Basically, unless someone can come up with one tangible benefit, the summit will end up being a huge middle finger to Toronto as well as the taxpayers of Canada. Nebulous statements of “benefits to the city” made by officials are not very convincing. Like, what benefits, exactly?

Well, there is one that I can think of, and it applies to only a very small group of Torontonians. Like myself.

I’m talking about the global media coverage that the G20 will invariably get. It’ll do nothing for local businesses, and I’m fairly certain most Canadian tax payers don’t give a flying fuck if the summit makes headlines in Brazil. But for anyone in the media, stories like this are akin to a sundae with whipped cream and a cherry on top, especially if shit really does go down and the protests start to get violent. For insignificant bloggers who happen to live near the turmoil, that’s especially true.

As crass as that may sound, it’s the truth. Tragedies, disasters, protest movements – they’re all headline fodder extraordinaire.

Take the recent seizing of Palestinian aid ships by the Israeli army, for example. Israel, Palestine, and the ships may all be half a world away, but thanks to Toronto’s Palestinian population the story came right to my front door. And thanks to an unfortunate series of events that resulted in the pro-Palestine demonstration yesterday, the topic can happily fly under the Toronto City Life flag.

In my privileged position as a blogger I can dispense with any pretense of journalistic impartiality (whatever that is). I’m not anti-Israeli, at least not the citizens, as certain shrill extremist Zionists might suggest; it’s just painfully obvious that the Palestinians are the ones getting shafted. I’m simply in favour of the Palestinians getting a fair shake.

If it wasn’t for tragic events and resulting Torontonian rallies, I might not get the opportunity to talk about these things. And talking about they need because it seems like some painfully obvious facts are being ignored.

Here’s the thing: I’m quite aware of the history of this conflict. I know that Palestinian factions share just as much of the blame for this mess as the Israeli security apparatus. Israel has every right to defend itself as does Palestine.

The whole conflict has been one story of retaliatory action after another. The most recent major example being Palestine’s shelling of Israeli towns within their own borders, and Israel’s resulting incursion in Palestine. In terms of violence, neither side is guiltless, this latest action included. However, there are a number of factors which put Israel clearly in the wrong.

The Israeli defense for going into Gaza has long been, well, defense; that the strip was used by Hamas and other organizations to launch attacks against Israel and so it needed to be secured. The army needed a barrier between the terrorists and Israeli civilians, in other words. Up until that point, even though Palestinian deaths were absolutely atrocious and completely unbalanced, I kinda had to side with Israel. Even to this day Israel is under attack from external forces so going outside the country in order to defend it seems reasonable. Not the way the Israelis carry out these missions, mind you, but the underlying justification seemed to make sense.

But then they started to settle Gaza and that entire argument went right out the window.

The moment Israel started to occupy lands that were not their own, and by doing so moving their own citizens right back into the line of fire, it demonstrated that the Israeli state wasn’t really interested in defense at all. They didn’t want to simply “exist” in peace in the region as they claimed, they didn’t really even care about protecting their own citizens — they’re an imperialist nation with the capabilities, support, and willingness to invade other countries. Palestine, being poor and disorganized, makes a perfect first target. Iran, it has been publicly stated many times, is next.

It’s important, though, to draw clear distinctions between the state of Israel, it’s people, and Jews. The three, although related through history, really don’t have much to do with each other. The state of Israel is the culprit – it has the power, means, and allies to carry out their ambitions. The Israeli people, I suspect, would likely happily give up this notion if they could live in genuine peace. I bet the people living on occupied lands aren’t living a carefree lifestyle. If Israel was a Jewish (religious), state then it’s frightfully fucked in the eyes of God – they’ve broken so many of God’s commandments now that simply calling themselves Jewish would be blasphemous. And while the state of Israel moves as a unified force, insisting that Jews worldwide control most western media means that they’re doing an awful job covering up the misdeeds of the Israeli government.

I don’t buy it as much as I don’t buy the wholesale branding of Palestine as a terrorist state. Which is another major problem in this struggle. While Israel’s flouting of Geneva conventions is somehow legitimized or simply shrugged off (white phosphorous weapons, illegal occupation, etc.) — I guess because the army has fancy uniforms and the U.S.’s cock buried in its ass — Palestinians’ use of guerrilla tactics is apparently pure evil and absolutely reprehensible. Like they have any other choice.

The Canadian and U.S. governments insist that Palestine lay down its arms and surrender to Israeli-U.S. rule before there’s even a hint of discussion. Palestinians, who can barely get food sometimes, are supposed to have a unified fighting force according to the selective Geneva rules that the U.S. and Canada like to pull out, who should all wear fancy new uniforms. No, seriously — apparently without that they’re not a legitimate army. And while they’re at it, they really should be lining up in fields in nice formations, ready to be shot at (exactly like the Israelis do). Without these qualities they’re simply terrorists and hence no negotiations.

The latest bit of nonsense coming from Israel in response to their invasion of the Palestinian flotilla, on it’s way to Palestine, in international waters, is just as absurd. The Israelis claim they had to shoot some people on the ships because they were brandishing weapons. Like knives, and crowbars, and wooden boards. I mean, if that’s good enough justification to unlawfully enter someone’s sovereign space and kill them then … you know, I’m not even going to justify that stupidity by elaborating.

Not only are the Israelis waging an assault on basic human rights along with their circle-jerk U.S. brethren, basically posturing about as nothing more than international thugs with big guns, they’re also directly assaulting our own intelligence. It’s nothing short of calling us all imbeciles for thinking that we’d buy their obvious bullshit.

