What kind of filthy surprise did the War hold today?

Okay, so you’ve seen plenty of trash heaps on TCL, so what? Well, this particular detention centre has been of special interest to me because it’s in my neighbourhood. Also, it doesn’t really seem to be growing. That’s very unusual considering the closing of other centres that have already reached capacity.

Even though I’m happy that my street seems to be so thrifty with refuse, I’m genuinely perturbed as to how this pile has managed to stay pretty much unchanged while others have grown beyond their limit.

And what about this dangerous pesticide that is so harmful to our nearby fauna?

So lifelike! These herds of grazing bunny things at Metro Hall are proof positive that everything’s a-ok. And it turns out that concerns over the chemicals’ effects on local flora were also greatly exaggerated:

The 416/79 brigade and our troops are still at it, tossing peace treaties back and forth like a live grenade. Neither side seems to like what the other is offering and there is no indication that an end is in sight. But on the streets where the battle is fiercest, I see things steadily improving; much, I’m sure, to the dismay of the enemy. The front-line troops that, not so long ago, had taken so much abuse now seem to be coping with ease:

If anything, the War has simply become tedious. The province hasn’t seen the need to send in the arbitration commandos and I’ve even managed to find a reliable fly paper supplier. At this point, the fruit flies’ best bet is to grab only essentials, pack up the old station wagon, and drive straight out of my kitchen for that open window as fast as they can. Picketers, take note.

One day, long after this is all over, I wonder what the 416/79 garrison will tell their kids when they ask why Canada Day was canceled in 2009. Old uncle Jim will sit there, tears welling up in his eyes, replying only with a frail, choking apology.

Hilarious.

As I was walking home today, I spotted this placard being hung by a CUPE striker packing up for the night:

I’ll be honest, this is the first time I’ve been privy to any 416/79 propaganda. But I’m glad I saw it because it gives me an insight into the myopic condition of the enemy. Yeah, anyone who uses the word “comprehend” like this is a jerk.

Referring to the heroic General David Miller as simply “D. Miller” seems pretty derisive. But I suppose that’s to be expected. From a jerk.

What’s tough to swallow, however, is the absence of cause and effect in the 416/79 universe. It’s no secret that the chemicals being sprayed on garbage (the effect), are not terribly healthy. The city actually had to get an injunction against it’s own pesticide bylaws to be able to use them.  And then there’s the reason for their use in the first place (the currently picketing cause).

For the pragmatist in me, chemical warfare is a necessary but regrettable consequence of war that benefits no one. And while I applaud every inch that the city hall infantry gains on the battle field, the argument against prolonging the War is now all the more poignant.

Fresh reinforcements for our battle-weary combatants prove that the War in the city core can continue for some time:

And there you have it; when the going gets tough, Torontonians pick up after themselves. I never had a doubt. It’s just a shame that other local conflicts unrelated to the major War will continue to be eclipsed it.

For example, another city union, local 2003, is clashing with the mammoth Cadillac Fairview corporation. But in this case, the union’s been rotting by the curb since June 16th. I spoke briefly to the nice gentlemen in this photo and they seemed justifiably miffed that the corporation locked them out (that means the suits don’t wanna talk):

And now that I’ve undoubtedly aroused your interest in all things Canadian, I’m pleased as punch to announce that we’re sending our socialist coffee and doughnuts south of the border:

As a gesture to all my southern friends, here’s a little Tim Hortons cross-border dictionary to help you feel at ease with our oft strange lingo:

Timmies (n.): The official Canadian name of Tim Hortons
Tim Horton (pr. n.): A former Maple Leafs player who loved doughnuts and caffeine so much he started his own coffee and bake shop (hence the name, though strangely plural rather than possessive). He died of morbid obesity.
Doughnut (n.): The correct, Canadian spelling of donut. It’s a nut made of dough, not do.
Tim Bit (n.): The doughnut center. Brilliant marketing move by Timmies execs who knew classy Canadians naturally poo-poo the lowly “donut hole”.
Double-double (n.): The popular coffee poured over two creams (measured exactly), and two spoons of sugar. Not stirred (coffee-flavoured sugary goop at the bottom is a genuinely Canadian experience).
Triple-triple (n.): Well, shit, you’re already stuffing your gob with that Boston Cream.
Coffee (n.): A Double-double.
Espresso (n.): What?
Latté (n.): Down that hall and to the left but you might wanna knock first to make sure no one’s in there. Oh, and there’s extra toilet paper on the little table in front in case you need more.

