Happy Canada Day...to all my fellow Canucks! Chug-a-lug, eh?

St. Patrick's Day Parade...San Francisco celebrates! Saturday March 12th!

 



On Saturday, March 12th, the annual St. Patrick's Day celebrations kick off in downtown San Francisco.

Mike Moriarty takes on the duties of Grand Marshall for the much-anticipated parade which starts at 2nd Street at 11:30 a.m. and heads up Market Street to the Civic Plaza.

The theme this year is "Giving Back."

Revellers will join in and participate in "all things" Irish.

For starters, there will be a fine array of Irish dishes and children's rides to keep the blues at bay.

My father was a fiddler who once played with legendary Don Messer in Toronto (Canada).

For years, my dad played up a storm - with a twinkle in his eye - with the Jolly Millers (his band) who played in Hogs Hollow (a few decades ago!).

So, I am of Irish decent.

Consequently, I'll be trotting down to the festivities to get heartily involved.

At a minimum, I'll be chug-a-lugging a mug of green ale or two!

See 'ya there!

http://www.thetattler.biz



Old posters collector's items!

Internet...intriguing ghosts from the past! Touching someone!



Heady days at Rochdale College!

Today, I am once again swept away by the remarkable mysteries of life, and - most certainly - the potent reach of the Internet!

For instance, earlier today, a curious e-mail arrived from across the miles from an individual I met by chance over forty years ago in Toronto (my hometown).

A young woman - by the name of Jennifer - zipped off the communication to determine if I was "Don" - who used to reside in an ashram suite at Rochdale College in 1968 (an experimental communal-living unit at the free school) - which was all decorated in black (and featured in TIME magazine that year).

In a previous post, I mentioned my heady days at the free college, in the turbulent sixties!

Post: 10/26/2008

http://ijulian.blogspot.com/2008/10/blogginginternet-opens-door-to-past.html

So, I expect that by way of a precise search on GOOGLE, the lass was able to locate me years later, as I vacation here in San Francisco (and work on a new series of paintings).

In response, I composed a quick note to inform the acquaintance from the past  - that yes, indeed - I was the individual she was seeking from the ghostly (but memorable) days of her youth.

My birth name was "Donald", but years later - after I was separated from my family - I legally changed my name to Julian Ayrs (and - subsequently - my destiny was set on another path, too!).

Just now, I received a delightful e-mail back, in which Jennifer fondly recalled that I was kind-of-like a Pied-Piper who delighted folks way back then (when I was a free spirit and danced in the streets of downtown Toronto).

Whew!

That's over four decades ago!

But, what touched me most, were the kind sentiments expressed therein.

Gosh, it's such a compliment to remembered so fondly over the years, and still be in the heart and mind of a innocent young girl, who was a mere eight years old when our paths originally first crossed!

Life is sweet, eh?

And, I count my blessings, for that!

http://www.thetattler.biz

Unknown Student

(Rochdale College on Bloor St. in Toronto)

Justin Bieber...Happy Birthday! Sweet 17 Pop Icon dating Selena Gomez!

Amidst the brouhaha of his 17th birthday, Justin Bieber has cranked up the frenzy a tad, with the official announcement that his heart is going pitter-patter over a gal pal.

Uh-huh!

The flavor of the month - with the raging hormones - is dating cutie Selena Gomez!

Tongues of gossips at the tabloid rags have been wagging that it's old news; after all, they caught the pretty twosome weeks ago in passionate clinches (spied pecks on the cheek, too) now-and-then on the fly on the high-profile celebrity circuit.

OMG!

I vividly recall when I was 17!

Way back in the 60's - in my heady trippy-hippie daze - I got busted for dancing on a police car in the downtown streets of Toronto!

Post:  12/26/10

http://ijulian.blogspot.com/2010/12/hairmemories-of-gerome-ragni-rock.html

So, my advice to the "Bieb"?

Kick up your heels and par-tay hearty (fellow Canuck) dude!

http://www.thetattler.biz

Justin & his musical mentor!

Memories of Humberside High (Toronto)...by Julian Ayrs!

I like to stroll along the sidewalk after school

  Step on the Crack!

  Break your mother's back!

The gleaming cars streaming by

Side-stepping slow-poke pedestrians dawdling on the street

The real lived-in faces!

And, the never-ending buzz of the frenetic city

Thirty times!

I will not chew gum in class

I will not chew gum in class

I will not chew gum in class

Julian Ayrs

Memories of Humberside High

West End

(Toronto)

*High Park

Barbara Billingsley...death rustled up sad memories of foster homes!

Pop TV Sitcom "Leave it to Beaver"



The death of Barbara Billingsley - who tenderly (and expertly) breathed life into a role that personified middle America’s romantic image of the ideal mother - triggered a flood of emotions over the weekend that were difficult to quell.

If you were raised in the fifties - and resided in a suburb in the Unites States or Canada - like moi! - you probably flopped down in the family room after school to catch the hilarious antics of “Beaver” (played by child star Jerry Mathers).

And, in a pivotal moment in any one of the weekly storyline on "Leave it to Beaver",  viewers may have been touched by the worldly-wise motherly advice Mrs. Cleaver may have offered up on the heels of rescuing the lovable lug from the jaws of tragedy for one reason or another.

The “Cleavers” - and the make-believe world they inhabited - best represented the American dream (which consisted of a two-child family unit, a cozy bungalow replete with picket fence, and late-model car in the garage) and the country’s longing to attain it.

