Paul Aihoshi

paulaihoshi.com

[paulaihoshi]

FLO & JOAN

I like tea. It’s my comfort drink. I like to drink it in the morning and before I go to bed. It’s soothes   me. I think I prefer Earl Grey the best, but I tend to flip around between Bengal Spice and nutty teas. I also have an emotional soft spot for a blueberry tea. I crave that tea some mornings and nights, but usually after I eat blueberries or feel the texture of a cheesecake on my tongue. 

Flo & Joan, best known for their food blog, littlenibblers.tumblr.com, have never tasted tea before. Yes, they drink tea, but for some unknown reason they cannot process the flavours or smell any soothing aromas. I find it bizarre. Thus, it had become my mission during their stay in Canada to explain or even give them some kind of tea “taste” experience. 

There’s a movie called MASK starring Cher and Eric Stoltz, and in one scene Stoltz’s character Rocky explains what colours look like to his visually impaired girlfriend by associating a physical feeling with a colour. This form of explanation was a perfect example for my approach, but that all depends on what the lawyers say.    

On May 8th, 2017, I asked Flo Dempsey and Joan Dempsey to join me in an experience that will change their lives. They were finally going to feel the flavour of teas. Their first tea: Earl Grey. 

I asked them to close their eyes and hold out their hands. Their excitement was shown with smiles and giggles. I felt like Santa Claus, or some other mystical creature that gives gifts to small children in exchange for their souls. I poured fresh soil in their callus-free hands along with rose petals and burnt charcoal. However, the look of joy began to leave their faces as I poured the boiling hot water in their palms. Sometimes people scream too loud and aren’t thinking of others who have sensitive ears. This is the kind of humour that I will never understand from such a dynamic duo. 

When the ambulance arrived, mostly to assist Whiny-Flo-Pants and Joany-Screams-Too-Much, I felt the sudden urge to exercise. So I ran. I ran 4 blocks until a police officer accidentally tackled me to the ground. She also accidentally handcuffed me and took me to jail. These accidents happen a lot. I guess you can say I’m an accident prone kind of guy. Jail isn’t all bad. For the first time in my life I actually have a bed. I also have a lover. We call it the Beast. More like Snuggly-Bear if you ask me. It’s really a bunch of used tooth brushes we stuck together to rub up against. I love it, but boy, do I miss tea. I would do anything for a cup of Earl Grey right now. Anything. 

Lights out soon. I must rest up for the next day. Tomorrow is Taco Tuesday even though it’s Saturday. 

[paulaihoshi]

SHARJIL RASOOL

As a police officer I meet many freaks. I see them in booths masturbating, in alleyways masturbating, and in amusement parks… masturbating. But there’s one freak that I’ve only met once. The biggest freak of them all: Sharjil Rasool.

I saw him outside of a 7-Eleven selling flowers to drunken women under 30. I told him to scram and hit the road and go back to his junkie house. But instead of cooperating, he turned around and hissed at me. “Time to get out the whip,” I thought. But before I could reach for my whip-baton he attacked me. He used his freak hands and his freak legs to grab hold of my entire body. After I lost balance he pinned me to the ground. I’d scream for help and cry when necessary, but it was no help: Sharjil “The Freak” Rasool was too strong.

After about 5 more days of the pinning I got to know him better, or as I soon realized, her better. She was beginning to move me in a way no freak ever has. Her freak legs and her freak thighs began to appeal to my sensual needs. Her hissing became a soft soothing blow and her face became that of a slightly more attractive face. I just wanted to curl that one long hair growing from her rough slithery chin-skin.

“Sharjil?” I spoke.

“Yes, sithhhhhhhh, fallen one, sithhhhhhh.”

“I think I’m falling in love with you.”

“Aghh!!! Sithhhhhh! You scum!”

“Dear God, the words from your mouth are like hummingbirds in an echoing cave.”

“Scum! Scum!”

“Scum… more like scu-love.”

I moved in for a kiss but she immediately turned away and jumped off me.

“What’s wrong?” I demanded to know.

“I can’t do this, it’s not right. Sithhhhh.”

“What do you mean?”

“I, Sharjil The Freak Rasool, am tired of a broken heart.”

“Oh, I had no idea.”

“Yes, sithhhh, I can no longer bare the pains and the sorrows of love, sithhhh. I’ve dated far too many earthlings, and far too many jerks. What’s wrong with men?! Sithhhhhhh! We live in a world of assholes!”

“I’m sorry you feel that way.”

“I’d rather go on being alone than take a chance peddling your pee pee into my heart.”

“I understand. I’ll leave.”

“Wait!”

I turned around with hope and stared into her many eyes.

“Do you want to get a puppy some time?” she asked.

“I’d like that.”

Suddenly, she pulled out a blade, and before I had time to reach for it, it pierced me in the abdomen.

“Time is a shadow. Time is a crutch. Narrow the darkness, that I must. Sithhhhh!” Sharjil chanted.

“What the hell!” I screamed.

“This is how I have intercourse!”

“But it hurts, and I wasn’t expecting it.”

“Now you know how I felt during my first time. Sithhh!”

I reached for my whip-baton and smacked Sharjil on the head 50 times. We both fell to the floor. Our hearts and bodies were both broken. That was when I notice her weirdo looking toes. “What a freak,” I thought. “What a beautiful freak.”