What the hell gave them the right to board any ship in international waters in the first place?

Israel wants us to believe that killing hundreds of people, in their own country, in response to a few Israeli deaths is justified. What Israel is stating, quite clearly, is that a Palestinian life is worth considerably less than an Israeli life.

As it is, it’s in America’s best interest to keep the conflict going. And no, the U.S., just like Canada, has no interest in humanitarianism or helping out the underdog. We’re there to look out for our own interests, period. Afghanistan was a strategic location for the Russians when they invaded in the eighties; the U.S. fought them because it was the Cold War and the Russians were trying to grab new territory. America never gave a shit about Afghans. They wouldn’t have given a shit about Kuwait being invaded by Iraq either except that Kuwait’s run by people who play ball with the U.S. and, surprise surprise, the country has huge oils reserves.

The U.S. defended Kuwait’s oil fields under Bush senior while the slaughter of Kurds took place in northern Iraq. The only reason America gave for going there in the first place was to defend the Kurds. Mission accomplished! The reason the U.S. invaded Afghanistan this time around was to find and destroy Al Qaeda. Mission accomplished! The reason the U.S. invaded Iraq was to find and destroy weapons of mass destruction. Mission accomplished! The reason the U.S. gave for going into Vietnam was to stop the spread of Communism. Mission accomplished!

Bush junior’s legacy will be the stripping away of basic human rights, promoting violent knee-jerk reactions based on wisdom like “we’re gonna smoke ‘em out, huhuh”, legalizing torture and kidnapping, allowing unwarranted wire-taps, unprecedented invasion of personal rights (been to the airport lately?), and so on. Thank goodness U.S. citizens aren’t living under some oppressive foreign regime, eh? Mission accomplished!!

Look, Saddam Hussein wasn’t exactly leader of the year but if Iraq didn’t have a bunch of oil he’d still be in power. I can’t imagine how naive you’d have to be to think otherwise, especially considering the amount of evidence and the ever-unfolding web of lies and deceits put into place by George and his face-shooting cronies. It’s why Saddam’s forces set all the oil fields on fire as they retreated, and it’s exactly why the U.S. hasn’t gotten involved in actually helping people in places like Congo, Rwanda, Bosnia, etc. There are plenty of awful conflicts happening around the globe right now – how come neither the U.S. not Canada are there? (The U.N. doesn’t count. In any way.)

The answer is simple: there’s nothing there that America or Canada can use. It’s true that Palestinian fighters are calling for the destruction of Israel, and I can’t defend that. It won’t solve the situation (has it solved anything so far?), and will accomplish exactly nothing. Worse, in fact. But at least Hamas is honest about it, something our own government is highly allergic to.

—

Here are some clumsily strung-together videos of yesterday’s demonstration. The procession of about 1,500 people (including a good number of Jews and Israelis), went from the Israeli consulate at 180 Bloor Street West, down Queen’s Park, along College, and down Yonge where the march terminated at Yonge-Dundas Square where Naomi Klein concluded the protest with a speech.

Apologies for the crapiness on this last video; it’s a combination of amateur videography and inexperienced editing. I’ll get better, I promise!

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“What gives?”, was my initial reaction, but without a jolt of caffeine and the other magical energy ingredients found in my canned morning concoction, I’m pretty much useless at that time of day, so that’s as far as that line of questioning went.

But once I got back to the flat and downed all 473 millilitres of liquid inspiration it suddenly dawned on me that something in the park was amiss, so I grabbed my camera and my curiosity and headed back.

The curly-haired dude in the park was actually a city bylaw officer who had been sent there in response to some accident that had happened the day previous between a dog walker and cyclist. I didn’t ask him to elaborate – seemed pretty self-evident.

If you’ve been reading TCL for a while, dear reader, you’ll know that I’m not too fond of aggressive cyclists, but none of the cyclists going through Allan Gardens this morning seemed particularly agitated. In fact, it was a warm and sunny morning and other than the fact that they were being stopped by some city employee and being told to walk their bikes through the park, none of the cyclists seemed particularly upset. Correction, most of them didn’t seem upset.

A few people did seem a little miffed at not being able to ride their bikes through a public park, and I readily admit that I shared in their miffiness. So I took curly-hair to task; “You’re not allowed to ride bicycles through public parks?”, I asked. “Through some parks and ravines, no, you can’t”, he replied. “Do you happen to know what bylaw this is? Is it posted?”, I followed up, genuinely taken aback.

Curly-hair replied by citing the city bylaw and pointing out that there was inadequate signage (to be rectified), at the north end of the park to this effect. He was nice enough about his interactions with me and other people and wasn’t handing out any citations, so I don’t want to give the impression of some brutal government clampdown on cyclists, at least not during this situation. However, the laws he was gently enforcing are still on the books and still technically punishable.

Now at this point I want to just pause for a moment and discuss municipal bylaw interpretation. I’m no lawyer; never claimed to be. But bylaws, and infractions thereupon, usually wouldn’t involve lawyers – a fine at most. Furthermore, bylaws are intended for common everyday citizens; if we can’t interpret municipal bylaws for ourselves then I’d like to suggest that there’s a serious flaw in the way that they’re written. In other words, a lay interpretation of these laws should be sufficient. Hence, if I’m reading them wrong then they need to be revised. Or I’m incredibly stupid.