For me - the notion was a surreal and precarious one - that often caused me to cry myself to sleep at night.

In retrospect, when I look back and reflect on my childhood, it’s easy to understand why.

Every day, I walked an emotional tightrope between reality and illusion, as I struggled to perpetuate a charade that the Children’s Aid Society foisted on me.

On the surface, it appeared to all-the-world - school friends, teachers, and other residents in the suburbs of Toronto that I crossed paths with - that I was just a normal kid born into the privileged middle class.

Unfortunately, nothing could be farther from the truth.

In fact, I was a ward of the State, taking shelter in foster homes from the first day I was snatched away from my mother’s care (age 7) ‘til I became a legal adult on my own (age 18).

When my father (an Irish fiddler who played with the “Jolly Rogers” in Hogs Hollow) passed away to spirit unexpectedly, my mother was left in a lurch, and unable to take care of the seven children (I was born last) left behind.

Unfortunately, I was too old for adoption, so I ended up in a handful of foster homes until I became a teenager able to survive on my own.

Although the agency took a lot of care in placing me, occasionally a parental situation would turn out to be a nightmare, and I would summarily be relocated into a new family situation.

Part of the problem?

The individuals who signed up for the task of parenting were opening their doors - not because they were kind-hearted people inclined to offer up a home to a needy child - but because of the financial perks involved.

In one scenario, my foster father was out-of-work due to a serious illness, and I was a simply a meal ticket.

Over time, Mr. Collett built up a resentment towards me which finally exploded in a ball of fury one day.

As I sat on the couch one afternoon, the former carpenter (who once worked for Disney), suddenly jumped up and started to punch me on the head.

“Listen to me when I’m talking to you,” he angrily shouted at the top of his lungs, as his wife dashed in from the kitchen screaming.

“Willard, stop!  Stop it,” she begged.

For starters, I wasn’t aware that I was allegedly ignoring the man.

If anything, I was probably hanging my head to hide the fact I was shedding a tear or two.

Believe it or not, that was the only occasion in my entire life, that a father “figure” ever mistreated me.

Needless to say, when my social worker became aware of the incident, I was on the move once again.

Thankfully, I ended up in the home of Ruth Fowler and her husband Harry, in one of the best family settings of my entire youth.

As I explained to Mrs. Fowler years later, she was the best mother I ever had.

Why?

Because she allowed me to be myself, and explore my creative side, among other things.

Also, for the first time in my life, I was also allowed to invite friends over to the house at 7 West Hill Drive (West Hill) to celebrate a birthday one year with cake, soft drinks, and party games!

Instead of being forced to wear hand-me-downs that Mrs. Collett rustled up from friends with boys my age, Mrs. Fowler took me shopping for new clothes at the start of school in September.

I vividly recall nervously asking Mrs. Fowler if I could have a trendy jacket that caught my eye - expecting a resounding “no” - to follow the meek request.

Surprise!

The fiery redhead responded in her own thoughtful way as usual.

“Of course. You’re the one that’s wearing it, dear, not me.”

You can image the rush of relief - and joy - that rippled through my being that day.

At long last, I was being treated like a person,and  not an intrusion on someone’s life.

I am overcome with emotion now as the memories rise up - and overwhelm me as I look back - in anger?

Not quite.

Somewhere along the line, I managed to develop an optimistic side.

Only God knows how!

Instead of lamenting about the downside of my plight - being an unwanted foster child hungering for love and tenderness - I’ve tried to be philosophical about the troubled experiences that often float up unexpectedly out-of-the-blue and continue to haunt me to this day.

For example, I joke to friends who were unhappy with their parents, that I was lucky being a foster child.

“If a home didn’t work out - and I didn’t get along with my foster parents - the social workers would try to place me in a better family situation,” I uttered up with a shrug.

Then, I would underscore the obvious.

If an individual was unhappy with their home  (or didn’t savor their relationship with their parents) tough ti**y.

Of course, over the years, I have often wondered what I would be like today, if I had of been left in the charge of my mother.

I probably wouldn’t have been scarred emotionally, or become alienated, always feeling like an outsider in life.

In the final analysis, I’ve learned, there is no substitute for a mother’s love.

Children,..can be cruel to each other! Be a Child advocate!

 

I was reflecting today on how cruel teenagers can be to each other, after I was unexpectedly thrust into the middle of a name-calling incident at McDonald's this morning around the breakfast hour.

At first, I was shocked by the demeaning slurs these young hoodlums hurled at each other (which caused every decent person within earshot to cringe) but then - it struck me - that my own generation often acted the same way when they got caught up in the "mob mentality" in a spontaneous fit of anger in the school yard or after hours in the playground.

In those vulnerable years, it is so important for these insecure young adults to feel a sense of belonging, to be cool.

That's why they copy-cat each other when it comes to fashion trends, rebel against their parents and authority figures, and do battle with their teachers.

For the most part, the immature little brats are totally unaware of the hurt they cause.

Or, at least, not until it is too late to make amends.

Yes, words have power.

Unfortunately, the ugly free-for-all, dredged up a handful of painful memories that weren't too pleasant to re-visit.

In the sixth grade, for example, I was attending Regent Heights High school in Toronto, when a misunderstanding with a neighborhood friend literally rocked my world and plummeted me to the edge of a frightful abyss.

Gordon McKinnon grew up in the house next to mine, and when I moved in, we became fast friends.

Gordon was thin as a rail - crowned with a carrot-top and freckles - and was blessed with an infectious grin.

