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-- How they shutdown "MEOW"
How they shutdown "MEOW"
Interesting article in the star today on how they shut down MEOW nightclub. (Fond Memories...sheds a tear)
Read the article HERE
Awesome article.
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| In Swansea, just west of High Park, there was always one big question about the Meow: What was the special magic that allowed this club to get away with so much? That question remains unanswered. |
How they shut Meow
LINDA DIEBEL
STAFF REPORTER
This story should be a screenplay.
It's a steamy tale of a Toronto neighbourhood terrorized by an illegal nightclub. Street violence rocked quiet Swansea in the city's west end where, every week, drunks passed out on backyard teeter-totters and kiddie swings; where physical threats against city officials led to an astonishing showdown between a licensing chief and the local police inspector; and where the battle wore on until police finally were ordered to change the locks and shut the place down.
The club was called the Meow and nicknamed the Pussycat.
From the outside, it was nothing special. It operated on the top two floors of a drab, gray building in the middle of a parking lot on Lake Shore Blvd. W., east of Windermere Ave. But, during the 20 months it lasted, the Pussycat was the place to party in the GTA, awash in white stretch limos, huge lineups and velvet ropes to protect VIP hockey stars and stiletto starlets. For just about everyone else, the Meow was a nightmare for families in nearby Swansea, for city inspectors and liquor commission officials who fought to close it, and for their ally, Mayor David Miller, then the city councillor for the neighbouring ward of Parkdale-High Park to the east, who spearheaded the political campaign against the club.
Although area residents praise support from individual officers, they felt let down by their local police division. And, three years after the demise of the Meow, some residents are baffled by the lack of an investigation into police conduct surrounding the notorious club.
The Star has pieced together the saga of the Meow through exclusive interviews and examination of hundreds of pages of documents, from affidavits and corporate reports to court files. And for the first time, senior officials including the city's licensing chief have agreed to tell their story.
"I believe in the public's right to know,'' says Pam Coburn, director of the city licensing branch and its 160 inspectors. She thinks the city's experience with the Meow has relevance today. Two weeks ago, police launched a new team to investigate clubs in the downtown entertainment district, in the wake of a probe into police corruption.
In Swansea, just west of High Park, there was always one big question about the Meow: What was the special magic that allowed this club to get away with so much? That question remains unanswered.
Our story begins on Oct. 6, 1999, when the club opened over a raucous Thanksgiving weekend. The Pussycat had the biggest mirrored disco ball and best sound system in town. Masked cat-women swung from the ceiling, go-go dancers bounced in cages and power dressers cruised the ladies.
It was also close to the green lawns of Swansea, where residents were kept awake by club noise and drunken brawls and blocked by hundreds of illegally parked cars. The neighbourhood reeked of vomit and urine. People were scared. One elderly couple got a brick through their window.
They sent letters to police, as well as city and provincial officials. They petitioned politicians, hired their own lawyers and worked through their local Swansea ratepayers' association to close the club. They begged police to enforce noise and parking regulations.
Toronto licensing inspectors and provincial liquor commission officials were involved from the beginning. The club broke licensing rules on both fronts.
The Meow advertised "Platinum Fridays" and "Purr Saturdays" and boasted about reviews in eye magazine about their "world-class discotheque" the "latest club to hit the GTA." Problem was, the Meow had a city licence to operate as a restaurant, not a nightclub, or in licensing terminology, an "entertainment facility.''
According to eyewitness accounts, it was the club that appeared to be raking in the big bucks.
There was a restaurant on the first floor, but its kitchen appeared quiet. "I inspected the kitchen for about 15-20 minutes,'' building inspector Gerry Dwornik reports in one affidavit. "In all of that time there was no activity in the kitchen, except for the preparation of one order of bruschetta.''
Dwornik and Joe Luzi, a licensing manager, describe having to cool their heels while club employees stuffed huge wads of bills into the office safe. Says Luzi: "I have no doubt they were pulling in tens of thousands of dollars on a busy evening.''
Luzi, a big, soft-spoken man, describes manager John Aquino's attitude as: "I will tell you what you can and can't do.'' He adds: "I don't think I've ever seen an owner behave like this. It was incredible bravado."
Aquino refuses to talk about the Meow.
Luzi sent the first city order to the Meow's owners to cease operations as an illegal entertainment facility on Oct. 20, 1999. Nothing happened.
Ownership of the land and the Meow was complicated.
