alphabeticalgary

Whose are next for us to see?

UPDATE: It took a while, but the picture for V is finally up (APR.29.06).

Yogi Bear debuted in 1958 as part of The Huckleberry Hound Show. He does not currently reside at the Calgary Zoo, Botanical Garden, & Prehistoric Park. However, many other animals and creatures and fiberglass replicas of dinosaurs do, including an impressive collection of home-and-native Canadian endangered (and not so endangered) species. Our zoo is world-class in all things animal related, especially when it comes to habitat-creation (vs. cages), breeding programs, and world-wide conservation (Hippos!). That’s not boasting, it’s true. Which, I suppose, justifies the ever-increasing price of admission, but the annual membership remains incredibly flexible and affordable.

Anyway, I love going to the zoo (who doesn’t?) and I could mention any number of gratuitous insider references to our many warm and fuzzy memories, but I’m sure you already have your own. Let me just say, “I found the animals!!! I found the animals!!!”…and you should, too.

Located sort of between Eau Claire Market and Chinatown, the Eau Claire YMCA is the only Y in Calgary that offers handball, as well as private and semi-private handball lessons.

Also of note, if you're looking for a thankless and non-lucrative job, that location is hiring attendants for both the women's and men's Membership Plus locker rooms. Wages start at $8/hour! Don't all apply at once.

Nothing gives you quite the same rush as watching a freight train thundering past. We indulged in just such a joyous observance when we found the robot. It's an experience that's got everything: the sight of giant tankers and boxcars whizzing by, the overwhelming sound of engines and crossbucks, the smell of the track grease . . . it all combines for a sternum-rattling, breath-holding celebration of force, machinery, power, ingenuity.

But the freight train is the only iron horse that passes through our fair city. When the CPR was settling the West, it made a baffling detour, heading north to pass through Edmonton. Your guess is as good as mine why they did that. Morons. Anyway, it still stands that if you have the hefty dough to splurge on passenger rail travel, you will have the misfortune of passing through Edmonton and Jasper rather than Calgary and Banff. But hey, it's a little like the whole 'capital' city thing. I mean, we all know that Calgary is the real capital. So who cares if the only passenger train in our city belongs to the Rocky Mountaineer Railtours luxury carrier? We know how it should have been.

Show me a major city without a Westin hotel, and I'll show you me. Being shocked.
Yeah, I got nothin'. But it's a nice enough W, and, wow, we're really nearing the end!
This is, mercifully, the last of the hotels. Good thing our X, Y and Z are more interesting.
Promise.

Victoria Park – Stampede station. It's almost cruel, the clash of the city's poorest residents and the most expensive outdoor show on earth. The Stampede grounds are not just the main site of our city's definitive spectacle; throughout the year, they're also host to events like the car show, Flames games, corporate conventions in the newly poshed-up Roundup Centre, and the like. Parades of leather-clad, Murano-driving suburbanites flock here year-round, while Vic Park residents in lawn chairs raise cardboard-and-sharpie signs advertising parking in their yard.

Walkably close to our high school, it was often at this C-Train station that we disembarked in the morning. Packs of us would trudge through the adjoining condom-strewn lot and head down 17th Ave; half turned off at our supposed rival school, St. Mary's, while the rest continued on to THE GREATEST HIGH SCHOOL IN THE HISTORY OF EVERYTHING. I remember tobogganing down hills on Monica's bari sax case on our way to this station; I remember lining up at the very edge of the yellow line (not past, of course) to feel the whoosh as the train pulled into the station. I remember when taking public transit was a team sport, and a fun one at that. And here comes the nostalgia again.

I am the only one of this blog's authors who got a degree from this institution. After first year, which can be summed up in the word "pretense" I really enjoyed getting my degree here, enough to drag it out an extra year. When I started, I was pre-med, along with 90% of the 400 people in my entry-level chemistry and biology classes. So I stuck with chem, joined the club, worked a summer in research, became vice president of the club, dabbled in many social sciences that I prefered (so much) to my major, decided I hate research, applied to Chiropractic college, worked another summer in research, and got the hell out of dodge.

In the mean time, I stood under a yellow rain of birch leaves on a windy autumn day, failed my first class ever, fled to Japan, cleaned toilets at this already-discussed nexus of historically-accurate interrelationship, enjoyed years of weekly breakfasts at Smitty's, sang sang sang my way to Hungary and Vienna, and generally learned. Which is the point of going to university, right?