After months of heartbreak and hospital bills, I would see her again masturbating at an amusement park. She was now like all the others. But she’s the one freak that would always stand out to me. Sharjil “The Freak” Rasool.

Signing off, Officer Douchebag MaGee

[paulaihoshi]

NADINE DJOURY

I met Nadine Djoury inside a bus. It was a dark bus. The bus was yellow. She dressed funny. Sometimes I would ask her if she wanted food. She would say, “Yes! Gimme gimme gimme!” She liked to eat anything. She liked to eat chocolate bars, and she would eat the wrapper too. When it was hot outside she’d run into the river and scream. All the children playing in the water would run away. The police would come and try to take her away but she would always resist. When they held her down to taser her, she’d make a funny sound from her mouth and blow bubbles.

After a few months I’d see her on the streets. She’d play a game where she’d wrap herself up in as many plastic bags as possible. Then she would walk up behind newborn moms with strollers and try to make the babies laugh. The moms would jump and scream. Nadine would scream too. She’d spit on the sidewalk and fill her plastic bags with her own liquid and throw them at cars. When the police arrived, she’d try to wrestle them. They would hold her down and taser her. She’d blow bubbles. 

More months would pass and I’d see her on the middle of the road. It would be so hot that she’d remove all her clothes and dance the sweat off. She’d laugh and want others to join in too. The people around her would try to run away but she would always catch them and give them a big hug and kiss. When the police arrived, she’d try to kiss them too but they did not express their love in the same way. They’d taser her and watch her blow bubbles. 

Suddenly, after many months, I did not see Nadine Djoury. She wouldn’t be in the bus, or covered in plastic bags. She wouldn’t be naked and expressing her love, or getting tasered and blowing bubbles. She wouldn’t be Nadine Djoury. I miss her, wherever she is.

“Every day I wake up I hope I'm dreamin I can't believe this shit Can't believe you ain't here Sometimes it's just hard for a nigga to wake up It's hard to just keep goin It's like I feel empty inside without you bein here I would do anything man, to bring you back I'd give all this shit, shit the whole knot” - Puff Daddy

[paulaihoshi]

Kirsten Rasmussen

After 5 years of a failed marriage I finally visited my ex-wife’s family.

Kirsten and I were well suited for each other at first, but things took a turn when I refused to remove my clothes during intercourse. My body is like an onion. There’s no metaphor there—I look like an onion—lots of flaky skin and transparent layers. She said she didn’t care and loved me for me, but it didn’t last forever. One night she peeled away after I made her cry while picking a scab in the kitchen. I didn’t see her again till December 6th, 2015.

Kirsten was staying with her family in a motel-like townhouse. I came to drop off a few of her coffee appliances when I first locked eyes on her disturbing family: they all looked like Kirsten. Everybody. From the baseball loving kid, to the recently divorced older guy. All Kirsten. It was like an episode of the Twilight Zone. Or, some kind of Deliverance themed reality show.  

Kirsten couldn’t care less about the coffee appliances; she was more concerned with selling her large wooden cabinet.  

“No one wants to buy your stupid cabinet!” I screamed.

“People have shown interest on Etsy!”

“What’s Etsy?”

“You wouldn’t understand!”

“Oh, I see. This is about my body, isn’t it?”

“Oh, it’s always about your body, Kirsten!”

“My name is Paul!”

“Whatever!”

I wandered around the home confused, staring at weird circus mirrors of Kirsten everywhere. A small baseball playing boy or girl staring out the window dreaming for better weather. It was 12 degrees in December, “Just go outside,” I thought. A weird gypsy/hippie lady with a weird animal leg candle stand. She stunk of incense and B.O.! A sleepwalking child, or adult. Again, I’m still not sure what gender, maybe I should have asked. That divorced guy in the kitchen drinking coffee. So many Kirsten look-a-likes. I had to leave.

As I was leaving, that old guy followed me outside.

“Hey there, Buster! How’d ya like a ride? Token’s on me. He hu hu.” He laughed while drinking his cup of Irish Coffee.  

We waited outside on the curb for what must have been 3 hours. We sat down and he told me of his ex, but laughed it off like it was a silly old joke. “It’s no big deal,” he’d say, then point out a dog across the street.

“Do you want to grab some food?” I asked. “There’s a Shawarma place down the road. It’s on me.”

“No thanks. Too many onions. Too many layers.”

Suddenly, I noticed something odd and shocking. I snatched off his wig and mustache.

“You’re Kirsten. You’re all Kirsten!” I screamed.

I could see all the Kirsten clones staring at me from the steps of the motel-like townhouse. What was she doing all this time during our marriage? Playing tricks on me? For what reason? Why would she stoop to this level of creativity and madness?

“No Paul.” She said. “You are Kirsten. You’ve always been Kirsten. I would know, Paul. I’ve always been Kirsten.”  

After 5 years of a failed marriage I finally visited myself. My name is Kirsten Rasmussen.  

