Toronto the good? Is that the best they could come up with?

You can just see the committee (and you know it was a committee), discussing how they were going to present Toronto to the world:

“Well how about Toronto the So-So?”

“I don’t see that as being particularly appealing, Mary.”

“Well, Dick, it’s about not raising visitors’ expectations. That way they’re mildly surprised when the city’s not that bad.”

“What I meant was that we had a vote last week on that word and we decided that the first ‘So’ was negative and the second positive. We had also decided that we didn’t want any negative connotations for Toronto in its slogan. Since half of that word is, as unanimously decided, negative, I must object to its use.”

“I second that motion.”

“Thanks, Bob, but this isn’t a vote.”

“Oh.”

“I’ve got it! Toronto the Adequate! Same idea but no negativity. High five!”

“Thanks, Larry. That’s a great start, but I think we could punch it up a bit. You know, give it a pair of balls; tell ‘em what Toronto’s really made of.”

“What do you think of Toronto the Good, Dick?”

“That’s great, Mary! You’re finally using that girl brain of yours; good for you! All in favour? … all opposed? Motion is carried! Now, onto the urinal cakes at city hall…”

Eighteen ninety-eight. That’s 1898.

That’s when that name was invented, and I believe a new meaning of word “suck” was invented that very same day; call it coincidence. You can also call it coincidence that every hack/lazy writer and their dog has been dredging that old nugget out for irony ever since. The “Good” tag is just so entirely inadequate. Good what? Hot dogs? Weather? Footwear?

As I was deviating from my regular route home, I ended up in Little Portugal. I didn’t know Toronto had a Little Portugal, but it didn’t surprise me. I’m sure there’s a Little everything out there. And that’s why “Toronto the Good” is such a crappy choice. It could be “Toronto the Cosmopolitan” or “Toronto the Global”. I’d even live with “The City of Communities”. It’s a bit long but it’s both correct and sounds nicer.

To the casual observer, it might seem like these communities were planned by the city. Street boundaries are surprisingly strict with little spill-over; one block further in any direction and you’ve missed it. The street signs all tell you what community you’ve just walked into and if you happen to miss that, just look around. If it’s Portuguese, it’s in front of you. Even the people on the street suddenly suddenly seem more tanned.

It’s the same in Chinatown, of course. It all looks so genuine that it seems like it’s a setup. You might get the impression that this is mostly for tourists and occasional 4 a.m. revelers in search of greasy Chinese food and “special tea”.

In fact, I think that most of these areas are one-hundred percent authentic, functioning communities in every sense of the word. I base this on a little hard evidence I gathered on my romp through one of Chinatown’s markets. I happen to know that the products I found would only be purchased by actual Chinese people who hadn’t lost their taste for food back home, or the reconditioned expat who had acquired the taste for such items over many years living abroad. As I had.

This first example can be found widely throughout Toronto, but it’s still a proudly Taiwanese drink. The Taiwanese version of this labeling guarantees a minimum caffeine content! Awesome!

I’m still not sure exactly what Oligosaccharides are (“Oligo!”), but this sure is a tasty drink/meal:

With ingredients like lotus seed, red bean, black bean, and artificial  creamer (a must for all Taiwanese beverages), you know this is authentic:

There are products that aren’t fully legal in Canada, like this original Thai Red Bull with no English whatsoever:

And with Engrish like this, you can be assured that the Western market probably didn’t figure big in ChaCheer’s marketing:

No folks, those rats in the windows weren’t put there to draw crowds, they’re the real thing. This is authentic; I truly feel like I’m walking the streets of Taichung again. I still don’t know where it comes from, but they even managed to recreate that special stench of human excrement I remember so vividly from Taiwan’s open sewer/rainfall-runoff canals: kinda eggy with hints of fish and barley.

It’s a genuine, fully-immersive experience that’s within walking distance of home. That’s how the city should be billed: “Toronto the Experience”.

Jimmy Hendrix wailing on guitar….and….cut!

You’re welcome, Toronto. Now use this knowledge for good.

As they set up to shoot the night scenes for “The Bridge” (a police biopic, I discovered), I took the opportunity of snapping a few photos of the outdoor set. This is the only one that didn’t feature one or another person’s ass:

Aside from the doily on top, I’m sure they chose this house because of its age.  It’s probably the oldest on the block, though there are numerous contenders for that honour in the neighbourhood.