Uh-huh!

He was quite the rambunctious high-strung kid.

And, blessed with a remarkable gift for tickling the ivories on the old piano, too.

Every day, we trotted off to school together - and oftentimes when class was out - we hung out at his home until his parents arrived back from the office around the dinner hour.

Then, out-of-the-blue one day, a silly misunderstanding caused a rift between us.

I can't recall what triggered the split in our friendship, but once Gordon spitefully dug his heels in, it was all out war.

The situation worsened to epic proportions over a bagged lunch.

Whenever my foster mother was out for the day, she bagged me - a sandwich, snack, and piece of fruit - to chow down on in the cafeteria.

Of course, I was keenly aware that if the other kids found out that Mrs. Collett wouldn't allow me to come home for lunch on my own if she was out, that they would taunt and tease me no end.

So, to avoid that embarrassment, I would sneak home each day that I was forced to pack a lunch - slip into the garage surreptitiously - and wolf down the meal with no one being the wiser (and my cool image would remain intact).

Unfortunately, one day when I was starting to climb in the back window of the garage, I was caught in the act.

Mrs. Collett returned early one day and noticed me walk up the drive with my lunch in tow.

After a brief interrogation, in which I noted that the other boys would make fun of me for having to take a bagged-lunch to school, she thoughtlessly called up Gordon's mother to complain about his inappropriate behaviour.

As you can well imagine, that didn't go over well with Gordon, because he  ended up getting racked over the coals royally by his parents.

Consequently, one day when I was idly chatting with friends at recess, Gordon dashed up from out-of-nowhere and started to rant and rave.

"You don't belong here. You're from a poor part of town. Go back where you belong!"

Of course, he was reacting to the background information his mother relayed to him, about me being a foster child (everyone else thought I was a distant relative of the Collett family).

The disturbing mean-spirited remarks were uttered up to insult and demean me in front of the other kids.

Needless to say, I was deeply hurt, and in shock.

Frankly, I was emotionally scarred by the incident, too.
.
Unfortunately, it is not a memory from my youth that is easy to shake to this day.

But, in a positive light, I have to admit that it was an experience that has made me painfully aware - as an adult - about how important it is to shelter children from these kinds-of-abusive situations in childhood that can haunt an individual for life!

Today, I am an advocate of children's rights, because of it.

And, I know from whence I speak!

http://www.julianarys.com

Nevada...lawmakers seek enforcement of proper pronunciation! Las Vegas, please!

Theme Hotels in Nevada popular!

For a city that wails ad nauseam about the ailing economy, down revenues, and empty Hotel rooms - the Natives sure are downright fussy - when it comes to uttering up the names of their fair state and the glitzy desert oasis.

News anchors have been reporting this week that City Officials - and locals - are miffed at folks who traipse into town and persist in incorrectly mis-pronouncing the the name of the Silver State with a noticeable "h" sound tagged on at the end.

Nev-a-dah?

No way!

In fact, one politician - still angered by the President's swipe at the City of Las Vegas last year - seized on the opportunity to take a slap at Barack's better half.

In a brief segment on the news - a video of the 1st Lady allegedly mangling the pronunciation - was rustled up and broadcast to millions of viewers with the specific aim of making the Prez's hubbie - not only look "bad" - but give the impression that Michelle is poorly uneducated (because she is a product of a lower class of  U.S. "blacks").

No matter!
Government officials are so annoyed over the problem that they are prepared to introduce a law to dictate the proper pronunciation

OMG!

On the heels of the "Nevada" controversy, one newsie was quick to throw in his two cents worth, too.

"And, its Las Vegas - please - not Vegas."

I am originally from Toronto, and I always pronounce the Native "Indian" word correctly with a distinct "o" vowel sound on the tail end of the word.

However, it is quite common for Canucks who hail from Toronto "the good" to refer to hog town as "Toronta".

Do I get upset?

Heck, no!

I just chuckle at their lack of class.

For a gambling town, folks from Las Vegas, appear to have placed their bets on a losing proposition.

If they expect "out-siders" to comply with their silly demands, they're dreaming.

I intend to go on using the short form for "Vegas" for good reason.

On Twitter, for example, where the number of characters are limited.

In a nutshell, bottom line"

Residents of Las Vegas need to get real, especially in respect to this petty issue, which stinks to high heaven..

Home Town Toronto

Michelle Obama uneducated?

http://www.julianayrs.com/

Sir Conrad Black...alleged robber Baron released on $2 Million Bond!

In my "Canuck" mind, there are only two high-flying birds worthy of note in the rustic terrain of Canada.

Out front, there is tthe unique mercurial rascal Nelson Skalbania - and lagging behind slightly - that scrappy (Sir) Conrad Black who ended up in the slammer.

Until Wednesday, that is, when a U.S. District Court Amy St. Eve (too precious a thought to wrap my head around) ordered that the once-infamous robber - um - publishing Baron be released on bond.

The high-profile publisher once Lorded over a dazzling media empire which included prestigious rags like the London Daily Telegraph, the Chicago Sun-Times, and Canada's National Post.

The latter was Black's dismal disjointed effort to weave a tapestry of distinct "Canadian" news that just didn't fly in some quarters.

To get a handle on the "Post", imagine a big ballsy bloated version of  USA Today - rife with fluff and pretensions of not being Provincial - and you've got it!

Although media hounds south of the border referred to the rogue investor (who facilitated other people's money ninety-percent of the time to fund his novel ventures) as a hearty Canadian - by choice - he wasn't in the true sense where it mattered most.