And the most wonderful thing about Tim Hortons is that you can be assured that the Maple glaze doughnuts use 100% authentic Maple sugar. We’d know the difference ;D

Very recently, an alarming number of comments on this ongoing journal have suggested that my reporting may not be as balanced as I’d like it to be. Both comments were in regards to the more upbeat, colourful photos I’ve been accompanying my posts with. In hindsight, I suppose that these may be somewhat misleading. Kinda like this:

This could easily be mistaken as the final portrait of a vanquished foe. But it is, in fact, simply good timing. The canister was still smouldering when this shot was taken and the strikers were probably just on break (big surprise!). Okay, well, it was Sunday afternoon. But still — they’re the bad guys!

I sincerely hope I didn’t lead anyone down the wrong path. The War is still raging. Maybe it’s just that it’s become normal for us who live in it; run-of-the-mill; almost mundane. The stalwart tin soldiers along the sides of streets are all packed to capacity, but the sight has become so commonplace that it doesn’t seem worthwhile to mention anymore.

Not when there are more urgent, immediate needs in the rest of the city. Many shop attendants (at least the ones I’ve talked to), are reporting a severe shortage of sticky fly paper strips. A number stared at me as though they had no idea what I was talking about, like they didn’t understand English. That was probably the case. But no sticky paper for me and I could really use some.

Luckily the War is taking place in the middle of a (thus far) very pleasant summer, and all those fruit flies can go straight to hell as far as I’m concerned. There’s plenty to see and do outside while their minuscule corpses carpet my carpet:

Since I moved here just over a year ago, this popular film location (the house a few doors down), has hosted at least four major productions; the kind that close the street and have edgy, over-caffeinated set managers walking around wringing their bony hands making sure no one walks into their open shoot. Or maybe they’re really just praying for good lighting. Maybe death.

But no umbrella in the face! Just handsome cops with glowing complexions and a boom mic guy who will never be out of a job. Any man with the natural ability to scrub elephant anus will not be unemployed if he doesn’t want to be, that’s just facts:

I wasn’t able to find a single relevant mention for the movie “Copper” so this is either a super hush-hush film (in which case I’m committing treason right now), or it’s going direct to DVD.

Well, it’s been another terrifically real Monday but we got through it. Some, like the gentleman who with a partially severed foot was dragged for five clicks (about three miles) by a train, had it more real than others.  “Ouch!”, indeed, Sergeant Tim Burrows.

I feel it’s only right to ask…

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As the steady stream of sweat rolling down between my ass cheeks will attest, the heat is on.

The tactics being used by the 416/79 commandos have moved into some ugly territory. Their blockades have now extended to private businesses whose only crime was to be in the same trade as the strikers. And then there are the residents of an eastern Toronto neighbourhood who are being sniped at by 416/79 sharpshooters simply for tending to their own neighbourhood. (yeah, strikers, grandma’s doing your job; that’s how indispensable you are)

I disagree with today’s take by The Star’s on Toronto’s five greatest inventions (isn’t Pablum a synonym for blandness?) I believe that our greatest contributions are courage and gutsiness. Well, I guess that’s technically just one, but I stand by it.

On the one hand we’ve got geriatrics fighting back, on the other we’ve got the underground movement taking us to school:

You may recall that the last time I trekked through the jungle, the devastation was awful. Today, with the Allies in control of the area, it’s regained some level of normalcy and is being used as a tactical operation scentre:

Even the bunker across the street now sits empty, no longer needed in this part of town:

It’s been a local effort, but small local efforts like these all over town are how a war is won. Victory composters are springing up all over; garbage detention is being handled within communities; people are rallying together. Brother slinging trash with brother, sister mowing lawn with sister.

I’ll just leave it there; let you dab the tears of pride from your eyes.

A friend tipped me off as to the whereabouts of a trash-free zone. After yesterday’s harrowing adventure I was grateful for a respite from the War.