Well, Starter Papers in hand, I went off to discover the rest of my Self, armed with the knowledge I gained while tooling around the Prairie Chicken. It was good knowledge, and I'll probably thank the old alma mater when I'm older and even more nostalgic than this entry has already made me.

Today marks the last day of my employment with Yellow Pages Group. Formerly SuperPages, formerly a property of Bain Capital, formerly a division of Verizon, formerly Dominion Directories, formerly Telus Advertising Services, formerly Alberta Government Telephones, formerly EdTel. The privatization of the telephone system set off a cascade of deals and trades of its directory publisher, ultimately resulting in corporate takeover by an eastern-based company and the layoff of our entire department. Now, I don't mean to sob story all up in our alphabet book, but privatization of government services is very applicable; it is quintessentially Albertan. When the Alberta government went privatization crazy in the 90s, private license and registries sprouted up like weeds; private liquor stores sprouted up like weeds on steroids. This was all supposed to give us better competition and lower prices or something like that, but I sure haven't noticed.

Anyway, that's what Telus signifies to me; that, and mysterious charges on my phone bill for seemingly fabricated services (but that isn't distinct from Bell). Plus, I have to say, it's a pretty well-designed T.

I can't pinpoint exactly what it is, but the regional differences between grocery stores (something in the atmosphere, organization and content) has been a major adjustment—an ordeal, even—every time a member of my family moves from Ontario to Alberta or vice versa. You wouldn't think a thing like that could vary so much from one province to another, but if you think a thing like that wouldn't be upsetting in the extreme to any member of my family, well, I don't suppose you've ever met a one of us.

Anyway, what I'm getting at with this is that I never much liked Safeway, but seeing that big red S there manages to bring a smile to my face out here in Loblawsland. (Note: We did get a Superstore out here, maybe more than one, but in Ontario they make them all frilly and upscalish. Still no Co-op.)

Also, if that red awning looks a little familiar, a) nice observation skills! and b) it's in the same plaza as our letter B.

Doug E. Doug was here.

As tempting as it is to leave it at that, and it is so tempting, there's too much other weird crap going on with this place that I just can't leave it alone.

The menu
Let's just address some of the specials here, because they're definitely the scariest part: on Bud, Spud 'n Steak Tuesdays, $6.95 gets you a 6 oz. AAA Banff-cut sirloin with Texas toast, Ranchman's fries and an ice cold Bud; on Friday nights, get a 4 oz. bacon-wrapped filet steak dinner with onion strings (wuh?), mashed potato (singular) and seasonal vegetables for $7.95 (extra filets $5 each—barf); they have a wine list; and draft is cheap on Mondays (Canadian) and Wednesdays (Kokanee)—75 cents cheap (you don't become Official Hospitality Location of the Canadian Professional Rodeo Association by charging full dollar amounts for beer). Also, I've got to say, I'm perplexed by this one appetizer platter: if you were ordering something called Virgins on Horseback, what would you expect it to be? Think about it for a bit; I'll tell you at the end.

Cowboy Church Sunday
How I wish I was making this up (emphasis added):
"10:00 A.M. Pastor Phil Doane hosts a Non denominational Gospel Service at 10:00 am weekly
Part of the Fellowship of Christian Athletes, Cowboy Chapter."

Back to the basics Saturday afternoon country jam
There's nothing especially noteworthy about this as a concept, and it's probably pretty cool, given the potential for banjo, but the name attached to it might be of interest to one of this blog's writers and, say, her brother. Check the left sidebar on the main page.

Now, I should probably note, if it weren't patently obvious, that none of us has ever been inside Ranchman's. For that matter, I'd venture that taking this picture over the fence of the parking lot next door is probably the closest I or anyone I know has come to "Canada's Greatest Honky Tonk." What does that even mean? This brings us to the whole cowboy thing. Let's have a show of hands (or comments): who of you Calgarians (past or present) has ever known or met an honest to goodness cowb. . . uh, person? Yeah, that's what I thought. It's not that there aren't any, they're just a rarity, and they tend to cluster and keep to themselves. That's my perception, anyway.