[paulaihoshi]

Cameron Algie

"Time! Time is a construct that made me think of... uh... uh, that it... took, like I spent, I spent probably more than a day, but I think the day it occurred to me, I was like, "What?" and I thought, "Oh, Cameron." Like, my identity, like the ego, “Cameron,” of whatever, is just a collection of memories. And so, if you took my memory away I wouldn't be Cameron; I'm not inherently this personality or this attitude, or anything I do... uh, I just thought that was cool." - Cameron Algie

This is the real conversation I recorded with the tall, boyband-looking, metaphysical, Cameron Algie.  He called me in the middle of the night, waking me from my chilling nightmare about a world without large pretzels. I, of course, confused him for a meth deal and ran over to meet him at Dundas Square—crazy person central. 

If I were to describe Cameron in a positive way, I'd be lying. Cameron is more like a mix of Caribbean hookers and pretentious news reporters all trying to climb the corporate ladder with robot legs. Only there's no ladder or robot legs, just a deep terrifying pool of germ-free piss. You know what I mean. That's Cameron. He also smells poopy.   

I walked with him around the downtown core, around the business hoagies and homeless hotdogs, underneath the financial twilight. Our conversation, or I should say, his monologue, was an endless combination of self-loathing and metaphysical ding-a-ling. He kept mentioning that memory/identity junk, and how he was there, but not really there—I wish I wasn’t there—and how he was, in certain horrific situations, calm as a cucumber. A great change from the "Old" Cameron, he'd explain. 

We wandered in and out of dark places, barely avoiding cars by the hair on my chinny-chin-chin. Vases falling from building windows; gangsters sitting on high construction ledges like musical cats, listening to slightly loud folk music; children laughing in the park with the accompaniment of an adult. I've never felt so unsafe in my life. 

I tried to move this conversation along and get on with my business. "Hey Cameron, don't you want meth?" I asked. 

"No, that's Old Cameron. New Cameron only wants your company. I'm lonely." He held my hand and we walked some more.   

Cameron asked me to take photos of him all sad-like and pathetic. That was easy. Although, after each photo he would tell me, "As soon as you develop it, you'll notice all the photos will be missing a little someone." Then he'd point to himself. I wanted to kick him in the dick. Needless to say, he was wrong. He's in all of the photos.

Our night ended after I told him I wanted to get a wide shot and asked him to stand far back. Real far back. Once he was out of sight, I ran for it. But when I arrived home, I wondered if what he said was all true. Is my identity a collection of memories? Who's to say they were my memories? And was New Cameron “Old” Cameron? I had no time to think of such nonsense, I needed to get back to the task at hand: finishing my autobiography. 

Chapter 20: Being the 16th President isn’t so easy, sometimes my wife gets a little too jealous. Then again, who can resist this big long hat. Oh well, I’m off to the theatre. Something tells me this play will slay me... with laughter.  

[paulaihoshi]

Brandon Hackett: “He paid for my French Toast.”

It was a warm early morning. I was minding my own business, skipping stones, eating scones, thinking about elephant man bones, when I ran into improviser, sketch comedian, gamelan music lover, and pubescent sad man, Brandon Hackett.  

I discovered Mr. Hackett wandering College and Bathurst confused by the morning light and tired from last night’s televised bowling competition. He looked like he needed help, so I told him to "scram," and "leave us wealthy people alone!" But it was there that I realized he wasn't a hobo or a salesman, but a confused sweater wearing cat lover. I had no choice but to apologize and take him out for a hot meal.  

He paid for my French Toast. I don't remember what he had, frankly, I was too distracted by his smooth forehead and quivering lips. It was almost as if he was crying internally. Either that, or he was trying to kill me with his mind. Needless to say, he wasn't getting any of my side plate of fruit.  

We walked north past the quadruplet carriage babies and the morning teenage church goers to his apartment. He didn't live in a garbage can like you’d expect: it was a regular two bedroom apartment featuring a roommate named Victor, or Chris, who studied Russian literature and exercised frequently. It also featured a black and white cat who ate food beside the toilet and followed Brandon around like he was me following Samantha – that girl who gave me a restraining order.

I took photos of him in his natural state while at the same time I repeatedly tried to convince him that the camera was not going to steal his soul or his sofa. I watched him play with the cat and sit around his apartment. He called it, "Happy Time." I called it, "A waste of time."

He offered me tea and water. I said, "Tea and water?"

He said, "Yes."

I said, "Just tea."

He said, "What about the water?"

I said, "You can keep that."

He said, "How will you drink the tea?"

I said, "In a mug with my mouth."

He said, "But isn't that dry?"

I said, "I'm leaving."

So I left the apartment never to see him again.

[paulaihoshi]

Ann Pornel: The Badger and the Horse Race

It was a cloudy day when I saw an old mansion, perched on a hill, north of the city in an unknown town called Pornello.  

I walked up to the open doorway surrounded by empty ice cream cups and old copies of Swank magazine. It was there that I discovered Ann "Twinkle Toes" Pornel on the floor of her Mother's 12 story house, face first in the freshly cleaned white carpet. Her Mother told me she was out all night drinking and that she needed Ann to wake up to clean her fluorescent pink room. I, only there to sell my chocolates, volunteered to help.

I first took her out for a walk to get her blood moving. I said, "Kids like you should stay in school, and stay away from that old Johnnie Walker. He’s old!" She laughed, then used her fist to push me to the ground and darted off into Dead Man's Forest. It was dark and spooky, and it was 10 in the morning. I noticed Ann posed on a rock. I asked her why she ran away and why she posed so sensually. She told me it was because, "She's the shit!" I didn't argue with her, she was rolling in it earlier.