The Meow sat on waterfront land transferred to the city from the Harbour Commission in 1995. In 1998, the city sold it for $2.3 million. A numbered company owned by George Zographos purchased the land, then turned it over to a company, owned by his brother Nick Zographos and Ralph Aquino, head of Woodbridge-based Bondfield Construction, and John's father.
The nightclub was operated by yet another numbered company, owned by George Zographos and John Aquino.
The Meow's liquor licence (for a restaurant) was granted to John Aquino, with the stipulation the Zographos family George, Nick and father, Ted could have nothing to do with the premises. The licence also prohibited former employees of two other clubs, Venus The Niteclub and Features, from any involvement with the Meow.
Both Features and Venus, owned by Nick Zographos, had been shut down by the Ontario Alcohol and Gaming Commission. In a motion to suspend the licence at Venus on May 13, 1999, the club is described by the liquor commission as a "venue for widespread prostitution ... This commission does not license brothels." The motion further describes Nick Zographos as "without regard for the law or regulatory authority. He is simply ungovernable and unfit to operate" an establishment.
Attempts to contact the Zographos brothers for this story were unsuccessful.
On Nov. 9, 1999, the liquor commission notified John Aquino his licence was being revoked. A letter informed him he was violating the conditions of the licence, citing the clause restricting involvement by the Zographos family. It also noted the Meow operated as a nightclub ``since the day it opened.'' Commission documents describe fights at the Meow, patrons being assaulted by bouncers including one man who was "punched, kicked and thrown" down the stairs and drug use.
Aquino appealed and the case turned into a protracted legal battle.
Meanwhile, Swansea residents were throwing their hearts and souls into fighting the Meow.
Resident Mary Janigan, a writer for Maclean's, appealed to police. "I am writing in desperation: our neighbourhood has apparently slipped into the control of the Meow club," she wrote to former police chief David Boothby on Dec. 14, 1999.
Deputy Chief Michael Boyd replied promptly, telling Janigan he'd spoken to then staff inspector George Cushing, from 11 Division, and that Cushing "will contact you with the view of finding an acceptable solution."
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`I have no doubt they were pulling in tens of thousands of dollars on a busy evening'
Joe Luzi, a city licensing manager
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The Meow was in Cushing's jurisdiction but, as Janigan was to learn, no "acceptable solution" was at hand. Her husband Tom Kierans, a consultant and former Bay St. wizard, spent thousands on legal bills to the top-drawer firm, Aird & Berliss, for representation at the liquor commission's court battle with the Meow, which would drag on over coming months.
As 1999 turned into 2000, relations between city inspectors and club management deteriorated. Dwornik recounts one incident, in which he says a club boss, "a very finely dressed gentleman," threatened him. He was inspecting the roof with the man and ``two blond, 6-foot-6 guys with muscles so big they couldn't put their arms down."
"Hey, you don't stop what you're doing, these guys are gonna throw you off the roof," Dwornik recalls being told. Solid as a brick, with a diamond stud in his ear and a cool manner, Dwornik managed to calm things down. But he was rattled.
On July 4, 2000, then city councillor Miller appealed to the Alcohol and Gaming Commission to convene an immediate hearing into the Meow club. "I am sure you are aware by now of the sad incident that occurred at the Meow ... last weekend. A young man was shot in the parking lot. ...
"The proprietors of the Meow are basically thumbing their noses at all of the applicable laws and regulations," he wrote.
(In one twist to this saga, Swansea resident Kiernans was so impressed with Miller, he helped put together his winning mayoral election team in 2003.)
On Feb. 5, 2001, the city won a court order to close the nightclub. The club didn't appeal, but remained open.
In the spring, Coburn, then deputy building chief, began telephoning Cushing at 11 Division. She says he ignored her calls.
"The purpose of my call was to say, in a nutshell, as a local police division, we are aware you have complaints about this club. We are working our tails off and we are getting court orders, and `Where are you?'
"We had the first court order from February, 2001, and they were still operating,'' she says. "We were looking to the police for what kind of role they would play and I guess my hope was and this may have been naοve or unrealistic that they would have actually assisted us in enforcing that court order."
She says there is a protocol with police for handling "problem properties" like the Meow. Her office routinely works with other divisions, and she expected co-operation from Cushing.
She finally reached him.
"Mind your own goddamned business and don't call me again," she says he snapped.
She describes the conversation as "ugly, extraordinary. ... It was condescending, ignorant treatment. ... To have somebody say, `Who the hell do you think you are? Mind your own goddamned business, and don't call me again.' BAM! And hang up on you well, I was quite taken aback."
