. (Imagine cartoony black and white characters drinking, fighting and swearing.) Then in 1996 he adapted some of his characters to appear in the U.S. kids’ magazine Nickelodeon, and found near-instant success. He has gone on to draw a popular strip for Canada’s Chickadee and create an animated cartoon on NBC called Tutenstein based on one of his early characters. Like fellow cartoonists Joe Matt, Chester Brown and Seth, Stephens grew up reading comics such as Little Lulu, Casper, Archie, Mighty Mouse and of course superhero comics. Yet he’s also a parent of a 61⁄2- and 41⁄2-year-old, which makes the current dearth in new kids’ fare a bit more personal. “There are kids reading comics, they’re just reading less and less of them - and I’m not sure they ever will again,” he said. “It’s a product of our time. There's a generational impetus on making mature work and we’ve gone and cut off new readers. It’s like the whole ‘comics aren't just for kids anymore’ mantra turned into a self-fulfilling prophecy."

To Stephens, the recent failed attempts at nouveau kiddie comics missed the mark for a very specific reason. "A lot of these guys - whose work I love by the way - are permanent adolescents. Most of them aren’t married and hardly any of them have children. They've stayed adolescents and they're pulling up the art form with them. They've decided that comics are for them and them alone,” he said. “This is something that's always kind of irked me about somebody like, say, Seth, who is a huge Peanuts fan and Little Lulu fan, but in an intellectual way only. He embraces it as highbrow art. We're both fans of the same material, but we have a completely different approach. He would rather keep it just for himself. Isn’t it great because kids can read it and it's also miraculously enjoyable for grown-ups? Isn’t that the goal?”

Of course, it isn’t all doom and gloom according to Stephens. There is the occasional worthwhile licensed kids’ comic, along with a flood of Japanese manga and a reprinting of the classic Little Lulu oeuvre. But as long as cartoonists continue to eschew the lowly kids’ stuff, the industry will continue its freefall, which can’t be good for anyone. As Michael Chabon says at the conclusion of his comic-manifesto: “We have to sweep them up and carry them off on the vast flying carpets of story and pictures on which we ourselves, in entire generations, were borne aloft, on carpets woven by Swan and Hamilton, Kirby and Lee. They did it for us; we have to pass it on, pay it forward. It’s our duty, it’s our opportunity and I really do believe it will be our pleasure.”

Alternative Canadian Walk of Fame Inductee: Iron Man
CBC Arts Online, May 2005

Reason for Induction: For being the first made-in-Canada superhero.

Citation: By the 1940s the comic book was in the midst of its Golden Age. Prompted by the success of Superman in the June 1938 debut of Action Comics, a parade of costumed heroes soon followed, including the Batman, introduced in May 1939, and Captain Marvel, who pulled on his woollens in February 1940. But as popular as these new superheroes proved to be across North America, Canada didn't have a comic industry to call its own until the March 1941 debut of Better Comics.

As comic books go, Better doesn’t look like it could stand up to the likes of Batman or Wonder Woman. The cover of issue No. 2, for example, features simple black and white art and promised a sober — and very Canadian — mix of “FUN — EXCITEMENT — ADVENTURE — FACTS.” (You can almost imagine a middle-aged editor throwing that last one in to lower the expectations of over-eager young readers.)

Notable for being created by a stable of homegrown artists/writers, Better Comics also holds the distinction of introducing the first Canadian-made superhero, an undersea-dwelling hero named Iron Man. Not to be confused with the better-known (and quite frankly, more successful) Marvel Comics superhero of the 1960s, our Iron Man lived in an underwater bubble city in the South Seas and appeared to actually be made out of iron (which raises all sorts of transportation and rust issues that we won’t explore here).

Created by Vernon Miller, a Vancouver native and former Disney animator, Iron Man was portrayed as the only survivor of a civilization that was destroyed in an earthquake. When he wasn't brooding in his submerged palace, the fearless (and ferrous) hero answered pleas from his young pals Jean and Ted to battle surface-world bad guys, which included such Golden Age standbys as pirates and Nazis.

Though he called the South Seas home, Iron Man's origins were distinctly Canadian: Better Comics owed its complete existence to an obscure cross-border trade law. Introduced in the winter of 1940, the War Exchange Conservation Act was designed to preserve the value of the Canadian dollar by restricting the importation of non-essential goods from the United States. All U.S. periodicals — including popular comic book titles like Action and Detective Comics — fell under the new legislation.

Within months several upstart Canadian companies lined up to take advantage of the lucrative vacuum in the comic market. Vancouver-based Maple Leaf Publishing put out Better Comics No. 1 around the same time as Robin Hood and Company No. 1 (by Toronto’s Anglo-American Publications), but Better was the first out of the gate with original characters. Over the duration of the Second World War, four Canadian companies published dozens of titles in a genre that became known as the “Canadian Whites” — after their primarily black and white interiors. Despite low production values and at times crude art, the oddball adventures of the Polka-Dot Pirate, the Penguin and Nelvana of the Northern Lights were snapped up by Canada’s comic-addicted youngsters. After the war the U.S. comic ban was lifted and the Canadian Whites eventually faded into obscurity. Better Comics would publish some 60 issues and feature such bizarre, forgotten heroes as Bill Speed, Stuffy Bugs and Senorita Marquita before ending its run in March 1946.

Of course, in the decades to follow Canada would make a more lasting impression on the four-colour world of comics with the likes of Captain Canuck, Quebec’s heroine Fleur de Lys and the proudly Canadian X-Man Wolverine. But, whether they know it or not, they all owe a small debt of gratitude to Better Comics and Canada’s own indomitable Iron Man — and that’s a fact.

Cartoons Go Online
The Emancipation of the Funny Pages
CBC Arts Online, March 2005

If you want to take the pulse of newspaper comic strips, look no further than Jim Davis’s Garfield, a strip that nicely sums up both what’s right and wrong with the medium. Despite being about 20 years past its prime, the lasagna-obsessed, Monday-phobic feline remains immensely popular, boasting a readership of about 275 million worldwide. In 2004, it was picked up by an additional 50 newspapers, bumping its total syndication to some 2,620 newspapers and placing it in a tie with Charles Schulz’s masterful Peanuts for the most syndicated strip of all time.

While there’s no arguing with hundreds of millions of Garfield fans, Davis’s strip is perceived by many cartoonists as the Fat Elvis of the funny pages. It’s a perfect example of what’s called a legacy strip a title that continues to gobble up precious newspaper space and shuts out fresh, young talents in the process. Davis’s bloated creation may be read (or maybe I should say endured) by millions, but the strip remains little more than an engine for an estimated annual $1-billion US merchandising machine responsible for pumping out T-shirts, coffee mugs, plush toys and, last summer, an inevitable $85-million US Hollywood movie. And as Davis has admitted, Garfield has long been written by a committee and is drawn by a stable of full-time artists none of which happens to be Davis himself. (Last year, the 60-year-old confessed that he spent an average of five days a month actually working on the content of his strip.)

It’s legacy strips like Garfield, Blondie, Hi and Lois (and even that poor sad sack Ziggy) that drive people like Michael Jantze to distraction. The 42-year-old Jantze grew up with Peanuts and was an early devotee of Bill Waterson’s modern classic Calvin and Hobbes. He managed to channel these obsessions into The Norm, a gently offbeat strip that recounted the life of his titular hero Norm as he changed jobs, girlfriends and eventually got married. Jantze, who lives in San Francisco, sold his strip to King Features Syndicate (one of the industry’s big three, along with United Features and Universal Press) in 1996 and slowly gained a loyal audience. But while his readership was dedicated, The Norm stalled at just under 100 newspapers a far cry from Garfield-like stardom. Nicole Jantze, Michael’s wife, business manager and spokesperson, blames the lack of promotion and the ongoing reign of legacy strips for the strips failure to break out.

“The basic syndicate contract pays [the cartoonist] under minimum wage, when you look at the average number of papers most strips are in and the number of days you're producing,” she explains. This situation is a result of a revenue-splitting arrangement that is as old as the newspaper strip itself. The standard 20-year syndicate contract sees all newspaper and merchandising revenues divided 50-50 between the cartoonist and the syndicate. If a strip grows enough to be picked up by say 500 papers, the artist’s cut can be quite handsome. But thanks to the shrinking newspaper market, many young cartoonists have been stymied by lower and lower distribution levels, which translate into lower incomes across the board.

“It’s a very, very tough business and the creator has no control over it,” Jantze explains. “This is because all the bargaining is done between the [syndicates] salesperson and the newspaper editor. It really is a syndicate, you can never forget that.”

When their contract came up in the fall of 2004 (Michael had negotiated a rare eight-year deal) Nicole convinced him to turn his back on the syndicate. The last newspaper version of The Norm ran on Sept. 12. The next day, Nicole posted an announcement on their website: if enough fans were willing to pony up a minimum of $25 US a year, The Norm would find new life as an online strip.

This wasn’t the first time someone had attempted to emancipate the comic strip. Over the 109-year history of the form, a handful of strips such as Fred Harman’s 1930s western strip Red Ryder and James Childress’s Conchy in the 1970s have found success with self-syndication, by selling their work directly to newspapers. But this was always seen as an alternate means of attracting a syndicate’s attention. (Red Ryder for instance, was eventually snapped up by the Newspaper Enterprise Association and went on to inspire a radio show and a popular BB gun before ending its run in the 1960s.)

After extending their deadline to Dec. 31, the Jantze’s announced in January that they had come close enough to their goal of 4,000 subscribers. The Norm was re-launched as a members-only strip on Jan. 3. Tom Spurgeon, a journalist and former newspaper strip writer who has tracked the Jantzes venture on his website, says he was astonished that they were able to make their online gambit work. “No one has lived the dream of becoming rich at comic strips without the involvement of syndicates. It's the standard path to becoming a star,” he says via e-mail. “But when it comes to Jantze, I wouldn't be surprised if he's making twice as much this year on The Norm than any year he was syndicated. What would happen if a more popular strip were to try that?”

In many ways the migration of comic strips to the internet is a sound business decision. Reacting to the twin pressures of rising newsprint costs and dwindling readerships, newspaper publishers over the years have drastically reduced the space devoted to strips. As a result, most strips today run at about half the page size that Little Orphan Annie did 50 years ago. The diminishing importance of comic strips, combined with a reluctance to recognize new talent, has resulted in a whole generation of cartoonists who consider newspapers a near-relic.

Since 2000, dozens of young cartoonists have used the web as a self-syndication scheme. While the quality and success of these vary widely, a few have managed to rise above the fray and build a healthy audience. Some, like PvP, Penny Arcade and Sluggy Freelance, have benefited from a young, video-game obsessed readership that enables them to run their strips for free while garnering income from video-game ads. (PvP also earns revenue with comic book-sized strip collections.) Other sites, like Modern Tales and Serializer.net, offer an assortment of alternative and independent comics with subscription rates as low as $2.95 US a month.

Then there’s Chris Onstad’s Achewood, which has pushed the creative possibilities of the internet to new and refreshingly profane ends. In October 2001, the 29-year-old Stanford University graduate launched the strip which he claims documents what his wife’s stuffed animals do when the couple isn't home. Crudely drawn yet often innovative, Achewood is billed by Onstad as “a cartoon of modern life as lived by a retarded otter, an alcoholic tiger, and two bears.” For the first two years the strip was strictly a part-time venture. Buoyed by T-shirt sales and his self-published strip collections, the San Francisco Bay Area resident quit his job in 2003 and began chronicling the twisted adventures of his four stuffed protagonists full-time. But unlike the Jantzes, who tried but failed to make it big in newspapers, Onstad has little interest in setting up shop next to Beetle Bailey.

“I see the ‘Funny Pages’ as a false goal for cartoonists. Cartoonists have to horribly emasculate themselves if they want to see newsprint,” he says via e-mail. “Newspapers were a flawed mechanism for getting this sort of entertainment to people anyway, but they were the only way. Not anymore. It's easier to send the link to my strip to your friend than a cut-out clipping.”

To him the online environment is as essential to the success of his strip as the syndicates were for generations of cartoonists before him. “The internet offers nothing but benefits for me. I can write whatever I want and not have some editor gating my work. It lives or dies via word of mouth.”

So what does he think about the future of the newspaper syndicates?

“I don't really care about what happens with the syndicates. I do my thing, we run our business, we follow our vision,” he says. “It's all a nice ‘Fuck You’ to the guys in ties and short shirtsleeves who hold new comics up against the gold standard of Garfield.”

His Brother's Keeper
David B's Confessional Comic, Epileptic, Explores the Many Impacts of Illness
National Post Books, April 2005

To alternative comics, the autobiographical tradition is as important a touchstone as capes and tights are to their mainstream counterparts. The confessional urge can be seen in comics ranging from Robert Crumb's compulsive tell-alls of the 1960s to such modern classics as Art Spiegelman's Holocaust epic Maus, Chester Brown's I Never Liked You, Chris Ware's Jimmy Corrigan and Marjane Satrapi's Persepolis. The latest contender in this esteemed tradition comes, somewhat unexpectedly, from French comics.

Although bandes dessinees (standard comics) have long enjoyed respect in France, confessional comics have failed to generate similar acclaim. That changed with the debut of David B.'s Epileptic. When the first instalment was published in 1996 (as L'Ascension du Haut Mal), it became a sensation, winning the prestigious Alph' Art Award and becoming required reading in many classrooms.

An emotional marathon, the plot focuses on a French family and its attempts to cope with a son's complex battle with epilepsy. Thanks to David B.'s masterful storytelling and intricate art, it becomes much more -- a story of the many impacts of an illness, complete with writhing demons, imaginary medieval warfare and pages of raw emotion.

Following a well-received 2002 English translation of the first half of the novel, Pantheon recently introduced the English- speaking world to the complete Epileptic. At 368 pages, Epileptic is a moving pageant that calls for comparison to Dave Eggers' A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius.

David B. (born Pierre-Francois Beauchard in 1959) has called forth the demons he first encountered when his older brother, Jean- Christophe, had his first grand-mal seizure in the late 1960s. With his younger sister, Florence, David becomes his older brother's keeper, protecting him from both the private illness and the public ridicule it evokes. Along the way, they observe their parents trying everything from acupuncture to psychics in hopes of finding a cure for Jean-Christophe. The odyssey is both captivating and heartbreaking as they turn from one guru to the next. Their desperation lands them in a macrobiotic commune in the 1970s, where every piece of food they eat is monitored.

The parents' focus on their epileptic son eventually breeds resentment in his siblings. In an early sequence, David daydreams about his brother being run over by a truck. In another, he walks -- rather than runs -- to tell his father that his brother is playing with fire. He recalls slapping his brother "under the pretext of getting his seizure to stop." In the next panel, he adds: "I throw in a few kicks."

It's stark confessional moments like this that lift the narrative above the level of cliche that the story could have become in less capable hands.

The book is also an exploration of the author's psychological and creative development. From an early age, he immerses himself in accounts of military engagements ranging from those of Attila the Hun to the Paris riots of May, 1968. His gory depiction of these events is an outlet for his own frustrations, and also leads to his becoming a cartoonist.

Likely in an effort to keep costs down, Pantheon has significantly shrunk the page size -- to almost half the size of the original French albums -- in both its French and English incarnations. This inevitably drains some of the visual power from the story.

To see David B.'s work in all its unrestrained glory, search out the first issue of Babel, a new series published by Montreal's Drawn & Quarterly Books. The first issue, released last fall, picks up on the same autobiographical threads as Epileptic, but explores them through mythology and the author's dream comics.

The real star of the show here is his art, which on eight-by-12- inch pages has ample space to stretch out, and is augmented by gorgeous drop-in reds. Just 32 pages, Babel is a fantastic platform for a master cartoonist. (D&Q plans to release the second issue of Babel this fall.)
Despite the restrictions inherent in its format, Epileptic is a perfect example of how affecting autobiographical comics can be. David B. has crafted a heartfelt and painfully human comic that deserves to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with its Pulitzer Prize- winning predecessor, Maus.

Always Cute and Often Cruel
National Post Books, May 2004

Charles Monroe Schulz was arguably the most successful artist in the history of popular American culture. According to Forbes magazine, he earned some US$32-million last year -- a payday that placed him runner-up only to Elvis Presley on the publication's annual list of wealthiest dead celebrities. And in 1999, a panel of comic critics and scholars voted Peanuts, his life's work, the second-greatest comic strip of the 20th century. (It came a distinguished second to George Herriman's masterpiece, Krazy Kat.)