I made my way to the Indy race track post-haste.

Maybe it was the lack of an umbrella, but this time when I was refused admittance to the track it seemed more gentle. More Canadian. The apologetic security guard actually went out of his way to suggest other less patrolled points of entry. I thanked him, fully intending to take his advice.

Unfortunately, the entire length of the CNE grounds was sealed with a tall, thin, awkward-to-climb fence. As a deterrent, it performed it’s duties admirably. I won’t bore you with the details of my Ninja-like maneuvers, but I managed to end up behind the main grandstand:

And after some deft footwork past a dozy security guard (unionized?), I waltzed onto the main track:

You’ll note a total absence of refuse. No candy wrappers, no cans, not even a butt.

The immaculate street was lined with stacked tires, probably the only thing that would even come close to trash. Even the ubiquitous caution tape that makes its way into every garbage heap was here neatly and purposefully attached to signage:

The drivers would probably just drive straight into the wall if that tape wasn’t there. Safety first!

As I went through the Princess Gates, I realized I had just returned to the real world; the world of War-ravaged streets where the 416/79 squadron tries to have it’s way with the innocent people of Toronto.

But unlike yesterday, today it was easy to be upbeat. Every time I looked up, it was as if the universe was trying to make me smile. Or in the case of glaring erections and innocent Torontonians and their cherries, a laugh:

Or maybe I’m just happy because I’m sleeping in tomorrow. Hard to say.

Dear reader, it’s not been easy trudging through the trenches today.

I was trying to avoid the roadside carnage by keeping the camera lens pointed upward, but I was met with an umbrella in the face when I attempted a snap of a film shoot on Queen Street west. I’m fairly certain it wasn’t raining horizontally wherever I chose to stand. I considered that maybe he was trying to hide his face, but guess what?

That’s the umbrella guy looking straight at us. Obviously not camera shy; probably just fiercely protective of the set; which was actually indoors. In fact, I have no idea why he gave me the facial parasol. Maybe he’s just angry because of the unforgiving rod that’s up his ass.

So to drive home my point, I crossed the street and took the photo. Zoom lens; they just don’t make umbrellas big enough. Plus, when I finally saw the photo, there was really nothing going on behind him. Not like this:

Merry Strikemas!

Strangely, no one would have stopped me if I had chosen to desecrate this unique war memorial. The “snow” looked a lot more convincing if you were approaching it from down the street. Even more strangely, the stuff piled up against the sides of buildings was real snow (cold and making a big puddle).

Umbrella guy’s motives and the reasoning behind using real snow in the middle of July caused me greatly disorienting confusion. I think this is what veterans describe as shell shock. I stumbled about for a while until the gentle pitter pat of rain on my forehead snapped me back to reality.

My mission to ignore trash was succeeding (mostly), but not as I had imagined.

I suddenly found myself in front of what used to be a convenience store, now lined with young people and a quick banner job around the front advertising the new Harry Potter movie. Everyone was there to meet Tom Felton. The fans seemed to be as old and uncomfortable as the actors in the film (what’re they, like, 30 now?).

Then, remembering my own boyhood love for thumbing through curried library books, I chided myself for being too harsh; I’m sure these gangly teens have a fond childhood connection to their Wiccan mistress. But I don’t remember them guzzling Red Bull at Hogwarts — or was that in one of the newer novels (newer than the first ten pages of the first one)?

A picture as confused as I was.

The rain was now coming down harder and, as I don’t much care for Potter and his kind, I decided to move. By the time I got to city hall, the sun had broken through the clouds and was shining down on a very orderly and polite Iranian election demonstration.

I spoke to one of the gentlemen holding a placard and we swapped war stories. I assured him that he had my support and he in turn wished me luck on the rest of my journey.

The encounter left me calm and peaceful. I strolled home slowly in the bright sunshine feeling lucky to be alive. Things could have gone so much worse; that umbrella could’ve gone right in my eye; all sorts of bad stuff.

Maybe it was General Miller’s inspirational, uplifting words running through my mind that got me through it:

“Get your donut-eatin’ asses back to work in the next five minutes or I will personally come down there and kick them out of the picket line myself you sonsabitches!”