She finally got her senses back, and we suddenly began a romantic walk along the garbage soaked ravine. It was beautiful. She told me of a time when she raced horses, and the time she ate a live badger. She apparently used to murder people too, but I was too distracted by the pretty flowers in her hair to pay attention. That was a mistake.

I moved in for a kiss, but was stopped. Between her lips and mine was a blade, her blade. The kind that shoots out of your fist like a comic book character. 

"Don't even, Pauly boy. The last toddler that tried to kiss me was dead as a door nail."

"But Ann, I think I'm in love with you." I explained. 

"Love. What is love? Some cheap cologne you buy at a drug store, a piece of jewellery you find on your grandmother's grave! A two-by-four with a three-by-two!” 

“A what?”

“What is it? What is it!" She screamed as tears rolled down her eyes and heaving loveless air from her lungs.  

Ann was on the ground in a fetal position. Still and silent. So I did what any young stallion would do: I moved in for another kiss.

I was wrong. She cut off my face.

I don't know what happened next. The only thing I remember hearing was Ann's sad slurred voice, "I'm the shit... I'm the shit."

She was the shit. And boy was my face red.    

[paulaihoshi]

MY FAVOURITE PICTURES OF 2013 

Here's a few photos that didn't make the final cut. I love all these pictures, even unintentional offensive ones.

Love, 

Paul Aihoshi

[paulaihoshi]

BRUCE "TIME TRAVELLING" PIRRIE

On November 28, 2013, I ran into Bruce Pirrie. He had just come out of a time machine. He was confused and delirious, and he only remembered Toronto the way it used to be: a punk filled scene with leather coats and alcohol at every sketchy corner store. In those days, those old buildings were places rebellious punks would go to get very intoxicated and die before the age of 50. Now Bruce’s past is nothing but fast food chains and Chinese restaurants, where people go to die before the age of 50. Nothing’s changed, except for Bruce. Maybe....

I don’t know where he came from but this young and up incoming star must have travelled to WWII. He was dressed in a warm army coat and looked ready for action. The first thing on his to-do list: food. He wanted a burrito. We went to that hallway on Queen St. where fast food joints set up shop but never seem last. He seemed very excited when the woman offered him cheese in the wrap. I guess in the punk days, cheese was a luxury. He ate his burrito behind the Queen St. hallway with a bunch of pigeons, who he fed and talked to as if they were human. The effects of that punk life style must have been seeping through.

While later showing me the Horseshoe Tavern, we ran into his old punk buddy Ken “Bloody Murder” Hall. They reminisced about the old days of murdering people and drinking heavily, but all in good rebellious fun. Then Ken vanished into his time machine to a future women’s bathroom to watch them pee.

Bruce showed me the beer store he used to work at — where he made his first million. It broke his heart to see the employees actually work instead of continuing the time-honoured tradition of sampling each beer before selling it to customers. “What has this future world come to?!” He screamed.

At that moment, he desperately needed to make a phone call to his time machine advisor; however, luck was not on his side. The phone was smashed. The heavily vandalized phone booth was in need of repair. Bruce was confused and upset. But not as confused and upset as when he later stumbled in front of a record store window. There didn’t seem to be Eighties Punk, only "indie rock."

And then, like a fart in the wind, Bruce was gone. Back to the past? Probably back to the past. That’s all he talked about.

[paulaihoshi]

THE AFFAIR WITH LESLIE SEILER

On October 8th, I met up with my neighbour, Leslie Seiler. We met secretly in the parking lot of our building to avoid the paparazzi and our crazed fans, then went to the local bar and grill to drink New Zealand wine. Some would say it was a romantic date, and they would be right. As with all my romantic evenings, this one took a detour to what most people would call the “grocery store”. Leslie handpicked food that erotic fiction authors could only dream of, such as: raspberries, chives, cheese, bread, eggs, butter, and bacon. She was very happy that the cheese was on sale—a bargain in the world of sensuality.

To avoid suspicion, she called her husband to see if they needed more “milk”. It then occurred to me just how kinky she was: we were going to eat food in the same room as him! You could understand how nervous I was as I’d never done this before. It was too sneaky.

We entered her building through the side entrance, again to avoid any unwanted attention. When we walked in the apartment, PK “Sexy Muffin” Kingston was sitting there on the computer. I made up some lie and said I was taking photos of her for my “blog”. He seemed sold on the idea and continued with his work. Then, without the slightest hesitation, Leslie put on her chef coat for protection. She doesn’t play games.

With PK in the room right next to us, Leslie showed me everything! How she buttered the bread, put the bacon in the oven, how to slowly mix the creamy hollandaise in her bowl. She taught me so much. The final product was a grilled cheese and bacon sandwich, with a poached egg on top and hollandaise drizzled over everything. There were three raspberries and chives on the side, with one extra slice of bacon. Then all three of us ate in the same room. It was delicious and mouth wateringly good. PK didn’t even seem to mind that the three of us were eating in the same room. It then occurred to me that Leslie’s done this before. How many people has she brought back to her apartment and cooked for? Was I just some piece of meat? I had to leave.

I made up some weird excuse that I was lactose intolerant and probably should go back to my apartment and take it easy for the rest of the day. Regardless, I now know how to make a mean hollandaise sauce—another skill to drive the women wild.