Yet despite both critical and financial success, Schulz himself never shook his inherently bleak view of life. Consider this ode to loneliness from a 1985 Peanuts collection: "The most terrifying loneliness is not experienced by everyone and can be understood by only a few. I compare the panic in this kind of loneliness to the dog we see running frantically down the road pursuing the family car. He is not really being left behind, for the family knows it is to return, but for that moment in his limited understanding he is being left alone forever, and he has to run and run to survive."

The more introspective Schulz is an unknown entity to the majority of Peanuts fans, whose impressions are coloured by the waves of T-shirts, coffee mugs, greeting cards and souvenir ball caps that began to emerge in the 1960s. (A 1967 New York Times Magazine article about Schulz revealed that Peanuts was already earning more than $20-million in licensing fees.)
There are now two new books that aim to resuscitate some of the original Schulz wit and sophistication that existed long before Snoopy became an insurance company shill.

The Complete Peanuts 1950 to 1952 is the first of an ambitious 12 1/2-year project that will see every Peanuts strip reprinted in 25 hardcover volumes. Published by U.S. alternative comics stalwart Fantagraphics Books and designed by Canadian cartoonist Seth, the handsome tome includes scores of Peanuts strips that haven't been seen by the public since they first appeared in newspapers more than half a century ago. (Schulz was always selective about what went into his Peanuts collections, and indeed only grudgingly gave his approval for this project before he died in January, 2000.)

The first strip, which appeared in October, 1950, depicts the soon-to-be star of the feature walking by some friends. As he approaches, his pal Shermy comments, "Well! Here comes Ol' Charlie Brown! Good Ol' Charlie Brown ... Yes, sir!" The final panel, after Charlie has passed by, ends with the rebuke "How I hate him!"

And that bite is spread throughout the strip's first 27 months, with Everyman Charlie suffering a host of undignified firsts; his first mud pie (courtesy of Violet), his first trademark "Good Grief," his first baseball game and the first time a football is yanked away from him -- though, in this case, it's not Lucy's fault.

A glance at the index gives you an idea of what to expect. The annotations for Charlie Brown include citations for "failure in sports or games ...", "injuries to ..." and an "insults to ...", a listing that is divided into "general" and "re: size and shape of head." Much of the joy of this book is in witnessing Schulz in his embryonic period as an artist, before he settled into a regular cast with defined personalities.

For the first 100 or so strips, there is no clear "star" among the tight cast of Patty, Shermy, Charlie Brown and Snoopy. In fact, Charlie is depicted as a relatively worry-free little guy. It's only as the strip progresses that he evolves into his signature mix of bruised ego and wounded pride.
As Violet, Schroeder, Lucy and Linus are introduced in a horizon full of sandboxes and slides, Schulz never fails to depict them as both endearingly cute and unerringly cruel. One rarely exists without the other. In an era when the domestic comedy of Blondie and the square-jawed justice of Dick Tracy ruled the funny pages, this collection offers a brisk reminder the uniqueness of Charles Schulz's arch take on the world at the time.

Of course, Schulz devotees will know that Peanuts is not the Minnesota native's first foray into the comic pages. More than three years before Peanuts, the artist produced L'il Folks, a weekly feature that ran in the women's section of the St. Paul Pioneer Press. The gag-style feature, which ran from June, 1947, to January, 1950, shows a much younger Schulz in both style and content. All 134 cartoons have been gathered for the first time in Charles M. Schulz: Li'l Beginnings, published by the Charles M. Schulz Museum.

True devotees will get a thrill out of spotting familiar characters like a telltale black and white pup and several Charlie Brown doppelgangers. And even this early on, Schulz's trenchant wit is evident -- one panel has a boy telling a fisticuffed girl "Don't hit me! Just say something sarcastic."
But the one-panel format of these strips limits their appeal by not allowing for any narrative or character development. As well, the art here is clearly Schulz trying to find his way, much of it bland and stiff. The poor reproductions and shallow commentary don't help.
But in the waning weeks of L'il Folks, Schulz comes into his own, simplifying a style that he would expand upon in Peanuts.

But Schulz's goal was always to keep the cartoon simple. "I like it, for example, when Charlie Brown watches the first leaf of fall float down and then walks over and just says 'Did you have a good summer?' That's the kind of strip that gives me pleasure to do."

Life Stripped Bare
National Post, November 2000

Joe Matt's life is an open book - literally. For over a decade the Annex-area artist has been chronicling his existence using comics in place of the standard diary. In Peepshow, a booklet-sized alternative comic, Mr. Matt uses a mix of black, white and red to deliver frank autobiographical accounts of his day-to-day life. But unlike most autobiographical work, Peepshow offers readers a relentlessly unflattering self-portrait of the artist, often bordering on character assassination. In recent issues, the illustrated Matt compulsively masturbates over pornographic videos, ogles teenage school girls and conspires against his housemates -- all within the cramped quarters of his Bathurst and Bloor rooming house. Past issues have dwelled on his dysfunctional friendships with fellow Toronto cartoonists Chester Brown and Seth, and his troubled romantic relationships (he once gave his girlfriend a black eye).

In person, Mr. Matt thankfully leaves a more sympathetic impression, even if his round-lensed eyeglasses, receding hairline and prominent set of teeth make for a strong resemblence to his comic-book self. During a recent chat in Cabbagetown's Jetfuel Coffee Shop, the cartoonist comes across as painfully shy and given to fits of intense self-examination. "Art imitates life, right? Well at some point I realized that my life has to imitate my art," explained the lanky Mr. Matt. "It's like I'm a prisoner of my own construction." That construction, his life as portrayed in ink, has elements of truth.

For the past eight years he has lived in an Annex rooming house, which he depicts to a tee in his comic. He spends the majority of his time in this small but meticulous room, sharing a kitchen and bathroom with the six other residents of the house. It is in this room where he fanatically dubs and edits pornography on a mattress propped up on milk crates. It is also here that he famously keeps a plastic jar that he urinates in when he feels like avoiding his neighbours. It's such frank admissions like these that have helped him earn his peculiar version of fame. Letters to the comic, which run on the inside covers of every issue, are often harsh - including those from his mother. One reader sniped, "No wonder you're all alone - you're just a pathetic fucking loser!"

Such criticism seems to have little effect on Mr. Matt, who sees it as part of the package.
"What I'm doing is like any writer, just drawing on my experiences from the past and trying to put them in a cohesive order," the 37-year-old explained over a latte. "But I'm very focused on the negative aspects of my personality, because to me that makes the most compelling read. Humour, pain and negative qualities are all linked together somehow. "[Then again] it could also be cliched as a Catholic upbringing and needing to confess." Whatever the reason, his work seems to have struck a chord. Despite an irregular publishing schedule and limited distribution, Peepshow sells a steady 5,000 copies per issue. (It is primarily available in specialty comic book shops.) A trade paperback of the early issues, called The Poor Bastard, has sold well and a compilation of his early, experimental one-page strips is currently in its fourth printing.
Meanwhile, the dozen issues of Peepshow have been nominated for numerous industry awards and have been praised by comic legends Robert Crumb and Matt Groening.

Rolling Stone magazine was so enamoured of his work a few years back that it anointed Mr. Matt a "Hot Cartoonist" in its annual roundup of all things hip, placing his balding pate next to pictures of supermodels. Surprisingly, this unusual level of fame was born out of abject failure.
A Pennsylvania native, in 1985 Mr. Matt emerged from the Philadelphia College of Art committed to finding work as an illustrator. Frustrated by his lack of success and struggling to make ends meet, he moved in with his mother and began colouring superhero comics. "I was just floundering. Living on pennies, counting every dime," Mr. Matt recalled. Then he stumbled across the unflinching confessional work of Robert Crumb and MAUS creator Art Speigelman. Their work, along with a life-long affection for Woody Allen films, jump-started his dormant creativity.
When he wasn't busy slaving away in a Philadelphia comic shop, he spent his spare time working on a series of one-page black-and- white strips, primarily for his own amusement.
The results, a tightly-drawn diary of a witty, if neurotic, human being, eventually caught the eye of an alternative comic publisher and were soon published in an anthology.

In 1992, Montreal-based Drawn and Quarterly Publications offered Matt his own comic book series, Peepshow, and nearly a decade later his irregularly published comic (he is lucky to pump out two a year) is loyally awaited by readers. Even with his success, Mr. Matt admits he is growing uncomfortable with his dark alter ego. He frets that his comic-book version of himself has begun to influence his friends and family.

"They all seem to have a progressively lower opinion of me as the years go on. It's very frustrating," says Mr. Matt. "And it's all because of the comic." One of those friends, Seth, creator of the comic book Palookaville, isn't exactly sympathetic. "He's a complicated character. He's a combination of George from Seinfeld and Homer Simpson - which isn't great," explains the cartoonist. "I like to say that he's living the life of a 13-year-old boy who's got a day off school and is surrounded with all his pornography and his comics in his room." Of course, even this becomes fodder for Peepshow. Mr. Matt's upcoming issue will depict his ongoing travails with Seth and the continuation of what he calls his "definitive porn addict's story."

As for the scorn it is bound to generate among readers, Mr. Matt waxes philosophical. "They don't know me - they only know what I give them," he explains. Besides, he continues, "nothing would hurt me more than to know somebody read the first two pages and then put the book down and didn't feel the need to continue."

Birds of a Feather
Toronto Life, September 2002

It's Friday night, nine o'clock, at the Hamilton Central Racing Pigeon Club, and a line of wood-and-canvas crates stretches out the door into the muddied grass parking lot. Idling out front, middle-aged men and retirees share cigarettes and rumours as they struggle to protect their caged birds from the last downpour of summer. One of the youngest on hand, Doc Walker, a 34-year-old janitor at Humberside Collegiate, is hustling birds to the shelter of a trailer. Inside, a gaggle of farmers, doctors and factory workers talk pigeon over bottles of Molson Export and sauerkraut-laden bratwurst while the registration process whirs around them. Above the entrance, a sign bears an epigram written in old-timey Dutch script: Gott shutze uns for Sturm und Wind, und tauber die zu Langsam sivd – “God protect us from storm and wind, and pigeons that are too slow.”

Located between an emu farm and a slaughterhouse, this squat one-room hall near Stoney Creek is the first stage for competitors in the Annual Canadian Young Bird Classic, a Kentucky Derby for the local pigeon racing set. With prize money totalling $20,000, the end-of-summer affair attracts the racing elite from Toronto, Hamilton and Niagara for a 600-kilometre test of ornithological endurance. "They're like racehorses you can keep in the city," a man says as he attaches a band to a bird's leg. "And this here really sorts out who's who; it's like who's got Northern Dancer."

There are nearly 100 human entrants here tonight for this decades-old tradition, and their names, scrawled in black Magic Marker on the registration board, reflect the birds' transnational appeal: J. McLennars, J. Provost, P. Tavares, S. Rebejko, S.K. Fu. Although they're a diverse lot, testosterone rules the day. The only women present are either behind the registration tables or selling hot dogs and beer. This fundamentally male passion ("hobby" doesn't quite suffice) can be traced back to the ancient Egyptians, who began domesticating pigeons around 3000 BC - long before they got around to erecting the Sphinx or the pyramids. Julius Caesar depended on carrier pigeons to shuttle messages between military outposts during his conquest of Gaul in 59 BC. Thanks to his vast network of pigeons, Nathan Mayer Rothschild, founder of the banking dynasty, learned of Napoleon's 1815 defeat at Waterloo a full 24 hours before the British government did, and profited from the advance information by shrewdly juggling his investments. Fifty years later, Julius Reuters' nascent news service would rely extensively on pigeon posts scattered about Europe's capital cities.

Homing pigeons are no longer the speediest messengers, but the birds' genetic programming, acrobatic flight patterns and soft, sociable coos continue to fascinate their admirers. Doc Walker had his first pigeon encounter in Grade 6. He remembers gravitating toward an injured bird in the schoolyard before it was whisked away. "I always used to watch them, especially the males, because they do this mating dance," he says. "They puff up their chests, you know, to make themselves look bigger. Then they spin around, drag their tails on the ground and clap their wings above their heads. You can actually hear it."
His seminal pigeon moment came two years later: "I was playing basketball, and I noticed a group of pigeons flying around together," he recalls. "I thought to myself, 'Why are they sticking together like that?' I followed them and saw where they landed. So I went and knocked on the guy's door and asked him if he had any of those birds for sale. He said he didn't think I could afford any of them--which at that age was true. But then he said, `I'll tell you what: if you clean my pigeon coop twice, I'll give you one bird.'" Joe Gemes, a lifelong pigeon fancier, taught Doc the basics, helping him to build his first loft and later encouraging him to race his birds.

Tonight, as Doc toils away, the competitors, from farmers clad in dress shirts and fully buttoned cardigans to beefy Urban guys wearing baggy FUBU gear and Kangol hats, are brooding Over their pigeons' prospects. At 10 o'clock, in the run-up to the race, pigeon talk--fuelled in part by swigs of CC from Styrofoam cups--is frenzied: "Let's just hope those clouds hold off tomorrow afternoon" ... "See, there's gonna be a headwind or a crosswind tomorrow, so either way that'll slow them down" ... "Hey, watch how you're grabbing my bird! Don't spook him, man."

By the end of the night, 684 feathered athletes will be registered, loaded onto a trailer and hauled six and a half hours north to the starting line. There, in Englehart, 120 kilometres north of Sudbury, the driver will pull a lever to open the compartments, and the birds will begin their singular flight paths home. With lofts costing upwards of $10,000 and birds often fetching hundreds of dollars apiece, their owners will understandably spend much of the day anxiously waiting for the first sign of each pigeon's return. With favourable winds, a bird can make the 500-kilometre trip in six hours.

In the weeks leading up to a major race, most bird owners employ an array of elaborate feeding schedules and arcane rituals to enhance their thoroughbreds' chances. Prior to the race, some stoke their birds with protein-rich green peas and hemp seed for three days, followed by a two-day carbo chaser of corn, millet and brown rice. Male birds will sometimes be deprived of their mate's company in the run-up to the race, then allowed a brief reunion moments before being carted away. Owners of female racers will sometimes plant ticking eggs in the birds' nests to trick them into believing that a chick awaits them at home.
While Doc won't discuss which strategy he employs, the results prove he's doing something right. His birds placed 27th, 28th, 29th and 39th, and his loft averaged second overall, giving him bragging rights, not to mention the $740 in prize money. "I want to spend it on the birds," says Doc, "but my wife has other plans."

A Place to Hang His Hat
Shop owner survives through changing styles
National Post, July 2000

When David Rotman began selling hats nearly 40 years ago, it was supposed to be a temporary gig. In the midst of a burgeoning career as a printer his father suddenly asked him to help out with the family hat business. Ever the good son, he agreed.

One year turned into the next and he eventually took over, becoming sole proprietor and salesman of Rotman's Hats and Haberdashery. Now, in his early 70s, Mr. Rotman still plies his trade at the same 345 Spadina Ave. location. Hidden in plain sight among textile wholesalers and Chinese herbalists, the store opened its doors in 1940, when hats for men were most popular. Back then, it was just one of many downtown stores selling and blocking hats for a mainly Jewish clientele.

"The street was different then. Different religions and different people," explained Mr. Rotman in his cozy, dimly lit shop. He recounts how the area, originally Jewish, experienced an influx of Hungarian refugees in the 1950s. Since then, it has seen subsequent waves of Portuguese, Chinese, Korean and Vietnamese immigrants. Along the way, society marched toward a progressively casual future and the need for the formal headwear dropped off. Some place the blame on John F. Kennedy, who forswore headwear at his 1961 inauguration. Others pin it on crooner Frank Sinatra, who doffed his signature fedora shortly after marrying flower-child Mia Farrow.

Whatever the reason, around 1970 the men’s hat all but vanished. But he holds no grudges.

As other hat stores closed up or retreated to newer, shinier digs he chose to stay put. "It's important that people know where to find you," he explained amid stacks of tidy-brimmed fedoras, fur-felt homburgs and wrinkled hat boxes. But finding him would be a challenge for the modern shopper, since Rotman's is not listed in the phone book; he lives upstairs and has no business phone and he doesn't advertise. The secret to his survival? Above all, Mr. Rotman is a highly polished salesman with a unique gift of the gab that keeps his regulars coming back.

It begins the moment the door creaks open, as you're greeted by a steady stream of banter that comforts and cajoles. "That's a smart looking hat," he assured a thirty-something customer recently, trying on summer headwear. "It's a little more continental. That's the Panama hat that Sam Snead made popular." The pitch continues.