The specific law being cited in this instance is part of Chapter 608 of the Municipal Code which states that “While in a park, no person shall ride or operate or be in possession of a bicycle where posted to prohibit bicycles”.

On the one hand it’s understandable that, if bikes are to be considered vehicles, that they shouldn’t be allowed to mingle with foot traffic. I mean, if they’re potentially that dangerous then yeah, ban those fuckers. But ban them everywhere – all footpaths, all parks, anywhere where they’re likely to come into as close contact with pedestrians as they might in Allan Gardens. And considering how wide the paths through that park are, that should mean pretty much everywhere.

But if arbitrary enforcement of laws based on knee-jerk reactions is the soup du jour then we have a potentially much more serious problems staring us in the face. I mean, the cycling bylaw is somewhat sensible, but this section of the Municipal Code has a few other things to say about what citizens can and can’t do in public parks. Here are some choice selections:

Section 608-3 C. “No person shall release any balloons filled with lighter-than-air gases in a park.”

This was probably intended to prevent people from launching weather balloons and parade floats from public parks. Unfortunately, it also covers your kid’s helium balloon.

Section 608-17 A. “Arrange or engage in an organized sport or activity, unless authorized by permit.”

Okay, no professional soccer matches; makes sense. Unfortunately it also covers you and a group of your friends tossing the Frisbee around. What constitutes an “organized sport or activity”? — “… a game or activity pre-planned by a group or organization whether or not formally constituted and whether or not the players or members wear uniforms.”

Section 608-9 B. “Unless authorized by permit, no person shall use, enter or gather in a park between the hours of 12:01 a.m. and 5:30 a.m.”

All those late tipsy nights stumbling home through Allan Gardens, all those Tai Chi practitioners in the park before dawn – CRIMINALS!

Section 608-25 A, B, C. “While in a park, no person shall fly a kite with a line that is metallic or contains wire; fly a kite within 25 metres of any tree, building, light pole or hydro or other utility pole; fly a kite in parking lots, roadways or pathways;”

Now I know this is supposed to keep people from getting fried but has anyone realistically tried to keep within these limits? It’s a bit like the proposed three-foot berth that cycling advocates want motorists to stick to when passing bicycles – is there even three feet of road available for this?

Section 608-32 “The maximum rate of speed for vehicles, motorized recreational vehicles, bicycles and personally powered devices in a park is 20 kilometres per hour.”

That’s 12 miles per hour if you’re imperially Inclined. On a bike that may be reasonable though I have yet to see a single bicycle with a speedometer installed. And in a car, well, let’s say I tried it, manual transmission, on the lowest gear possible, with my foot off the gas, the lowest engine RPMs pulling me along, and I was breaking the law at 25 clicks.

Sections 608-34.1 to 608-34.3 – The most extensive part and covering about four pages deals with regulations for commercial dog walkers, obviously a scourge on modern society.

Section 608-35 “No person as owner or person having the control of an animal shall bring into or permit the animal to enter a park if it may or does constitute a danger to other persons or wildlife, or is reasonably likely to frighten other persons.”

Get that butt-ugly dog of out of our parks!

Section 608-43 “The Commissioner is authorized to prune or cause to be pruned all trees located on private property, the branches of which extend over a park, including the pruning of branches that are hazardous or create an unsafe condition.”

I wasn’t able, in my five-minutes’-worth of research, to find out who the commissioner is, but clearly you’ll need them by your side to do your yard work.

Section 608-47 “While in a park, no person shall take or permit to be taken for remuneration any film, photograph, videotape or television broadcast unless permitted under the City’s film bylaw28 and authorized by permit from the Toronto Film and Television Office.”

Well fuck, I guess that photo at the top is illegal. Do you supposed that if I make more than a buck off advertising that they’ll take me to court?

—

Look, I know that a lot of these bylaws won’t be fully enforced, and many of them probably have good intentions behind them. But since witnessing the bylaw officer tongue-lashing cyclists in the park this morning I’m not fully convinced that the laws are entirely benign. At the very least they’re unenforceable and basically a waste of money to keep on the books; beyond that, they tend to verge on this side of absurdity. Or worse.

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Okay, I admit that as a divorcee, my views are a little skewed here. The attitude that this woman is carrying around is awfully similar to my ex’s, so be warned that there’s a pretty heavy bias here. And some lingering emotion. But enough time has now passed for that initial divorce pissed-offedness to have worn off. I’ve had plenty of calm time to consider / discuss motivations, history, my own faults and involvement, etc., and I’ve come to the conclusion that although I have plenty of improving to do, it doesn’t make Gabriella and my ex any less hosebags in their own way.

So here’s the story. Some time in 2007 Rogers Wireless (TV / Internet / mobile provider), decided to switch up its billing system to a one-per-household “global” system (as opposed to one per customer). At least I’m assuming that was it, I’m not a Rogers customer. In any event, they decided to start bundling bills for the same address even when the names weren’t the same. According to Gabriella this was done without her consent or knowledge.

At this point I can kinda see why she’d be suing Rogers. A major-brand car dealership, along with assistance from my ex, did something very similar to me — downright fraud, in fact — so I can sympathize. If it’s true that Rogers did this then they should be reprimanded, fined, and made to update this policy. I really don’t think there was any evil intent on the part of Rogers — it saves trees, saves the company some money, etc. — but they can’t just pull policies like that out of their ass and implement them without thinking about customers.