Thanks Leslie.

[paulaihoshi]

PARKOUR!

On September 16th, I spent time with Parkour champion Isaac “Jungle Jim” Kessler. His mission — to take me around and show me all the hip places where the city’s parkour champions do their best work. 

He picked me up in his souped-up beige car, which he drives like a maniac, and seemed unsure where he was going. But when you’re parkour’s best, why bother obeying rules of the road or bowing to the weather …. and just park your car in the middle of the street. He’s a badass, that’s why they call him “Jungle Jim”. 

After nine hours we finally arrived at our first destination, Cherry Beach, home of the Pirate Ship playground. BlogTO has rated this as one of the top playgrounds in Toronto and after seeing Jungle Jim throw down some of his moves, I have no doubt that BlogTO is right. He’s one of the most flexible men I’ve ever met. The way he climbed up to the top of the Pirate Ship and then slid down that slide…boy, I wish I was that athletic. Note: It’s very important to constantly repeat the word “Parkour” as you’re doing Parkour. 

As we drove to our next destination he stopped in the middle of the road. He left the car and walked straight into a field and squatted in some bushes. I guess it was his way of saying he is one with nature. He is part of this world and it is the earth that makes him so good at Parkour. Then, as I followed him into the dangerous leaves and uncharted territory he stopped by the lake, and like a scene from a movie, ducks surrounded him and as if he were a gift from God. Then we got the fuck out of there! 

After another nine-hour drive we reached Corktown Common Playground, newer Parkour turf. Jungle, seemed to be indifferent to this place but they have one great slide. He showed me his swinging and jumping-off-swing skills — as well as his mushroom licking skills. 

Unfortunately, our day had to come to an end as he was needed elsewhere to teach a class in something other than Parkour. At first he drove me to a shady area where a crazy drunk almost fell on to the hood of his souped-up beige car. We decided this wasn’t the best place to get dropped off as I would be the only one wearing shoes. He dropped me off near Sherbourne and Bloor and drove off into the sunset; the sun, however, was blocked by buildings and giant structures. And just like that, our day was over. I immediately found a McDonalds and used their washroom, all the while knowing I’ve learned from the best and could be the next Parkour champion. 

Thank you, Jungle Jim!

http://www.blogto.com/toronto/the_best_playgrounds_in_toronto/

[paulaihoshi]

JASON DeROSSE

On July 15th, I met Jason DeRosse in his apartment and his shirt was tucked into his shorts. He explained, as most do, that he was not sure what we would do or the reason for taking these photos. I’m not even sure myself. Perhaps its to achieve a selfish goal, but I still don’t have a clue what that goal is yet. I told him to be himself, so he left to change his shirt and later came back with the same shirt, just untucked. He said that he normally sits at home and plays video games on his day off and then later feels guilty that he accomplished nothing. He gave me a quick tour of his apartment but failed to show me, from what I was told later that evening, the garden on his balcony. An unfortunate miss — if he only knew of my love for vegetation.

We took a stroll around the Toronto gang area, Bathurst and Queens Quay, on one of the hottest days of the year, passing a small basketball court where he has “intentions” of playing on one day. As we walked around aimlessly, several shirtless men ran or biked by, which served as a reminder to Jason that they would win in a fight against him. It was an unusually sad thought, but served as a reminder that I could share the same imaginary fate as Jason if an incident such as that were to happen to me.

On our quest for photos, Jason had many ideas that involved him helping someone out or taking a photo next to someone — he called it “good intentions” — but as quickly as they came, his self-consciousness would intervene and hold him back. I questioned his lack of confidence, a conversation that only encouraged him to actually commit. 

We slathered on some sunscreen and went canoeing.

Jason and I canoed to Toronto Island and back as sweat soaked up our shirts. It was quite a day. I hadn’t had that much excitement since I saw naked people with elongated foreskin at Gay Pride. When we got to the island we saw swans and ducks. I almost wanted to just drift there as Jason answered phone calls from his doctor and girlfriend, but we were on a time limit and the bitches in the canoe behind us were picking up speed. For some reason, it was our goal to beat them to the island and back — perhaps to fulfill a needless goal in our subconscious. I would always lose in recreational sports throughout my adolescent years until I just stopped playing sports.

After our hour-long adventure and a perfect canoe-parking job, we went for a beer at the Amsterdam BrewHouse. I can’t remember the names of the beers we had but I drank the darkest beer they had and Jason had a flight of a much lighter (in colour) beer. However, I do remember my beer being very high in alcohol, 10% I believe. His girlfriend, Jenny, stopped by, unaware of our amazing adventure. We chatted, mostly about how I never leave the country or travel anywhere, while Jason and I sat in the shade and Jenny’s back burned in the sun. Then shortly after Jason paid the bill (because I was told to save my money for a traveling fund), we left and parted ways.

I assumed after all that paddling I’d have a sore arm the next day but I did not, which only proves that I am stronger than I thought and could probably box a few more rounds longer with Jason’s imaginary shirtless runners and bikers.

[paulaihoshi]

MATT FOLLIOTT

On June 13, 2013, I had “PICTURE TIMES WITH PAUL” with Matt Folliott.