"Not only is it a fashion look - but it protects you from the sun." When the man asks about the possibility of a different coloured band or feather to dress it up a little bit, Mr. Rotman is subtly reproachful. The black band is traditional, he urges. "There's enough dress in a Panama hat, without a feather." Then, he recites a series of rules - the Hat Commandments.

"It should be worn one-and-a-quarter inches above the eyebrows," he says. "This is the holding position. "The slight tilt of the hat should be on the right-hand side," he corrects. "It's traditional. In Europe - if you remember - they used to throw garbage out the window and the man would walk on the inside [of the sidewalk] in order to protect the woman. That's why the tilt is to the right."
Thirty minutes and much talk later, the sale is made. He throws in three dressy feathers for free.

As the customer is ready to leave, he adds the finishing touch: a last-minute shaping from an ancient Jiffy steaming machine. As his hands run over the palm-leaf brim to give it a proper shape, he says: "People will come back years later and remember the steaming I did, nothing else. It's a little service I provide, along with the conversation.

"The days can be long. A little talk makes the day go by faster."

Bowled Under
There are 10,000 lawn bowlers in Ontario; 75 of them are under 21. It's a problem
National Post, July 2000

Henry VII did it. William Shakespeare was known to partake. Sir Walter Raleigh, Sir Francis Bacon, Sir Laurence Olivier and Victor Hugo were all under its spell. It's not opium, or even absinthe. It's lawn bowling.

At times called the "king of sports," lawn bowling boasts a heritage stretching back to 13th-century England. Some anthropologists suspect that the game has roots in ancient Egypt and was subsequently adopted by the Romans as bocci, by the French as boules and, of course, by the English, where it lives on as "bowls." Or, as we prefer in North America, lawn bowling.

After arriving on these shores with the English over 300 years ago, lawn bowling became a popular pastime among early settlers, who took the game with them throughout their travels. In Canada today there are 18,000 registered bowlers, the majority living in southern Ontario.

Yet despite the game's esteemed pedigree, most people readily associate it with white-shoed penisoners than knights of the crown.

"Unfortunately, that's the case," says David Bain, a bowler who, at 58, ranks among the younger set. "It just didn't come across the ocean in the same context." Today in England, Wales and especially Australia, it's considered a family game, which helps to ensure a healthy supply of young bowlers. In North America, it's another story. "It has no pizzazz, no profile, for younger people," explains Mr. Bain.

Admittedly, to the casual bystander lawn bowling can be puzzling, even a bit surreal. From a distance, the tidy greens look like wildlife preserves for well-heeled seniors. Come spring, clubs across the city host groups of bowlers in crisp whites who pitch an endless series of balls that either silently collide or come to rest as close as possible to a smaller, white ball. The rules are simple: Bowlers get points for being closest to the white ball, or "jack." But the jack can be hit at any time, propelling it closer to your opponent's balls, for which they would receive points. In addition, the balls are not perfectly spherical - on close inspection they appear slightly squashed - which causes them to veer either right or left. Watching a game, which runs well over an hour, can induce a hypnotizing effect.

What motivates players, who range in age from 50 to 95, to gather afternoon after lazy afternoon, for upwards of five hours at a time? Much like bridge or golf, socializing is a large part. For many, lawn bowling is an opportunity to share jokes and a drink or two in the clubhouse. Another factor is the scenic locations that many of the clubs boast, most being staked out decades before Toronto's overheated real-estate market caught fire. The city's largest clubs, Willowdale and Agincourt, boast idyllic lawns in the north of the city, while the Balmy Beach and Kew Beach clubs are perched on choice real estate a few metres from Lake Ontario. The most avid bowlers, though, speak of the sport's competitive allure. "It's all about strategy," explains Sherrey Sidel, 22, the National Junior Chair for Bowls Canada, who was attracted by the game's cerebral elements. "It's a very mental game; it's not physical."

Because of the movable jack, a player must carefully plan every move in advance, much like pool or chess. Long-time bowlers talk of the game as a one-on-one struggle, a duel where every bowl thrown is a thrust and parry. This intellectual element also helps make lawn bowling widely accessible. Hand-eye coordination and dexterity are the sole skills required, thereby eliminating any gender or age advantages. And compared to other summer and winter sports in Canada, it's affordable to join; annual membership at a club typically ranges from $50 to $200 per year, and the only equipment needed is a pair of flat-soled shoes.

Despite this, lawn bowling is in big trouble. While there remain 160 clubs in Ontario, 40 in the greater Toronto area, the sport is battling a war of attrition. In the past few years, elderly bowlers have been passing away or quitting because of physical ailments, and there are scant few recruits waiting in the wings to replace them. Since 1995, the national ranks have dropped 10% -- some 2,000 members. At the current rate of decline, total membership will shrivel to half within 20 years. This trend has not gone unrecognized by organizers of the sport. "If we don't get an increase in the number of people," says Mr. Bain, who has bowled for 23 years, "I would suggest the game will continue to deteriorate and quite possibly disappear."

Inspired by the expansive growth of similarly sedate sports, such as golf and curling, Bowls Canada, the national organizing body, recently moved to attract younger interest in the sport. Clubs were provided with media kits as part of a recruitment effort. The kits came complete with glossy brochures featuring colourfully dressed 30- to 40-year-olds enthusiastically celebrating a game of lawn bowls, trumpeted in bold type as "The Sport of the Nineties." These efforts have been slow to bear fruit. Fewer than 5% of Ontario bowlers are under the age of 50, and only 75 of the estimated 10,000 bowlers in Ontario are under 21. This elderly skew is a huge obstacle in any attempts to revive the sport.
Mr. Bain, who was instrumental in bringing the Canadian National Tournament to the Beaches last year, struggled to find corporate sponsorship for the event. "They pretty well laughed at me," he says of the response from several major banks. "They want the most exposure for their money, so the funding goes to high-profile sports." The problem is that lawn bowling is quietly compelling, revealing its charms slowly over years of devotion. This is a hard sell in a youth-worshipping age of adrenaline junkies and extreme sports. While similar sports such as golf and curling have managed to outgrow their stodgy reputation, lawn bowling appears to be cursed by its own. Still, faced with a grim future of dwindling membership and imminent club closures, some maintain a stiff upper lip regarding the once King of Sports.

"It's a young person's game that old people can play," says Ms. Sidel, who took up the sport only recently, in her early twenties. "I think lawn bowling is where curling was 15 years ago. Let's hope we can continue moving onwards and upwards."

The Triumphant Return of Alberta Slim
National Post, September 2000

Half a century after he toured North America with a fortune-telling horse and a tightrope-walking chimp, 90-year-old country singer Alberta Slim returned to play an exclusive gig yesterday at a Toronto nursing home yesterday. And while the sitting-room only crowd at the Baycrest Centre for Geriatric Care on Bathurst Street near Lawrence Avenue proved to be less than uproarious -- wheelchairs were the order of the day -- Mr. Slim took it all in stride."You never know what might happen, I just might die up there," he said, before strapping on his guitar. "If I do, just make sure everyone claps."

He did not die, but there was still applause for the cowboy crooner who performed two short sets of well-worn hits, showcasing both his trademark yodelling and nifty cowboy outfit.

His warbling set canes tapping and caused one man to launch into a recurring two-step in front of the stage. There was even a heckler, of sorts, who uttered what amounted to a mumbled cat call. "That's a nice story," one white-haired woman said about Mr. Slim's lengthy introduction to a song. "Now let's hear you sing it." Unphased, Mr. Slim (or Mr. Alberta - he'll answer to either) ploughed through the set with aplomb, interspersing it with off-the- cuff repartee.

He even worked the crowd afterwards; signing autographs, kissing cheeks and handing out business cards for his real estate business in British Columbia. While it wasn't clear if the elderly audience recognized the strange man with the long white hair and massive cowboy hat standing before them, Mr. Slim played a seminal, if unsung, role in Canadian music history.

Born Eric C. Edwards, Mr. Slim made his name during the heyday of Canadian country singers such as Hank Snow and Wilf Carter. But unlike other performers who milked the corny singing-cowboy shtick, Mr. Slim was the real deal. Raised on a Prairie farm, he was riding horses and roping calves at the age of 10 while strumming guitar on the side. In the 1950s he had a popular touring circus that featured Canada's only elephant at the time and Jimmy Tangula, his beloved performing chimp. He was rediscovered four years ago by rock band manager Cameron Noyes, who coaxed him out of retirement. Since then Mr. Slim has performed on both coasts and has become a semi-regular on CBC Radio's Basic Black, showing no signs of slowing down. "We've created a monster," commented Mr. Noyes.

Yesterday's event was intended as an anniversary celebration for the centre's employees and residents, and while it was unlike his typical shows, it did have its controversial moments.

Midway into his set, the affable cowboy told an anecdote about buying his plane ticket to fly to Ontario. It began with him asking about an extra ticket for his pal Jesus Christ, then ended with an inspirational quip, "Jesus rides for free." Not surprisingly, he was met with stunned silence by the primarily Jewish seniors. Commenting on it after the show, Mr. Slim recalled being briefed about the religious makeup of his audience beforehand. "They told me to be careful about mentioning Jesus. That didn't go over that well,” he sighed. “That didn't go over at all."

A Classic Makes a Comeback in the Muskokas
National Post, May 2001

PORT CARLING – It’s no secret that a quiet friction exists between the old-school Muskoka and the new. Having descended from pioneer families, the old school considers it a kind of birthright to preserve the more tranquil rituals of cottage culture. Meanwhile, the new school - such as Kurt and Goldie - has showered the area with cash, sparking a cottage country renaissance that has sent real estate prices spiralling. Come summer, which one do you think is more likely to hop on a Jet Ski? This is the tug-of-war between the bucolic and the high-octane. And, as battles go, this one appears sadly mismatched.
In the thousands of lush square miles in the greater Muskoka District, fewer than 50,000 of the old-guard, permanent residents remain, compared with more than 100,000 of the seasonal sort.

Not the greatest of odds. But the founding families possess a secret weapon in the form of the Muskoka boat. Given all the potential status symbols in this affluent part of cottage country, nothing speaks more directly about a people's pedigrees than the boats they pilot.

For those in the know, the antique wooden crafts known as Muskoka boats are the definition of old-world elegance. Think of them as Bentleys with an outboard.
On a recent visit to the area, a local boat aficionado was keen to put it all in perspective: "You know why they're called Muskoka boats? Because they cost a s---load of money."

With some models fetching more than $150,000, it's easy to understand the allure, which harkens back to Muskoka's golden years. Originally built in 1910 by local workshops such as Duke's, Minnett's and Sea Bird, the mahogany boats were favoured by both local families and the wealthy sportsmen who had begun to flock there from the city. Known for their deep shine, distinct yellow striping and sleek bodies, the boats were as de rigueur back then as Jet Skis are today.

That changed at the end of the Second World War, when Fibreglas became a more affordable building material. By the 1960s, the Muskoka boat had slipped out of fashion.

Tim Butson, whose family first began building boats in England in 1869, sees the impact even today. "A young person, like the hockey players, will buy a place up here and immediately the boat they buy is Fibreglas," explains Mr. Butson, who runs Butson Boats in Port Carling. "Then you start hanging out at the golf clubs and [the establishment] will say, 'When are you gonna get rid of that thing and get something decent?' Then they get caught up in this wood thing."

For many up here, the older models, with their spare interiors and slower engines, serve as an antidote to the more common powerboats. Mr. Butson's is just one of a number of local outfits that specialize in the restoration of the old sloops.

Ed Skinner bought Duke Marine in Port Carling back in 1977, just as interest was beginning to stir. His nondescript shop houses a dozen boats in various states of repair, and is dripping with history. Our Cup of Tea, a 1931 cruiser awaiting a new layer of varnish, was originally owned by Alex Gooderham of Gooderham and Worts Distillery, before ending up as a fishing charter 50 years later. A local family rediscovered it in some bushes two years ago and has since invested thousands of dollars bringing it back to life. Mr. Skinner believes that while most of his customers are attempting to reclaim a small part of Muskoka history, others are simply trying to keep up appearances. "It's like having a BMW and a nanny, right?" he says. "You just gotta have a wood boat."

Tapping into this interest, Mr. Butson has begun to design and build a new generation of Muskoka boats. Along with his 76-year-old father, Ron, he sees his company as filling the void left when the last authentic Muskoka boat rolled off the line in the early 1970s.

From their authentic construction (no epoxy is ever used) to custom-made chrome hitches and vintage steering wheels, the attention to detail is bewildering. Tim Butson insists the proper location for the boat's name should be along the side, ideally in simple chrome letters, as opposed to conspicuously plastered on the rear. Even with prices that range from $115,000 to $155,000, he has already sold six, and people in the area, including hockey great Paul Coffey, have begun to show interest. "Most people will use the Fibreglas to blast to the liquor store but they'll use the wood boat to impress the company," says Mr. Butson.
"One guy said, 'Hey this is my 'Vette. I've got one for the water and one for the garage."

Maintaining Bloor Street's Stiff Upper Lip
National Post, June 2001

Those familiar with the stretch of Bloor Street just west of Yonge have come to know what to expect from it: swank, and plenty of it. Armani, Louis Vuitton, Chanel or Escada; in the past decade the two-block sweep of sidewalk has evolved into Toronto's ground zero for posh clothiers. And one only has to look at the laudatory media coverage over last year's openings of the Gucci boutique and the trendy Zara to understand how eager we are to welcome new entries.
But while many (including this paper) were busy gushing over the strip's latest additions, a Bloor Street landmark quietly celebrated a milestone. This March, Stollery's, that bastion of traditional style, marked its 100th year on the corner of Bloor and Yonge to little, if any, fanfare.

Despite its prime location on the southwest tip of the perennially busy corner, the expansive four-floor men's and women's clothing store is somewhat hidden in plain sight. Frankly, it is not hard to take it for granted as you trot down to Holt's or Harry's. But over the years, the defiantly stodgy shop has hewed out a reputation for supplying suits, shirts and ties (not to mention a full complement of ascots), all of which bear a distinct British pedigree. And while that may not win them raves in the youth-obsessed press, it has helped them maintain a loyal customer base fond of all things Burberry, Daks and Aquascutum.

"It was easier to go that way," said Ed Whaley, Stollery's president, in a recent interview. "Everybody and his dog for the last 10 to 15 years has been on this Italian bandwagon. So rather than go that route, we've stuck with the British." Mr. Whaley, who bought the shop in 1968, admits it has been a bit of a struggle in these hipper-than-thou times, but he remains steadfast.

"We're kind of the last of the Mohicans." And, perhaps more important, the first.
When Frank Stollery flung open the doors of his haberdashery shop in the spring of 1901, the business community was skeptical, declaring he'd starve to death in what they called "the wilderness of Bloor and Yonge." But the 22-year-old former tiemaker stayed put, forking out $20 a month rent for his store, which sold everything from bowler hats to custom-made shirts. Aimed at the emerging business class, customers soon began flocking to his establishment on the outskirts of the city. Later, even more would begin mailing in their orders. After two world wars and an economic depression, Toronto had virtually grown up around Mr. Stollery's suddenly prime location. By the 1950s, Holt Renfrew was settling in just up the street and others, such as Harry Rosen, would follow come the 1970s. Throughout seven decades, Frank Stollery continued selling his trademark brand of spiffy menswear and became known for his bow ties and cigar-chomping personality.

At 91, he began looking for a successor and found Ed Whaley, a former employee of Simpson-Sears. In 1968, Mr. Whaley set about updating the shop, attempting to have it keep pace with the new arbiters of taste sprouting up around him. "Most of the business was done mail order at that time," said Mr. Whaley. "They'd send me a letter with either a cheque, or a baby-bonus cheque, with stamps and they'd write you a letter and tell you all kinds of jokes about some hockey player. So you'd have to go through and read all this; by the time you were done you were losing money." So he scaled back the mail-order business and embarked on extensive renovations. Dispensing with the old -- at that point the store was still stocking spats -- Stollery's began to adopt its anglophile tone.

The store's British Month stunts, which they are planning on reintroducing this fall, included actors dressed up as London bobbies, and high tea served on bone china. The clothes in the 30,000-square-foot store rarely veer away from its British esthetic, which suits their customers, whether Hong Kong businessmen or embassy officials, just fine. "You can't be all things to all people. It's tough," admits the 60-ish Mr. Whaley. "Casual Fridays were not exactly one of my happy moments." Love it or loathe it, you won't find peach three-quarter length men's pants on Stollery's racks. In fact, you'd be hard pressed to find even a regular pair of shorts. It serves as a soothing antidote to the somewhat outrageous whims of fashion to be witnessed just up the street. Consider it the stiff upper lip of the Bloor strip.

