Taking the milk out of Mac’s

This one is from the weird things I notice about Ontario file.

As a born and bred Winnipegger, my earliest visits to my grandparents’ place near London, Ont. were always marked by certain things the locals said or did, that seemed a bit, well, odd.

One of those things was that anytime someone needed to go to the convenience store, they would talk about “Mac’s Milk.”  How strange, I thought. Although Seven Eleven (“Sev”) is king in Winnipeg, and presumbaly much of the west, we certainly had Mac’s stores too. The orange and red colour scheme was kind of an eye-sore, and their Froster a poorer cousin to the Slurpee, but that aside it was a pretty standard presence in my hometown. But what was up with the “milk” addition? First, sure, the store sold milk, but it wasn’t a milk specialty store or anything. Secondly, no one in Manitoba — that I had heard — called it “Mac’s Milk.”

Flash forward to 2009. Things have changed. Mac’s is now owned by Quebec’s Couche-Tard, and the kooky Scottish cat has been usurped (murdered?) by a suspiciously gallic winking owl. But nonetheless, since I moved out to Toronto over a year ago, I have occasionally heard the old “Mac’s Milk” reference, and it got me to wondering.

An early Mac's Milk outlet, with that crazy tam-wearing cat

So yesterday I googled. Turns out the Ontarians aren’t so nutty after all (at least on this count). The store was in fact called Mac’s Milk for the first 13 or so years of its existence. The original logo — seen here — even had the cat carrying a jug of milk.

It could seem puzzling why into late 1980s, and even today, people use a name that was officially changed in 1975. Certainly there’s a nostalgia factor. Though I’m not so sure about people around my age who were not even born when it was called Mac’s Milk.

On the other hand, who am I to speak, when I refuse to acknowledge the Rogers Centre. It’s the SkyDome people. Now, and forever.

Holy Jumpin’ Lame Expression!

A few years ago I encountered a strange expression from a friend for whom English was a second language. In response to some surprise (what it was is lost to the annals of history) she said “holy jumping!” I looked at my friend askance, presuming she had misheard or abbreviated another phrase. After all, of all the things we call “holy” in the name of shock, awe or bemusement, “jumping” doesn’t seem a likely candidate.

Flash forward to this past week, and the phrase popped into my radar again during some web browsing. Remembering my first encounter I decided to investigate further. It turns out, the expression DOES exist, and (big surprise) it appears to be a Canadianism.

Googling “holy jumping” or “holy jumpin” yields all the more common, and not so common, expressions people have created that begin that way. Among them are tried and true religious epithets like “Holy Jumping Jesus Christ,” and “Holy Jumpin Jehosaphat.” Then there are the more descriptive “Holy jumping Christ on a pogo stick!” or a favourite of mine “Holy jumping Jesus Christ on a cracker!”

Often — but not always — the phrase is adorned with addition of “Batman” at the end, a cultural reference to the caped crusader’s sidekick Robin in the 1960s TV series who was fond of similar expressions.

These colourful phrases might be blasphemous and shocking to some, especially in earlier times. But while they might not refer to anything in the real world, they do conjour up a ridiculous image. The idea of the solemn Christian saviour leaping in the air, pogoing, or doing either on a cracker is amusing, surprising and conveys that sense to the listener or reader.

Other versions of the phrase lose some of the religious reference, while keeping the saltational aspect intact. See: “Holy Jumpin’ cats,” “holy jumpin jellybeans,” and another personal favourite “Holy Jumpin weasel fritters on a hot cross bun!“

These versions use that classic comedic method of surprise: the listener expects some kind of blasphemous incantation upon hearing “holy jumpin” but then — BOOM — the lord’s name is replaced with cats, candies or weasel fritters. The effect is funny and ridiculous, or at least this seems to be the intent.

So then, what is the deal with “Holy Jumpin!” being used as an expression unto itself. It’s not particularly funny or surprising, it evokes no specific image of ridicule, and lastly it’s grammatically bizarre. Is the act of jumping supposed to be holy? Why not holy swimming? Holy boxing? Or holy dillydallying? There are plenty of funnier verbs out there.

But alas, language does not develop along rational lines, or based on what I find funny and clever. I found numerous examples of “Holy Jumpin” online, all of which, upon inspection were from Canadian denizens of the web. Darren Pang, a former NHL goalie from Ontario has a blog about the Phoenix Coyotes called the same. There is also Canadian female blogger who writes about the exciting world of US reality TV shows, and seems to like the phrase quite a bit.

Most appear from pretty random sources, like this Canadian Idol blog comment, or a post on Livejournal by a Vancouver-based cartoonist.