Hollywood, of course, sees things differently. When it came out in 1993, Disney's Cool Runnings stirred up a swell of nostalgic Olympic pride among Calgarians, but I think we all had a good chuckle at the line-dancing scene filmed at Ranchman's. At the time, and I thought to date (until I found this page), a person could be grievously wounded for such behaviour in such a place. Now I just don't know. I do know, however, that you can find the bobsled and helmets used in the movie, as well as some junk from Unforgiven, strewn around the place.

It's got staying power galore. Like some of the other institution-like establishments already featured on this page, and unlike I dare say much of the rest of Calgary, Ranchman's has stuck around since the 70s. It's become legendary in its own bizarro niche-market way, and for that I salute it. But I still think I'll take my business elsewhere.

As promised: it's six scallops wrapped in bacon (of course), served with seafood cocktail. Make the connection. I dare you. I don't get it.

You know, I never would have expected to find a giant Lennon and a giant Lenin head driving around Calgary, but there you have it. I'm just impressed we managed to track down a Q substantial enough to use. Call letters mystify me.

Like the B on The Bay signs, the P on this sign was a mystery to me for a long time. Sitting in the car as we drove past it along Glenmore Trail, I stared and stared at it, unable to fathom what letter it was. D-hil's? O-hil's? It was a good long time before I figured out it was Phil's Pancake House.

This restaurant is another one of the stalwart mom-and-pops surviving in the sea of chains that comprises Calgary's restaurant scene. It has a homey brick interior—much like I imagine IHOPs to be like—and a back room where I once gave a speech for the Optimist Club speech competition. The topic was "Optimism: The Right Stuff." That must be what keeps places like Phil's going.

When I was in Grade 5 or 6, my class did this unit on Chinatown, because Calgary, uh, has one, I guess. It was a pretty no-brainer unit, given that I had already spent a lot of time there and all. The highlight of the unit was a field trip. We saw the brand new Chinese Cultural Centre (holy crap, is it really that old already?) and visited that temple on the very edge that everyone wonders about but never goes in. An old man smiled at us benevolently, and there was a huge shrine with the most little bowls of sweet rice and bundles of large, colourful money I have ever seen, and we could have our fortunes told by burning a stick of incense in the old man’s cup of uncooked rice. I actually can’t believe I’m remembering all this. Anyway, the culmination of the day was a trip to a restaurant, which was, again, pretty blasé to the kid from the Chinese family. And just to prove how simultaneously unimpressed and impressively Asian I am, I doused my rice in soy sauce, even though we never use soy sauce on rice at home, and made it inedible. Go figure. So much for my pride.

I have unending stories about Chinatown. There was that time we went to the store run by friends of my parents, and she gave me a tube of Smarties; they were the only store that sold Smarties in a tube. Or the trips to the Chinese Pentecostal Church with my cousin, the English-speaking side of course, and the crushes I had on these Chinese boys that I only saw two or three times a year. Or the first time we were invited to Soup with Chris and Chris, and vegetarian Kari couldn’t eat anything but bean sprouts. There’s the bean sprouts themselves, Vietnamese French fries with perfect, thin lines of hoisin “ketchup”. Don’t forget the trip to the dank, dirty fish warehouse that sells $80,000 arawanas with better documented lineage than the British Royal family. And let us all save a special place in our hearts and memories for any number of delightful or awkward (or both) visits to The Dessert House, our first bubble tea shop.

I have mocked the name of every family association up and down 3rd Ave. (in a good way, I swear). I can tell you where to get the best Sailor Moon cards, or Hello Kitty stickers. I know who has the widest selection of genuine Oriental weight loss teas, or the freshest, gnarliest, bitterest roots. I cannot read the signs, but I know a good price on bok choy or kumquats when I see it. I have run my fingers through endless barrels of beans and rice and, once, those tiny dried pink shrimp. And let’s not get me started on the egg tarts (or donuts, or pineapple buns…) at Golden Happiness bakery. Every memory is slightly mystical, the exoticism absolutely ingrained in my sense of home. Take a field trip, and you’ll see what I mean.

Nick's is one of a few Calgary institutions still bravely plugging away since their heyday in the 70s.