After all, once you descend Yonge Street, the neighbourhood devolves into a mingle of fast food restaurants, discount clothing stores and sex shops. The glass-enclosed third floor of Stollery's offers a perfect view of a condom store across the street, which makes one wonder what the store's founder, who died in 1970, would say of the transformation if he were alive and kicking.
"I'm not sure, but I know he wouldn't understand Zara or Club Monaco," Mr. Whaley says.

"I don't understand it either."

Cottage Country Cynic
National Post, May 2002

This weekend, as you're stretched out in your Muskoka chair admiring the splendour of nature, you might want to spare a thought or two for the locals. God knows they'll be sparing a few for you. While most cottagers don't think of it much, there is an inner life to cottage country that carries on long after you've bought that over-priced cord of wood.

And while the cashier at the hardware store may be reluctant to fill you in on the town gossip, Ian MacKenzie isn't at all hesitant.

For the past three years, MacKenzie's frank and often hilarious on-line musings about native life in Muskoka have been generating both praise and protest. His monthly column “So Muskoka...”, found at www.traveltomuskoka.com, obliterates any stage-managed image of the area produced by the local Chamber of Commerce. Well-trod topics include domestic squabbles, cottage break-ins, ATV theft, illicit drug use and the ever-popular drunk drivers.
"I love kicking the Martha's Vineyard of the North image in the yarbles," MacKenzie says, from his Bracebridge home. "If it finds a market and there are people who think it's worth reading, then great. But I don't write this to shit on cottagers or to call the locals hoe-dads, I just write whatever I think is funny." What he finds funny can veer from the humorous to, on occasion, the disconcerting. For instance, his "Muskoka Driving Tips" provide a local's view on getting around town: "With hundreds of thousands of vacation residences, and retirement homes up the wazoo, Muskoka has more blue-hairs per capita in July and August than St. Petersburg, Florida," he writes. "The only thing sadder than seeing a leopard in a cage or a whale in a tank is seeing a Cadillac STS used as a walker. Luckily the Anti- Destination League are easy to spot - look for the puffy hairdo, the fedora, or the lack of any sort of visible head in the car."
Hapless pensioners are not his only targets. Toronto cottagers receive their share of vitriol for crimes against driving: "Jamming on the brakes is par for the course up here. The driver is looking for a cottage, or looking for a garage sale or just noticed a red squirrel on a log in the woods beside the road and thinks their urban-weenie kid should get acquainted with nature. And guess who's at fault if you rear-end someone who's locked all four wheels to avoid hitting a chipmunk?" Along the way, the 42-year-old MacKenzie also manages to sneak in news updates, albeit not the kind you'll see on the local news broadcast: "Reduce, reuse, recycle. But not weapons! Muskoka Recycling Employees recently found a .22 caliber rifle and some ammo in a recycling bin. Note to householders: The recycling program usually cranks out paper and perforated drainage tile - not ploughshares!"

References like that hint at a level of sophistication beyond MacKenzie's country-bumpkin setting. Many of his screeds come off as a boozy Garrison Keillor, or maybe P.J. O'Rourke in flip-flops.

This can be chalked up to a journeyman career that has seen MacKenzie jump from a job managing a resort to coaching Japanese businessmen on the finer points of North American culture, to his current position, which has him renovating cottages. "Up here I may be a writer, but for the last week I've been a railing painter," he quips. It was during his five-year stay in Tokyo during the early 1990s that he started self-publishing a 'zine of his misadventures as a Canadian expat. His bi-monthly "Gaijin Guardian" eventually caught the eye of the editor of the Tokyo Journal, and his writing career was launched.

After returning to Canada in 1995, he extended that initial success into a weekly column for a Hamilton alternative newsweekly, in part to cope with his reverse culture shock. Two years later he resolved to move north, buying a home on the outskirts of Bracebridge with his wife, whom he met in Japan. The idea to settle in what may be the polar opposite of the throbbing metropolis of Tokyo was prompted by his childhood memories of his family's cottage in nearby Bala. Which, of course, begs comment.

"People don't cottage up here any more," he says. "When your seasonal home costs $2-million, you're not a cottager." In part, his Cottage Country Confidential diatribes help reaffirm a little of the local Main Street heritage that is often over- shadowed by the arrival of Bay Street and Hollywood Boulevard. His often splenetic columns have earned him both fans and detractors, some of whom belong to the local community papers. "A lot of times I'll make fun of the way things are written," MacKenzie says. "Like big headlines in April, 'Be Careful Near Ice.' No shit -- it's spring."

More heated critics have take issue with his uncovering of the seedy underbelly of country life, such as the tales of drunken drivers careening down the wrong side of Highway 11.

"I've had people e-mail me really viciously," he says. "I try to deflate them, but sometimes they're pissed and they're going to stay pissed. "If you don't like the fact that I'm making fun of drunk drivers in Bracebridge, well then cut down on the drunk driving. Then there'll be no material for me."

Got a hat? Get it blocked: 65 years in the business
National Post, March 2001

These days, hat-blocking is more likely to pop up as a punchline in a Marx Brothers movie than in your day-to-day conversation. But for a tiny shop north of downtown, the near-extinct niche service remains a vital stock-in-trade. Barring a couple of upstart speciality stores, The Hatter, on Avenue Road just north of Lawrence Avenue, is among the last authentic hat-blockers in Canada.
It has been providing the service, which is a combination of cleaning and shaping, to hat owners since first opening on Bathurst Avenue near Dupont Street some 65 years ago.

Known simply as Hat Service, the store processed upwards of 500 hats a day and employed an assembly line of half-a-dozen workers to keep up with the demand. "We used to have a bin that was about four feet tall, on wheels, and the thing would be filled a couple of times a day [with hats], just stuffed in," explained manager George Catleugh Jr., whose grandfather started the business in 1936. With fedoras an everyday fixture on most men, a properly cleaned and shaped hat was as de rigueur as a firmly starched collar.
"Back then it was simple. You had one style of hat, with two different brims, and it came in black, grey or brown," Mr. Catleugh said. "Today it's all over the place. People wear what they want."

The demise of the formal hat has been attributed to both John F. Kennedy, who went without headwear at his 1962 presidential inauguration, and his pal Frank Sinatra, who doffed his signature fedora after marrying flower-child Mia Farrow.
Whatever the reason, when the hat trade dropped off precipitously in the late 1960s, hat-blocking followed suit.

But the Catleugh family stayed in business, shrewdly moving their store north to Avenue Road in 1969, closer to the migrating Hasidic Jewish community that would become the backbone of their business.

Tucked in beside a Starbuck's, the tidy little shop endures thanks to a steady flow of black homburgs from orthodox rabbis, not to mention a mix of everything from bowlers to cowboy hats to Easter bonnets. Aficionados outside of Toronto have even taken to mailing their prized hats to the shop for a retrofitting.
Averaging about 20 hats a day (more during Jewish high holidays), Mr. Catleugh, 55, and his father, George Catleugh Sr., 80, man the constantly hissing steamers and flanges that make up hat-blocking technology.
The process takes at least 48 hours, costs a basic $20 and is a wonder to behold, especially when done by Mr. Catleugh Sr., who drives 45 minutes each morning to help out.

The machinery, all comforting and archaic, resembles modified steam irons and are scattered across the backroom workshop. On the walls, shelves hold row upon row of time-worn wooden forms, each with a different size and shape to accommodate a myriad of hat types.

It all starts with a straightforward cleaning, after which the hat -- now shapeless -- is left to dry on a hanging rack in the basement.

The next day the hats are returned to form: first with a crown block, which brings it up to size, then with a brim flange, which gives the brim its original bent.
The heat and pressure from a 130-pound sandbag-cum-ironing machine ensures the felt of the hat keeps it shape for at least a year.

According to the people who swear by it -- for the record, mostly older folk -- this annual servicing can add years to the expected lifespan of a decent hat.
But that's not to say only senior citizens indulge in the curious luxury known as hat-blocking. On a recent visit to the shop, a rack of just-completed hats included the customary fedoras and homburgs alongside porkpies, berets and baseball caps.

Even given this apparent variety, one can't help but worry about the lifespan of hat-blocking itself, the technology of which was patented in 1866.
"People just don't clean hats like they used to," explained the younger Mr. Catleugh. "Mainly because we're more of a throwaway society now. You know, people wear it for a couple of years or they get tired of it and they'll just buy a new one."

But the senior Mr. Catleugh offers a more reassuring take. "As long as people keep their heads covered, we'll be here."

‘Shiny Side Up, Rubber Side Down’: Welcome to Jeep College
National Post, September 2000

Pity the poor SUV owner. Barring the occasional pothole, the city offers them scant opportunity to use their behemoths to their full, red-blooded potential. And what with more than half of the vehicles on city streets being some sort of SUV, that means there is a lot of untapped adrenaline out there. That's where Jeep College comes in.

Situated in Maple, Ont., a 30-minute drive north of downtown, this is a driving school that offers city dwellers a chance to tool around an off-road course, complete with bone-jarring bumps and grinds, all free-of-charge. DaimlerChrysler Canada Inc. leased the 80-acre former ski hill last year, converting it into a training ground/test-driving range for their Jeep line.

While the company seems obsessed with nurturing a loyal Jeep community in Canada, the College is not exclusive to Jeep owners. Anyone willing to make the drive can take part in their hour-long seminars. Each session begins with the signing of insurance waivers, followed by a short educational class, which usually brings out the skeptics. "You always see some guys with their arms crossed, like 'Show me something I don't already know'," Paul Tanchak, an instructor, recounted one Friday morning. "But then they get out there and their minds are changed."

After the class, the students traverse the 2.2-kilometer course in factory-fresh Jeeps. This causes Mr. Tanchak to make repeated pleas for caution. His motto? "Shiny side up, rubber side down."

But the warnings don't squelch the fun once you get behind the wheel. Even at 10 kph, the winding, lurching trail delivers an adrenaline spike. After crossing one boulder-strewn passage, a Toronto firefighter leapt out of his vehicle brimming over with excitement, not unlike a schoolboy. The whole experience is akin to a theme-park ride, minus the lineups or crying children.

Make no mistake: DaimlerChrysler is gunning for your business. One employee in a Jeep-emblazoned shirt jokingly referred to the venture as "a complete indoctrination," while another compared it to the Spanish Inquisition.

Still, they've got a great idea; their stated mission is to teach SUV owners how to avoid off-road mishaps. "I'd say 90 to 95% of SUV owners in Toronto have only ever rode them on the 401," said Mr. Tanchak. He said most city slickers let loose when they first go off- road, leading to some getting stuck on their axles or giving themselves a roll. So, along with the thrills, they offer practical, often offbeat, advice. For example, students learn not to brake when plummeting down hills. The vehicle, set in low gear, will surprisingly accommodate for the angle and adjust to take you steadily down.

Drivers also quickly learn to tuck in their thumbs. Rested on the steering wheel, the opposable digit can often be painfully wrenched by the unpredictable jerking that results from all-terrain driving. These are just a few skills that over 2,000 people, from wannabe outbackers to 84-year-old grandmothers, have gleaned in the past year. Joan Gutzeit, a 60ish Jeep owner, showed up with her family to learn a few tips for an Arizona vacation. Fresh from her ride -- she did the steep climb twice -- she was beaming. "It was fantastic. So far the only off-roading I've done is on a little field back home," she says, underlining an important point. Even with the course, how many people are willing to risk dinging their expensive new SUVs, if ever given the opportunity?

"What we do is say, 'Okay, this is what you can do'," said Mr. Tanchak. "But you're probably never gonna. "Especially if you just bought a new $40,000 Jeep."

Judaism on the Move
A prophetic vision inspires rabbi to opt for unconventional path
National Post, Sept 2000

Rabbi David Cooper experienced his first prophetic vision at the tender age of five. It manifested itself as a dream, in which he found himself travelling across Canada and the United States in an 18-wheeler.

"I was in the passenger seat with the truck driver beside me and I was directing him," he explains. "There was no fear. I would tell him where to go and we would just drive. I had the same dream for years after -- we'd always be going to new places."

Fast-forward 30 years and Mr. Cooper, now 41, finds himself living out this prophecy.

An ordained orthodox rabbi since the age of 20, he is the founder and force behind the Mobile Synagogue, a business that conducts bar mitzvahs and weddings in public parks, golf courses and city streets.

For the past decade, he has travelled throughout Ontario and Quebec, logging thousands of kilometres in an effort to serve Jews of all orientations.
"People who use the service feel it's more in line with their modern lives. They're festive, happy and exhilarated," enthuses the youthful rabbi. "It's Judaism at its best."

While the concept had its roots in Mr. Cooper's childhood dreams, it was not until years later that it took shape. The dream solidified after watching a trucker in his Downsview area neighbourhood climb in and out of his rig between his travels. Later, as he approached adulthood, the notion of becoming a rabbi began to dominate his thoughts.

Once ordained, he set up a pulpit in an abandoned movie theatre. He then jumped from synagogue to synagogue, including a stint in North Bay, before going mobile.

Mr. Cooper knows his synagogue-on-wheels has raised eyebrows, but he has no doubt of its appeal. He considers his synagogue a natural next step in the religion's evolution. Pointing to highly centralized Jewish congregations as the norm, he feels the religion needs to spread outward.
"The time for Judaism to pull up its socks is now," he says. "I want to bring it to the masses."

He points to Moses and Samuel as early examples of those who chose to champion Judaism on the move.

Rabbi Cooper's vehicle of choice is a Kia Sportage SUV -- with a licence plate that reads RAB EYE.

But for larger occasions, like weddings, he uses one of two full- sized moving trucks he has in reserve.

His fixed headquarters is a small retail space in an inconspicuous strip mall on Sheppard Avenue. It houses the sacred components of his venture. Depending on the event, he can provide a pulpit, ceremonial Torah scrolls, a hupa (or canopy) and a choice of four custom-made arks. The arks, which traditionally house the Torah, were designed according to Mr. Cooper's needs for mobility, at a cost of $30,000. One of the smaller versions features collapsible legs, while the largest stands 12 feet.

Since starting up 10 years ago, business has blossomed and he has racked up enough miles to fulfill his childhood vision of life on the road.
Now, buoyed by this success, he is chasing down a new dream -- franchises. "I envision a hundred rabbis in a hundred trucks driving across North America."
To this end, he has taken out ads in religious periodicals in the United States and Canada looking for like-minded rabbis willing to join his cause. His goal is to start in the U.S. Midwest, spreading eventually to metropolitan areas such as New York and Los Angeles.

"I don't want to compete with established synagogues," he says.
Mr. Cooper has had only a few responses, mostly within Canada, but remains optimistic.

"Very few people have their dreams come true -- I've had many," he says smiling. "It gives me a peace of mind. This is my sequence in life."

Patent Expert has Scooter Skepticism
Segway 'overhyped'
National Post, Dec 2001

Earlier this month, as inventor Dean Kamen's Segway scooter was capturing the imagination of newspaper editors and TV producers across North America, Alan Rothschild was sparing a thought for Edwin J. Blood.

More than a century ago, Blood's design for a faster velocipede had just received a U.S. patent. Yet despite two innovative rear wheels that were meant to impart better balance and speed, his 1879 invention failed to catch on with the velocipede-buying public and eventually slipped into obscurity.

Rothschild, who owns the world's largest private collection of U.S. patent models, of which Blood's is a part, can't help but draw comparisons with the self-balancing Segway.

"I think it's overhyped," he says. "Here's a person that has a long history of invention who said, 'I've got something that's going to change the world' and then keeps it secret for a year.

"That's just old-fashioned marketing," he continues. "If anybody else had come up with that, like an unknown inventor, it would be on the back page of the newspaper. It would never have had the exposure and the credibility that he got."

While this may seem a tad harsh, you'd be hard-pressed to find anyone better versed in the history of U.S. patents.

Besides holding two patents of his own (both relating to an "intelligent label" that can alert an individual to expiry dates via a flashing light), Rothschild, a 60-year-old businessman-cum- curator, owns nearly 4,000 working patent models.
These include such civilization-altering creations as Nelson Goodyear's 1851 design for hardened vulcanized rubber and a 1878 refinement of the pianoforte care of one Christian Steinway.

These scale models were a requirement of the United States Patent Office from 1790 through 1880 but were eventually auctioned off in 1925 when the government grew weary of paying their storage bills. From there the collection, a perplexing clutter of wood-and-metal gizmos, passed through various entrepreneurial hands until Rothschild stumbled across a few at an antique show a decade ago.