However, this is where my sympathy ends. You see, Gabriella was living with her husband and two kids at that time. Apparently she has a different last name, but under Canadian law if you cohabitate with someone for 12 months — a year — then the relationship is considered a common-law marriage. And she referred to him as her husband. Plus there are the kids. Basically, it was a marriage by all accounts.

But then Rogers started including her own phone call records in the “global” bill for the household received by her husband (they had separate accounts), and it wasn’t long before he figured out that she was calling someone a little more than can be easily accounted for. So he called back the number, got confirmation from the other side that, indeed, his wife was screwing around on him, and that was the end of that; he packed up the kids and left.

And this is where the story really starts to get me; Gabriella is now suing Rogers for $600,000 for the resulting divorce and the subsequent “suffering” she’s had to endure. Let me just clarify this: the brunt of the lawsuit isn’t about breach of privacy / contract, she’s suing them mostly for the breakup of her marriage. In a Toronto Star article she’s quoted as saying, “I lost everything. I want others to know what a big corporation has done. I trusted Rogers with my personal information. We had a contract — and agreement that put my life right in their hands.”

Is she trying to say that it was Rogers’ legal obligation is to keep her infidelity secret? See, here’s where she and my ex are on par — pretty much a total lack of  remorse (except at being caught), no admission of guilt (otherwise why this lawsuit?), finger pointing, deflection — basically a totally inability to take responsibility for her own actions, and furthermore trying to put the blame for her misdeeds on someone else. Fucking bitch.

Had it just been a lawsuit against Rogers for a breach, had she demonstrated that she understands that SHE IS RESPONSIBLE for her own situation (as in, it wouldn’t even be a part of the lawsuit), I might’ve painted a rosier picture of her. But as it stands, she’s nothing but a self-serving sociopathic cunt that deserves every last little bit of “suffering” she’s heaped on herself.

Ahh, Monday morning catharsis complete.

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That little pot rally that happened at Yonge-Dundas Square about a week ago was basically just practice for the main event, the Global Marijuana March and Freedom Festival. The point of the march, as far as I can fathom it, is to demonstrate the futility of existing pot prohibitions. It originally started as a grass roots (haha!) movement but now, well, the word “festival” is appropriate if you ask me. Even if you’re completely against anything marijuana, you must admit that arresting everyone simply wouldn’t be practical. Maybe even possible.

Last year it was estimated that some 20,000 people attended. This year, a lot. I’m given to understand that the Toronto thing is among the biggest — it is, after all, a global event. It’s gotten big enough to get all manner of unabashed corporate sponsorship:

This was my first time at the festival, and it didn’t come up short on my expectations. Here a bong, there a bong, everywhere a bong bong. The place was fully ablaze. You could smell it for blocks. Anyone holding a joint or a pipe was clearly green; there were rechargeable vapourizers, hookahs, and bongs with necks so intricate that by the time the smoke reaches the lungs it’s frigid. Yup, people hauled all sort of shit into the park for this lazy hazy Saturday afternoon. I swear some people even made group t-shirts:

There was one really unfortunate but entirely preventable incident involving a “man” (they don’t know his age, I’m gonna guess younger and stupider), falling out of a tree. Meh, there’s always an idiot. Other than that, I think everyone had a good time. Great place to meet smiling droopy-lidded people, and also to make some connections for the rest of the year.

I was surprised to see kids in the crowd, most of them accompanied by adults. I mean, there was lots of fun stuff to look at — “freedom” means lots of things to lots of people, you know? – but it was thick enough in that park to get high just standing around. Don’t think I’d bring my kids until I found them hiding their first stash from me. Ah, rites of passage.

Actually, that would probably not happen. I’d be very upfront with kids about drugs as early as possible. The truth too, no bullshit. Is a joint any worse than downing a couple of pints of beer or smoking a cigarette? Nah, but all three have consequences – especially for youth. Which is why I’m still all in favour of legalization (and taxation ), but definitely not without controls.

The LCBO has facilities for verifying legal age, and pot doesn’t take up much shelf-space, so legal distribution channels shouldn’t be an issue. Enforcement – what happens when you get caught driving while high, for example — is also extremely important. I’d be in favour of zero tolerance, at least initially (or at least make it zero for everything then): you drive while high / drunk, no more driving for you. Apparently Australia is using roadside breathalysers to detect cannabis so the technology to make this possible exists. (And I’m sure it’ll get better over time.)

In other legal circumstances I think you could treat it like any controlled substance; is coming into work drunk cause to fire someone? Why should pot be any different?

I could be missing a lot in that equation, but so far I haven’t even heard anyone bring up points like these. You know, like, serious discussion on if, and based on that how, it could actually be accomplished. Keeping the public’s (electorates’) best interests at heart, of course.

But I’m getting a bit off-topic, aren’t I? Pot isn’t always the first thing that jumps to mind for everyone at the mention of the word “freedom”. Some choose to express their freedom in different ways.

These two cats were all over each other for a few minutes before scampering off into the depths of the festival. Their display was a bit too acrobatic to have been spontaneous animal sex, so I’m guessing performance art of some sort.

And of course, where there’s pot, there’s commies:

That guy in the brown leather jacket handed me their literature personally. He was wearing simple wire Lennon shades. The gloves on his hands were fingerless. His shoes were plain, nondescript. Red agitator straight out of a frickin’ movie.

Okay, you’d better start this video playing now, it’ll set the context for what’s coming up next.

