Dear Wavelength,

From here I can see hydro lines and greenery punctuating the backs of Victorian houses sloping southwards like a row of dominoes. At the edge of the horizon are the spires of the Ukrainian church, and beyond that, through the haze, is the CN Tower. It would be what you call a commanding view of the city, but from here it looks like an ancient European village, slightly retrofitted for modern times. This is the view from my back patio.
A lot has changed since we last corresponded. It was hard to part ways but I know I've left you in capable hands. You seem to be doing great under your new stewardship. Great bands still play every Sunday and the people still come out. The zine still lives on, online. We'll get you back in print one day soon though, I know it. As for me, I'm still Jonny Dovercourt but the Dovercourt era is over.

Fuck Dovercourt. My new place rocks. I'm now comfortably installed on Davenport Rd., just steps west of Ossington. My apartment is above the Acora Bakery, purveyors of tasty and fattening Portuguese pastries and the expected surly service. Whereas my old apartment smelled like stale propane, entrance to my new digs awards you with the smell of fresh baked bread. At the back of the patio, there are even three silver exhaust stacks that emit awesome-smelling, life-affirming odour 24/7. My roommate, John Farah, is a brilliant piano player/teacher, electronic musician and visual artist with a love of whacked-out nerdy humour often based on role-playing games. He recommends quantum physics books to me. We both drink a lot of coffee. Both being musicians, we each have our own separate room besides our respective bedrooms in which to work and play. And the place is beautiful: it's clean, bright, spacious and everything works. Also, no neighbours = music-making all the time.

This was a privilege I also had at the House of Dovercourt, and this combined with insanely cheap rent (thanks to an insanely stupid and slack-ass landlord), caused me to get stuck there for seven years. It boggles my mind to think that I moved in there when many Wavelength readers were still in grade school. It's also ironic that too much freedom can end up imprisoning you. But really, I was a victim of the pre-millenial thinking that once afflicted many Toronto renters: find an awesome place then hold on to it forever, because rents are just going to go up, up, up. Remember Mike Harris? Those of us who entered our adult lives under a reign of sheer terror are still paying for it, psychologically.. Ironically again, the absence of rent control hasn't made all that much of a difference, because the condominiums which are such a blight on the urban landscape and admittedly demonized by people like me for so long, have done a gone job of emptying the city's rental units of yuppies and freeing up some space for the working man.

That said, my three weeks of househunting were still, if I may borrow a euphemism from my friend Jeff McMurrich, fucking dark. The vacancy rate may be at a generation-long high, but what's out there is still, and now I quote from Fela Kuti, expensive shit. I was ready to give up after seeing yet another $1200 two-bedroom consisting of two ten-by-ten boxes attached to a kitchen counter area with just enough room to stick a couch in front of it'¦ open concept! I kill you dead, slumlord scum! I got to work in a pissy mood and vented to my co-worker Jim about it. I usually avoid venting at work, but on that day it turned out to be a good idea. 'œIsn't Farah's place available?'? said Jim. Oh shit, yeah! I made the call, and later that day sealed the deal. Yet another irony is that John was planning on moving out of here '“ his roommate had moved out a few months earlier, and he was carrying the entire $1000+ rent by himself. He'd even put down a deposit on a basement, before his new landlord went ballistic on him for asking too many questions. After receiving a threatening phone call, and making his own phone call to the authorities which determined the existence of a restraining order placed by a previous tenant, John quietly cancelled the cheque and decided to stay put. This all happened the day before I called.

I ride my bike past the former House of Dovercourt every few days, and check on the junk piles on my former porch. My ex-landlord is supposedly renovating the place to put it on the market '“ and this was the reason he used to finally evict me. I probably could have fought it, but I viewed it as the kick in the ass I needed to finally escape. The whole time I lived there, his Mom wouldn't let him rent out the ground floor and basement. He's a dink, but I hope he gets a good chunk of coin for the property, mainly to make up for seven years of lost income that inadvertently subsized my rock'n'roll lifestyle. He is going to have a lot of work to do, given the leaky roof, non-existent insulation, and those paint stains on the porch from the Halloween when Matt Jagoff and Denise dressed up like milk cartons. In case you're wondering, no, I don't miss the place at all. It had become like your old favorite band T-shirt, comfortable and familiar but more than a little worn out. You still love their music, but you've outgrown the need to advertise that fact.

Love,
Jonny 'œyou can still call me Dovercourt'? Bunce