Picture some 18-year-old kid with a tentative 'fro having just doffed his cap and gown after Grad. He piles into the Pontiac with his middle-class parents, heading out for A Nice Dinner. Where to? Someplace where they serve you French onion soup for an appetizer and make Caesar salad at your table. Someplace with steaks, and pizza for sis if she whines enough. Someplace where the bill will be substatial enough to mark the occasion appropriately, but not so high that they'll have to second-mortgage the bungalow. That place was Smuggler's Inn, and the slightly more family restaurant version of it was Nick's.

Now, I don't know what Nick's was really like—in fact, I don't believe I've ever eaten there. But I do know this, thanks to a staff function where we ordered from them: they have, as the commercial would say, damn . . . good pizza.

Three things:
1. It is good to play.
2. Calgary has a fish hatchery.
3. It is next to the park where this conveniently M-shaped climber lives.

If you were to pop in to Lloyd's Rollercade on a Friday afternoon in the late 80s, you'd see me and my family groovin' to the tunes, participating in the Shoot the Duck contest, and waiting impatiently for the couples' skate to be over. I'm not sure why, but it was our weekly ritual. From school, to Lloyd's, to some restaurant chosen from the parade along MacLeod Trail. Or at least, that's how I remember it. Since then, I've been back on a couple of dates, and they were a great time. Not only can you request ridiculous songs and enjoy the, uh, "food," but you can make merciless fun of the people.

They can be both hilarious and disturbing: take, for instance, the kids making out behind the video golf machine, or the girl with unfortunate female baldness trying to pick up the DJ. The worst of all are the hotshot middle agers, usually men in short shorts and golf shirts, showing off their hot roller moves in the middle of the hardwood floor while the awkward tweens try to ignore them. Ah, the spectacle of human vanity. No better way to enjoy it than on rollerskates.

Calgary may be the boomtown cover story on Macleans this week; it may be slick with oil and money; it may be towers of shiny steel and unnaturally clean transit stations. But from underneath its three-piece suit, a blue collar sticks out. Here, in the heart of the obscenely trendy Inglewood district is Kane's Harley-Davidson Diner. Yep, motorcycles and greasy diner food, together at last, framed by brash and unapologetic neon. Upscale and down'n'dirty, side by side. Very Calgary.

J is for journalism? The front lawn of CBC/SRC's Calgary shop (off Memorial Drive NW) is home to this awesome-by-association chunk of art. I have no idea what it is or why it's there; I emailed someone at CBC Calgary yesterday to ask, but no response yet. I will say this, though, if it was intended to be a creative yet legible interpretation of the letter J, then I'd give it full points. If it's supposed to mean more than that, then I'd have to reconsider. Have I mentioned yet that it's outside the CBC? And that that makes it awesome? Because it does.

The International Hotel of Calgary is a converted apartment high-rise, providing elegant suites to the weary traveler for the same price dinkier rooms would run in a regular hotel. It is located in the heart of downtown, somewhat of an anomaly amongst the larger, newer chain hotels. Perhaps because hotels rely so heavily on branding (who doesn’t?), and thus create really picturesque logos, hotels figure prominently in this alphabetic collection. So add a snappy letter I to the lot, with just the right amount of exoticism to underscore the hotel’s name.

On a more Calgarian note, no one would contest that international is a great adjective to describe our city. To locals, our multiculturalism has become so blasé we take it for granted. However, given the city’s population surge, there are many new residents who find it an intriguing and sometimes challenging cultural mosaic, especially considering how many of those new residents belong to an increasingly diverse array of ethnicities and backgrounds. In fact, Calgary’s international flavour consistently makes the list of unique characteristics and challenges facing the city’s leaders in their annual reports and plans.

Heritage Park, Canada's Largest Living Historical Village. Home to such delights as the working blacksmith's shop, the working train, the working grain elevator and the working caterpillar rollercoaster (or Gravity Pleasure Switchback Railroad, as they were called in those days). Also a place for just working—playing summer employer to two of us. I don't know whether it's the genteel atmosphere, the elegant costumes or the heady smell from the bakery, but the Park has an uncanny ability to cultivate marriages. I know of at least four married couples (guilty) who met and fell in love while working at the Park (and one couple who held their wedding reception in the Wainwright Hotel). It's no wonder; just try to resist a man in a bowler hat and waistcoat.