In a lofty reach for elite jet-set status, Conrad Black "relinquished" his Canadian Citizenship, in favor of a Knighthood from the Queen!

Black was scorned for that!

Now stones are being heaved his way since the startling news of his rise like a phoenix from the ashes back into polite society?

Until the Judge fathoms up worthy grounds to toss out Black's 2007 conviction for defrauding shareholders, the Court has issued a directive that he limit his carousing - personally and financially - to the continental United States.

To back-track a tad, it should be noted that Sir Conrad Black was hustled off to a Florida jail in 2008.

A resolute jury convicted the in-your-face celebrity (with the trophy wife) of three counts of fraud and one count of obstruction of justice.

Prosecutors painted a sinister portrait of a greedy man consumed by the high life who treated shareholder accounts as if they were open vaults in his own personal bank to spend at whim..

Prosecutors said Black and three fellow Hollinger executives (also convicted in the case) arranged to pay themselves tax-free bonuses disguised as non-compete fees as they sold off gold chunks of the Hollinger spoils.

Clever, if you can get away with it!

The swindling scheme uncovered and proven at trial, determined that Black spirited away $6.1 Million dollars from defunct Hollinger International Inc.

However, the teflon "Don", squirmed out of nine other counts (which including racketeering) which establishes why Lindsay Lohan may have switched lawyers (a tad too late, poor baby!).

Judge St. Eve sentenced Black (after a trial highly-charged with intrigues) to a 6 1/2 years in prison for his cloak-and-dagger dastardly deeds.

As of this July, the once-fiery media King, will have served approximately two years in the slammer.

In cushy country-club environs?

Just betcha!

Conrad Black's surprise "get out of jail card" surfaced when the  Supreme Court (with U.S. jurisdiction) limited the reach of the federal fraud law that prosecutors sought refuge in respect to corruption cases against government defendants.

"The Federal Law is normally applied in fraud cases in which a person is accused of depriving others of their intangible right to honest services."

Until now, the wobbly statute was considered too vague.

Although Black breathes a little easier this week, the pressure may build in the future, if a myriad of litigants pursue civil lawsuits in a concerted effort to recoup their substantial losses at the hands of a man who - in spite of alleging to be a Professional wordsmith - has remained clueless about the value and meaning of the term remorse.

And, that begs the question.

Where's the moolah?

The House that Hollinger built!

http://www.julianayrs.com

Fame...they come out of the woodwork!

 

My favorite piece of architecture in Hog Town!

 

They’re right!

Once you become famous people (scumbags?) come out of the woodwork.

For example, I was just in Pavillions this morning at the automated cashier, when I suddenly spied - what I would have to call a vague acquaintance through social circles in NYC over twenty years ago - lurking a few feet away.

With no groceries in hand, or shopping cart in sight, it suddenly dawned on  me that he was surreptiously observing me.

Indeed, when I noticed his presence, he started to warble one of those fake whistles as he strode across my path in a sly effort to "unexpectedly" run into me.

What a creep.

I hastily moved on.

Just recently, a middle-aged woman contacted me through my facebook e-mail, and noted that because we were relatives we should stay in touch.

I proceeded to ignore her, at which point, she zipped off an e-mail in which she lamented:
“I’m going to put you on my facebook page” in a tone that appeared to scream:

“So there!

Now, there was no doubt in my mind that I hould give this looney-tunes character a wide berth.
A couple of years ago, I managed to connect with a long-lost brother by mail that I was separated from at about age 7, though, which turned out to be a rewarding experience.

So, one summer on a trip to Toronto, we agreed to meet.

Of course, it was fifty years since we last saw each other in person.

Each morning, I would wake up and catch sight of  my brother Wayne trot into the bathroom to wash up - and carefully don a white or blue shirt, jacket, and tie - before heading out the front door.

I was left behind in my PJ's to munch down on cheerios and watch cartoons on the latest amazing invention: the television!

When I strolled up his front walk that fated day, I was immediately taken by the fact, that Wayne was blessed with my mother’s vivid blue eyes.

To this day, I can rustle up an image in my mind, of those remarkable peepers which mesmerized everyone in her presence.
.
At the time of our reunion, my brother was residing on Lamb St.  in the East End of Toronto, in a home he and his wife Mary (since deceased) once shared with her father (a Fire Chief).

It was a difficult time for Wayne because - although the quaint little cottage had been "willed" to his wife - after she passed (13 years of marriage) it was discovered that her father neglected to have the will signed anf witnessed by an attorney.

Fortunately, my brother's in-laws had a heart.

Although Mary's two brothers weren’t inclined to allow my brother to take full ownership, they agreed to split the house into three shares - one for Wayne -and one for each surviving sibling.

The brothers  initially allowed for a time of mourning, but, soon began to pressure my brother into selling the property.

I noticed right away that in its current state of disrepair that there would only be low-ball offers.

A bit of renovation - and landscaping - might improve its curbside appeal - and likewise - boost the potential sale price.

But, the “brothers” were anxious to get the property off their hands, and move on.

Needless to say, Wayne was under a lot of stress, and depressed at the thought of relocating.
There were so many fond memories of moments he and his wife shared together in their home that were difficult to shake.

To help ease the pressure, Wayne and I would jump in a used vehicle he had recently purchased, and take day-trips North of Toronto where we explored quaint little towns and rummaged  through yard sales and out-of-the-way  shops.

