If you don’t live in the city, I’d like to take this opportunity to remind you of how different you are.

This morning, as I was trying to decide which pair of underwear was less disintegrated and thus suitable for duty, a radio spot came on for Walmart’s “Walk for Miracles” campaign. It occurred to me that I hadn’t been to a Walmart in ages. Hence no underwear.

That’s probably because there aren’t an awful lot of them in Toronto itself, and not within easy strolling distance. Walmarts, that is. You have to admit, their distribution in the Greater Toronto Area is pretty uniform, even in the outlying sub-suburbs like the ‘Shwa.

I’m going to come clean right now and say that I don’t care for Oshawa. Not one bit. Didn’t like driving through it, didn’t like stopping for ice cream. It was the first time I saw a bona fide Springeresque trailer park. If you insist on going through, the main thoroughfare’s okay, just … don’t wander.

Anyway, I don’t want to get off track. The point is that the expectations seem to get a little bit lower wherever a Walmart is present.

Look…

…that’s CIBC, well represented anywhere you look on a map of southern Ontario. Also a very heavy presence here in the city. Gentle running seems like a good middle ground of physical exertion. Especially when you look at the 100% downtown Princess Margaret crew:

That’s a two-day bike ride to Niagara Falls. And as an option you can hop along for an extra ride with Steve Bauer for some real action.

Walmart, serving who they serve, decided on this:

Families with kids aren’t really into running. Neither are the ‘Shwabians.

In the trendy, sea-bound urban centers of Vancouver, they also tried walking, and look at the result:

I know, right? That’s exactly how twisted, wheelchair-bound super villains start. I bet he’s seething with rage.

I guess it’s because city dwellers just don’t get “walking”. They need that hardcore rock climbing biznatch all up in yo mother’s face (that’s how they talk out west). Urbanites want to come home with an arm missing or a cavity where there previously was none. CHA-RI-TAE*! WOOOOOOOOOO**!

Better start getting my pudgy ass in shape. Bikini season’s just around the corner!

* Charity — I know, that west coast accent always messes me up too.
** An overdrawn WOO — Them and their crazy Vancouverese, you gotta love ‘em!

I gotta be honest with you, when I finally spotted that big red ball, my hopes were about as deflated as it was. It was folded neatly in front of the cube van in an alley on Elm Street, thus dashing my vision of watching them rolling it up Yonge Street in rush-hour traffic.

So I decided to come home and do a bit of surfing through the local newspapers. I maintain that “surfing” is still used among webby people. As alternatives, we sometimes use “slacking” or “pr0n hounding”.

Anyway, most of it sounded absolutely dreadful. In fact, if it wasn’t for one thing that kept bugging me, I would’ve just flipped to Wipeout so as to at least try to quench my unfulfilled desire for a big red ball.

Because I’ve been whoring this site out quite a bit lately, I’ve noticed that I’ve started to become keenly aware of not only ad placement but also of content. For example, on almost all major news sites, there’s a banner above the main story and the “sweet spot” of advertising gold sitting in the site’s left armpit (your lower-right).

Please allow me to demonstrate:

Here we have a heartwarming reminder about father’s day and a rather cheap looking credit score ad at the top. Usually these ads are placed here based on context or relevance to the article. At least, that’s the idea.

When I started to take more notice of these and the content they were connected to, it highlighted how open the market for contextual advertising still is. Monkeys, infants, and hamsters could all do an equally compelling job.

In the mess above, the computer responsible for deciding which ads go where concluded that a dead guard would probably remind you of your father. The mood called for a murderific Father’s Day gift, but not at the expense of your credit rating.

Here’s another interesting combination:

At least the computer here was being pragmatic. You got old dead man, you gotta wash that old dead man stink out. And hang on to your hard-earned dough ’cause you could be next, sucker.

Pragmatic but awful!

And what about this?

The computer may be trying to herd us out into the middle of the desert for something; get us all stinking drunk, no money, just sand and heat and scorching sun. That’s really the only connection I can see between murder and showing us where we should go to get away from it: Crime-free Nevada.

In case you need further evidence:

We all know that the OLG is run by shifty robots so that doesn’t leave much place for the humans. And they’re being left to die and rot alone in the cities, not like the cramped but happy humans being transported to the Las Vegas processing facility.

Or…the computer that decided to put these ads here is just dumb. Maybe you’ll never look at web sites the same way again. Maybe if I didn’t spend so much time slacking or pr0n hounding, I’d think of something more interesting. Maybe some real content tomorrow. Maybe a big red ball.

The crumply tin chairs and crumply tin tables at Dundas Square were again available tonight and I finally got to sit at one with a crumply six-dollar Stella.