"Among other things, I'm also a bit of a frustrated inventor," he explains. "So when I came upon these models, I instantly fell in love with them."
The ensuing years were spent tracking down the largely intact collection and convincing their owners to part with them. The result is The Rothschild Petersen Patent Model Museum, an institute located on the second floor of his home in Cazenovia, N.Y., just outside Syracuse.

While most people are familiar with the celebrities of the inventing world -- Thomas Edison, Alexander Graham Bell and now Dean Kamen -- Rothschild's nascent museum serves as a sort of Lesser- Knowns Hall of Fame.
No one is sure what happened to T.F. Engelbrecht's January 4, 1863 model (patent # 37,282), an all-brass artificial leg that was marketed to maimed Civil War veterans. Thaddeus H. Spear's painfully intricate wooden contraption, a.k.a. #165,960 or "A Machine For Making Toy Torpedoes," appeared to be trying to cash in on a burgeoning toy boom when it was patented in 1875.
But for sheer spirit, none measures up to #159,846, the "pigeon starter" of little-known Brooklyn inventor Henry Rosenthal.

This crude cat-shaped model was intended as a labour-saving device for hunters who were tired of throwing rocks at pigeons being used for target practice. The hunter was supposed to pull a string to spring the prone cat onto all fours, in turn frightening the birds into the air.

But the mossy fur and blank stare of the cat, which actually looks a little like a sheep, make the pigeon starter seem more like a hand-me-down toy.
In Rothschild's eyes, even the humble pigeon starter has historical worth. He says the device was patented just before the introduction of another invention that eventually replaced the use of pigeons for target shooting: the now ubiquitous clay pigeons.

"Invention is what created this country and made it what it is today," Rothschild says. "And since all of these models revolve around the Industrial Revolution, there's tremendous history to all them."

His aim is to build a more permanent complex in Syracuse that would showcase the bulk of the models to a wider audience. "It's like a 75-year journey that I'm in the process of ending," he says.

As for Kamen's gyroscopic scooter, which has received near- bottomless media coverage and already boasts its own six-figure book deal, Rothschild remains skeptical.

"When I first heard about it and later read about it, I was disappointed," he admits. "Some of these articles have been saying that it's going to revolutionize transportation. I'm just not sold on that. I don't think it's going to change much of anything."

Circa Chic
How the Ongoing Retro Revival Gave Old Appliances a New (and pricey) Lease on Life
Ottawa Citizen Style Section, Sept 2004

Back away from those stainless-steel fridges, self-cleaning ovens and cordless digital phones. If you're in the market for the latest in home appliances, you should be looking back, not forward, for inspiration. Over the past few years, a small cult of homeowners has been shunning modern appliances in favour of the clunky oven doors, frost-prone freezers and rotary dial phones of decades past.

Devotees of the new trend are embracing these vintage appliances in all their outdated glory -- and are paying upwards of $20,000 for the privilege. "I think they must give people that warm fuzzy feeling or something," says John Jowers, AntiqueAppliances.com owner.
"You know, it's like what mom or grandma used to have." Jowers is among nearly two-dozen businesses that have sprung up to service and supply what could only be called the new Circa Chic. And while the prospect of giving up a self-cleaning oven for your grandmother's mammoth solid steel one would seem ludicrous to most, he says there's no shortage of people looking to resurrect the domestic dinosaurs. "It's not for everybody, but there is certainly a tremendous market for it out there."

Consider the 1940s-era O'Keefe and Merritt 600 Series stove, which comes complete with 60-year-old breakthroughs like the "Speedray Grillevator Broiler" and a "Kool Kontrol" panel. Just 10 years ago the stocky 40-inch stove, manufactured by a long-defunct California company, could be had for $1,000 U.S. Since then the price has more than tripled - it now sells for a cool $3,500 U.S. Jimmy Rodriguez, owner of Los Angeles-based AntiqueStoves.com, blames the price hike on an increase in demand after similar appliances made cameos on popular TV shows like Friends and Six Feet Under. "It all just happened little by little," he says. "Things were steady there for a while and then these shows started having them and things went kind of crazy. For a lot of people, it's like an investment. You buy it and hold on to it."

Rodriguez, who started his shop in 1984, specializes in O'Keefe and Merritt along with the coveted Chambers models and turn-of-the- last-century Clark ovens. Part of the appliance revival, he thinks, is the sheer novelty that a vintage stove or fridge can bring to a kitchen.
Considering most modern appliances come wrapped in stainless steel, the prospect of owning a cherry red O'Keefe and Merritt 5850 series "Town and Country" stove is tempting.
The 57-inch behemoth boasts eight doors, six burners, three ovens and two broilers -- features that contributed to its nickname, "The Aristocrat", when it debuted in the 1940s. "With this one," Rodriguez says of the $10,000 U.S. stove, "if you tell someone the chicken is in the oven, they'll say, 'Yeah, but where?'"

While the market for one-of-a-kind vintage pieces may have emerged in the early 1990s, it was definitely spurred on by the prevalence of retro designs in popular culture. Trend-watchers point to the reintroduction of Volkswagen's trademark Beetle in 1998 as a watershed moment in design nostalgia. Other retro cars, like the PT Cruiser and Mini Cooper, would follow, along with a glut of retro-styled blenders, toasters, waffle- makers, fans and phones. While most shoppers will settle for a reissue, disciples of Circa Chic will accept only the genuine article, says Jowers. "Our biggest client base is people who are looking to restore their property to period correct. They may be restoring a 1924 bungalow or a 1956 ranch house, but they want all original pieces."
A second-generation appliance salesman based in Georgia's Blue Ridge Mountains, Jowers and his five employees spend an average of 80 hours restoring each stove and fridge for a waiting list that stretches through to January 2006. While he says the interest in vintage appliances spans all age groups, all of his customers are ultimately seeking one thing: reliability. "A lot of people, especially those in their 20s and 30s, are absolutely fed up with manufacturers forcing them into throwaways. They've said to me, 'Look I'll give up a self-cleaning oven as long as I don't have to go buy a new stove in five or 10 years.'"

"We had a client in Calgary who actually shipped us his mother's electric stove because she didn't want anything else. It was one of those 1962 Frigidaire Flair ranges that had the pull out drawer surface top and the ovens that rise up. When they were introduced at the 1960 World's Fair, they were called the Stove of the Future." And while that future might be long past, there's no shortage of people looking for other options. Barfly is a Toronto store that has been tapping into the vintage market since it launched its line of 1950s beer fridges in 2001. Their signature refurbished fridges, with a distinctive beer spout, were joined recently by a spout-less variety that costs $1,999. The classic fridge now makes up 20 per cent of their business.

Ann Chui, owner of the Queen Street West store, says her candy- coloured iceboxes raise eyebrows among a younger clientele who are used to more pedestrian appliances.
"If you want to buy a stove or fridge now you have to buy white square one or one in stainless steel," she says. "There's no other choice." People are drawn to quality and style of older household items because "any of the old toasters, fans, fridges - they were all designed better back then. There was just a lot more attention to detail."

Even mall stalwart The Telephone Booth has got on board the trend, rolling out a line of museum quality vintage phones over the past year. The chain launched its travelling road show of 100 antique phones last year. The sturdy pieces range from the $225 Northern Electric No. 2, originally released in the 1940s, to a $925 chrome-plated pay phone from 1920. Despite the time-consuming rotary dial, they have sold out of their stock. "People are always come into our store and say why can't I have that on my stove?" Jowers says of the market. "You'd just never dream there was this whole other society out there obsessed with this."

Slung Low, Sweet Chariot
Lowrider Bikes make a Comeback
Saturday Post, May 2003

The first thing you notice is the purple paint job, depicting airbrushed dice, slot machines and showgirls, baked onto a vintage Schwinn frame. Then there are the twisted gold handlebars, the four- leaf clovers affixed to side-view mirrors and the intricate engravings that cover the metal hubs of the whitewall tires. But it's the little touches, like the 24-karat-gold-plated spokes and the front- and rear-disk brakes, that make Mike Lopez Jr.'s lowrider bicycle a dazzling specimen of cutting-edge bike design. "When we go for our rides, people be tripping out," Lopez says of the bike he calls Casino Dreamin', a US$25,000 confection of steel and spokes that's won the coveted Lowrider Bicycle of the Year award for four years running. "They're always staring or they want to stop you and ask you questions. Some older guys will be like, 'I used to ride one of those to school every day!' Yeah? Difference is, we look good riding these."

Lopez is the founder of the Finest Kreations cycling club, a band of lowrider fanatics based in Garden Grove, Calif. Located in the heart of Orange County, the city is known to many for its Crystal Cathedral -- the gleaming silver temple from which the white-haired TV minister Robert Schuller beams out his Sunday-morning Hour of Power broadcasts. But what the Chamber of Commerce won't tell you is that Garden Grove is earning international celebrity as the home of Mike Lopez and Casino Dreamin'. Lopez and lowrider enthusiasts like him are driving what could be the most bizarre trend to hit the cycling world since the velocipede. Lopez himself is something of an emblem for the lowrider scene. Until recently, the California native was content to assemble his bikes in relative obscurity, entering them in competitions at local car shows. In the past 10 months, though, he's been tapped to appear in a fashion spread for The New York Times Magazine and landed a starring role in a Sprite commercial. "It's been pretty crazy," Lopez, 23, says. "In the Sprite shoot, they decked me out in $2,000 worth of Versace -- it was nuts. And now I have kids coming up to me in shopping malls who've seen the commercial in the movie theatre and they're like, 'Wow, can you tell me how to do a bike? That's so tight!' "

Born out of the Los Angeles lowrider-car scene of the 1950s, lowrider bikes began as a pint-sized response to the famously hopped- up vehicles. By the 1960s, countless kid brothers who were too young to drive, but still yearned for a slice of the lowrider magic, were customizing their bikes into pedal-powered versions. This innovative spirit was stoked with the 1963 release of the Schwinn Sting-Ray. The bike, with its high-rise "ape-hanger" handlebars, reclining banana seat and sporty stick-shift gears, was an instant hit with kids across North America. But it was the spring- action forks -- two exposed, six-inch springs that gave the front end a makeshift shock-absorber effect -- that would inspire a generation of industrious boys.

Albert De Abla, a 31-year-old Montclair, Calif., body-shop owner who grew up around L.A., recalls: "We would heat the forks up and bend them, and since they had this spring action, we would remove the spring, and it would just totally lower the bike down. Me and my brother used to take the springs out of the bikes, go out at night and scrape the shit out of our pedals, just to make sparks going down the street. We'd speed it up as much as we could, then just lean it over a bit -- man, we'd go through pedals like nothing."

Schwinn has long ceased manufacturing the Sting-Ray and its descendants, the Orange Krate and the Apple Krate. But, for today's lowrider set, these remain the only frames to use -- a sort of Chevy Impala of the biking world. Devotees scour yard sales and hunt the bikes down online, then, once found, embellish the living heck out of them. Today, some bikes are nothing less than pimped-out tours de force, replete with spare tires covered with fake fur and Gucci- upholstered banana seats -- even on-board PlayStations have become standard issue.

"The bikes are definitely hip-hop ready," says Nathan Trujillo, editor of Lowrider Bicycle magazine, which has reported on the scene since 1993. "A lowrider bike is like a gold-chain necklace -- it's a little status symbol for the young guys. To a 15-year-old, it's like their Ferrari."

Recent exposure in videos by Xzibit, Snoop Dogg, Choclair, as well as white-bread artists such as 'N Sync and Our Lady Peace, have secured infiltration into the mainstream. The bikes have been embraced by hipster acolytes the world over, from Tokyo to Australia and even Belgium. Across Canada, the trend thrives in pockets from Burnaby to Halifax, but mostly in Toronto and Montreal.
Four summers ago, Karine Paradis opened V-Low, considered to be the country's only store dealing exclusively in lowriders, in Montreal's Plateau district. The 28-year-old's passion for the transplanted bike culture is evident, even over the telephone. (When I mention to her that I interviewed Mike Lopez Jr. she utters a quiet gasp.) "I'm really addicted," Paradis says. "When I sit on my bike, it's like a thrill I want to share with everyone. I'm in control of it. It's like somebody who is tripping on Harley-Davidsons -- it's that freedom. It's like being an outlaw."

John Walters, a lowrider buff who lives in Toronto, thinks of his bicycle as a slicker option to the mountain bikes that pervade most city streets. "It does look completely ridiculous," he says. "I've thought about that many a time. But you ride these bikes because you like to -- not just to get from Point A to Point B. "For me, it's like sightseeing," he continues. "Everybody that lives in the city has seen it so many times and are so jaded that they don't even look up at the buildings anymore. But when you're riding around on a little slow bike with a bunch of friends, it just makes life a little more enjoyable."

Guys and Dolls
'Posable Sculptures' are commanding four-figure prices from collectors, and the die-hard devotion of grown men. Is this just more childish nostalgia - or pop art's new frontier?
Saturday Post, Oct 2002

It's Friday morning in Hong Kong's Wan Chai neighbourhood and, despite a steady downpour, the early-bird line-up outside the Hong Kong Toycon, the most exclusive toy exposition in the sprawling Asian toy market, is already 300-deep. This semi-annual affair is a rare opportunity for the city's well-heeled hipsters to sift through the latest crop from the world of Asian playthings, an area that has, of late, piqued the interest of cool-mongers. When the doors to the 10,000-square-foot hall are opened, the sweaty crowd rushes past the phalanx of booths, only to line up once again in front of an all- black installation.

The booth, fronted by a box-office wicket and protected by a velvet rope and security guards, will remain closed for hours to come, leaving the customers waiting, with little to do but clutch their credit cards in anticipation. This is the work of toymaker Michael Lau, 32, and stunts such as this are familiar to his devoted fans. In addition to the lengthy waits, the reclusive Lau typically restricts the number of people in his booth at one time, and has even been known to limit customers to one purchase each. Today, the fever is so pitched that when Lau later grants a rare photo opportunity with a surprised fan, the man, who's in his thirties, is left trembling.

Such hysteria is credit to Lau's status as the godfather of the burgeoning Hong Kong Vinyl toy scene. Lau's action figures have keen urban details --metal piercings, authentic street-wise clothing -- and an almost impressionistic design sense. Usually, when new ones are launched, they sell out within days, despite their $200-plus price tags. But the excitement over these rather sophisticated playthings, which few owners would actually play with, is also credit to the exploding action-figure realm, a niche market where kid's stuff is coveted by nostalgic, or just Peter Pan-like adults.
This is a street trend that has lately been exploding outwards, into the mass market, via such mainstream stalwarts as Hasbro, which has recently relaunched a "vintage" GI Joe, retailing for more than $100 and aimed more at dad than son. Indeed, since the mid-1990s, everyone from the Beastie Boys to Robin Williams has confessed to a yen for collecting the vinyl toys reminiscent of their childhoods. But the Hong Kong chapter of this collectors' scene is where its artier aspirations reside. And Asia being the hotbed of cool juvenilia for adults -- think of grown women toting Hello Kitty cellphone holders across the whole of Japan -- artists such as Lau, Eric So and Brothersfree, whose figures are packed with gritty, urban cultural references, are inspiring a kind of chin-scratching connoisseurship more fit for a gallery space than Toys "R" Us.

Jim Crawford, a collector and observer of toy trends, believes these figures mark a major shift from traditional mass-marketed toys to something approaching collectible art. Crawford was so taken with the figures, he built an on-line shop, kidrobot.com, to help spread the Hong Kong vinyl word in North America.

"I tell people that this is what would happen if Andy Warhol had made action figures," Crawford explains. "They are works of art - just works of art in an age of mechanical reproduction."
The current action-figure craze is linked to the past decades' trendy lust for the more infantile aspects of Pacific Rim youth culture. During the mid-1990s, rave kids were instrumental in the transformation of San Rio's Hello Kitty from a symbol of Chinatown trinketry to a starring role inside McDonald's Happy Meals and on Wal-Mart shelves. And the classic Japanese anime "big-eye" style is also now ubiquitous on North American Saturday morning cartoons -- seen most noticeably on the widely syndicated Powerpuff Girls.