Let me get out some frustration first before I get into “PICTURE TIMES WITH PAUL”. I had bought professional film for this shoot - a nice slow speed, high grain and colourful. The kind of film you make love to on a Saturday morning while watching cartoons. But damn my organizational skills, I forgot the film on the day of the shoot! I ended up buying that Fujifilm you see in Shoppers Drug Mart on Yonge and College that no one ever buys. Surprisingly, it turned out to be wonderful film, which was quite impressive. Regardless, the $10 used SLR I bought at the beginning of the year is shit. Out of two rolls of film we shot, only half came out. The camera randomly takes blank frames and moves the film forward without exposing a single grain. So it’s safe to say, I will not be using that shit mid-90’s technology again. I suppose it was good that I didn’t waste money on the professional film, and a shame you won't see the eye pornography Matt and I fell upon. And poor Silva, or was it Silvio? You’ll never know....

Anyways, back to Picture Times. It was a cloudy day. It had rained that morning. A soft overcast in my opinion is great lighting. I arrived at Matt’s place a tad late after the emergency film buying. It’s a lovely area and smells more of trees than I expected. He greeted my in the lobby and we took his creepy elevator up to his floor.

When invited to others homes, I usually give myself a quick tour but he just moved in and I felt uncomfortable. It was also a girls home, the kind I’m most foreign to. He said he’d just be a moment, he needed to “watch this gay kid sing on youtube.” An early morning ritual I suppose. Around then his new roommate Laura walked in with her breakfast. A jaw dropping beauty she is, but do I take off my shoes?

We took photos around his area, mostly on the U of T grounds. Can they sue me? ... They can have my $10 camera. The photos mostly consisted of Matt looking somewhat excited or dazed with questionable drinking fountains or garbage in the periphery, to set the mood. The school background gave us a theme for most of our conversation, which were about our own scholastic backgrounds and the current educational system. At one point we went to the roof of his building, which would make a great place to hangout and talk jazz or drop bricks on people. However, you’ll never understand that reference because no pictures were exposed on the roof.

We shot the last frames inside and got this Eyes Wide Shut-looking photo, only Matt was not nude and I was not Tom Cruise. Perhaps we’ll arrange that next time.

After our brief time together I realized I would love to see Matt in one of those college frat house comedies. He would play that guy who’s been living on school grounds for at least 15 years. You know, the wise, pot smoking, cool guy who feels comfortable wearing a pink housecoat and bunny slippers at 6PM while walking to campus to buy M&M’s from the machine. He’d always have a beer in his hand that he drinks with confidence. Never too drunk but always hammered. Never works out but always just fit enough. He’s never been to class but knows the smell. He knows everything about the school, every secret, every hidden passageway into the girls’ locker room. Yeah, he sleeps around, but he never tries. The girls think he’s hideous, yet they still come crawling back. He doesn’t need to see you naked, he already knows. “Why wash your own underwear when your roommates girlfriend can do it for you?” His name is Darryl, aka. “The Teacher”, and he can only be played by the one and only Matt Folliott.

[paulaihoshi]

COLIN SHAPRE 

On March 26th, I stopped by Colin Sharpe’s home near the Beaches. Colin has been a friend of mine for a while now; I believe I’ve known him for 3 or 4 years. I first saw him doing his psycho monologues at the now extinct Naked Fridays show at the Second City Training Centre where at one point he gave me a lap dance.

Now, before I continue, I should explain the film tech-stuff. The film I used expired in 2005 and I didn’t realize that when I grabbed it. It also had 24 exposures, less then my usual 36 I normally take on 35mm. And because we were shooting in the late afternoon, I pushed the film 2 stops from the recommended film speed of ISO 400, making it ISO 1600. I was aware that it would be grainy, but I was unaware that the film would look more like an old newspaper print than a photograph. But, that’s one of the reasons I’m shooting film: you get unexpected results and you get to make people like Colin look as if he’s a homeless man spouting off crazy theories in some 70’s-era newspaper.

Out of all the people I’ve photographed, Colin Sharpe was by far the most uncomfortable. This is probably because he’s one of the most paranoid people I know. He works at a community centre where he supervises many groups of children playing sports and other activities but, he seems to find it uncomfortable when these kids see him out in public. For example, when he’s out grocery shopping with his brother and a kid or, a group of kids see him, he will believe that they’ll think he’s gay, or at least one of them is bound to think he’s a homosexual. As we took photos around his neighbourhood, I could tell that these thoughts regularly cross his mind, and at that point, I could be potentially be his gay lover in his world of paranoia. We did end up running into a couple of kids from the community centre and they were very shy when Colin went to greet them. Was Colin right? Or just paranoid? Who knows? Regardless, I thought those two kids were gay.

We ate at an Indian restaurant and shared a couple of dishes, like the average gay couple would do. I was full a quarter of the way through the meal but Colin polished off every last bite. It was delicious. However, I did not realize that the Mango shakes we bought had milk in them, but lucky it didn’t ruin my bleach stained underwear until later that night.

After eating, Colin and I walked down a street with a wooden fence that seemed to just stretch off into the distance. Colin mentioned that he had used the street name in an older monologue in which his character lived an abused life - as if to draw attention to the fact that the street gave off an evil presence. However, I wasn’t sure. In fact, I thought the street was cosy.