My own apartment building is an old-style house not unlike the one pictured here, only wider (to accommodate ten apartments), and minus the personality.

It’s, let’s say, quaint. It feels warm and comfortable like my previous residence in rural Pickering in the same way that an old sock does. That smell of feet never really airs out and it’s drafty around the toes, but man it’s comfortable.

In the context of my neighbourhood, I think that my place is probably mid-range (price, size, etc.) A tall apartment building directly to the left of the “Bridge” house would be best described by the words “swollen” and “hovel”. If I were an upwardly-mobile young crack whore, I’d be setting my sights here. A little paint, some vacuuming, and that stank of bitter, life-ending self loathing comes right out.

But there are also places with “ROB THIS HOUSE” posted on every inch of the property; multi-million dollar reno jobs spilling over with gaudy fountains, ostentatious statuary, and semi-circular driveways on properties not more than eight meters (twenty-six feet) wide. They’re clearly just for show. Or clown cars.

Stuck between Casa di Rockbottom and the House of Betterthanyou are numerous alleys where the destitute make their home. Here, property boundaries are divided into areas for disposed bottle caps, areas for disposed Listerine bottles to which those caps belonged, and areas for inebriated homeless guys with sparklingly fresh breath who had recently consumed said bottles of Listerine.

I’m telling you, my neighbourhood’s a panoply of colour!

Unfortunately, the drafty window in my bedroom played a part in my decision to start looking for a new place. Well, that and the fact that the German superintendent is leaving soon. Who knew Germans could be so non-genocidal?

Now, I haven’t actually started looking so the ultimate decision about whether or not to move isn’t available. But I thought, if I’m out there looking through other peoples’ places; going through their medicine cabinets; stealing anything I may enjoy on my own shelves; why not take the readers of TCL along?

If you’re thinking of moving to urban Toronto or just enjoy descriptions of interesting smells, perhaps you may get something out of the series. It won’t be regular or anything, but I will try my damnedest to divulge the disturbing/kinky/amusing secrets of the places I visit.

Alas, dear reader, I also have my slow days.

Aside from the production being shot across the street from me…

…it’s been a drab day. It’s kinda soggy and April-y and it’s still that time of year when it’s better to stay indoors with a couple of kick-ass kung fu flicks and something nice and warm to drink. Or do something else to keep oneself warm. I certainly hope the cast and crew of  “The Bridge” brought their galoshes.

Hmmm. I guess I just broke news on that, didn’t I? It’s Canadian made so … that’s … always … something … isn’t … it? (face grimacing with discomfort). I’m hoping it’ll be good, let’s just leave it at that.

But what I really wanted to do was to go on a little excursion into the local news to do some skimming between the headlines. Of course, a link is presented to each story, but I’m pleased to summarize them all for you as well as to boil them down to their essential component in the true and neighbourly spirit of brevity. Also, so I have something to write.

National Post -> Flu fears halt travel plans for Some Canadian schools

Summary: This one time, at band camp, they cancelled our trip because of an outbreak. So the tuba player…

One word: mild.

Toronto Star -> Can 56 angry Tamils save one girl’s life?

Summary: Seriously? You could only find twenty Tamils? Did no one bother to look outside the window or, like, lift their head up when walking home? You’re here, they’re here. Jeez.

One word: seriously?

Toronto Sun -> This is prepared?

Summary: Durham region: memories of short-longs, “racing” pickups with flames down the sides, and the smell of freshly turned manure in the mornings. Here’s Port Perry. OH FUCK! THEY LET THINGS SLIP! THE VIRUS IS EVERYWHERE! PORT PERRY FUCKED US ALL! — Calm down, Michelle. Take a deep breath. Everythying’s going to be okay.

One word: chill

Globe and Mail -> Not just us: Cockatoos have rhythm too

Summary: Rhythmic spasms in avian species are the primary indicator of Avian Influenza. Look like Mexican parrots too!

One word: fluff

I know, it’s all fluff. But that’s okay, it’s a fluffy kind of day.

Now I’m going to retire to my fluffy pillow to think fluffy thoughts. Perhaps to masturbate. We’ll see where the evening takes us.

I suggest you do the same (take your pick); unless it’s sunny outside where you are, in which case get the hell outta here!