The second in a series of a surprising number of hotel pictures, this is the Glenmore Inn. And that's about all I know or care to find out about it.

Sure, every city has its liberal-tinged (or more) guide to local politics, culture and entertainment, and every city thinks its own is best. Ffwd is our alternative press—its perfectly clever title aiming straight for the dynamism and momentum of Calgary’s diverse population. It is great at providing balance to the more conservative-leaning mainstream media, while keeping a distinctly Western Canadian flavour. But, it is the best because it is ours—written by us, our local writers and struggling grad students, and written for us, reporting municipal disputes, the next peace rally, the latest environmental atrocity or any number of great bands playing hot spots only we know about. Plus, it’s got my weekly “Life in Hell” fix.

Historic boardwalks, gardens and marketplaces are fairly commonplace in your major, and not so major, urban centres, often serving as arts, entertainment, recreation and retail space. True to its spirit of constant renewal, Calgary opened the Eau Claire Market in 1993, implanting it along the Bow adjacent to Prince's Island Park and proclaiming it the new home of trendy shops, interesting restaurants and buskers, don't forget the buskers—some good (Tomko Lamb), some horrendous (the Jester). The initial novelty wore off sooner than expected; tenant turnover and public ambivalence brought about an era of high vacancy and low attendance. And while certain boutiques, such as Amos & Andes and Paper Root Studios, have been blessed with almost impossible longevity, others have been less . . . oh, whoa, they got a Ben & Jerry's. Sweet.

The Delta Bow Valley Hotel, located in the heart of downtown, does what New Calgary does best: shiny, fresh, clean. Everything in Calgary is refinished, refurbished, updated, upscale. If it's more than 10 years old, tear it down and start again! It's no accident that Calgary stood in for Metropolis in Superman III . . . plus, that's a pretty cool D.

What strangeness lurks in the heart—or industrial parks—of the city? This mystery started it all, way back in 1997, when we saw this mythic robot beast in the darkness of scary industrial environs, lost on our way to a friend’s basement party. Through the haze of memory, we recall it was lit up! And waved its arms! He directed the trains! In our minds, he ruled the inner workings of this corner of the city the average city-dweller never sees. We vowed to return, and nearly ten years later, we trolled the gritty byways, this time in daylight and armed with cameras, until he rose above the factories and trailers, our blue friend—and a Flames fan to boot! This secret city gem has all the rough edges and blazing loyalty expected of a hard-working, friendly city like Calgary.

A, fingers crossed, less culturally screwed up subsidiary of the long-standing and, as I have learned, franchise-friendly Japanese Village, Banzai opened for business at Southland Crossing some time after I left Calgary. I've only ever heard of the place because, from a few provinces over, I chance to catch its ads during radio webcasts of Flames games.

Calgarians, and U of C students in particular, refer to this particular piece of art as the Paperclips. Though not the most bizarre piece of campus sculpture (the Prairie Chicken holds that undisputed title), the Paperclips are still unique: they are part of Calgary's Olympic legacy, standing at the entrance to the Oval. 18 years after the Games, their A still stands for Athletics.

ABC
Did you have to make an alphabet book in Grade One? The pictures you chose and carefully pasted to each page represented your world: A was for Alpha-bits; B was for Brother; C was for Cabbage Patch Kids; D was for Deceptacons. Look back on it and you'll see what it was to be you at age six.

Easy as 123
In December 2005, the last time we were together, we spent a day driving around taking pictures. We were tempted to focus on our favourite places, our hangouts: A is for Anderson Station; B is for the Beltline Bus; C is for Chinook; D is for Deer Valley Mall. But that was uninteresting (and apparently heavily centred on the transit system), and it wouldn't have shown the unexpected parts of our city. Instead, we let Calgary show us its alphabet, and we like to think it revealed itself well.

Simple as do re mi
This alphabet book shows the world where we grew up, whether from birth or mid-childhood. This world was the setting for the joy and ugliness, drama and mundanity of our adolescence. This world will always be, in one way or another, our home.

ABC, 123, baby, you and me!
For 26 days, starting Sunday, March 19, we'll post a letter per day. Been there? Seen it? Leave us a note. Thinking of a better letter? Suggest one. Not that we'll change our book—it's our quintessential Calgary, after all—but we'd like to hear about your alphabet world, too.