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Cowboy Grandma

The Photo that Got Away

A young woman dressed conservatively walking next to her grandmother, who was decked out in a short skirt, knee-high black leather boots, a short jacket, a cowboy hat and enough makeup for three saloon bargirls.

I travelled off the edge of the earth Saturday morning (which is to say, north of Steeles Avenue) and on the bus - which featured seats so cushy I felt like I was riding British Airways, first class - I was like a cat in a cat carrier. I spent my time staring frantically out the window, trying to figure out where I was, bobbing my head up and down, trying to catch a glimpse of the Toronto skyline.

Flustered, I got off at the wrong stop, and stood in the cold wind waiting for the next bus, cursing the impulse I had in August to rip out all the north of Steeles pages of my Toronto Street Guide, because…why the fuck would I ever go there?

After taking care of the volunteer animal rescue work I’d braved dragons for, I promptly got on the wrong bus and was dropped off a block later by the kindly bus driver. He told me to “stand by the blue sign” and wait for the next bus, so of course I waited next to the wrong blue sign. When the correct bus arrived, the bus driver obligingly waited for me to run up the hill to the bus doors. She giggled a little as I stepped on. Can’t blame her.

I must say, despite their life crushing job choices (i.e. being outside of Toronto), the bus drivers in the suburbs are quite a bit more genial than the Toronto TTC workers. You’d think they’d all be listening to Cure albums, wearing black lipstick and smoking French cigarettes in an effort to lift the depression.

Todd Ooo, Kurt Elling is coming to Toronto!

Sage squeals Where, where?

Todd The, uh, Ursula Franklin Academy. It’s a high school, apparently.

Sage Ew. It sounds like he’s going to be performing in the gym.

Todd I know. It’s weird. I hope this doesn’t mean his career is tanking.

[both sit in sad silence]

Sage No, no, it’s not weird! I just figured it out! Kurt’s going to defect, just like Mikhail Baryshnikov! Baryshnikov was performing in Toronto when he got word that his American friends would help him to leave Russia, you know. And Kurt will finish his little high school performance - the CIA won’t bother to watch him there - and then he’ll sneak off the stage, neatly avoiding his handlers, to be spirited away to a secret room in the Royal York hotel. He’ll miss Chicago, sure, but it will be worth it.