We decided to make the occasion a memorable one and grabbed a couple of beers to have while we walked around the beach. (He actually bought the beers and I forgot to thank him for that, which was the second thing that bugged me that night. So, thank you Colin!) On the way we saw a couple of swans in a pond and stopped to look at them. Luckily, there were no kids around to see us, but it didn’t matter. Our love was clearly stronger than the straight couple across the pond, because the swans left them and came to us.

Once at the beach, Colin told me of the memories he had of the area, some of which (I believe) has helped spark his bizarre and creative comedic choices. He’s a real artist, as some would say; a brilliant man who suffers for his work. But to me, he’s just Colin - my paranoid friend and potential gay lover. 

[paulaihoshi]

ALLANA REOCH

On February 19th, 2013, I met up with Allana in the coffee shop underneath my apartment where she bought herself two drinks; one hot, one cold. I had a tall almond milk chai latte. We chatted for a bit before heading off to buy some film. I shot these photos on Fujifilm, and it turned out okay but after testing out most negatives I prefer the Kodak colour films.

We walked around Queen Street, unsure of what to shoot and trying to come up with a theme for these photos but nothing really came to mind. Eventually we found ourselves in a church and a few stores on Queen sneaking random photos of Allana looking at the merchandise, and from that, our theme was born: taking photos in random places on Queen Street!

After going to four stores and a church, hunger hit our bellies and it was quickly decided that we eat Vietnamese food. So we popped into Phở Tiển Thành, just off of Queen on Ossington (it took me an hour to find the correct accents on those letters). I’ve been there several times before and it might be my favourite Phở restaurant in the city. Before entering we met a homeless man and Allana was kind enough to give him $2 after he posed in a couple photos with her.

While in Phở Tiển Thành, our waiter was very kind but his voice sounded like a quieter version of Michael Jackson, which threw us off a bit. He also referred to my phở as his friend and at one point I believe he wished us a “Happy Birthday.” Regardless, we loved him and he was the happiest person I have ever met.

Now, if you’ve never been to a Phở restaurant, they will serve you phở with side of spouts, lime, Thai basil, and a couple Thai chilies. As for Allana, she had never had a Thai chili before and it only took one bite of the pepper for her realizing how hot it actually was. The three photos above poorly depict her reaction but she was a lot more stressed out than they show and ate all the lime wedges to counter the taste. I feel like everyone must try one of those peppers, it’s like a coming of age in the food world. We finished our meals, paid the bill, and said goodbye to Michael Jackson, but only after I used their incredibly pink bathroom.

With only a couple of photos left we stopped off at a furniture store, posing as a couple, and snapped the last few shots. Once again the camera shutter got randomly stuck on 4 random photos, not even exposing the frame, and we missed a moment in time. I’m starting to think my $10 used camera wasn’t worth the purchase. But, what the poop, it was fun regardless.

[paulaihoshi]

CHARLIE BOOTH

On January 19, 2013 I spent the day with THE Charlie Booth. We decided it would be cool to give this post an underground theme so we headed the MetroCentre and snapped a few photos. But because there wasn't much to shoot there we decided to jump on the subway.

The Sheppard subway line is the only line that I’ve haven’t travelled to the end of - I’ve travelled to the end of the others, even the amazing blue line — so I suggested to Charlie that we go there. I took a bunch of pictures of Charlie with my new $10, used SLR and out of the thirty-six exposures, thirty-two came out! For some strange reason four straight shots decided not to expose, which means you don’t get to see Charlie standing in front of the sign at Pape Station or buying groceries. HUGE LOSS!

Once we got to the end of the Sheppard line there was a small pastry shop where Charlie bought himself an éclair, and because I didn’t want to break a twenty, he bought me a sugar twist. Such a nice guy. But our treats could only last us so long before restlessness struck again. So we jumped on a bus.

Charlie and I jumped on a random bus at the terminal, hoping it would take us to an unknown part of Toronto. Unfortunately, it began backtracking us to Pape Station. Or did it? You’ll never know because there’s no picture to prove it. (My editor, Dave Colantonio, wants me to add an evil laugh but, he clearly doesn't understand that I'm disappointed those pictures didn't expose. So, insert his evil laugh and my whimpering.)

We talked about movies and how much we hate 3D, but then the topic of cooking arose. Charlie told me about a meal that he wanted to try: Bangers and sweet potato mash, with a side of homemade apples sauce. That meal actually defines the kind of person Charlie is: British with a dash of sweet (insert flirty emoticon here), but the kind of sweet that’s clumsy when cooking and buys cinnamon sticks instead of cinnamon powder like the rest of us. They’re a pain to grind, Charlie! So, off we went to the grocery store near Charlie’s place.

Enter photo of Charlie standing next to a sign saying Pape Station, with a background of construction.

We took the subway to Dundas West station.

Enter photos of Charlie in the grocery store.

There’s a shot of him looking at apples and another one of him holding a weird vegetable that looks like a log.

Enter Charlie’s quote, “The sausages back home are much better than here in Canada.”

Enter story of Charlie shoving sausages into his backpack because he didn’t want to use a plastic bag and because he forgot his grocery bag at home — aka — the first sign of Charlie’s unsanitary lifestyle.

Before stepping into his palace we took a few more pictures around, at which point he pronounced that his neighbourhood reminded him of the partly destroyed buildings in Berlin.

