To:
      Matthew
      Dorrell,
      The
      Cadre
      Travel
      Bureau
     
     
      From:
      Kent
      J.
      Bruyneel,
      Editor-In-Chief
     
     
      In
      Re:
      What
      We
      Have
      Lost
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Ah,
      Matt,
      my
      boy,
      it
      is
      a
      hard
      rain
      falling
      out
      my
      window
      and
     
     
      I
      am
      laid
      low
      with
      grief
      and
      sadness:
      the
      King
      is
      dead.
     
    

    
     
      The
      great
      Al
      Waxman,
      one
      of
      Canada’s
      finest
      small
      screen
     
     
      stars
      is
      gone.
      He
      has
      died
      suddenly
      at
      a
      tender
      age
      from
      an
      appar-
     
     
      ently
      routine
      operation.
      A
      true
      Canadian
      tragedy.
     
    

    
     
      My
      earliest
      memories
      of
      Waxman
      were
      of
      him
      in
      his
      crown-
     
     
      ing
      role,
      as
      the
      loveable
      King
      of
      Kensington.
      Don’t
      remember?
      Yes,
     
     
      you
      are
      so
      young,
      and
      I
      am
      so
      old
      and
      full
      of
      wisdom
      for
      you
      on
      this
     
     
      the
      cultural
      event
      of
      our
      past
      century
      from
      the
      Canadian
     
     
      Broadcasting
      Corporation:
      Al
      Waxman,
      King
      of
      Kensington.
     
    

    
     
      The
      theme
      song
      grabbed
      you
      by
      the
      balls
      right
      off
      the
      bat:
      to
     
     
      wit,
      “when
      he
      walks
      down
      the
      street,
      he
      smiles
      at
      everyone,
      and
     
     
      everyone
      that
      he
      meets
      says
      ‘he’s
      King
      of
      Kensington.’”
      Now
      I
     
     
      don’t
      know
      if
      you
      have
      been
      to
      Kensington
      market,
      but
      seeing
      as
     
     
      you
      are
      The
      Cadre’s
      award
      winning
      travel
      columnist
      I
      should
      like
      to
     
     
      describe
      it
      to
      you.
     
    

    
     
      Kensington
      Market
      is
      a.
      kind
      of
      Charlottetown
      Farmer’s
     
     
      Market
      on
      uncut
      cocaine:
      gone
      mad
      on
      the
      blow
      and
      the
      ability
      to
     
     
      sell
      anything.
      The
      place
      is
      as
      electric
      as
      an
      activist’s
      bathroom.
      I
     
     
      lived
      around
      the
      corner
      from
      Kensington
      Market
      for
      about
      a
      month
     
     
      and
      half
      one
      summer,
      so
      I
      know.
      The
      apartment
      where
      I
      lived
      had
      no
     
     
      air
      conditioner
      and
      the
      windows
      barely
      opened
      and
      I
      was
      always
     
     
      always
      sweating
      and
      I
      thought
      for
      awhile
      about
      just
      going
      back
      to
     
     
      Vancouver,
      which
      is
      not
      so-urban
      and
      mostly
      not
      so
      hot.
      But
      the
     
     
      thing
      was,
      by
      then,
      I
      was
      addicted
      to
      cheese
      ends.
     
    

    
     
      It’s
      true.
      I
      would
      line-up
      with
      the
      other
      junkies
      around
      three
     
     
      in
      the
      afternoon,
      at
      the
      World
      of
      Cheese,
      which
      is
      not
      the
      actual
     
     
      name
      but
      represents
      the
      spirit
      of
      the
      kinds
      of
      places
      I
      was
      frequent-
     
     
      ing,
      and
      dreaming
      about.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      I
      called
      the
      cheese
      guy
      sir;
      he
      called
      me
      Kent.
     
    

    
     
      Usually
      I
      would
      get
      one
      (sometimes
      three)
      a
      day,
      always
      try-
     
     
      ing
      something
      new,
      whatever
      they
      had.
      Giving
      all
      worlds
      of
      cheese
     
     
      a
      chance.
      Or
      more
      specifically
      the
      world
      of
      cheese
      ends
      the
      greatest
     
     
      chance
      as
      I
      would
      stroll
      through
      the
      streets
      and
      fondle
      clothes
      and
     
     
      smell
      foods
      stuffs,
      and
      love
      the
      world.
      All
      for
      two
      bucks
      an
      end.
     
    

    
     
      Cheese
      ends,
      as
      if
      you
      didn’t
      know,
      are
      the
      ends
      of
      the
     
     
      cheese
      not
      suitable
      for
      slices.
      They
      are
      that
      part
      of
      the
      particular
     
     
      block
      that
      no
      part-time
      cheese-eater
      will
      even
      consider.
      But
      this,
      I
     
     
      am
      telling
      you,
      is
      the
      meat
      of
      the
      cheese:
      where
      the
      flavour
      goes
      to
     
     
      die.
      Like
      the
      last
      drink
      of
      red
      wine.
     
    

    
     
      Anyway,
      by
      a
      month
      into
      the
      cheese
      in
      the
      afternoon,
      unbe-
     
     
      lievable
      unstoppable
      heat
      all
      the
      rest
      of
      my
      waking
      and
      not-sleeping
     
     
      hours,
      I
      had
      decided
      that
      I
      should
      stop
      eating
      so
      much
      cheese.
      It
      pro-
     
     
      motes
      heavy
      perspiration
      and
      makes
      even
      a
      small
      man
      hard
      to
     
     
      cohabitate
      with,
      and
      as
      we
      well
      know,
      I
      am
      far
      from
      a
      small
      man.
     
     
      The
      bigger
      problem,
      however,
      was
      that
      by
      then
      I
      spent
      so
      much
      of
     
     
      every
      afternoon
      in
      the
      market
      almost
      invariably
      singing
      “King
      of
     
     
      Kensington”
      only
      semi-audibly
      past
      the
      local
      merchants
      as
      I
      walked,
     
     
      endlessly
      walked,
      that
      I
      felt
      an
      obligation
      to
      them.
      They
      needed
      me
     
     
      as
      any
      monarchy
      needs
      its
      ruler.
     
    

    
     
      And
      I
      was
      a
      good
      King.
      I
      was
      benevolent
      and
      jovial.
      And
      in
     
     
      sweatpants.
      Just
      like
      Al.
      One
      day
      at
      the
      cheese
      store
      while
      I
      was
     
     
      waiting
      my
      turn,
      humming
      and
      not
      paying
      attention
      to
      anything,
      the
     
     
      counter
      man
      interrupted
      me,
      and
      said,
      in
      the
      aggressive
      style
      of
      a
     
     
      man
      who
      spent
      his
      entire
      day
      around
      food
      he
      couldn’t
      look
      at,
      never
     
     
      mind
      eat,
      “hey,
      you
      there,
      ahh...
      King
      of
      Kensington.
      You’re
      up!”
     
    

    
     
      My
      eyes
      welled
      up,
      which
      I
      was
      used
      to
      because
      I
      had
     
     
      moved
      recently
      to
      the
      Belgian
      Cheeses
      and
      they
      produce
      intense
     
    
   
   
    
     
       
     
    
   
   
    
     
       
     
    
   
   
    
     
       
     
    
   
   
    
     
       
     
    
   
   
    
     
       
     
    
   
   
    
     
       
     
    
   
   
    
     
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