Huge bags. Large purses. Portly rucksacks. Plump portmanteaus.

They’re digging into my ribs, making inappropriate contact with my nether regions, and just generally making their unwieldy presence known.

The male version is usually a backpack filled to capacity with god-only-knows-what. It sticks out behind the wearer like a malignant growth, taking up twice the space that he normally would. It’s kind of like he’s carrying the grossly deformed embodiment of himself on his back. Every turn on a crowded streetcar positions the plump doppelganger in someone else’s way or worse, into their gut.

This can be especially problematic when sharp items stick out of the bag, like the protractor that kept threatening to pierce my stomach on the packed King streetcar.

Pointiness and space consumption: A serious threat.

The female equivalent involves the sidewalk portage of behemoth shoulder bags, often accompanied by small purses whose purpose, presumably, is to make the bearer more fashionable. Small purse: Yes. Huge cousin tagging along for the ride — to use the vernacular of the moment: Fail.

These tend often not to be dangerous so much as painfully annoying. Sitting face to face with a knock-off Ralph Lauren and getting the backhand from it when it’s owner reaches for her mobile (which is, of course, tiny), is not a nice feeling. Look, for a guy to get a mug full of any connotation of the word “bag” is unpleasant. For ladies on the receiving end, well, I’ll leave that one up to you.

So what’s the practical gentleman to do?

In this installment of the Guide, I offer three choices:

1. Tief or spill

This one’s rather simple. Since you’re already pressed into the bag, why not help yourself to some of its contents? If that sounds a bit risqué, perhaps simply leaving the zippers/buttons undone will provide a modicum of enjoyment as the target disembarks at the next stop. The aim here is to produce maximum spillage but only as the streetcar speeds away.

Does this sound a bit harsh? How about the sticky thing in the backpack that’s going to give me an unwelcome nipple piercing at the next set of lights? Tit for tat, say I: Curse at me all you want, you’re on the street!

2. Jerk ‘n laugh

For this one you need to come prepared with a short length of twine or sturdy string. Simply attach the bag (any likely spot will do; have fun with it!), to the nearest pole and prepare to hold your sides in uproarious laughter. I believe that with practice one could learn to judge the center of gravity on a bag well enough to cause consistently hilarious total-body wipeouts.

Be sure to get off at the same intended stop as the target: Curse me all you want, you’re in the streetcar!

3. The Stick of Justice

This requires even more equipment but it’s the thing that’s least likely to get you brutally beat up. Here we simply affix wide adhesive labels to the target’s baggage to warn others of the dangers you’ve experienced. Keep the message simple, to the point, and brief. Old stalwarts like “Wide Load” or “Baby on Board” are always a good first try.

Just ‘till you get the feel of it. Then feel free to improvise; “Ass” with an arrow pointing upward; “Ask me about child molestation” adorned with a stylized question mark; “Yes, it was me who farted”; “Contact torontocitylife.com to rent this space”; the sky’s the limit. Take that hat off and feel the wind in your hair; inspiration happens in the least likely of moments.

In this scenario the chance of an altercation occurs only when the target notices, or is notified of, your maneuver: Curse me all you want, you’re a rapist! (or whatever’s written on the tag)

Outstanding!

Really, the aim is to make our transit less baggy, and more people-y. The bag on the seat really isn’t a solution, either. I don’t see a transfer in that thing’s hand and it’s bigger than the fourteen-year-old sitting behind it. And don’t look me in the eyes and then go right back down to the book like you didn’t see me! God!

I’m sure there are much more creative solutions out there; I’m merely one punctured guy. The important thing is to exact generous retribution for insolence suffered. And also to laugh.

The minority Tamil population of Sri Lanka is arguably the oldest of the island’s groups and, therefore, probably has the best claim to independence in the country these days. Unfortunately, they are also the minority in a land that was quickly populated by immigrants from the Indian mainland. Tamil leaders signed away some of the rights of their people back when talks between them and the Sinhalese (Sri Lanka’s current majority) leadership were still peaceful, but it’s hard to justify the treatment they’ve received in what is essentially their own country. The word “racism” is used quite often, if you need an idea of what I’m talking about.