The one that made me doubt my Canadianism theory was a post on a site called Winds of Change.net, which seemed to be very American in it’s political subject matter. I ran a check on the author, a certain Jon Katzman, and lo and behold, he is very much Canadian and lives in Toronto.

So without definitive evidence, my theory that this is a kooky Canadian expression appears to be holding up. My question remains . . . WHY? It must be a derivation of the Christ-referencing epithets above. Could it be that prudish, Protestant Ontarians wanted to shorten the phrase to keep the borderline blasphemy of “holy jumpin . . .” without the pay-off of the noun at the end? Perhaps!

Occasionally the phrase appears as “Holy jumpin . . .” with the ellipse indicating the missing punchline. Maybe this is in the vein of other semi-complete phrases such as “what the . . .”; the latter also hacked by self-censorship to avoid the use of religious or profane language.  But whereas the missing words in “what the . . .” are obvious, “holy jumping” seems to have taken on a life of its own, at least in these parts.

However it came to be, in the opinion of this not-so-cunning linguist, it’s a really, really crappy expression. Give me weasel fritters on a cracker any day.

Two days to Stockholm; not the city

A little ironically in light of my last post, complaining of rude, unhelpful Toronto bike store staff…

I bought a bike.

Having to walk 1.5 hours yesterday between work, home and errands convinced me, that even once the TTC strike ends (and it will end) it would be good not to be stuck hiking the concrete jungle like this.

With the shops as busy as they are, it’s going to take the place where I bought my “horse” two days to stick it together. I’m actually quite excited to get on it. For one thing, I haven’t been a regular bike rider since my Ottawa days. For another, it’s a damn sexy machine. Check this out.

Yes. This is the Stockholm, from Quebec-based company Devinci. It’s sort of the lower-mid-range of Devinci’s hybrid or “urban” bikes. Read mountain bike frame with narrower forks and narrow slick-ish tires. Frame is aluminum, so it’s light. And you have to love the black and white two-tone styling. Class-y.

Naming the bikes after cities was kind of a stroke of genius for Devinci. But I just couldn’t see myself toodling around Toronto on a bike called the Toronto — yes it exists. Oslo and Melbourne, while cooler were out of my price range. So to Stockholm I go.

Now to make sure this bike lasts longer than my last, which I owned for a grand total of 30 days before it was snatched off my porch by lock-cutting ruffians. A $100 lock is supposed to help with that, but I think I’ll be bringing my new baby indoors.

SOBs in Spandex

So, I’m in the market for a bike.

Seems like a reasonable thing to be in the market for. Much more reasonable than outrageously priced Toronto property or gas-guzzling cars, for example.

Unfortunately the bike shops of this fine city are apparently allied against me. There are plenty of them in this town. From cheapie operations selling used (read stolen) two-wheelers, to hipster urban biketerias and havens for road racer or mountain bike gear heads.

But entering these shops — especially the higher-end ones — is to be ignored, mocked or met with disdain. It appears that the market for expensive bicycles is so bullish, that the two-wheeled Nazis of the GTA can afford to scoff at anyone less than a millionaire triathelete in the market for a $5,000 road-rocket.

The first challenge is getting noticed. Even in some nearly-empty shops it appears hard for the staff to find me among the hanging bikes and Kryptonite u-locks in their stores. While standing around and browsing has failed to garner much response, I have developed a strategy of taking a bike from a rack, flipping it upside down and rotating the tires until someone wanders over.

Even then it’s hard to get more than a cursory “anything I can help you with?”

Once I explain the “lower end” $600-$700 price range I am interested in, any potential helpfulness seems to hiss out of the staff member like air from a punctured tube.

One interesting thing I’ve noticed about the bikes on display in today’s shops is that they all lack pedals. This is clearly to save space as they hang vertically on racks, but it also makes taking a bike for a test run pretty difficult. I have been considering bringing my own pedals and bike tools to avoid asking unhelpful apron-wearing shop staff to do it.

At one store, which I travelled 30 minutes on the Subway to visit, the owner gave me an overly high price on a last-year’s model bike then mocked me when I inquired whether the pedals would be included in that price. OK, I was kind of asking sarcastically — but still. Since when did the retailers motto become less “the customer is always right” and more “screw you, you sad shopper.”

I have also been surprised by how shocked these stores are by any suggestion that when spending $1,000 dollars on a bike, helmet, lock and assorted sundries, some kind of minor discount is in order. One shop girl, who was otherwise relatively friendly looked askance at me when I asked and said: “why would we do that?”