Ah, we had a common interest in antiques!

My brother was hooked on the horse races, by the way, as were  my mother (deceased) and older brother (deceased).

Wayne was a ballsy gambler, too.

When he was down to a couple of bucks, he’d pick a long shot, and end up a winner.

He must have had horseshoes up his a** or - just maybe - it was the luck of the Irish, eh?

I was also amazed at his good fortune when it came to a bet that required the gambler pick three horses - and their correct placement in each specific race - during the course of the afternoon.

Although I surmised that the odds (mathematics bearing down on the situation) were against him - but time and time again - he hit the jackpot.
Whenever I accompanied my older brother to the track (Woodbine) I usually partook in the exciting Sport of Kings.

Unlike Wayne - who based his bets on track record, blood lines, and the competition in the race - I usually bet on a horse based on the name (especially  if I got a psychic impression it was the way to go).

Wayne (and the staff at the ticket line) were amazed at my constant wins!

Unfortunately, I am a cautious with my bets.

Because I only plunked down $2 or $3 for a - win, place, or show ticket - my winnings never amounted to more than 30 bucks!

But, at least I didn't go home broke with hat in hand.

But the adrenalin rush when your horse dashes across the finish line is exhilarating.

On occasion when we went shopping at second-time-around (vintage?) clothing stores, I'd laugh when Wayne would make a beeline for the wildly-pattered silk short-sleeved Hawaiian shirts which he teamed up with a jaunty hat and stylish shorts.

I can't stand those shirts!

A few weeks ago he remembered my birthday.

So, I may have to venture into Goodwill or Out-of-the-Closet to locate a snazzy addition for his collection, since his birthday is on the horizon (easy to recall 7/11).

He remembered mine in May, which was a total shocker.

I guess I'll toss in a sexy Birthday Card (he adores women) and a racing form to boot!
 
It's kind of comforting to know you're not alone in the world, eh?

 

http://www.thetattler.biz

Memories of my youth...Tom Sawyer style! Tragic loss of childhood friend...

On occasion memories drift back to my youth in the West End of Toronto at about age five or six.

I smile when it dawns on me - that in some respects a handful of my childhood adventures with a neighborhood friend Johnny French - were not disimilar in nature to those experienced by Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn.

Granted, ours were deep within the wilds of the city (Hog Town), but were just as impacting on our impressionable young minds.

In essence, our excursions into the uncertain realms beyond the perimeters of our humble run-down neighborhood, were the bold-faced efforts of two boys to brave the man-made elements (with the ultimate aim of coming to terms with their place in the grand scheme of things).

Just behind our row of doll-size houses, a stretch of railroad track - and a huge tact of overgrown undeveloped city property - beckoned us each waking hour.

When the opportunity arose, Johnny and I would slink away, and take advantage of its bounty.

One of our favorite past-times was to sneak onto the railway line and hop from one tie to the next - as we kept an eagle eye open - for treasures along the way.

Once, we stumbled across a crate full of oranges, which we summarily dragged home (only to be accused of stealing the succulent offerings from a storage facility to our great dismay).

Sometimes we were so engrossed in our fantasies on the tracks - that we failed to anticipate foes that might creep up on us unawares - while our backs were not up.

For example, one carefree morning we were marvelling at a pile of beautifully-charred  rocks by the tracks, when a serviceman for the railroad suddenly appeared out of nowhere on a curious-looking device that rolled along as he pumped a handle up-and-down in the middle of it.

"Heh, you kids! Get outta here. This is private property," he hollered from his lofty perch on the trolley as he sped towards us at breakneak speed flailing his hands and gesturing for us to get out of harm's way.

The most exciting adventures were beneath the very earth.

One day, we happened to spy an opening in the side of a steep hill, where an ocassional puff of steam issued forth from the mysterious depths below.

After a quick look-see, we soon discovered an underground world, that consisted of endless tunnels (it seemed) that stretched into the darkness here there and eveywhere to Kingdom Come (I surmised).

Johnny and I were bent on exploring and conquering each and every one.

Not a simple or easy task.

For starters, there usually was a foot or two of sewer water rushing along on the floor of the slippery tunnel floor - and the smell was enough to knock 'ya out on occasion (in spite of the fact we tried to block out the burning fumes that made our noses water and our eyes smart with kleenex).

Once, I got my pant leg caught on a nail, and ended up with a gaping hole in the flimsy fabric from ankle to knee.

In one section of an empty field, where bushy shrubs and wild flowers reached up to the sky in all their lazy glory, we'd occasionally spy a band of hoboes napping under one or two of the grand old shade trees.

The Hollyhocks fascinated me in particular, as did a myriad of intriguing wild flowers, that dotted the terrain as far as the eye could see.



An old mill, about a mile or so to the south, was another exciting  place for our imaginations to run rampant.

In a rusty old bin one day, Johnny and I found a raft of boxes which contained mixes for cakes and muffins, just left to rot.

Delighted with our find, we hauled a handful of them home, only to be told (in disgust) that the food stuffs had been tossed into the garbage because they were contaminated or spoiled due to expired dates.

Then, as I noted in a post a few weeks ago, a social worker arrived on my mother's doorstep one day, unexpectedly.

Suddenly, my whole world changed, literally over-night.

In one adventurous moment, I was playing alongside Johnny, in the next I was being whisked off to the suburbs to be placed in a foster home.

Unfortunately, I would never see Johnny again, because of a tragedy that struck.