Given these things and the clear danger to Sri Lanka’s civilian  Tamil population in the last remaining stronghold of the rebel Tigers army, I sincerely hope that the situation is resolved immediately, that media is allowed into the region, and help reaches the people in the path of the Sinhalese war machine right away. So far, the Tamil people have nothing but my sympathy and support.

Alas, the vast majority of the people who were demonstrating this morning  in front of the US embassy not only do not get my support, they get the thumb-behind-the-upper-teeth gesture. If there was a counter-demonstration, I’d wave a placard.

Here’s why:

Those flags that they’re flying are Tamil Tiger flags. The chants that they’re chanting are in support of the Tigers. This is not a pro-Tamil/pro-peace rally, this is a gathering of  people supporting a terrorist group. And it’s not just the Canadian government’s bumbling bureaucracy that thinks so; numerous other governments, human rights groups, and NGOs don’t think too highly of the Tigers either. I’m talking things like murder, abduction, extortion, and use of child soldiers. They’re even widely renowned for coming up with the idea for modern suicide bombings.

Still, it’s not a far leap to see why the Tamil people feel that the Tigers are their liberators. Who else stood up for them in their time of need? The situation isn’t too dissimilar to that between Israel and Palestine with the Tigers playing the role of Hamas. Most Tamil civilians are stuck between them and the Sinhalese army in pretty much the same way.

The recent large exodus of civilians (about 150,000), from the region when the Sri Lankan army moved in suggests, quite heavily, that the population was being used as human shields. They weren’t sticking around to support the Tigers, they were being forced to stay where they were. Looking at the Tigers’ track record, this is not a surprise. We even felt their tender caress here in Toronto in their donation campaign.

So why are we being asked to support them? Why are their flags flying all throughout the demonstration?

The Tamils gathered on University Avenue this morning (and in greater numbers in the afternoon) were, literally, marching under a banner that directly espouses and supports violence, even down to the imagery used on the flag — two rifles with bayonets crossed in battle behind a charging tiger. Heavens!

The Tigers still have their claws in but there’s not much left to grip onto. At this time, there are still about 50,000 people inside the little north-eastern bit of Sri Lanka; I recall reading stories about tent cities. It can’t last much longer, and it shouldn’t have lasted this long.

I’m sure the Sri Lankan community here at home wants this thing to end as swiftly and sanely as possible. The Tigers aren’t the route to that solution. Dropping these military goons would make the cause a lot easier to get behind.

And maybe get a nicer flag too; one that doesn’t want to kill everyone in the crowd.

I’m on the Friday night’s third pint so please to apologize for any brevity or witlessness.

Imagine my surprise when I stumble outdoors into the still-full sunlight of seven o’clock and — there’s the streetcar. This would never have happened when I was all hypothermic in the middle of deepest darkest winter.

Me and the guys from work jump on and continue our discussion of chicks we’d do. Yes, ladies, we are admiring you from afar.

While I remark how short our wait at the TTC stop was, the conversation naturally meanders over to public transit (anything’s interesting inebriated, no?), and we get to talking about the purpose of streetcars. Or maybe that was in the bar.

Anyway, I make a sparkling remark about rails being in the earth since Toronto was a wee’un. We got ‘em, makes sense to keep using ‘em. That must have been the deciding opinion in the discussion because everyone suddenly looses interest in the topic.

As my colleagues alight at University, I settle back to dream about the future of transit in Toronto:

Neat.

I hop off the streetcar at Yonge and head straight for the subway where, much to my surprise, the same chums I left earlier are now chatting up some girls heading north on the same line. In the time it took me to make it two blocks on the streetcar, they were able to go south three, do a u-turn back north a further three, all the time making relaxed stops at stations in between while psychically enticing me to hop on the same train.

That pretty much settles the argument of streetcar efficiency in my mind.

As my buzz starts to wear off I start to wonder how a longer streetcar (that’s basically what the new vehicles will be), would have made this trip any shorter. As much as I like the idea and even the look of the new trains, I suspect that until the city either widens the street or starts randomly detonating taxis, they won’t do much to make transit faster.

But I’d still do ‘em.

If they have a toilet, cuz I really have to wee.

Why is the weather report such a secret?

It really doesn’t matter which station you watch; CTV, City, Global, Omni; there’s an incredible coverup underfoot to hide the truth about the weather from the public. How in the world was this conspiracy allowed to happen?!