Buying bikes — good bikes, from good stores — in Winnipeg, there would always be at least SOME discussion of a discount, whether it was five or ten per cent. It still meant something, and was far from a bizarre question to ask.

I am aware of the facts. With the combined force of beautiful summer weather and a sudden transit strike, it is almost the perfect seller’s market. But it’s not just bikes.

I see this as a microcosm of the customer service ethic in Toronto. I have witnessed more apathetic, uninterested and downright rude behaviour by employeers to their customers in this city than in everywhere I have lived prior. Combined. Too bad, really, when the city has so much else to offer.

See, be, see.

Checking in for my traditional quarterly update. I think I actually missed the four-month mark since my last posting, which is certainly shameful.

So where has the time gone? Well, I have been working for the past few months at the much-heralded CBC (The Canadian Broadcasting Corporation, The Mother Corp etc) as an editorial assistant in the 24-hour Newsworld TV operation.

It is an exciting place to be. Surrounded by household names and faces from the news anchors I work with every day to the radio and sports people I see in the buildings atrium or cafeteria. The CBC is chock-full of smart, ambitious, overly stressed people. I’m sometimes unsure how I fit into any of these categories, except maybe the third.

The EA job itself is not terribly challenging, and largely unrewarding. I serve as something between a secretary, and gopher. The main duties include printing scripts and rushing them to anchors, controlling the “autocue” prompter system which allows the anchors to appear like they have an entire hour’s news memorized, and answering phones. We also have to fetch and guide guests through security and the mazes of hallways to the appropriate studio or green room.

Journalism? Hmm…what’s that? Writing? Well, I do number the pages on the scripts I deliver.

The job, at least as it applies to me, also involves a lot of painfully early wake-up calls; my shifts usually start around 5 to 5:30 am. The benefit of being released by early afternoon is counterbalanced by the necessity of either mid-day naps, or 9 pm bedtimes, or both.

Complaining? Not I! The job is meant to be an entry point for people who haven’t previously worked at the CBC, a way to get through that hallowed door and stick around long enough to have real responsibilities. I’ve already seen it happen to a few EAs who were there before me, so I know it can happen. There is definitely some dark art between networking and sucking up to get to that point, and I’m not sure I have the fortitude for it all. But we shall see.

In the meantime I’ve kept chipping away at the freelance stone, though sort of getting into some ruts there too.

The way I see it though, overall, things are not bad: I earn enough to live in the big town, I am well situated for bigger and better things at the country’s “premiere” broadcaster, and I have time off during the day to pursue the writing career.

Plus it is FINALLY getting warmer. Time to get out, buy a bike and be happy the days no longer alternate between slush and snow.

Hallelujah.

Tyger, tyger . . . not burning so bright today

Two unconnected stories caught my attention this morning. Both are sad and tragic tales involving Siberian tigers — the world’s largest cats — at zoos. But they are also ironic when looked at together.

In the first story from a zoo in San Francisco, a female tiger named Tatiana somehow escaped her enclosure, unbeknown to zookeepers. The 350-lb predator killed a young man and mauled two other zoo visitors before being shot to death by police.

In the second story, from central China, authorities shut down a zoo after a tiger was found dead, skinned and dismembered. The presumption is that the hide and other parts would be sold on the Chinese black market for a hefty sum. The worst part of this tale is that seven tigers had died at the same zoo in previous years due to starvation, neglect and fight-wounds. Press reports say the zoo was woefully understaffed.

I’m no anti-zoo activist. Well-run zoos instill fascination and respect for the animal world among visitors; many are people who might never have the chance to see the creatures in the wild. There is also the reasonable argument that for better or worse, zoos have become a sort of “Noah’s Ark” for many endangered species that could at some point be reintroduced into the wild.

But both of these stories illustrate the dangers of trying to cage nature without the proper safeguards to protect the animals and their human visitors.

T.O. in the snow

As I strap on my shovelling gear and attempt to extricate myself from this igloo-like tomb. I thought I’d share the following Canwest article.

The Demon Barber of King Street

OK, that’s actually Fleet Street, as in Sweeney Todd, the fantastic Stephen Sondheim musical currently on at the Princess of Wales Theatre. I got to see this production thanks to a kind friend with a kind godmother who gave her two ($60 each!) tickets for the matinee.

I would guess it’s been about a dog’s age or two since I last saw a proper musical. I’m not counting a very good Swahili language show I saw in Nairobi, performed by slum youth who had been trained in dance, song and drama. No, that was amazing, but more of a collection of skits around a theme (namely HIV/Aids and how to avoid it).