Gramma and Poppa and I were sitting at breakfast one morning when they awkwardly pointed to a news item that was published in the daily paper.

The headline noted that a family - by the name of  "French" - was  burned to death in a devastating fire in the West End of Toronto the previous evening.

Once the investigation was completed, the authorities determined the shocking truth.

Johnny's family home has been condemned by the City inspector months earlier.

Rather than board up the house - or renovate at considerable expense - the landlord simply pasted over the eviction notice and rented the property to the French's.

All thirteen family members died in the tragic blaze triggered by an faulty electrical outlet.

Although I choked up at first, for some reason, I found it difficult to cry.

In fact, it was not until many years later, that I was able to express my emotions over the loss of my best friend.

The only person I'd ever been that close to in my life had been snatched away without mercy.

Why, God, why?
 
 

Old Weston Road Boyhood Haunt!

(1898)

 
 

http://www.thetattler.biz

 

White House...tree trimming triggers childhood memories! Give generously at Christmas...

The day after thanksgiving the President and the 1st Lady arranged for the White House Christmas tree to be delivered to the historic home by horse-drawn carriage from a backwoods farm in Shepperdstown (West Virginia) where it once once graced the country landscape with outstretched limbs.

The Obama's were the proud recipients of a towering 18 1/2 foot fir (a staggering twelve feet wide) which was promptly hoisted into a prominent place of honor in the oval-shaped blue room on the state floor of the White House.

The traditional tree, planted in 1996, was hand-picked by the Chief Usher (Admiral Stephen Rochon).

In a festive setting - amidst a lot of camaraderie (fueled by a jug or two of eggnog and hot-buttered rum?) - White House staff gathered to decorate the majestic offering from mother nature's generous bounty.

The whole heart-warming story triggered memories of my own childhood at the yuletide season.

When I was just about four or five, for instance, I recall flying down the stairs at the crack of dawn ever-hopeful that during the night when I was deep in slumber a tree had magically been erected with the help of one of Santa's thoughtful helpers.

But, each morning, a tinge of sadness flooded over me.

No tree!

On Christmas eve, I half-expected that Santa Clause was going to pass our house by; after all, at that juncture there wasn't  any surefire sign that the joy of the Christmas season (especially a dazzling tree with all the trimmings) would ever descend on our humble home on Old Weston Road (just shy of historic Indian trail).

Had I been a bad boy?

That night, shortly after I was tucked in my bed and the lights were turned out, a few tears filled my wide sad eyes before I dropped off into dreamland.

Curiously, I slept in the next day.

In fact, while I was deep in slumber, I could hear my name being called far away in the distance somewhere.

Suddenly, I came to a start.

I bolted up in bed after I realized that one of my older brothers was shouting out my name and coaxing me to come downstairs to the living-room right away.

So, I slipped out of bed and slowly crept down the stairwell  in my superhero pajamas expecting the worst!

Suddenly, I spied a beautiful Christmas tree - decorated from top to bottom with pretty twinkling lights, candy canes, and eye-catching doo-dads - which sent out a thousand rainbows this way 'n that when they caught the light.

And, beneath the lovely tree, there were a dozen or so inviting gift-wrapped packages beckoning me!

My heart lept out of my chest as I dashed down the last stair or two and dove under the tree in search of one of the little gems with my own name on it.

Of course, in retrospect, the curious scenario which unfolded that week makes sense to me now.

When you grow up and become an adult you are often forced to face the truth.

Mother was trying to survive on a small budget - and, of course - there were many mouths to feed.

When my father (rest his soul) passed to spirit at a relatively young age - and she was forced to fend for herself and her little posse of  kids - it must have been a difficult path for a poor uneducated woman to have to journey down alone.

Like any normal loving parent - my mother wanted her children to experience the joys of christmas, too - in spite of the fact it may be a struggle to achieve.

Looking back, I realize the strain certainly took its toll.

For this reason - the tree was purchased for a song late Christmas eve - from a vendor on the verge of calling it a day before my anxious mother and older brother happened along in the freezing night air.

Ida was a good woman and it must have broken her heart to have been burdened so.

I'll always remember the last time I visited my mother (who I was separated from at the age of 7).

I was all of 18 and on my way to New York City to pursue an acting career on the stage.

Shortly after I spirited her out of the nursing home to treat her to an ale at a pub down the street (on the sly at her request) she teared up and expressed her sorrow at not being able to help me financially with my trip.

It's one of those memories that will always remain fresh in my mind and close to my heart.

Over the years, there have been many joyous Christmases and a handful of blue ones, too.

Those most fondly recalled are the ones I spent with a lover, or a best friend, even a stranger on occasion who sauntered into my life unexpectedly - and  like me - pined for some company on a holiday that is often a very sad one for those who have lost loved ones, have no family, or outlived their friends.

Each year I make it a point to give to a charity with that in mind (hopeful that an anonymous giving hand may bring a little comfort and joy into someone's life during the Yuletide season).

And, I trust that you will be moved by the invisible hand of God to do the same.

Happy Holidays, eh?

http://www.julianayrs.com

Mother...memories indelibly edged in my mind!

Occasionally, I flash back to my childhood.

One memory of my Mother - though tucked away in the dusty recesses of my mind - remains the Saintliest!

I recall her lovingly washing my wee body in a basin of sudsy lukewarm water as I splashed about and squealed in delight.

In another precious moment, she cradled me in her arms as she sang a popular tune of the day.