Need proof? Just think to the last time you watched the 11 o’clock news…

…but, sadly, the kitten couldn’t be saved.

Tragic story.

It certainly is, Anne. Now we switch over to Michael to tell us what the weather will be like tomorrow. Michael?

Thanks, Gord. I’ll be telling you all about the doozie of a weekend we’ll be having. But first, here’s Kathryn Humphreys with the sports, and I must say, Kathryn, you look like you’ve gained some muscle.

Sure have, Michael. But enough about me. The Leafs. Whole team: dead. Plane crash. More after the messages…

Yadda yadda. Buy stuff, etc. Back to the news…

…police are now looking for the fugitive infant. If you have any tips, call Crime Stoppers. Gord?

Thanks, Dwight. Boy, is it me or are they getting younger and younger?

Hard to understand. Now we go over to Michael with the weather. How’s our weekend shaping up, Michael?

Well, Anne. It was looking a bit dodgy around noon but from the data we’re receiving from our two-hundred-thousand weather stations around the GTA, I would revise my earlier estimate. Things are going to change drastically!

Uh oh! Sounds ominous, Michael. Or is it swinging to extreme good weather?

Well, Anne, now you know I can’t tell you at this moment otherwise I’d have to sneak into your bedroom while you sleep and place a single drop of poison on your lips via a suspended thread, being held by me, a vague shadow somewhere on your ceiling. That is, if I was even there at all. It’s not like I would leave any evidence behind. How about I tell you the full weather picture after the commercial?

Sounds good, Michael. Please join us after the commercial break as we unveil the weather forecast for your weekend.

I’m pretty sure I missed a couple of breaks and segments in there, but you get the idea.

When the weather finally comes, it’s an orgasmic explosion of weather facts. Michael tosses them to the camera benevolently. Ahhh. Now, at long last, we will know whether to hang on for one more weekend or just end it all on Friday.

Wow. Imagine the power in that guy’s groin. He’s probably the belle of the ball everywhere he goes. Women would go to great lengths just to spend one night with him and, perhaps, bring news of the following week’s weather back to their people.

How was this allowed to happen? The weather should be free for everyone! We should all have the right to know whether to wear galoshes or sandals to work tomorrow.

Or tune into the Weather network where they apologize out their ass for not having that shit in front of you, on a silver platter, every ten minutes.

Stone cold pimpin’

Since I took the time to do an in-depth examination of a woman’s butt yesterday, I thought I’d turn the tables and examine a questionable trait among men: the comb-over.

For a while there I thought I might be losing my hair too (it ended up just needing a good wash). I swore to myself that if my hair ever did start to thin I would lop off my golden mane in a heartbeat. Dicking around with hair to make a single strand look like a whole head-full is just bad. Nothing else. Just bad.

With any sort of head movement, that reverse ponytail slips off its intended resting place to produce…well, let’s call it like we see it; it looks dumb. Partial coverage is just as bad as soon as that head is below eye-level, as was aptly demonstrated by one gentleman’s noggin on the subway, the full sphere of the lie is revealed.

Yeah, it is a lie. You’re looking at the guy standing and everything seems okay. Despite the strangely elevated curve of  hair above the scalp, it looks plausible. You’re led to believe that this man still has a head full of hair. But then he drops a pencil.

Situations like that can be controlled; bend from the knees while maintaining eye contact, or get an underling to retrieve the pencil for you. But when you’re on a windy street you either have to wear a snug hat or risk having your hair salute passerbys on your behalf.

Please allow me to illustrate.

No more than five minutes after the first gentleman I mentioned, I spotted this next example. There, I really didn’t know what was going on.

His hair waved upward from the spot on his forehead where a horn would grow if he were a unicorn. It stood up in the breeze much in the same way as a unicorn’s horn might. That tuft of hair waved about in the breeze as though it were celebrating its emancipation from the rest of the hairline, a sole island of erect hair that I just couldn’t picture being molded into anything believable.

You try and try not to laugh but, DAMN IT! Coffee, through nose, onto lap.

Man. I wouldn’t want to be blog fodder for some jerk in the future; get laughs for the urine stain on my pants, sure, but not a drafty hair tower. That’s not cool.

By the time I had thought to look up, it was already too late. My face stopped just shy of the wall of denim that now entirely blocked out everything else.