Playing? Great…

So let’s not forget where commies come from: hippies. I swear there were times when I thought people would bust out spontaneously into song:

There were plenty of bare feet elsewhere, but for the most part modern hippies are sensible hippies. Probably because their mentors, musicians and poets, are themselves somewhat sensible.

Here is spoken word poet Storm delivering a heartfelt helping of inspiration to the crowd:

Note how sensibly she’s attired. Huh? Yeah.

But freakin’ great. I don’t mind admitting, dear reader, that at one point during her recitation I choked back a couple of tears. And it wasn’t any rhyming-couplet bullshit either. Storm’s bit consisted of one well-put reminder after another of why it’s great to be alive. Along with broad gestures and a nicely punctuated meter. Terrific stuff.

I wonder, you know, if the laws were changed, how a festival like this could grow. I mean, Caribana is insanity now, but I bet it’d be nothing compared to an annual pot festival held in a nice breezy spot like the Islands. You don’t have to bother the downtown folks out there and it’s already pretty much hippie-central in the summer anyway. Government needs an extra influx of cash? Now it’s a bi-annual event. And stoners are so easy to corral for when the love-in comes to an end, I don’t believe security would be a huge concern.

It could be the dawning of a new age of some sort.

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Yes, “lazy alcoholic Indian” is most definitely pejorative, and up until this post, I’d never used it openly. But that’s not to say I haven’t met lazy alcoholic Indians. I’m not talking about people with genuine hardships living on the street here, I’m talking about able-bodied people who lay around in public parks (I see them day in-day out with my own two eyes), getting hammered, living off social assistance, and telling me to get off their land – along with a few other choice words. I will never apologize for calling them lazy alcoholic Indians. And ignorant. And intolerant. And racist. And rude as all fuck.

Let me set the record straight here. First off, the term “Indian” isn’t pejorative. It’s not accurate (this isn’t India), but the word is still officially used by the government. The way to make “Indian” an insult is to tack something in front of it. You know, like “lazy alcoholic Indian”, or “fucking asshole rapist European” … like that.

Okay, “First Nations” or “Indigenous” is more accurate, but “Indian” is easier. For some reason, though, the word has become so taboo that no one wants to use it. Media flee from it like it’s a bomb waiting to go off and no one in government would ever use it if natives didn’t use it first. Okay, again, for accuracy that’s sensible, but I know that that’s not the sole reason for the word being shunned.

So fine, if we’re picking and choosing random words to get insulted about, I think I’m going to reserve the word “white” as an ultimate insult. Someone calls me white, I’ll call the cops and report a hate crime.

Oh, I can’t? Why not?

Because I’m in the “white majority”, that’s why. I know I’m exaggerating; I’m sure the cops wouldn’t arrest me for calling someone an “Indian”, but the vitriol I would receive would be almost as bad. This isn’t rhetoric either, this is what I’ve experienced personally.

I’m sick and tired of hearing that Indians and minorities don’t get the same opportunities. That they’re repressed and being forced into unemployment / onto the streets. Job application forms / university enrolment forms / etc. must ask: are you a member of an Aboriginal group? If yes, you get bumped up on the applicant’s list, no questions asked. Visible minority? Ditto. Female? Uh-huh. White dude? Go fend for yourself. Merit be fucked.

In fact, if you’re white, you will even be disqualified from certain government-controlled jobs. I’d like to hear from one Indian person, just one, recount how they were told – to their face – that they couldn’t apply to a job / school because they’re Indian. Native. Whatever. Bet that would make headlines lickety-split, huh? With Affirmative Action, this happens to white folks every day – where’s the outraged media?

I’ve heard the same bullshit argument for ages: Europeans have oppressed natives for generations and the least they can do is lend a helping hand. Look, Residential Schools were hell on earth, no doubt, and I’m all for compensating and helping those unfortunate people who were forced into them. A little help in preserving the culture / language, I think, is also a nice gesture. But beyond that, give me a fucking break.

Aboriginals were effectively conquered and assimilated. Too fucking bad. Happened to just about every group of people out there since time immemorial. Aboriginals were massacring each other for land / property well before the Europeans came here so let’s cut the hypocrisy. Europeans just happened to have better weapons and immunity to diseases. In effect, stronger tribes came from across the seas and kicked the natives’ asses. Too fucking bad.

The same goes for land claims. True, Aboriginals were clearly here before the Europeans. Again, I take no issue with allotting lands on which native peoples can get back to their roots – I’m a huge fan of multiculturalism. But no, they don’t own Canada. If we want to start arguing ownership of the land based on historic settlement, prior to being pushed off or killed for it, then the Iroquois have no claim to land anywhere. Yet I don’t see Algonquin tribes making any claims against the Iroquois for pushing them out – and the evil Europeans were already here at that point. It’s an infuriating and nonsensical double-standard that’s regularly ignored.

My problem with the whole kit and caboodle is that it’s all being perpetrated under the guise of “equality”. In what dictionary does “equality” mean providing advantages to specific groups while actively suppressing others? We’re not talking about removing barriers to entry, glass ceilings, that kind of stuff, we’re talking about government-legislated boosts for one group — Indians / minorities –  while at the same time throwing up blocks (sometimes just flat out saying “no”) to others – whites. “Equality” my ass.

Currently, if you’re a white man living in Canada, you belong to the most openly discriminated-against group of any. Fact. The government has laws in place to make sure everyone, including women, get ahead in line ahead of you. Was it necessary? I don’t know. Probably. But if you walk into any office today, it’s obvious that it no longer is.