But the idea to make GI Joe-type toys into art actually originated on this continent. In the mid-1990s, comics impresario Todd McFarlane, the creator of the successful Spawn comic, cartoon and movie franchise, unveiled his McFarlane Toys imprint. His "poseable sculptures" of Kiss members, Ozzy Osbourne and Alice Cooper were instant best-sellers, and opened up the market for "adult collectibles." Then, in 1997, Silas, a skateboard clothing company out of the U.K., issued pliable vinyl figurines as a one- off promotional gimmick. These wonky, blob-like figures made a huge splash in Japan. The Asian demand proved to be so strong that Silas designer James Jarvis went on to release a full line of the odd, organically shaped skate punks, rock stars and street kids.
A year later, James Lavelle, founder of the Mo' Wax record label and admitted action-figure nut, bankrolled a set of vinyl portraits of himself and his label mates, including Money Mark and DJ Shadow. Not to be outdone, ageless hipsters The Beastie Boys released the trio of their own articulated selves, made by Japanese designer Nigo, the artist/musician behind the coveted A Bathing Ape streetwear label. The remarkable likenesses, which took two years to produce, were a hit with the Beastie's always enthusiastic fans, who readily plopped down US$500 for one of the limited run of 1,000. Within a few weeks, the figures were turning up online for four times that price. By then, even mass- market toy manufacturers had jumped on the bandwagon. Hasbro launched a series of vintage GI Joes, and Mattel added specialty market-aimed old-school Barbies to toy store shelves.

It was around this time that a kind of vinyl mania started happening in Hong Kong, where this trend has taken on its most seriously arty incarnation. Hong Kong native Michael Lau first became interested in poseable figures when he was a struggling artist trying to find a market for his work. In 1999, he created a series of one-of-a-kind plastic toys, unexpectedly striking gold with a one-off group of action figures inspired by the underground hip-hop scene in Hong Kong. That initial release proved so popular that he fashioned a complete line of urban action figures, enigmatically dubbed "Gardener."

The eclectic assortment of 12-inch figures clearly echoed the forms of the archetypal GI Joe and Barbie, while stretching the standard definition of what a toy can be. His glum, and at times bizarre, figures look like a children's-cough-syrup-induced dream of an alternative toy universe. Some of the skate kids and graffiti urchins depicted in the line appear normal at first -- until you notice the cardboard boxes and spray paint nozzles they have in place of heads.

"They really tap in to this hip market - whether it's skaters or rappers," says Martin Wong, co-editor of Giant Robot, a Los Angeles-based Asian pop-culture magazine, which recently dubbed Michael Lau the coolest artist in Hong Kong. "Plus they're very scarce. That's a combination that's pretty deadly on eBay." Wong says Lau's work is the most sought-after in Hong Kong. Early works by Lau now fetch upwards of $7,500, and many are in the private collections of such Asiaphiles as pop artist Frank Kozik and urban clothing designer Mark Ekco. "His stuff is coveted. They're the ones you see behind glass. There's a cult of personality around him. He's almost like a rock star."
Lau, who is notoriously press-shy (he would only agree to answer questions via e-mail, and when asked for a photo of himself, sent an electronic file of his vinylized likeness) is resolutely vague when describing his work. Those boxes on the skaters' heads? They’re there because "pedestrians and people do not care who they are." When asked why none of his figures are ever smiling, he says, "When you look at the figures, you will smile crazily - so there is no need for the figures to smile. Plus, when you look at Barbies, they are always smiling. Sometimes people don't smile in life -- but it doesn't mean they aren't happy." Lau's latest release in his Crazychildren line have done away with humans completely, in favour of chunky pigs and teddy bears, with "pixelated" eyes and genitals.Lau's best-known colleague is Eric So, who modelled his debut line of four-inch pliable vinyl figures on the people he remembers from the government-funded Hong Kong housing project where he grew up, in the 1980s. His "Estate" line of toys features brightly coloured yet menacing figures of store clerks, gangsters and drug addicts. "All my ideas are pulled from my living conditions," he says. "I remember certain times and feelings that I experienced. In the end, I collect up all my life experiences and interests and express them through my figures." His success with the Estate line was not hurt by the fact that its central character, Sam Lee, was a version of his childhood friend of the same name, who grew up to become a popular Hong Kong movie idol. So's figures, along with Lau's work, have lately been granted art-book status -- they've exhibited in galleries in Beijing, Tokyo, Italy and, most recently, in New York City.

In Canada, the Hong Kong vinyl scene is still something of a novelty, but new Web sites such as figureking.com and destination boutiques such as Toys2 in Markham, Ont. -- which keeps several rare items in glass display cases - have begun to spring up. Eric Wong, 29, opened Toys2 in an Asian-specialized mall in Markham, after watching Michael Lau's Crazychildren figures disappear from the shelves of his Hong Kong shop two years ago. "They went very fast," Wong says. "And the price just goes up and up and up."

Since emigrating to Canada and opening Toys2 more than a year ago, Wong admits that, while many non-Asians are smitten with the figures, the vinyl frenzy has not fully translated on these shores yet. "The white guys will see them and say 'Wow, very cute.' Then they look at the price and say 'Wow, that's impossible!' " While it may be some time before mini-Laus are tucked into Canadian Happy Meals, there is undeniably a growing foundation of young male professionals with a near-fetishistic connection to the toys of their childhood, and the income to acquire the objects. "All men were boys once and they all grew up with action figures as an integral part of their life," says Crawford. "I mean, people have no problem paying that kind of money for a limited-edition print or a photograph. This is the same sort of thing."

In Hong Kong, what may be the most materialistic city on the globe, most fans remain faithful. "The hard thing is that Hong Kong is so trendy that things come and go like that," says Giant Robot's Wong, snapping his fingers. "But there really is artistic integrity with these things. And when anyone can shift that trendiness towards an appreciation of art, esthetics and design, that's a good thing."

Eraserhead Would Have Disappeared Without Him
National Post, Sept 2002

Anyone with fond memories of such offbeat films as Eraserhead, Wings of Desire and The Bad Lieutenant owes a debt of gratitude to Tom Litvinskas, who died recently at the age of 50. Over his nearly 30-year-career in the theatre business, Litvinskas was instrumental in introducing a generation of Toronto film buffs not only to David Lynch's first idiosyncratic feature (Eraserhead) but to such art-house stalwarts as Liquid Sky and Koyaanisqatsi, foreign gems like The Seven Samurai and much of the Jean-Luc Godard canon.

As co-owner and booker for the Festival chain of repertory cinemas, Litvinskas, who died of a heart attack in the early hours of Sept. 11, imported alternative films into Canada years before other distribution companies took up the challenge. During the 1970s he and his staff took risky and expensive chances, eventually going on to buy the exclusive Canadian distribution rights for dozens of little-known films. “At that time, there weren't the same number of independent distribution companies that there are today," said Phil Carlton, the recently retired president of Warner Bros. Canada film distribution. "I don't even know if a picture like Eraserhead would have even got played then. It probably would have got hidden away in a corner for three days and that would have been the end of it."

Litvinskas, who was born and raised in Etobicoke, began his movie career in December, 1974, when he and Jerry Szczur, a high school friend, rented the vacant Kingsway Theatre at Bloor and Royal York. Inspired by day-long $1 Sunday screenings at the nearby Kum-C Theatre, the pair began showing classic films at cut-rate prices. While the classics drew a loyal audience hungry for nostalgia, the business picked up steam when Litvinskas began distributing his hand- picked selection of quirkier fare. Some of those earlier films, which were typically passed over by mainstream chains, attracted a good number of quirky patrons as well, said Szczur. "We were showing The Texas Chainsaw Massacre at the Kingsway in the late '70s," he recalled. "And there was a guy who came flying through the back exit doors from the alleyway with a roaring chainsaw. "The whole place emptied out in about two minutes. We both got to the theatre pretty quick that night."

In spite of such episodes, they went on to expand into 10 theatres stretching from Whitby to London through the late 1970s and 1980s. By moving into older theatres, they also helped preserve an important part of the city's architectural history. "[Tom] was obviously very dedicated. There were always other people who owned theatres, but nobody that had such a chain," said John Sebert, a theatre historian. "If it wasn't for them, these theatres would have been gone by now."
Now boasting six theatres, including The Fox in The Beach and College Street's Royal Cinema, the now familiar mix of arty and mainstream films supplies a much-needed break for the multiplex- weary masses. The successful model also served as a blueprint for rep theatre entrepreneurs across the country. "They looked up to Tom like he was a guru," Carlton said. "He'd give them a lot of advice, and also he'd make deals with them to send pictures that he had picked up their way. "Plus, he was a very honest person. Any deal he made with anyone, a handshake was good enough."

Tom Litvinskas is survived by Patricia, his wife of 15 years, and their four sons -- Jay, 19, Thomas, 11, Patrick, 9, and Joseph, 3.

A Flickering Life
Inside the weird, fading world of projectionists
The Toronto Star, June 2002

The first thing you notice when you step into Andy Mallouk's office is the sound: an abrasive clatter that drowns out much in the way of conversation, or for that matter, thought. If you can manage to block out the noise, you’ll notice that the place has all the makings of a survivalist’s dream home -- with a television, VCR, radio, computer (with Internet access) washroom and assorted furniture all jammed in to its 12-foot by 20-foot confines. There’s even an ad hoc lounge fashioned out of giant sofa cushions, secreted away behind velvet curtains.

These makeshift amenities all serve to disguise the fact that the space, with its limited ventilation and concrete walls, is more bunker than proper workplace. But to Mallouk and the rest of the city’s remaining movie projectionists, this well-worn booth at the Beach’s Fox Theatre is as good as it gets. To devout filmgoers the time-honoured romance of “the movies” can be a power unto itself, allowing them to cast a rosy glow on everything from the stalest of popcorn to the most sullen of ushers. Take Cinema Paradiso, the much-loved 1988 film about one man’s syrupy stroll down memory lane. Spurred by the death of an elderly projectionist friend, the protagonist spends the rest of the movie reflecting on a youth spent living, laughing and inevitably loving, from within the confines of his hometown’s small theatre. But compared to the workaday reality of life in the projection booth, the Italian film has about as much depth as a Hallmark card.

To veteran projectionists life in the booth is one filled with long hours and stultifying isolation, a combination that gives rise to anti-social behaviour, bizarre antics and occasionally screen-worthy moments of melodrama. Add to this an increasingly bleak future, due to the cost cutting ways of the major theatre chains, and you can’t help but assume a wry outlook on the business. In other words, Fade Out Cinema Paradiso.....Fade In Clerks. Mallouk, the Fox’s resident projectionist, is quick to concur.

While he loves his job, he’s the first to admit that 27 years of operating cameras in theatres across Toronto has its cyncical side effects. “You’re in a room all by yourself with a projector that’s so noisy that you don’t hear the soundtrack, you just hear this white noise - this grinding sound from all the gears,” the 44-year-old says of a standard day. “After 12 hours of sitting in a room like that you come out and you have sensory deprivation - it’s like solitary confinement. So, I guess you end up living in your own mind.”
Romanticized by some, this brand of isolation can lead to clandestine drinking and drug use, with stories of massive benders scattered like war stories through the industry. Anyone who worked at the Cineplex Odeon multiplex at the Eaton Centre during the 1980s can attest to the liquid therapy used by some projectionists to battle the often-punishing conditions. A trailblazer in multiple screen theatres, the now defunct complex demanded seven day a week, 12-hour shifts from its crew. Luckily its vicinity to several licensed restaurants allowed haggard camera jockeys to nip out for extended lunch breaks that consisted of a single bottle of bourbon. And it’s no secret that the isolation in smaller theatres is particularly conducive to recreational drug use. Aside from this, the hours and isolation also help contribute to a peculiar love-hate relationship with the job. In the same breath Mallouk will talk about movie cameras as both “magic lanterns” and “plastic extrusion machines”.
“You keep feeding the oil in and it keeps pouring out. And you just keep shoving this 20-minute stretch of plastic in,” he says as the Super Lume-X camera chugs away in the background. “You don’t have to deal with anything but the machines. People are out there enjoying the romance of the theatre and they have no idea there’s some monkey running around back there feeding plastic strips into this machine.” While he doesn’t speak for every projectionist, he and the less than 40 remaining members of Local 173 of The International Alliance of Theatrical Stage Employees and Moving Picture Technicians (they of the star-shaped “IATSE” logo seen at the end of movie credits) share similar experiences.

In the 1990’s sweeping lockouts by the major North American theatre chains effectively turned old school projectionists into an endangered species, by shutting them out of their century old profession. After a failed 1996 strike, the Toronto union – once the largest local on the continent - began to slowly give way to attrition, its numbers slipping from a high of more than 400 members to its current slim ranks. Union meetings for are now few and far between, with projectionists just as likely to bump into each other at a colleague’s funeral as they are at a union hall.

With $10 an hour teenagers filling the role of $30 an hour projectionists, those left have retreated to repertory cinemas, such as the Festival chain and Rainbow Cinemas, who are willing to pay them a living wage. Take Dave Callaghan for example. By all accounts he should be working in a laboratory not a suburban theatre. The 50-year-old head projectionist at the Rainbow chain holds a degree in physical chemistry and can discuss everything from microprocessors to the current tally of known organic compounds. If it wasn’t for a projectionist father and a well-paying summer job he’d likely be in a lab coat at Dow Chemicals. But Callaghan, a card-carrying projectionist since 1971, quickly grew accustomed to the unique benefits offered by the booth. “With some jobs you’re like a cog in a machine – you’re job is like a function of a larger machine,” he says. “ But at least when I start work, I run the whole show.”
Dave has heard the stories of woe before (he mockingly refers to his position as ‘the showman that knows no applause’) but says he relishes the problem-solving possibilities that come with his job. “Some people like going camping or going to a sunny place and lying on a beach – that’s not my idea of a fun time. I’ve always felt that this was a place where somehow I belonged,” he explains of the darkened booth. “But I can’t necessarily say that other people would feel the same way. Plainly we’re working odd hours, we’re working holidays and weekends.”
“You can’t say, no I only do 9 to 5, then go home. Then don’t do this job. There has to be something different about someone who is willing to work until two or three in the morning.”
From within his sterile booth at the Cumberland Theatre - management cracked down on any superfluous decorations years ago - Bill Roulston can recall a string of anecdotes from his days in the booth. The most memorable involved a baby alligator he inexplicably decided to raise in the projection booth of the old Promenade Theatre. Thanks to a steady diet of goldfish and mice “Rocky” (his favourite film) grew to three feet. Thanks to the cooperation of his fellow workers, the reptile thrived in the dank booth becoming somewhat of a mascot. That is of course until a visiting Cineplex executive spotted him during a routine tour. Days later Rocky and his $1,000 tank were gone. Not long after, Cineplex and Paramount started to pull the rug out from under the industry. Like many others, Roulston found himself bouncing from job to job, until he finally ended up collecting employment insurance. “It’s just gone so down hill,” he says of his $10-an-hour wage. “Now all it’s good for is gas money or beer money.” By contrast Andy Mallouk should count himself lucky.

After a seminal experience helping an older boy pick up litter at an Orangeville Drive-In at age five, he picked up the career path again as a teenager. Logging his requisite one-year unpaid apprenticeship, he entered the union and inherited his dubitable future. “When I apprenticed in Orangeville, the guy said: ‘this is one of the loneliest jobs in the world. You work nights, you’ll never see your family or kids, you’ll be in the theatre every night seven nights a week, holidays everything’,” he recalls. “Then he told me that the guy I was replacing had turned 70 and they told him he had to retire, that he couldn’t work any longer…so he hung himself between the projectors in the Orangeville projection both. He loved his job that much.” Mallouk’s passion for film and all things technological would gladly whisk him out of his hometown to Toronto, New York City and beyond. Along the way he would cross paths with Elizabeth Taylor, David Bowie and the occasional supermodel. Which depending on the day you bump into him, might be Andy himself.

Unwitting Beach residents and patrons of The Fox have likely encountered one of Andy’s many personalities before. There’s Andy on his customized moped, complete with a 1920’s car headlight on the front and a Godzilla toy on the rear, who is prone to peeling up to the theatre before a show. And once inside the building they may recall coming across “Ann D. Liscious” – one of his drag incarnations – as their ticket taker. To him these are the fringe benefits of a life that allows him to air out his eccentricities without fear of retribution. If this means donning makeup and his Trans-Sister Radio, an electronic piece of wearable art that blares music from its wire-meshed bra, then so be it. It is a theatre after all. “When you’re up there for 27 years you have a few different spirits in the projection booth that talk to each other,” he explains, butting out a cigarette in an old film canister.

Perhaps sensing a conflicting spirit, he switches gears – drifting into the sentimental. “The love of film for the worker is the ultimate,” he waxes. “I was always told that you were the last person to have to show it to the public after all these people have invested their time, money and blood into this movie. So if you screw up you’re letting down everybody behind you.” Not long after though, the sarcasm that is a result of his nearly 30 years in the booth resurfaces.

“In the end, all we do is feed plastic into this extrusion machine, it gets pushed out the other end and in between something happens,” he concludes. “It’s like we squirt light through the aperture plate, it gets shot onto the screen and people enjoy.” Take that Cinema Paradiso.