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine

You make me happy, when skies are gray

You'll never know, dear

How much I love you

Please, don't take my sunshine away

The other nite, dear
As I lay sleeping
I dreamed I held you in my arms.
When I awoke, dear
I was mistaken
And I hung my head and cried.

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine
You make me happy, when skies are grey
You'll never know, dear
How much I love you
Please, don't take my sunshine away

To this day, I imagine, she was not only singing out those heartfelt thoughts to me, but also to my dear father, Victor, who had just passed away.

J.M. Barrie once said:

"God gave us memories that we might have roses in December."

http://www.julianayrs.com

School Days...Mr. Morgan wore a red ruby pinky ring! I was a terror...

Frankly, I don't why, but last night memories of an old teacher of mine from grade school, popped into my head.

Ah, Mr. Morgan!

If I recall correctly, he wore natty grey suits, horn-rim specs, and a red ruby ring on his pinky finger that winked in the light now and then.

Although, I was clueless about matters that pertained to "sex" back then - in retrospect - I just betcha he was (as we used to say) "light" in the loafers or "musical" at best. (gay)

I was quite the jokester when I was a student.

Because I was on the Honor Roll, the teachers usually let me get any with murder.

Yes, I was quite the cut-up in class.

For some reason, Mr. Morgan was my perfect foil.

I was always pulling gags on him.

For instance, one day at recess, I strolled up to Mr. Morgan (who was watching over the students on break with an eagle eye) and struck up a little bit of idle chit-chat.

"Mr. Morgan, how do you like my ring," I chirped, as I thrust the gawdy over-sized diamond within admiring-distance, for him to take a gander at.

"Very Nice," he politely responded with hardly a glance.

At that precise moment, as my hand was about two inches away from his face, I squeezed a small container of water in the palm of my hand (which was attached by a small tube to the fake ring) and a jolt of water splashed all over his face!

For a second - he glared at me - as the droplets of water slowly dribbled down the lapel of his jacket. Then, he stormed off towards the schoolhouse, in disgust.

Yeah, I was a hard case, alright.

On another occasion, I offered him a stick of gum, which he graciously accepted.

'Ya got it!

It was one of those trick packets of spearmint that turns into a sort-of mousetrap that snares the finger when the stick of gum is pulled out of the realistic-looking candy wrapper.

Gotcha, Mr. Morgan.

But the funniest one was the exploding pen.

Well, sort-of.

One day, as the class was busy writing an essay, I strategically placed a fake pen in one of the aisles on the floor just behind me.

As I anticipated, Mr. Morgan strode up and down in-between the desks, to make sure no one was cheating.

When Mr. Morgan stumbled across the pen - as I surmised he would - he systematically asked each pupil as he moseyed up the aisle if they were perchance the owner of the writing utensil.

At my desk, he called out my name to get my attention.

At first, I pretended not to hear, to ensure he wasn't tipped off about the gag.

Then, I gazed up with an innocent look on my face, and replied calmly.

"Sir?"

Is this your pen?" he asked in a hushed voice.

"No, I don't think so," I responded confidently, as I turned back to my assignment.

Then, as Mr. Morgan started to walk away, I spoke out.

""Mr. Morgan? That might be my pen. But, you'd have to take off the cap, 'cause mine has a special nib."


He paused; then, a wicked little smile came across his face.

"This is one of those trick pens, isn't it?"

Blast!

"Um, no sir! Why, whatever do you mean?"

"You're always disrupting my class. And, I won't have it," he barked, as he turned on his heel and made a beeline for his desk.

"No. I would never do that," I wailed plaintively.

"Well, I'm keeping this pen," he snapped.

"But, Sir! That would be stealing, wouldn't it?"

"I know this is a trick pen," he asserted almost angrily.

At this juncture, he flipped open the drawer of his desk - tossed the pen inside - and slammed it shut with a sharp bang.

And that - as they say - was that.

To this day, I often wonder, did Mr. Morgan ever open that pen?

I like to think that after all the students packed up their books - and trundled off home when the bell rang at three-thirty - that he slowly opened that drawer, withdrew the pen, and gingerly flipped off the cap - albeit - cautiously.

Who knows, maybe it's still lurking in the dark confines of his desk, untouched.

I just betcha, though, he was beside himself that day.

And, that long after we departed, he tempted fate.

KABOOM!

Only Mr. Morgan knows for sure.

And a fly on the wall, perhaps!

Burials...separated at Death! Lest we forget...

When I was just a boy, I recall clutching my mother's hand as we strolled through a wide field dotted with a few humble headstones where they lay inscribed all around us marking the graves.

A slight breeze whispered in my ear as I struggled to keep up.

The Cemetery, in the West End of Toronto, was a relatively new burial ground.

There were no grand old oaks, just a handful of young samplings sprouting about here and there, straining towards the nurturing sunlight.

Years later, when I returned after a long stint in California, I was awestruck by the majestic trees that now touched the sky, rooted firmly in the rich soil below.

It was forty years since my last visit.

Unfortunately, I was facing a dilemma.

During a period after my father's death - while my mother lay ill in a Nursing Home - I happened to come across a certificate in her personal belongings (a beautifully-crafted document in ornate script) which confirmed she was to be laid to rest next to my father.

At the time, I recall being quite astounded by the wording.

IDA MAE HOLYOAK and VICTOR GEORGE HOLYOAK to be interned side-by-side "forever".

Gosh, I vividly recall saying to myself, "Forever" is a long time.