The main show on stage was Disco Inferno who’s name left so little to the imagination that I couldn’t think of a word to write. I sat there certain that the scary security guard, who’s goatee alone would be considered a weapon, was peeking over my shoulder. It just wasn’t an environment conducive to concentration.

I gulped back the uninspiring lager and left the boozy oasis, seen here at back under the red umbrellas:

Note that Disco Inferno did actually have people doing the pushin’-up-the-sky dance (hold palms up and pump skyward – ooi! ooi!). If you can make out the detail above, there’s even an old lady getting out of her wheelchair in the middle of the crowd. Cured!

Here are the Inferno; numerous Bar Mitzvahs, weddings, birthday parties, and corporate events having tuned their act to this singular moment of perfection:

Far too many people were hurting themselves trying to re-live their youth and I didn’t want to join them. I wandered off to the pedestrian part of the square where there hung a bunch of photographs on triangular mounts. I guess these were intended to allow for quick juxtaposition of adjoining images, allowing us to more broadly grasp the photographer’s vision, to understand the underlying narrative that they’re trying to convey, but they were still mostly boring. Here they are being ignored:

To be honest, there were a couple of cool crowd photos. But not many.

A friend notified me that a giant red ball is being moved about Toronto to various spots and I discovered that it will be in my neck of the woods soon.  Giant red ball wedged into city crevices. That just kinda writes itself.

So far Luminato at Dundas Square hasn’t been the outlandishly artsy event it’s been billed to be. Unless you count the L’Oreal makeup tent as art. But maybe I’m not giving it a fair shake. Maybe the ball will silence me with it’s glory.

“What’d you do on the weekend?”

“Not much. Raped and murdered a couple of women, had a few beers with friends on Saturday night; nothin’ special. You?”

“Oh, you know, same-old same-old. Finally got that raw fecal smell out of the apartment on Sunday; turned out that I hadn’t flushed in three weeks. Can you believe that shit?”

“I hear ya! So, did you read about that guy that got shot…”

It’s the same old boring water-cooler conversation every Monday, more or less. If it’s not about Oprah and her hijinx or the smell of poop in one’s apartment, it’s about the latest homicide in the city. It does seem like someone’s getting shot or stabbed almost every day recently, doesn’t it? In April there were 4 murders in an area stretching from Mississauga to Durham. June’s looking a bit busier so far.

I wonder if Toronto Police will be able to cope. Then again, some old photos I’d seen in the Toronto Archives remind me that men of the Service’s past have done far greater with far less. Submitted for your consideration:

(a lot of photos in this one…)

… Continue Reading

After my last assignment, I’m sure you’ll understand why I had to lay low for a while. This is a dangerous town and I had to make sure that when I popped my head back up, I wasn’t going to get it blown off. With my Walther PPK strapped snugly against my ribcage, I straightened my tie and headed out.

This time it would be to the George Street Diner.

It seemed pretty far off the radar. Nice spacious outside views from every booth so as to avoid an unwanted side of sneaky assassin with my breakfast. The booths were those proper squishy diner kind that would require close-quarters combat, but that was okay. More fun. And if the contact who was to meet me there proved to be uncooperative with me, the vintage stools at the counter would provide a good place for a quick and painful Q&A. My Q, his A.

I placed my order for the regular; the measure of a greasy spoon’s worth: the bacon & egg special. It doesn’t matter if it’s not called a “special” in this particular establishment, they should know exactly what you mean. Besides, I had ways of letting the female staff know exactly what I meant that didn’t require any talking. The only other male in the place was the kind who’d be the first to catch a bullet in the forehead in a gun fight. Mental note: human shield.

About $9 later, the chipper young waitress brought me breakfast: two eggs, four strips of well-done bacon, a healthy helping of home fries, and toast. Except…what was this? The toast seemed to be coated entirely in some sort of yellow grease. Maybe it was some strange intensely-coloured butter coating or — they were trying to poison me.

My mind started to race. If I kept my heart rate down, I could probably plug each of these yahoos and manage to make it back to my place for an antidote. Unless there were more of them out of sight.

So it began.

I reached slowly, ever so slowly for the holster while at the same time inching the bread towards my mouth. I unclipped the strap and gently tugged at the gun, releasing the safety. I passed the bread slowly under my nose; no detectable odours other than butter. Great. That left about one-thousand other possible toxins.

My senses went into top mode; I was aware of every creak and squeak around me; could see every motion reflected in the stainless steel backboard that ran the length of the restaurant. I could feel sweat gathering on my brow; my hand tightening on the Walther PPK as the bread passed my lips. This was it…death time.

Oops, my mistake. Just butter.