This was a proper Broadway musical. Though it was mercifully short on song n’ dance routines, it was more impressive because the cast all played instruments. That’s right. The cast was the orchestra. A brilliant production design, though it called for some seriously talented actors. Watching someone play the cello and sing, then ditch the instrument, leap on top of a precarious prop, get back the cello and play again, without missing a line or a note, makes me happy and sad simultaneously. It’s that feeling of seeing people who are better at things than you will ever be.

Amen to that!

So my brief review of my first ever Sondheim play: I liked it!

This is a simple yet dark tale about revenge, trust, lust, murder and the inability to right wrongs with more of them. Considering that most of the action involves throats being slit with a glinting silver straight razor though, this hardly comes off like an NBC After School Special.

Musically, aside from the “wow” factor of watching the actors accompany themselves, the songs were generally well done. Of course, some came off better than others. One about which types of ‘professions’ would taste better in a meat pie was hilarious; Another with the lead in male duet with his arch nemesis, as the latter sits, unwittingly in what could be his execution chair was chilling, and gorgeously arranged.

Other tunes were less memorable, hence I can’t recall much about them. But it didn’t matter much as the play leapt from song to song with breathtaking pace. There were few refrains (the bane of those overblown Les Mis type shows) and only a few, short spoken interludes. Aside from the intermission none of the actors, with one exception, ever left the stage.

That stage itself is worthy of honourable mention. It was a model of simplicity and multi-functional. It was basically a wooden plank floor with a series of coffin-like boxes on it that allowed the cast stage, and did all their own set changes without the aid of darkness or curtains.

Amazingly, in a darkened theatre full of mainly 60-plus matinee-goers I was never bored. I did yawn once or twice, but I blame that on lack of coffee.

Final tally: 3.5 razorblades out of four.

Scenes from the 日本語能力試験

I did it.

At long last I wrote the dreaded Japanese Language Proficiency Test (JLPT).

To be more precise I took the third level of the test, whose difficulty level is just slightly above the abilities of a trained chimpanzee who happened to live in the Osaka zoo at one time. Nonetheless I took this seriously, hitting the books (sometimes literally), spending hours at Toronto’s Japan Foundation library, and taking a weekly class where I usually end up telling strange tales about Africa in poor Japanese as my classmates shift uneasily in their seats.

But here’s how the test went down. I can’t get into specifics because, as our exam proctor sternly reminded us, if we divulge the contents of the test we would not only fail, and never find out our real score, but we would be subjected to 50 hours a week of non-stop J-pop, pumped through tiny ingenious Japanese speakers that would be installed in our ear canals.

All the same I think a genral telling is in order.

As is their wont, the Japanese government, which administers the JLPT once each year on the same day around the world, made it a challenge to even get to show. For those who don’t know, York University (aka the poor man’s U of T) is give-or-take six light-years from central Toronto. Since subways in this sleepy town don’t run until 9 am on Sundays, I had to leave my cozy house at 6:30 am in the middle of a Toronto snowstorm to get there by the 8:50 registration time. An hour and a half of waiting on whind-whipped corners and being sardined onto packed buses later, I was there.

Inside, a sea of colours and faces waited patiently to register for their respective levels. Men, or boys, were mostly geeky manga/anime otaku types. Hard-pressed to be pulled away from their latest DVD rip of Yu-Gi-Oh 17.

Females formed a more representative sample of the species. Some women were likely future or past JET programmers like myself, and there was a great number of Asian faces. I heard Korean, Chinese and Vietnamese (I think) being spoken, just no Japanese.

The strictness of this bureaucratically run phenomenon became evident early on, when a guy in line next to me who had hoped to write the highest level, “ikkyuu” test discovered he had mistakenly signed up for the fourth, or most basic, level. Despite the attempts of the young volunteer serving him, there was “nothing we can do.”

Sorry bub. Come back next year. Thanks for your time. Here’s a free Hello Kitty pencil case for your trouble.

Behind the desks, compact, smartly dressed Japanese women scurried around in that way that only they can. Slightly bowed at the waist in concentration-slash-humility, never walking, always running, from place to place, clipboards in hand. Some of them wear “手袋,” white Mickey Mouse-style handwear that are not only hygienic, but also officious looking.

Such people are trying to be useful , but most of all they are trying to appear useful. One or two local Canadian types, looking like jello-moulds of inertia comparatively, happy to sit their bulk in one place at one desk and shout questions across the room if need be.

I wanted to get some last minute cramming in before the 10:30 start, but the JLPT organizers ordered us to attend an “orientation” at which no useful communication was disseminated, but all the test proctors and official involved, were in true Japanese fashion, identified and applauded for their hard work.