Unfortunately, there was a mix-up at the time of my Mother's passing - and as a result - my parents were separated at "death".

I was in California and out-of-touch with distant relatives when my mother - who had been in a vegetative state for about two years due to a stroke - suddenly succumbed and met her maker.

For some inexplicable reason, the certificate for the plot was overlooked, and my poor mother was buried across town miles from her beloved Victor.

Theirs was a great love story.

My mother was a farm girl from Brampton (Ontario) and my Dad was a fiddler who immigrated from Ireland with his mother and three sisters to York County at the turn of the century.

Unfortunately, due to a tragedy, my father passed away when I was a baby - and the troubles descended upon my dear mother shortly thereafter - without mercy.

Today, when I reflect on the situation, it's quite evident to me now.

In due time, I must take it upon myself to set things right.

Until my mother and father are side by side, their souls will never rest in peace!

I pray that they are patient.

*******
A happy man marries the girl that he loves
A happier man loves the girl he marries

Anonymous Author

Blogging...Internet opens door to past. Dancin' Don resurfaces...

Many savvy surfers cruise the net to make new connections - in chat rooms, at blog sites, wherever - in the hope of expanding their horizons.

In recent days, I've come to recognize that penning a blog may also open up dusty doors into the past!

This morning, for instance, I was quite startled to find a comment waiting for me where I posted on an old vintage JOHN LENNON interview from CBC TV taped back in the late sixties. (www.julian1st.wordpress.com / October 26)

"I remember you," noted "Newbroom."

"You were Dancin Don. I was there with you. I went to the Rock 'n Roll Festival when John showed up with the Plastic Ono Band. Great memories. Nice blog, too."

Oh my Gosh!

Yes, before I moved to the United States many moons ago (to use an old hippie expression that seems appropriate at this heady moment!) I changed my birth name legally to the one I used on stage.

Before I was "Julian", I was "Don".



When I was teenager I was known for two things basically: wild curly hair and dancing.

And, for being an infamous resident of the legendary Rochdale College.


I was a street performer - and often showed up at major rock concerts around the country - acting out in impromptu skits or dancing in my own inimitable style much to the delight of stoned audiences!

Photographers used to scramble to photograph me; subsequently, I often ended up in the pages of slick glossy magazines and local throw-a-way newspapers (in the Vancouver mainland and metropolitan Toronto areas) in half-naked poses which flaunted ragged blue jeans, naked torso and bare feet.

In one of my favorite "portraits", a photographer caught me mid-flight - with back arched - against the backdrop of Toronto's futuristic City Hall (one of my favorite pieces of architecture).

One one occasion - I became notorious when I attended a rock concert on Baldwin Street - and was summarily arrested in a near riot while dancing on a police car.

A documentary filmmaker (Morley Markson) caught the whole incident on film and it ended up on the National News that evening on CBC TV.

Yes, I was suddenly catapulted into fame!

When I padded into court in barefeet, the police officer on the witness stand testified that I was doing something of a "war dance" (a quote from the Toronto Telegram news report) which prompted loud guffaws from all in attendance and a stern request from the Judge for "order" in the court.

An aggressive young criminal attorney - Clayton Ruby - convinced the Judge that it was actually the police who caused the disturbance.

Case dismissed!

I became a local hero, of sorts.

As a result, people familiar with my first name, referred to me affectionately as "Dancin' Don".

To others, I was simply "The Dancer".

That was a long time ago - so it surprised the heck out of me thirty eight years later - to get an e-mail from a total stranger recalling my former "persona" in the olden golden days!!!

But, that was not a lone occasion for the past to creep into my life of late, due to blog exposure on the world-wide-web.


A few months ago, I wrote a post on "Jackie Curtis" (the Warhol Star) who I became friends with back in 1974 in the "Big Apple" (NYC).

You may recall that Lou Reed wrote a lyric about Jackie in one of his big hits of the day.

"Walk on the Wild Side"

In that hit tune, Lou droned:

"Jackie was just speedin' away. Thought she was James Dean for a day."

Well, a few months after I published the post, I suddenly got an e-mail out-of-the blue from Jimmy Carnicia.

Back in the early seventies (!) I was involved in a provocative stage production - "The Magic Hype" - which was written and directed by Mr. Carnicia.


The zany high-spirited off-beat musical was a spoof on the Andy Warhol characters performed by the well-know local troupe, the "Hot Peaches".

Yes, I was once a "Hot Peach".

No comments, please!


Anyhoo, Jimmy saw the blog post, and contacted me through my e-mail address.

Imagine that, we were out-of-touch for over 34 years!

Wanna know the scary part?

Jimmy recently developed a web site in memory of the "Hot Peaches" - replete with old stills from the live shows - sure to rustle up nostalgic memories for fans of the "Hot Peaches" cast.

Oh my gosh!

He has a shot of "The Magic Hype" production, too.

There I am in tights, a sparkly outfit, wild mane of hair, and tons of make-up.

Gorgeous, dahlink!

Nope, you can never escape the past, and for good reason.

A memory is what is left when something happens and does not completely unhappen.
(Edward de Bono)

God gave us memories that we might have roses in December.
(J.M. Barrie, Courage)

Brad Pitt...attends screening at Toronto International Film Festival!

Brad Pitt was seen ducking in a back door of a Theatre at the Toronto International Film Festival when he attended a screening of the new Coen Brothers' feature film "Burn After Reading".

Was the studly film star trying to avoid the paparazzi, the fans, or the movie critics?




Festival Posters have become collectable!