Not saying that there aren’t assholes in companies that wouldn’t refuse people jobs because they’re women, native, or whatever, but there’s recourse. You can take it to the Human Rights Tribunal and you’ll probably have a good case. When the government tells me I can’t have a job because I’m a white man (responsible for oppressing everything around me, it seems), what recourse do I have? And when, by 2050, white people become an actual minority, will I be given special status? With there being fewer men than women, in general, will white men get even more consideration because they’re now a minority within a minority – visible by any standard? Yeah, right.

And then I get called all sort of names on the street by lazy alcoholic Indians. I’m told I stole their land (I immigrated here when I was six!), and that I owe them. Although not filled with the same array of expletives, many non-lazy, non-alcoholic natives echo that same sentiment, despite the fact that they have advantages that I don’t. Many upstanding Indians have taken those advantages and done something with them, let’s be clear. I’ve worked alongside them / under them, and see that they’re just as capable of doing the job as me. Sometimes more so. Which is why I find it so absurd that those very same people would be saying that they’re oppressed, and even more absurd that the government, and society in general, seem to agree with them.

Open your eyes: white is the new nigger.

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But, you know, sometimes you end up wandering aimlessly for a couple of days and don’t really have a good way to tie any of the resulting photos together. So in that spirit, here’s my list of 5 main reasons why I think living in the city, and in Toronto especially, is so durned good. With photos.

#1 – Spring Chickenism

This is definitely tops on my list. Here’s the thing, I’m down to the last notch on my last two remaining belts. A pair of pants that I’d held onto just in case I ever slimmed down now also require a belt. Some of my old pants are like potato sacks. But very comfortable, I’ll say that. In fact, if it wasn’t for a steady diet of junk food and, recently, Cadbury’s Easter Creme Eggs, I’d be forced to go out and buy a whole new wardrobe. Or some heavy-duty suspenders. I figure bad food is a cheaper alternative.

Now don’t get me wrong, I could still use some … toning. But in terms of my overall physical dimensions, I’ve shrunk. This with not caring at all about what I eat.

Are you asking, dear reader, what kind of exercise regimen I’m on? Perhaps what special “supplements” I take?

Nothing special, I just live downtown.

Unfortunately, I can’t locate the link at the moment, but I remember reading an article that compared the fitness of city-dwellers to non-urbanites. The consensus was generally that people in the city were a little healthier, a little slimmer. On average, of course. And, as I can attest, it doesn’t have much to do with our eating habits

It’s mostly to do with the fact that in the city, walking or cycling are much better ways to get around. One-way streets? Who gives a shit? No parking? I so couldn’t care less. Private property? These boots were made for climbin’, and that’s just what they’ll do.

I swear on all that is good that I’ve matched pace with a streetcar, more than once, from the sidewalk. And I wasn’t even going that fast. It’s why parking downtown is always such a pain; because everyone wants to do it and get around the smart way instead.

But as I’m sure I’ve mentioned, I understand the need for a car for the suburbs. I’ve been there, done that. And the sticks too. They had their charm — but I was undeniably chunkier.

#2 – Conveniencism

Everything is just, like, right there. Everything.

Sure, that store might not have it, but did you try those other six? Within walking distance, I mean.

It’s the density that makes it possible. When you cram enough potential customers together — within walking distance, say — it’s easier to sell niche items. There’s stuff I’ve found in dusty little shops around the city I never imagined I’d find. Or find again.

I ordered something off the web one day. I could’ve had it in my possession in half an hour had I bothered to do a Google search of nearby stores. The ones with websites, obviously.

There are still a few exotic items I haven’t found. Nothing I need, but still. For example, Green Oil, a Taiwanese product intended to be used similarly to Tiger Balm, but it’s liquid and comes in little glass bottles. It’s minty going on and leaves you smelling really nice for the whole day. I can’t even find a website for the damn thing. But then again, there are probably a gazillion local Chinese apothecaries I haven’t checked yet.

It’d be nice to be able to go later in the day, though. I’m watching TV right now. Oh, it’s open 24 hours? On account of it’s economically feasible for them to do so? Great! Back to TV…

#3 – Environmentalism

Hey, I did it. Not pointing any fingers here. And as I sat there, stuck in my little steel cage on wheels, I thought, “why the fuck am I paying for this?”

The question wasn’t about the necessity of a car when I lived out there, it was why the fuck am I living out there. And paying for it.

Out there, a car is genuinely required. Most of the time, two. It would take me half an hour to drive (pretty fast), to my nearest mega-plaza. Had I lived in one of the brand-spanking new housing divisions, ditto. I know of a few good spots out there from which to view the onslaught of the new housing from slightly above. Quite a sight.

But people don’t work there. They don’t shop there. In fact, have you ever been on one of the streets down one of those new housing developments? Freakin’ ghost town. And I was living in the sticks when that one first smacked my gob. It’s really unsettling.

I got rid of my car pretty much as soon as I moved here nearly two years ago. I simply couldn’t see the need for it. Haven’t looked back yet.

Road trip to see the folks? Rental. Hitch a ride with family. Bus. Fly.

Buying large / heavy / bulky items? Most places that carry that kind of stuff deliver free of charge downtown.

And that’s pretty much it, right? I mean, for groceries you get a nice sturdy cart with wheels. And for every mouth to feed, there’s an extra pair of arms to carry bags as well. I do it year-round; trust me, it’s not that tough. And I think there are a number of grocery delivery services if you’re not willing to take the risk. You can get almost anything delivered.