It took me a moment to realize where I was; having your senses deprived like that tends to disorient you. I pulled my head back a bit to get a better view of the full picture.

The ass that stared back was simply thunderous.

The domes were a foot if they was a mile, I tells ya!

I want to be clear here, I’m not talking a bit of chub in the hub. This thing was the prototype for yo momma so fat jokes. I sit on one end, you sit on the other; plenty of room for Gary in the middle – that kinda big. No one was getting in or out of the subway until the the caboose left the station.

I was now stuck between a rear and a crowd and the only thing to do was wait and ponder the ponderous. As I stood there on the steps, straining to twist my head around to focus on something else, I wondered why I had never noticed this before. I mean, surely I would’ve noticed such a beast before if for no other reason than the traffic jam it would’ve caused.

In fact, most of the people in the crowd I spotted around me were pretty normal-sized. Not too many extremes in either direction.I fit into that  generic mid-ground too, though I used to carry a few more pounds  Recently I had noticed that my clothes were a bit baggier and I was using a new hole on my belt. Not much, but I did notice.

The funny thing is, my diet hasn’t improved much since I started living in the city (it arguably got worse), so how to account for this?

When I lived in the sticks, I was driving just about everywhere. Now I walk.

The nearest store was a ten-minute drive. Now, it’s a ten-minute walk. It used to take me an hour and a half to drive to work. Now it’s a fifteen minute stroll to the streetcar. It used to take me another hour and a half to get back home. Now it’s an hour-long walk. Sometimes. When I feel like it. On the weekends I hop over to Chew Chew’s. Groceries; thirty-minutes south at a relaxed pace. If I get the munchies, you guessed it, doin’ a snack run on foot.

It’s really not much, but I guess it must add up. With a full Brazilian I still wouldn’t be ready for bikini season, but it’s nice to see that urban life has advantages other than convenience. Well, that and a few other things.

Toronto missed the fattest cities list a while back so it can’t be doing that bad. It’s not that people here are any less able to put on weight, it’s just that they’re missing the one ingredient that weightier suburbs have: the car. I know, lots of people here own them, but it’s such a pain in the ass to get the car out of that narrow little lane behind the house when you could just walk to wherever you need.

Plus, it’s a lot more interesting. Half of this blog wouldn’t exist without me tripping over unusual people on the street. But really, they don’t need to be that big, I can see just fine.

Here’s the problem with the CRTC’s Do-Not-Call list: $55 for an area code, $1,125 for the whole show. That’s how much it costs to get a one-month subscription to a list of all the people registered for the program.

Now, can you believe there’s such a thing as a dishonest telemarketer? Maybe not in Canada, heavens no. But maybe elsewhere. I don’t suppose the Nigerian barrister entrusted with distributing the late Mr.Whatever’s millions is too worried about complying with Canadian law. I bet he clicks on all those “I Accept” checkboxes without a care in the world. I bet his tea tastes just fine in the morning.

And why not? All you need is a credit card. The sign-up system for telemarketers doesn’t even verify the email address you enter. By the time someone in the government server room realizes that the information is in the hands of someone who shouldn’t have it, the barrister will be safe and sound on his chair in front of his computer; about two minutes later; same place he was when he started.

Even if we assume that every telemarketer in Canada is honest [insert knowing head-nod here], there are plenty of places for our phone numbers to make unsavoury friends. Basically, I say avoid that no-call list like it’s a pussing, Gonorrhea-infected sore.

I accidentally discovered the solution to telemarketers when I decided to actually do a phone questionnaire one night. I was in a good mood.

The first question was, “Do you or someone you know work for a marketing, media, or telemarketing firm?”  I said that yes, I did, because at the time I was working for CTV.

The phone call was over; I didn’t qualify and thanks for my time.

Huh.

The next time I got a call, I curtly cut into the introduction with, ”I work for your telemarketing firm”, and laughed.

The woman on the other end of the line sounded like she had just farted on her dear mother’s grave. She was so, so, so sorry and…how could this have happened? No, this is not right! So sorry, sir. Your name will be taken of the list right away. This has never happened before; so unusual. So sorry.

Huh.

It’s something to try.

If you don’t want to go the full distance and lie about working at their company, pick one at random in or near the field [of evil!] and make yourself an honorary employee. Don’t get the government to lie for you, they suck at it.