Good butter too, or a pretty good imitation. The bread was soft and moist and caused me to relax my grip on the gun. It was still a very unnatural colour but…no poison. It looked like the staff were regular civvies so I wouldn’t have to kill them after all. It would have been a shame to destroy all the kitsch on the walls though. Some of it looked genuinely old and all of it belonged in an old-time diner like that.

I dug into the meal; bacon was good and crispy; eggs were well done and adequately greasy; organic coffee was dark and a good complement to the meal. The place was licensed but it didn’t look like they’d be able to serve me a proper Martini.

I finished my coffee slowly, waiting for my contact who was now five minutes late. The bill came promptly and I got up to leave. For a man with as many enemies as me, it was foolish to wait around any longer.

Nice place, I thought as I adjusted my Italian silk tie. Good atmosphere and great decor, but nothing explosive about the breakfast. Just as well, I suppose.

Then I spot him, my contact, running down George Street with my suitcase, being chased by a very tall man with what looks like…metal…for teeth and a very nasty looking gun shooting at — my suitcase.

Damn, that makes me mad.

I took in an evening of Qubit tonight. It’s a new science quiz show that will probably play on the Discovery Channel and maybe other CTV affiliates soon(ish).

The audience line waiting outside the Masonic Temple studio was  a curious mix of downtown sophistiques who had undoubtedly just come in straight from the Annex, a ragtag group of teenagers for whom adolescence seemed to be going especially painfully, and other assorted people who served mostly as organic wallpaper. There was some drama in the air above us as a flock of pigeons circled a hawk; I think he had encroached on their turf and shit was about to go down.

Unfortunately, they huddled us in and up the stairs to the second floor of the studio before I had a chance to see how it ended. I remembered being here before; with my sister and friends; when the walls were sweating and the Beastie Boys were discussing the importance of the individual freedom to celebrate and enjoy oneself. The Temple staff certainly got the stank out good since then.

The Qubit set was pretty neat; at the center was a very large sheet of of plastic or maybe polarized glass leaning diagonally like a big canopy over the main stage. From below, some kind of projector shone a moving image of a glassy 3D cube (the logo), onto the screen creating a pretty realistic hologram effect. I sat right in front of it and that shit was trippy. On camera, you can’t see the screen at all so the effect is even better.

You’d think they’d use this in some cool way, wouldn’t you? You know, have the contestants duke it out virtually with the dreaded cube in the final round or something. Unfortunately, no, the entire show takes place in front of the hologram screen which, though admittedly cool, seems a bit gimmicky.

Nothing about the show was explained to us except that we should clap — at a moderate level — whenever the contestants hit a “Wildside!”. Whatever that was. The whole thing had a slightly first-day-of-grade-1 tinge to it: we practiced clapping and then the audience host gave out pens and book bags to those who participated in his activities. The female half of the nice couple that sat beside me remarked that he was probably a comedian from Yuk Yuk’s. I think she was right. I didn’t realize they let those people out on the streets!

After a lot of movement, light checks, and swooshy sound effects, they finally brought out the three contestants: two men and a woman. The men were comprised of David, a stout gentleman with a British accent and regular make-up reapplications, and John, what Spud from the Trainspotting movie would have looked like had he not done so much smack. The lady’s name utterly escapes me but I remember her being short and unremarkable, so it’s just as well.

This being the first taping, I don’t think it’s surprising that there were a few glitches. The most outstanding one was when the entire hologram shut down and a singular “Unlicensed” floated above the contestants’ heads. I don’t think they downloaded the entire show off BitTorrent though because everything else in the studio seemed to work well.

The game isn’t based on a dazzling or particularly unique concept: contestants choose a prize amount which represents the difficulty of a question in a category. Think Jeopardy but with a cube instead of a board.  There are a couple of twists such as questions that can be made easier during timed rounds in exchange for penalties, but nothing to write home about. No full-contact anything here, that’s for sure.

Bob McDonald, angelically illuminated by a studio light over his seat at the back of the studio, was quizzed by the audience host (not the show’s host), to pass time during breaks. I’m fairly certain that the comedian completely failed to recognize who he was talking to. You can taste the sweet, tangy irony, can’t you? The studio host of a highly science-focused quiz show talking to the science guy of Toronto, maybe even of Canada, and he doesn’t know who he is. “Are you retired, sir?”, was the question he asked Bob.

I sure do hope Qubit does well and that I can sell my first-show ticket on eBay years from now at a considerable markup. The game could do well if they ratcheted up the volume a bit; have the host smoke some crack before the show; intercut the segments with softcore erotica; a pool filled with gelatin for the two-people round. I still think that 3D projector should be interactive somehow. Who’s to say all these concepts couldn’t be combined in some way?