Did I mention that increasing urban density allows us to keep more farmland and natural countryside around the city? When I’m not engrossed in junk food, I prefer locally-grown produce and I personally want to see those farms keep short-hauling their in-the-earth-that-morning product. The price compared to imported really isn’t that much more, and you get to meet the farmer that grew that thing. Yes, more of that please.

#4 – Socialism

I was going to call this this Social Butterflyism but that would’ve broken the one-word naming convention I’ve been so strictly following. Plus, I find that “socialism” seems to get people riled up more. And, I guess, yeah, if you’re upset about being able to interact and mingle with a dizzying array of people every day then, yes, you’ll hate this too.

And yeah, I get it, crowds are not everyone’s thing. But let me share a little secret with you: crowds are preventable. Leading causes of crowds include: zombie attack, rush hour, planned event, normal weeknight / weekend traffic. Takes maybe two, three weeks to learn the ebbs and flows. After that, you know that if you want crowd, you go down that street; if you don’t want crowd, go down that street. I just discovered the Gerrard India Bazaar, for example. Now I know that the next time I’m hankering for something spicy and savoury, I’m taking a stroll down there. If there’s a crowd, I’ll deal with it.

Plus, some of the crowd you do end up befriending, if you choose to make friends, wind up with terrific views like the one above. Terrific after the vertigo subsides, but terrific nonetheless.

#5 – Changeism

I hear ya. Walking the same routes through the city every day can get pretty boring. Yup. Once you’ve thoroughly walked a ‘hood, a little bit of the charm flakes off. Kinda like that third time shooting heroin, I imagine.

Well that’s okay, the city is a place where the drugs just keep on changing. Event Nathan Phillips Square up there, holding her own for fifty-odd years, is being torn up for something new. By next year (they say – haha!), the image above will be markedly different. That pace is pretty good for me. But one block over, something’s going up much faster. One block more and the public garden’s slowly getting a re-design. What pace do you like?

Okay, and there are two other issues that are very real: noise and pollution. Yes, it is noisy. And yes, it is dirtier.

Regarding the noise, there are bylaws you can lean on. That’s especially true if you live there. Get the cops involved if it’s bad. Maybe it’s because I’ve lived in noisier places but I find residential streets pretty quiet. My own isn’t even so demure.

Pollution, well, when I think about how Toronto stacks up to some of the other cities I’ve inhaled, it’s not so bad. But yes, there’s definitely more stuff in the air so keeping your place clean is more challenging. You’ll need an air-filter system if it really bugs you. Perhaps when you trade in your car you can afford this?

And crime? No more, and no different, than I’ve experienced anywhere else. I can state that unabashedly. Crossing the street is infinitely more dangerous.

—

It’s coming up to two years now that I’ve been living here. Had my chances to seriously compare it to the burbs and beyond. As I said, I’ve seen some of the attraction, but it’s hard to maintain on so many levels. I’m not convinced children get a better upbringing by being insulated in socio-economic communities. I don’t think they fare better later in life if they’re not exposed to a little dirt. And besides all of this, I suspect urban life is in in the cards for quite a few people around the globe, so we might as well get used to it. And Soylent Green.

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Note the little blurb about the GO Transit fare hike being proposed. Haha! Well, never let it be said that the Star doesn’t exercise editorial authority! When you compare the tizzy about the TTC fare hike (just Google TTC fare hike), against this, ya kinda get a sense that the paper’s asserting a little bias. But I’m pretty sure I’ve said something to this to someone or other — everything a paper produces is editorial, down to the order of sentences in an article.

The paragraph is next to the deaths announcements for Gods sake! It’s why I give equal measure to the Saturday funnies.

By the way, the Star’s free for the next two weeks (during the Olympics). If someone tries to charge you for one, jab them in the eye with something and call them something irretrievably horrible. Then run!

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From Taxi News:

[Addai] said racialization is defined in the Human Rights Code as, in addition to physical features, characteristics of people that are commonly racialized, including: accent or manner of speech, name, clothing and grooming, diet, beliefs and practices, leisure preferences, places of origin and citizenship.

“In one way or another, I would say that segments of this Code apply to everyone in this room,” he stated.

Point in case: consider the recent Star article about taxi licensing in Toronto. It begins with a rather miffed-looking Asafo Addai claiming that City Hall imposes a racist policy through two-tier licensing for cabbies. He’s so miffed, in fact, that he’s taking it before the Human Rights Tribunal, accusing the city of systemic discrimination against minorities and newcomers. The words racism and racialism are tossed around like so much wilted salad.

What’s got Asafo in a huff is the “Ambassador” license that the city issues to all new cabbies. These require the driver to solely own and operate their vehicle, unlike the older “standard” license that allows cars to be rented out and ownership to be transferred. Obviously this severely limits the driver’s ability to make extra income and, with the cost of buying existing standard plates running in the quarter-million range (yup, $250,000), it’s usually not an option.  Sure, I can understand why he’d be upset about this, and I’d definitely support changing it. And Asafo’s claim that this is, “inhibiting a group of people from ascending”, is absolutely correct if you ask me.

But what group of people? Is Asafo suggesting that only black folk drive cabs? Or just immigrants? Or people with argyle socks and dollar-store slacks? I can tell you with absolute certainty that that’s not true.