Nike Runs with the Bohemians
Calling all starving artists and musicians: A new gallery in trendy Kensington Market has a deal for you
National Post, June 2002

It's not every day a multi-national corporation decides to open a gallery for starving artists and aspiring musicians in the city's most bohemian neighbourhood.

But when you're talking about the worldwide athletic-shoe industry, one worth an estimated US$10-billion annually, nothing is out of the question.

Such thoughts likely went through the minds of Nike executives when they approved the Presto Showroom, a hybrid art gallery, music venue and promotional tool, which opened in Kensington Market last weekend.

The 3,000-square-foot space combines hip hop culture, rock music and themed art exhibitions all in a transparent attempt to cultivate brand loyalty with the trendsetters who live and socialize in the downtown community. "The whole idea was to connect with the alternative lifestyle community within the Toronto market," said Michelle Noble, manager of public affairs for Nike Canada. "There were all kinds of marketing concepts and promotional ideas thrown around, but we wanted to do something different. We really haven't done anything aggressive like this before."

The first of its kind in North America, the all-ages Showroom takes its name from Nike's budding Presto line, which is being relaunched this summer -- along with a series of accessories -- all proudly displayed on its walls. Nike Canada spent a reported $2-million to transform the space, located in a former electronics store on Augusta Avenue, just south of College Street, into a nascent hipster hotspot, complete with graffitied walls, DJ booth and Astroturfed stage.

A significant portion of that budget will go to the hiring of musicians, breakdancers and artists -- all of whom will receive free footwear. While Nike swooshes are not required to enter, staff are kitted out in the new Presto gear, including watches, backpacks and jackets. The mission is simple: Get the products on people cooler than you, which will hopefully inspire you to follow suit."We're dealing with a non-traditional customer here and standard marketing just doesn't work with this crowd," explains Mike Farrell, a partner at Youthography, the market research firm producing Presto with the sneaker giant. Mr. Farrell says the venue, which will run on a two-month trial basis, is designed to benefit the arts community while not-so- subtly presenting Nike's new product line. He calls it "an interactive billboard." But it could prove to be more complicated for the world's number one athletic brand. Last summer, Reebok attempted a similar rebranding effort by launching a limited-edition retro-styled sneaker with local hip fusion restaurant Kubo. The Kubo/Reebok shoe garnered plenty of media attention, but did little in the long term to shake the mass market's view of the moribund company.

Justin Peroff, 24, learned about Nike's project when he was invited to perform there with his band. "At first, we were shocked that they decided to promote such a concept. We were kind of impressed and weirded out. I didn't know what to say at first," says the actor, musician and artist. "There are some people who just ran from it, because it kind of turned their stomach. But a lot of others are just indifferent." Mr. Peroff, who attended Saturday's opening night along with about 75 others, doesn't think the gambit will alter Nike's reputation, which has been marred by growing concern over its use of sweatshops. "I don't really see it changing them much," he says. "I just think people are going to come because they're curious, but I don't see [the shoes] flying off the shelves because of this gallery."
Stephen Bulger, owner/curator of the Stephen Bulger Gallery on Queen Street West, was surprised to hear of Nike's venture, but thinks it poses little risk to established galleries.

"I don't know if I really care if it works or not," he said yesterday. "If it works, that's great. It can only be beneficial to the artist. If it doesn't work, it's not like it's going to affect the art world at all, because it's just Nike doing another marketing thing."

The organizers recognize any skepticism, but remain unfazed. They've already booked plenty of talent, including notable rock band The Gruesomes, and expect the overall positive atmosphere of the space will breed good will where it counts.
"In the end, yeah, it's a promotion," Mr. Farrell says. "But it's a fun promotion."

More Than Just Bagels
Toronto’s Le Club Montreal offers exiles a chance to whine (and talk about shoes)
National Post, June 2002

Anyone who has made the often inevitable move to Toronto will tell you it can turn out to be a disheartening lesson in teeth-gnashing traffic and apartment hunting as blood sport.

And when the migration happens from a city like Montreal, there are the added complications of guilt, shame, culture shock - not to mention where to find a decent bagel at 2 a.m.

Chris Houston experienced this, and so much more, when he moved here from his hometown of Montreal two years ago.
"Once I was crying at a bus stop - it was Christmas, and I was feeling particularly nostalgic," recalled Houston. "But there was a woman sitting next to me with hoop earrings and a ripped Motley Crue T-shirt -- that whole Montreal esthetic of things just thrown together. It made me feel so much better." Thankfully for those suffering from similar Plateau withdrawal, the two-month-old Le Club Montreal is here to help. A kind of support group with good footwear, the semi-regular gatherings allow displaced Montrealers to bitch and whine - and smoke - amid fellow exiles.

"Toronto wins awards as being one of the most diverse cities in the world, but it's really hard to feel like you're part of the fabric of it," Houston, Le Club's organizer, explained. "I mean, I had friends who were joining yoga classes in an attempt to get some sense of community." So Houston, who moved here with his girlfriend, Josey Vogels (of the My Messy Bedroom advice column and TV show), rolled out his plan to court all those "who still use the word depanneur with alarming regularity and can recognize Youppi from 500 metres away."

The free event began its tentative monthly schedule at the Cameron House in April and, despite some initial skepticism from diehard Toronto dwellers, it has gone on to attract something of a hipster diaspora. "On the first night, some people came up to me and asked, 'What do you get out of this? What's your angle?' " Houston said. "No Montrealer would ever ask that."

Last Wednesday, the windowless backroom of the Queen Street West haunt was populated with about two dozen writers, filmmakers and the occasional cartoonist, drinking and chattering to the strains of Leonard Cohen, Bran Van 3000 and Men Without Hats. Maybe it was the Olympic Stadium postcards or the free copies of Montreal's two weekly alternative newspapers, but soon enough even the most tenuously defined Montrealers were chancing awkwardly rolled Rs and twin cheek kisses. Alexandra Ramos and Kelly Zorzi, both born and raised in Montreal, were busy recalling the spontaneity they left behind. "You never just drop by somebody's house here," said 29-year-old Ramos. "I'm always trying to get people at my work to come out and play."
"I miss that," chimed in Zorzi, 33. "If you walk down St-Laurent you're bound to bump into someone you know. Here people have to plan to be together."

John Tucker, a 32-year-old screenwriter and reluctant Torontonian, said he's had his own struggles. "My Montreal friends say I've become more polite. I find that very disturbing."

One woman, an editor at Random House who arrived midway through the evening, instantly began bemoaning her metamorphosis. "I'm afraid I'm firmly entrenched in the Toronto scene now," she sighed. "Because I'm just coming from work and I feel real guilty for leaving. I should have stayed there longer."
Vogels, who was born in Toronto but spent 12 years in Montreal, acknowledged that there is a complicated, almost dysfunctional relationship between the two cities. "There's this sort of pride in sticking it out, and when someone leaves it's like, 'Oh. You gave up on us,' " she explained. "There is this feeling as if, 'Now you're one of them.' " But despite any guilt, most here don't regret their move. "The thing is that Montreal is full of inspiration but there's nowhere to use it," Zorzi said. "There just comes a point in your life when you want to be challenged."

The night wasn't devoted solely to group therapy. A good portion of time was allotted for, of course, shoes. Houston, himself wearing snappy footwear, claimed to be able to weed out any poseurs in the crowd. "One look at their shoes and you know they're from Montreal," he said.

In defence of her seemingly sensible black shoes, Ramos offered an explanation. "These are my Montreal-Toronto shoes," she said, proffering her right foot. "See this," she said, pointing out the two-inch black rubber heel, "would be Montreal, and this," displaying the sensible top of the black shoe, "is Toronto."
Later Houston reported that as the night wound down a group gathered to offer some footwear advice to a woman who was having second thoughts about her recently purchased boots. After an impromptu vote, the verdict was in: The shoes didn't pass muster.

She immediately vowed to return them the next day, reported jury member Houston.

"I mean, how Montreal is that?"

Now Showing
the drive-in makes an unlikely comeback on Toronto’s waterfront
National Post, June 2001

One thing became clear after the opening night of the brand new drive-in theatre located at The Docks: It's nearly impossible to screw this kind of thing up. Despite a prolonged wait, an accidental reversal of the double- bill feature and a distressing lack of the nostalgic window- speaker, the carloads of anxious film buffs who flocked to the waterfront entertainment complex Friday evening were soothed the moment the projector started rolling.
Even if half the cars were in danger of not leaving because of drained batteries. Four hours running the radio to pick up the FM frequency that carried the audio took its toll. A mainstay for several generations of film goers, the drive-in has long been driven from urban areas thanks to "light" pollution -- it became too bright to see at night. Those screens remaining in more outlying areas have been slowly dying off in recent years due to poor business and neglect. So you can forgive those inside the 300-plus vehicles gathered at The Docks for falling victim to waves of nostalgia.
Greg Potts, who arrived two hours early with his wife and three kids for the double-feature of Shrek and Evolution, had no problem recalling one of his first experiences at the drive-in.

"I remember going to see Star Wars with my parents and they had brought along a bottle of wine," recalls Mr. Potts. "By the end of the night I was the only one awake to see the Death Star blow up." Such tales, including those of first dates and smuggled beer, flowed freely between the rows of minivans, SUVs and station wagons. The drive-in is the latest addition to the sprawling Docks entertainment complex, which already includes attractions such as a restaurant and nightclub, trampolines, a swimming pool, miniature golf and beach volleyball.

Built on a site used as a driving range during daylight hours, the 41 x 19-metre screen and 470-vehicle capacity makes The Docks drive-in roughly twice the size of a standard outdoor theatre of yesteryear. Forgoing the crackly driver-side speakers, filmgoers tune in to the movie on their radios' FM band. Add to that a specially designed $100,000 movie projector, which is only the eighth of its kind in the world, and you've got the makings of a blockbuster night. But after shelling out $13 per person (kids under 12 were admitted free) and waiting up to four hours, you'd expect to be a little cranky when -- after an agonizing 15-minute delay - the movie that began was Evolution. Not the billed family friendly Shrek. But even after much car honking and flashing of headlights, the masses were calmed.

Al Duggan, with his wife Stephanie, three kids, a dog and cooler all stuffed inside his station wagon, summed up the general mood. "I'm no Toronto booster, you know? But what city in North America could have something like this in its downtown core? Especially with all the crime," Mr. Duggan said. "Plus, it's an eye-feast." Indeed, with pleasure boats cruising by along the water, a freighter looming just beyond the giant screen and the city skyline lit up just behind, it was hard to resist the charm of the location. Even the occasional drunken hoots from the nearby club and thrill rides only added to the peculiar ambience.

"It's nostalgic for a lot of people our age, who came when they were younger," said Colleen Potts, who suddenly paused in mid-sentence to take in the anticipatory shrieks of her young children. "I just realized - this must have been what it was like for our parents," she sighed. Daniel Cogocara used the occasion as an impromptu birthday party for his friend, 26-year-old Jay Shrubsall.
Mr. Cogocara, also 26, left behind his everyday car, preferring to pile his girlfriend, Agnieska Pagowska, and Mr. Shrubsall into his newly-acquired, light-green 1969 Plymouth Fury. "Where would you rather be sitting?" he grinned, eyeing my 1992 blue and rust coloured Ford Tempo. "Over there, or over here? This is like a couch on wheels, man."

The good-natured feeling spread throughout the crowd. Particularly during intermission, as several men emerged from hulking SUVs to kick around a soccer ball, while others broke out a bocci ball set and gaggles of kids mined golf balls from the dirt lot. But perhaps most strange were the smiles. Smiles, accompanied by the occasional "Hi," were suddenly breaking out across the faces of passing strangers. Curious, when you consider the whole thing resembled an extraordinarily wide traffic jam. Even the projector operator, who was called in as an emergency replacement a few hours before the screening, was waxing nostalgic.

Andrew Mallouk, the 42-year-old projectionist for the repertory Fox Cinema in the Beaches, started cleaning up garbage at an Orangeville drive-in at the age of five, and later graduated to running the Teepee drive-in at Pickering. "It's been a crazy night," said Mr. Mallouk. "But a total blast, especially for me. "Who knew that 25 years later I'd be called back in to clean up at another drive-in?" As the remaining cars began to file out at 2 a.m., Mr. Cogocara lobbed a final comment. "Hopefully this thing lasts a year so I can come back with the convertible."

Fancy Footwork
Arcade craze is mix of Footloose and Twister
National Post, September 2001

It's 4 p.m. Monday at Playdium Toronto on John Street and three dozen or so sweaty teenagers are shouting and taunting each other. Nearby patrons of the family-friendly complex stare on in disbelief as the manager visits the rowdy teens to dispense greetings and offer encouragement. No surprise really - after all, they are among his best customers. At first glance, the above scene may appear to be a prelude to violence but arcade managers across the city know better.

The cause of the commotion is Dance Dance Revolution, a dance- themed video game that is equal parts Footloose and Twister. It may be the most wholesome thing to happen to arcades in years. Also known as DDR, the Japanese-import gained instant fame when it was introduced in Hong Kong three years ago and has since splashed down successfully in North America.

Konami of America Inc., the game's manufacturer on these shores, sold out of its inventory of machines earlier this year. Impatient arcade owners have since forked out more than double the original price to import the $22,500-plus game from overseas.
Since appearing in Toronto area arcades a year ago, the awkward neon-accented machine has quickly become one of the games of choice, despite initial hesitation from arcade operators.
"We weren't 100 % sure of it when we brought it in but it had clearly proved popular at the trade shows so we gave it a try," Kyle Gnass, general manager of Playdium Mississauga says. "Now there's always people on it."

Of the 200 or so machines in the complex, Mr. Gnass ranks DDR in the five most popular.

"When the latest machine came in, there were kids crowding around it on the loading dock just trying to get a first peek." If you haven't encountered DDR at an arcade yet, you'll know it when you see it. It is the only machine amidst the flurry of electronic distractions likely to be overrun by smiling teenagers. At about seven feet tall with a large technicolour screen and neon-circled speakers, it takes up the real estate of about three Q*Bert games. On the floor in front sit the all-important dance pads -- two sets of four glowing arrows complemented by handrails for support.

Game play is straightforward: Players choose from one of three skill levels -- Basic, Trick and Maniac -- then pick one of 130 songs.

The music, which ranges from Britney Spears impersonators to vintage Village People and popular Euro-dance tunes, comes with programmed dance steps that are displayed as a pattern of scrolling arrows on the screen in front of the dance pad. The players use their feet to match the pattern of arrows on the screen with the four arrows on their dance pad. If you hit more than 70% of the 275 arrows, you advance to the next of four possible levels. When DDR is played by experts, it is a breathtaking sight. Dancers nimbly fling their bodies to the left and right with lightening speed in order to complete all the steps demanded by the computer, all the while keeping their eyes glued to the screen. It’s like karaoke for your feet.

On a recent night at Playdium Mississauga, the crowd of baggy-pantsed gawkers surrounding the latest version, DDR Fourth Mix, is three deep. Wearing almost identical off-kilter ball caps and Nikes, Brian Ymbang and his cousin, Jay, are busy scrambling their feet over the dance pads.

As the audience claps and shouts support, a smarmy computer- generated voice eggs them on in a muddled Japenglish: "I'm very curious how cool you can dance!" and "Wow, you are a dancing machine!" As the two teens clear the fourth and final level, cheers break out from the crowd and Jay, exhausted, drops to his knees.
Brian, an 18-year-old Mississauga native, remembers his first DDR encounter six months ago.

"The first time I saw it, it was just this weird game with arrows that went extremely fast," he explains, wiping his head and neck with a towel. "I couldn't understand, you know, why people were actually doing it." Now Brian has advanced to freestyling, a riff on breakdancing that mixes hands, knees, buttocks, head and the occasional backflip into the gameplay. Sometimes Brian gets so worked up that he brings a change of clothes in case his others get too sweat-soaked.

"The sense of community we've actually built up here - it's kind of weird," he says.

"We have friends who are, like, four or five years younger than us - me and my cousin are already 18, and half the people here are like 14 or 15. People ask 'Why do you have such young friends? But, they can't understand, man, 'cause they don't play the game."

His friend Tim Wong, who runs a local DDR fan Website, agrees the game is overwhelmingly social. "With most games, if you're shooting, you're just shooting. If you're fighting, you're just shaking the machine," the 17-year-old explains. "But this is one of the few games [on which] you can actually show off."

Jason Enos realized the potential for the game when he first witnessed it in Hong Kong.