On with it people!

Finally in the test room. I am amused and slightly disconcerted to see several young, mixed or Japanese-looking kids — one boy couldn’t have been more than 9 — sprinkled around the room. A young-looking but serious Japanese woman orders her lackies around the room, checking spots, handing out tests. We have to turn off our cell phones, this is serious. If one rings during the test it’s an automatic failure. No problem complying there.

A few more formalities (“Please do not write today’s date in the place where you should write your birthdate…” argh!) and we’re off. The first section is vocabulary, pronunciation of various characters. They try to trip us up, but I think it’s under control. That was until section two: listening.

After an excrutiating ten minutes of testing the CD volume levels (they decide on ear-splitting, rather than have anyone complain about not being able to hear, fair enough) we are subjected a nasty series of trick question dialogues, where men and women through logical puzzles into their Japanese conversation, then we have approximately 10 seconds to sort it all out before the next question begins. No time to consider, ponder or sort out what’s right from what’s not. It’s sort of a reflex type exam and I bombed it. I glanced over at nine-year-old Japanese boy; he seemed to be having no problem.

My depression over the listening test was started to conflate with my tiredness from getting 90 minutes of sleep the previous night. Luckily the final section on reading and comprehension turned out to be some easy peasy Japanesy. All my studying in that area paid off. I sped through, finishing 40 minutes early and since were were forbidden from leaving early, I slept through the final twenty.

Finally we are allowed to leave, but first the proctor puts on a dour face and holds up a lady’s purse and asks the owner to remain behind. It belongs to the girl who sat in front of me, a pretty, artsy looking type who seemed to have no problem with the test questions. Turns out though she put her phone on silent mode, it vibrated during the exam. Her pleas fell on the deaf ears of the rulebook quoting proctor.

Oops.

Thanks for your time! Try again next year!

Culture shock redux part two

Hello webiverse.

I have unofficially decided to begin blogging again.

It’s possibly not the most fortuitous time for me as I’m struggling to stand on my own two feet back in the motherland. Toronto is home for the foreseeable future, while I try to make it as a freelance writer.

Yeah. I already realize my three-year plan to own a fleet of Aston Martins might need some re-jigging on these kind of wages.

In any case, I do need to be writing articles that may earn me a sou or two. But after a long hiatus from putting pen to page — I sadly haven’t written a published article in months — I simply need to hear that familiar tickety tap of fingers on laptop keys again. There is something therapeutic about writing, which can be easily forgotten when all you think about is meeting deadlines, and word counts and crafting ‘pithy’ leads for stories you might honestly not be able to care less about.

It’s been hard coming back. It wasn’t so much leaving Kenya, as it was getting back and realizing: “Shit! I am not in Africa anymore!” There goes my hook! My chick magnet! My conversation piece! My only hope for a decent job offer! Those tantalizing images of a country chock full of leaping Maasai, stampeding wildebeests and flock upon flock of overpaid expats.

Those were all parts of Kenyan existence, alongside plenty of robbery, lots of muddy swamped streets, beautiful sunrises over destitute slums. And how can I ever forget the sight of young African men romancing bloated German spinsters on the beaches of Mombasa. Yum.

The good, the bad, and the so-ugly-it-smarts — that was Kenya. I’m not even going to try and compare Nairobi with Toronto. But I have to admit (and Montrealers, please stop your smug poutine-scented snickering) that I find this town alright in it’s little surprising ways.

I live off Bloor street, in an area still considered downtown, though west enough to be a little bit of a hike. My apartment is wedged in a working class enclave of immigrants and non-immigrants. A nice mish-mash. The restaurants reflect this perfectly, which means good pastries and Brazillian coffee for breakfast, kimchi and chepchae for lunch, and a big old mound of Ethiopian doro wot and injera for dinner. And in this part of town, family run joints like all these places are never charge more than $10 a head for a sit down meal with drinks and taxes.

I am correcting past misunderstandings too.

For example: people from the west (i.e. Winnipeg and beyond) will all tell you that T.O. locals don’t EVER pronounce the name of their city “toe-RON-toe”, but instead descend lazily slur it into “Trawna.” You know, rhymes with sauna? Or Madonna?

I would like to announce that in truth, nobody here actually says “Trawna.” People say Toronto, much like it is spelled. People here also do not really say “T-dot” or “T.O.”, and most of all, no one, absolutely no one calls this place “Hogtown.”

So here it begins: my adventures as a foreigner in a sorta familiar land. Tally ho!