Charlie lives in a small room with a small bed and a large computer. He shares the kitchen and bathroom with, I believe, four other people. Some people would grow mad living in a place like that, but not Charlie. 

Cooking time! Charlie kept telling me how pretentious he was about cooking and at first I thought he was joking, but the he brought out an electronic cooking thermometer he uses to measure the temperature of his boiling water! He grinds cloves with a mortar and pestle! I already mentioned the cinnamon sticks! He even cuts his onions in what seemed to be the most time efficient way possible! Unfortunately, his clumsiness overtook his pretentiousness and he sliced his thumb. So much blood! Naturally, I had to take photos of that. My biggest concern, however, was not for him but for how sanitary this food was.

After about 5 minutes of soaking his bandage in his own blood I told him to use a paper towel and hold it there till the bleeding stopped, which wasn’t until after the meal. Luckily, he said that past kitchen-related traumas had allowed him to get used to cuts. He then proceeded to show me his cooking scars.

After burning himself with splashes of oil, we sat down and had a lovely meal. Perfectly boiled sausages, sweet potato mash, and his homemade apple (blood) sauce. It was delicious.

We drank our beers and talked about life and his return back home to British land. I shot the last photo — so lovely to hear film rewind electronically — before he showed me to the door. We hugged it out, but as I walked out that door, and past his housemate gossiping on the phone, I couldn’t help but feel an off-putting tingle in my throat.

[paulaihoshi]

BAD PICTURES & WHAT I DO

The Photos

You’re looking at photos I took of Toronto-based comedians and improvisors, starting with Rob Norman through to Alice Moran. One shot per shoot on my grandpa’s 1935-37 Kodak Junior 620 camera. As you can probably tell, the focus isn’t very accurate on this particular camera, or I just suck when it comes to my judgment of measurement. Regardless, the camera is in need of a repair - especially patching those light leaks on the bellows. The camera’s holes are covered in camera tape but that doesn’t even seem to do the job.

Although none of the photos really turned out, I still decided to post them because: A) I think it’s rare for people on tumblr to post unplanned, out of focus images, B) I find it funny that despite spending a year doing this, I still failed to focus the shots, and C) it’s good to know that extremely attractive people make mistakes too.

In the end, I like the idea of doing a year-end, bad photo compilation; the only problem is I can only choose 10 photos per post. Maybe I’ll have a top five? We’ll see. I’ll promote it like it’s the Oscars. I’ll also need to think about buying a new SLR film camera, but that will have to wait until my next tumblr cheque comes in the mail.

Why I Do This Thing That I Do

So if many of you are wondering what I’m doing, why I take these photos and write orgasm-inducing poetry, you’ll find your answer here... maybe.

Film is sadly becoming a medium of the past but I don’t think it will ever truly go away. I don’t think there’s a sustainable demand for it in the consumer world but professionals still use it and because of that there’s still a small market for it — hopefully it’s enough to keep film going.

I still love film. I love the colours, the texture, the physicality of it, and the smell of it. I like knowing that that negative or transparent is the closest I’ll ever be to that point in time again. It can capture a piece of history and become a piece of history at the same time. Even if you fail on a shot, like I’ve done, you can always find something wonderful about it. Now I love digital and the immediacy of it, and I’ve made more money from shooting digital stills than I ever will with film, but it doesn’t physically exist and I find that weird. It’s like making out with the computer screen in front of you over the blowup doll you have on the chair beside you. It’s more efficient but everyone still knows you’re lonely. But regardless, I plan to shoot film until the end or until Lucy, the blowup doll, pops and I need to by a new one.

Before living in Toronto, I spent my time taking photos of trees and the rivers of pool and melted snow water in the Aurora pathways every year. I was bored. Living in Toronto has introduced me to many interesting people, including all the weirdo improvisers I’ve met, which is much more exciting. My goal has been to capture them off-stage, as people, and write about what it’s like to hang out with them. Many people have asked how I choose the people I photograph, and to be honest, I mainly go by smell. Each of my subjects had a unique body odor that attracted me to them and from that I felt the urge to take their photo. I also hope to have sex with each one of them.

My process is quite simple. I ask that lucky person to choose a location or activity that they’d like to do and we do that. Simple. And it's not over till I've shot one whole roll of film. That being said, I think I’m going to switch things up this year. I might come up with creative themes or ideas. I’ll add a bit more of a creative side rather than just documenting our time together. We’ll see.

After the shoots, I’ll take the film to a lab and get it developed and scanned. When I receive the photos I go home and then write the tumblr post. After I finish writing it I send it to my friend Dave Colantonio to edit. He mainly cleans up my awful spelling and grammar, but also adds helpful suggestions to make my sentences go from, “I like potatoes” to “Potatoes! I beckon thee to come into my soul and warm my heart as you unwrap your foil body and I spread my butter in your crevice.” I’ll usually just change it back to, “I like potatoes” but when you read it, it should sound like an Irish person with a urinary tract infection. Then I publish it to all my adoring fans and the random tumblr people who find it by accident while they search for photos of nude models and nostalgia.

So, I guess I do this because it interests me and so the faces of my subjects can become part of history, physically. Currently, those faces sit in a bin under my bed where Lucy lays and tells me I look better in the red dress.

Note: The b&w photo is of my friend Dave.