There, Mr. Enos, a Konami product manager, saw flocks of dating teenagers lining up to play. He became committed to bringing it to the United States. "When you strip it all away, I think music and dancing are two fundamental elements of society," he says from his San Francisco office. "No matter what culture you're from, Germany, Italy or Japan, people are attracted to that basic beat. "A lot of people said it would never take off," he says. "Now a lot of those same people in the industry have pointed to DDR as rejuvenating the arcade business."

Deniz Okten, 17, is just one of the DDR-cult who is drawn to the often pricey Playdium exclusively by the machine. "We play the other games too, but only when our legs give out," says Mr. Okten, adding, "I would never usually have money for this 'cause my mom doesn't like me playing games. But I showed her it once and now she always just gives me money to play because it's like exercise." The fitness benefits have not gone unnoticed by Konami. A spinoff home game, Diet Diet Revolution, which keeps track of users' expended calories, is now available.

Mr. Enos said Konami is hoping to extend the natural lifespan of DDR a few more years by organizing regional tournaments and creating more spinoffs.

But some of Dance Dance Revolution's afficionados have a longer view.

"I'll never give it up. I can see myself playing until I'm, like, 25. Maybe even older, like 30," says Brian. "That's if my body can withstand it."

The Sport That Put a Hold on T.O.
Wrestling grew up here
National Post - Toronto Edition, September 2001

When Toronto wrestling fans poured into Nathan Phillips Square earlier this month to witness the announcement of WrestleMania's return to SkyDome in March of next year, they knew exactly what to expect.

Wrestlers with names such as The Rock, Stone Cold Steve Austin and Trish Stratus were trotted onstage to whip the audience into a froth. Shirts were ripped off, one-fingered salutes were dispatched and audience members were spat at.

The thousands of teenagers (and a few over-zealous adults) responded with generous cheers, jeers and obscenities.
Mel Lastman, the Mayor, and Mike Harris, the Premier, also showed their approval. Each walked on to the stage accompanied by their own rock soundtrack and tested out their awkward impersonations of wrestlers.

This press conference-cum-performance was indicative of the new face of professional wrestling: loud, insolent, undeniably profitable and mainstream.

But what those assembled there likely didn't recognize was that much of wrestling's climb toward cultural credibility took place right here in Toronto.

When Maple Leaf Gardens opened on Nov. 12, 1931, with a game between the Leafs and the Chicago Black Hawks, professional wrestling was already a populist attraction.
Seven days after that gala night, the new building saw 15,800 people flock to watch Handsome Jim Londos (The Golden Greek) wrestle Gino Garibaldi. Not only did that first match eclipse the 13,233 who turned out for the Leafs a week previous (a number accounted for by the chairs set up at ringside on the floor) but it also set an attendance record for indoor sporting events in Canada.

For the next six decades, wrestling occupied more dates at the arena than anything other than hockey, and hosted virtually all the sport's superstars.

Not long after that first card, a young man named Frank Tunney would buy the rights to promote wrestling at the Gardens. The Tunney name would continue to be linked with wrestling until 1995, when Frank's nephew, Jack Tunney, who had inherited the business after Frank's death in 1983, was squeezed out by the World Wrestling Federation.

Even Vince McMahon, the WWF's ego-driven president, readily acknowledges the family's legacy.

"The Tunneys have a storied history with the World Wrestling Federation. Their contributions were enormous and should be congratulated," he said after the WrestleMania press conference. "Without the stepping stones of the Tunneys, we'd never be where we are today."

Thanks to Frank Tunney, old-school grapplers Lou Thesz, Gorgeous George, Killer Kowalski and The Sheik were introduced to Toronto. Tunney also developed Canadian stars, including Whipper Billy Watson, Gene Kiniski, Billy "Red" Lyons and Angelo "King Kong" Mosca.

Mr. Mosca, a transplanted Bostonian who had a CFL Hall of Fame football career with the Hamilton Tiger-Cats, began wrestling as a villain -- or "heel," in wrestling parlance -- during the off- season in 1960.

"Toronto had the real hardcore audience," he says. "Certain parts of the U.S., New York and Chicago, they just wanted to hurt you. Here in Toronto, they were very vociferous but not malicious. You could walk out the back door as a heel and not be bothered."
Gene Kiniski, an Edmonton native who waged a feud with hometown boy Whipper Watson, remembers how television stoked the sport's popularity.

"It was just unreal. There were a lot of sellouts [in Toronto] when we wrestled Thursday nights," Mr. Kiniski, 72, says. "They used to try and sneak into the ring. Then they get in there and they don't know what the hell they're doing.

"One time, a guy snuck in and I kicked the hell out of him. Of course it ended up as a lawsuit; according to Ontario law he was still a minor. The guy was about six-foot-three."

In the upright City of Toronto, Mr. Kiniski and Mr. Mosca were often forced to contend with questions about the morality of their profession. When Mr. Kiniski ambushed Whipper Billy Watson with a folding chair at the East York Arena in 1956, the ensuing riot provoked the legislative wrath of Queen's Park.

Art Childs, an MPP, called for a crackdown, citing wrestling's corrupting influence on the moral fibre of society. A savvy public relations campaign by Frank Tunney and associates helped stave off any threat.

"[Frank] kept wrestling alive in Toronto through the tough times," Billy "Red" Lyons says. "There were a lot of lean years there and he could have just folded up his tent and left, but he kept going."
Mr. Lyons, 69, wrestled in Toronto from 1959 onward, during the sport's heyday.

"We've always been picked on by the press, or we've been used as a political football by certain politicians," he says. "They always condemned us for being too violent."

Or for faking the violence. Mr. Kiniski had his own way of deflecting queries about the legitimacy of his profession.
"This once I was on a TV show and there was this little cutie- pie who asked me if it was all rehearsed," he growled. "I said, 'Well, look at you. You're a beautiful young lady, but you take all that makeup off and you take off that bra and all that clothing -- well, you're still a beautiful person. You're just enhancing your image, aren't ya?' That shut her up."

Now, of course, it is an open secret that wrestling is more entertainment than sport. Not that it has suffered as a result. By the time WrestleMania X-8 wraps up next March at SkyDome, wrestling fans will have left an estimated $10-million behind.
"I think even 15 years ago they wouldn't have touched wrestling with a 10-foot pole. [Mayor Mel] Lastman probably wouldn't have been caught dead there," said Mr. Lyons. "Now everyone wants to be involved because it's so hot."

Vince McMahon's winning formula of muscle and bluster doesn't sit that well with old-timers, though.
"Half the time there is no wrestling. Years ago you went to the ring with your tights and your shoes on and maybe a fancy jacket or whatever," Mr. Lyons continued. "If you were the bad guy you'd stop and make a motion to the crowd to try and stir them up, and then you'd get in the ring and bingo -- the bell would ring and you'd start to wrestle.

"Now, everybody comes out with a cordless mic, they got music playing and then they bad-mouth each other for about 17 or 18 minutes. Then they wrestle for two. Then it's one, two, three and it's all over."

Mr. Mosca takes a more realist stance.

"Hey, you might not agree with what he's done -- a lot of promoters would turn over in their graves if they saw the storylines that he goes with -- but he's revolutionized the business.
"You can criticize him all you want. But you can't criticize his bank account."

[Illustration]
Black & White Photo: Tony Lanza / Killer Kowalski gives Whipper Billy Watson a 'How do ya' do' in this undated photo from the glory years of Canadian wrestling. Vince McMahon says without the Toronto influence, there would be no WWF. ; Copyright 2006 Brad Mackay

Welcome to the website of Brad Mackay*. Look around a bit and you’ll find a selection of his articles on the arts, culture (both high and low) and comics - not to mention high-stakes pigeon racing, elderly hat salesmen (two!), and the sorry state of lawn bowling in Toronto.

Brad has been published in The Globe and Mail, The Toronto Star, National Post, The Ottawa Citizen, the Canadian Medical Association Journal, CBC Arts Online, Toronto Life, Quill & Quire, enRoute, NOW and eye magazines. He has also researched and written several multimedia projects for the CBC Digital Archives, an award-winning educational website that incorporates audio and video clips from the national broadcaster’s extensive archives.

In addition to all this, Brad is a founding member of the Doug Wright Awards for Canadian Cartooning, an annual event established in May 2005 as a way of recognizing the country’s best cartooning talents. Coincidentally, he is also collaborating on a major retrospective of Wright - a seminal Canadian cartoonist who passed away in 1983 - with noted Guelph cartoonist and designer Seth. The two-volume project, which is being published by Drawn and Quarterly Books, is currently scheduled to debut in spring 2008.

When he isn’t writing or reading (comics, graphic novels, old technical manuals or two-week old copies of the Sunday New York Times) Brad is either fretting about his next story or spending quality time with his family. The Mackays presently live on a bucolic street in Ottawa (Canada’s Capital for the uninitiated), and consist of Brad (Pops), Erin (beautiful and tolerant wife), Clara (wee daughter) and Rory Pearson, aka “Beast Boy”.

Brad welcomes all comments – good and bad – and will respond promptly if they are coherent..

(*it's pronounced Mac-eye.)

Special Ed
A new look at Chester Brown’s influential comic Ed The Happy Clown
CBC Arts Online, July 2005

Since its publication in the fall of 2003, Louis Riel: A Comic-Strip Biography has sold more than 17,000 copies, snagged numerous industry awards and helped solidify Chester Brown’s standing as a pillar of Canadian cartooning. Librarians and teachers now line up for Brown’s public readings and traditional book critics clamour to offer their approval. (The U.S. trade paper Publisher’s Weekly was so smitten that they hailed Riel “a strong contender for the best graphic novel ever.”)

But there was a time, long before the mainstream pile-on, when Brown’s work was feared and excoriated by everyone from women’s rights groups to die-hard comic nerds. The indignation came courtesy of Ed The Happy Clown, his 1989 story about the problem-plagued life of an ill-fated children’s entertainer.

If you thought Louis Riel got a bum deal, consider what Ed was faced with: subterranean pygmies, cow-thieving aliens, dismembered hands, Frankenstein’s monster, never-ending bowel movements and the pièce de résistance: the head of then-U.S. president Ronald Reagan transplanted onto the tip of his penis. This queasy combination of gleeful scatology and cutting-edge humour left readers dazzled and/or scratching their heads, and propelled many alternative cartoonists — including a little-known cartoonist named Seth — back to their drawing boards.
Now, Montreal-based publisher Drawn & Quarterly is reprinting the unexpurgated Ed in a nine-issue series that comes complete with new covers and endnotes from Brown. Two issues in, the slim black-and-white pamphlets offer an opportunity to revisit a time when the gentle genius behind Louis Riel was the reigning enfant térrible of the comic world.

For those unfamiliar with Brown’s dark hero, Ed is a cheery fellow with a big head who is forced to endure one blackly humorous indignity after another. The story begins when the children’s hospital he’s bound for burns to the ground — with all the kiddies in it. The plot gets grimmer from there. Reading like a profane version of Voltaire’ s Candide, Ed battles flesh-eating rats, befriends a band of pygmies, is imprisoned for a crime he didn’t commit and falls in love with a vampire.

As Brown recalls in his notes, the book sprang forth from a creative rut he was experiencing during the early 1980s. After a chance reading of a book about surrealism, Brown decided to throw caution to the wind and draw a completely improvised comic, foregoing many traditional cartooning processes like pencilling or ruling out panel borders.

“Embracing surrealistic spontaneous creation,” as he now refers to it, gave Brown, then in his 20s, a much-needed artistic direction. It allowed him to indulge all his cultural and political interests, from his skepticism of politicians to his childhood love of vampires and werewolves. But the real achievement was the way Ed managed to be both hopeless and funny, a trick moviemakers like Tim Burton and Todd Solondz wish they could pull off more regularly.
Despite being out of print for more than a decade, Ed still has the power to both inspire and offend. In a recent interview in The Comics Journal, American cartoonist Craig Thompson (Blankets) recalled his initial encounter with Brown’s first graphic novel. “I remember flipping through it and being totally repulsed. I was still a prudish, post-Christian kid, and just seeing that book on the stands gave me the creeps.” After exhausting the alt-comics shelf of his local store, Thompson finally caved in. “The day I brought home Ed the Happy Clown, I felt I had stooped to new lows.” In fact, he was won over and has been a fan of Brown ever since.

The book vaulted Brown into the indie spotlight, eventually catching the eye of Rolling Stone, which placed Brown on its “Hot List” in the early 1990s. Bruce McDonald, director of Highway 61 and Roadkill, bought the film rights to Ed in 1991 and got Don McKellar to write a screenplay. The film, which McDonald hoped to cast with Macaulay Culkin as Ed and Rip Torn as the president, failed to find financial backing. All that remains of the venture is a swell promo poster.

Of course, along with the comic’s acclaim came the detractors. Early on in its run, Ed managed to pull off a trifecta of outrage, freaking out distributors, printers and feminists. Brown’s cocktail of violence, nudity, profanity and scatological humour was taken by many outside of the comic world as snot-nosed juvenilia — which on some level it was. But the kicker must have been his choice to depict the wildly popular and staunchly conservative Republican president as a belligerent phallus. That couldn’t have gone over too well in the U.S. heartland.

Brown can’t recall whether it was ever banned from any bookstores, but Ed was dropped by at least one distributor and experienced a memorable run-in with a feminist publisher. The problems began after an Ontario printing house finished the fourth issue of Brown’s Yummy Fur, which featured the female lead Josie — a vampire — getting stabbed by a character named Chet. “Once they had done my issue, the next job they had lined up was for a feminist magazine or something,” Brown told me recently. “When that job was done, they packed it up in boxes and used cast-off pages from my comic as packing material. So when the company got their order, they unpacked it and uncrumpled the pages — one of which featured Josie getting stabbed. They called up the printer and complained... then we were told that they wouldn’t be printing Yummy Fur anymore.” Despite this setback, when the story was finally collected in a graphic novel in 1989, the raves quickly followed. The Village Voice urged its readers to “[get] it while it's still legal; it may be the most extreme art you’ll ever encounter,” while the Comics Journal praised it for “assaulting the eyes and offending the sensibilities of people who considered themselves unshockable.”

While the critical praise for Ed never translated into huge sales, its influence within the comic community is undisputed. Ed turned the heads of many cartoonists — from Chris Ware to Dan Clowes and Cerebus creator Dave Sim — and forced them to reconsider the direction of their own work. One cartoonist profoundly affected was Seth, who is now a close friend of Brown’s.

Seth remembers first reading the early Ed stories on a Toronto streetcar in the 1980s and being unable to control his laughter. “The book was very funny and the humour felt very cutting edge,” Seth says via e-mail. But it was Brown’s ambitious storytelling that left the biggest impression. “Those brilliant sequences where he would show a situation and then return to it later from a different perspective, like the death of Josie, really blew me away.

“I was sure, in those days, that Chester was a genius. His natural understanding of comics storytelling and his marvellous, iconoclastic humour was just amazing. Next to [Love & Rockets creators] the Hernandez brothers, Ed was the most affecting comic I read at that time in my life. And it’s still groundbreaking work today.”

The book continues to inspire a whole new generation, including up-and-coming Canadian cartoonists Alex Fellows and Bryan Lee O’Malley, a 26-year-old Halifax cartoonist whose graphic novel, Scott Pilgrim Vol. 1, has been optioned for a Hollywood movie. O'Malley recently won an inaugural Doug Wright Award for Canadian cartooning. He considers Brown “a golden god.”
“I read Ed The Happy Clown only once [in Dec. 2002],” he said. “But it basically blew my mind. The way something so obviously scattered in the early pages could come together into that bizarre, dystopian, cohesive world amazed me. I loved the large-headed, childlike figures and those beautiful facial expressions.” O’Malley says his own first book, Lost At Sea, was heavily influenced by his initial reading of Ed.

Montrealer Fellows remembers coming across Ed the Happy Clown as a teenager. There are surreal echoes of Ed in Fellows’ impressive 2004 debut graphic novel Canvas, particularly the lead character’s mother and father, who appear as human-like pig and frog creatures.

“I first noticed [Ed] at my local comic shop, wrapped in a plastic bag with an adults-only label on it. I was only 15 or so at the time, but thankfully the owner let me have it.

“Everything, from the brown cover with the harsh fluorescent colours to the bad newsprint it was printed on, seemed to fit perfectly... It's a rare graphic novel that shows so much growth from the beginning to the end.”

Plus, Fellows says, “Chester really is one of the best penis-drawers out there. He gets the squishiness and wrinkles just right.” High praise, indeed. Copyright 2006 Brad Mackay