Cushing, now retired, chuckles at the memory of the conversation with Coburn. "Oh my God, yeah, I remember that. Well, maybe not exactly as she tells it. She said she was afraid from the safety aspect. But we were going down there all the time. Don't start telling me you know what's going on unless you want to go down there yourself."
Cushing says he was "worn out'' by the Meow saga, and did his best to address residents' concerns. On July 28, 2000, for example, he wrote to one resident, saying he "spoke with the manager." The letter says one problem was the lack of parking, adding that Cushing tried to solve it by suggesting patrons use Lake Shore Blvd. W. beach parking. He also says that he ordered plainclothes officers to investigate liquor violations and had uniformed officers patrolling the neighbourhood.
"We couldn't find anything to charge them with. They were only open three nights a week," says Cushing. Cushing insists that "it really wasn't a police matter." He adds he didn't have a problem with another contentious issue, this time dealing with another liquor licence violation.
Ex-police officer John Murray, prohibited as a former Venus employee from working at the Meow, was a constant presence. In fact, frustrated and furious residents who called the club's complaint line got Murray's voice mail.
In an affidavit, Dwornik describes an incident in which Murray, sitting with Aquino in his office, told inspectors that "if they lost their licence they would operate as a rave club and the `community could go f--- themselves.'"
Back on Nov. 27, 1999, Detective Dave Wilson, from 52 Division, investigated the premises for liquor licence violations and cited Murray's presence. Cushing says Murray told him "he was just doing consulting work, and that was okay with me."
Swansea residents felt Cushing bent over backwards for the club. "My neighbours are horrified by this attitude," Janigan wrote Staff Superintendent William Blair, on July 23, 2001, about comments by Cushing that the owners would appeal the court orders to shut down.
"What are the limits?'' she asked. "Surely, this has become a matter for broader investigation."
However, according to police spokesperson Mark Pugash , there has never been an investigation into how police handled the Meow.
Cushing makes it clear he had nothing to do with the club or its owners.
It took three court orders for the city to finally close the Meow. The final one on July 31, 2001, directed the Toronto Police Service to "provide to the City of Toronto ... any assistance requested (to) carry out this order.''
Janigan continued to write to police headquarters. On Oct. 3, 2001, Acting Staff Superintendent Paul Gottschalk, from Chief Julian Fantino's office, wrote Janigan: "I can assure you Staff Inspector Cushing took the concerns of the community seriously. ... The persistence of Staff Inspector Cushing and the officers of 11 Division, in using a variety of agencies and enforcement techniques, has led to the closing of the Meow Club."
Janigan was stunned. Cushing had nothing to do with closing the club, she replied, adding that some 200 neighbours would agree. "We were there. For two years. And we saw what he did."
Janigan still doesn't sleep soundly. "We became fearful and quite paranoid," she says. "I never did have a satisfactory response from the police and I still worry."
The Meow remains closed, its sign fading. A billboard advertises "the site of future condominiums."
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Linda Diebel may be reached at ldiebel@thestar.ca
thats what the link was for, no need to post the whole message 
...but i never liked that place and am glad it got shutdown...to many problems
The same owners just re-opened "Meow" here in Windsor.. So far so good.. was it a very "upscale" club when it was in Toronto?
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| Originally posted by e*motion The same owners just re-opened "Meow" here in Windsor.. So far so good.. was it a very "upscale" club when it was in Toronto? |
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| Originally posted by angelgirl Not really upscale. The decor was kind of funky but it was definitely not a dress to impress club. It actually had a really odd mix of people when it first opened as they did hold some electronic music events on rare occasions but their regular weekend nights were mostly hip hop and top 40 focused. I liked the space and the crowd on the nights I saw Digweed, Nick Warren and Sasha there but those nights were not typical ones at MEOW from what I have heard. But I never visited the place on a night that did not have a special event so I can't really comment on that. |
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| Originally posted by Your Mother I was at those nights too. Meow brought in the hottest women in the world and the place was covered with them. Not 1 ugly girl in the entire place. However, it also attracted alot of annoying gino's. The logo for Meow in Windsor is the same as it was in TO and I know the Windsor owners are friends with the TO owners (at least according to a promoter I talked too). -Your Mother |
Oh man, Meow!!! Faq, I lived like 15 minutes walk from there... I've been told that this club had the highest rate of needle drug use out of every other establishment in TO! 
It was crappy for sure and definetly sketchy... 
I'm glad it isn't still around. 
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