As a teenager I tried to join the police force but because of affirmative action, got the hand in the face, being told unapologetically it was because I was white. In hindsight it’s better I didn’t become a copper, and even though I didn’t like it, I ultimately understood the reasoning behind the hiring practices. But I know what it feels like to be denied something for no other reason than being a certain colour.

That’s really my whole issue with people bandying around the term “racism”. When individuals like Asafo play the race card, they’re actually doing a great disservice to real complaints of bigotry, injustice, and disparity. In fact, Asafo is the one making (or trying to make), a distinction based on race (or ethnicity, or income, or source of slacks, etc.); everyone else in the same boat as him are just people — white, black, and every other colour that can fit into the driver’s seat of a cab. Between Asafo and me, I’d say I came a lot closer to blatant systemic racism. (And I wouldn’t really call that racism.)

The other problem with Mr. Addai’s assertion is the fact that Toronto currently only issues one type of taxi licence, not two. The Ambassador program started in the late nineties specifically to address the problem of inequality — the other type of license was discontinued at that point (still exists, just not being issued). It doesn’t matter what colour your skin is, how much money you have, or even how nice your smile is, the Ambassador license is the only one you can get. No one’s picking on Asafo because of his race, his place of birth, his age, his weight, etc. — he’s getting the shaft just like all his cabbie brethren and sistren. Just because most of them happen to be immigrants doesn’t make it racism.

And saying that racialism is some random mix of attributes that varies from person to person — that’s just dumb.

By the way, did you know that Toronto has a monthly newspaper dedicated to the local taxi industry? Neither did I, until I found a copy in the disheveled racks at Metro Hall. That’s where I discovered that silly excerpt at the top of this post. It doesn’t seem like the most upbeat publication around town, but then again, being a cabbie doesn’t sound terribly glamorous either.

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And I don’t know about you but when I pull stunts like that, I end up staring longingly into the warm interiors of passing cars. Crossing the road also provides me with an opportunity to hang a forlorn expression on my face for the benefit of the people behind the glass. Usually it’s just frozen that way so it’s not as if I’m doing it on purpose, but still indicative of my feelings.

On winter evenings like this, I remember my golden automotive era behind the wheel of a candy-apple-red Volkswagen Golf. It was a standard with copious electrical problems, balding tires, and an increasing number of bumps and dings as a result of those balding tires. But that moment when the heater kicked in (after I’d been struggling for half an hour to squeeze through a half-open trunk because the doors were frozen shut), that was something truly sweet.

In one bumpy incident, both my VW and the car in front glided into the middle of an intersection on some slick on the road. Not being able to stop either (so maybe the tires weren’t involved), the lady behind the wheel was very understanding after we’d made contact. We were already moving pretty slowly when we lost control; I don’t believe I even scratched her bumper. Afterward, we both admitted to being lucky not to have been t-boned by oncoming traffic, and we parted ways with smiles and a “have a great day”.

In another dingy incident, I slid very slowly through a sharp turn on a rural road in north Pickering. When I say very slowly, I mean that I had time to try the hand brake – to no avail, pump the foot brake — in futility, steer in a few different directions — to no effect, make sure my seatbelt was secured — for naught, turn off the spontaneous wipers (among the cornucopia of electrical problems) — with no success, and even utter a gentle “oh crap” (also pointless), before coming to rest on a ditch post. I managed to crush the bumper but, again, drove away with just another piece of character. Soon-to-rust character.

Guess there was that one time I wrecked the front axle on a curb; I remember sliding into that one too, on a wet road. The tires were turned left, the car kept going forward. *thump* *wobble wobble* I didn’t even end up on the curb, just bent the the whole rod thing down there all up. Not as chortley then as it sounds now.

Besides that, I’ve gotten one speeding ticket (fifteen over), and one for driving with an expired plate sticker. In both cases, the issuing officers suggested that I should fight the injustices in court ( “judge’ll probably throw it out” – translation: “I won’t show for court.” ) So I don’t feel like they saw my infractions as terribly terrible.

I’m not a perfect driver, but that’s my whole history over the years. Sure, traffic sucked all sorts of gonads, but at least I had warmth. No radio – that literally fell apart one day as I hit the ON button – but having an hour and a half with a good conversationalist was a good way to pass the time. Sometimes I’d also give people a ride.

The reason I bring all of this up (except for that last part, that’s just a rosy sentimentality), is because I need a moral mound from which to fire my judgmental salvos.

People, you need to get a grip. (Not you, dear reader, I know you’re a careful driver.)

I mean, that 83-year-old who ran down the mom with her baby surviving only by some miracle, that old woman shouldn’t have been on the road. Have you seen how old people cross the road?! WITHOUT A VEHICLE?! NOW IMAGINE THEM IN A VEHICLE!!

Never mind 83, I’ve been in a car with someone twenty years younger as she steered her wide vehicle aloft over an alarmingly tall concrete divider between the arrivals / departures lanes at the airport. Have you ever been in a fat luxury automobile as it takes flight? It’s quite an experience.

And about that thing with the doctor who was caught speeding en route to a bona fide emergency, I think the solution’s a simple one. Okay, I think there’s good cause for a doctor to be able to speed when necessary (burden of proof being on Doc Drift) – here is one such example. But if the doctor is to speed then he should adhere to current etiquette and stick a flashing doohickey on the top of his car. He should also take the same driver training as cops do. Basically, he should be operating an identifiable emergency vehicle and be trained to do so. I guess he could use his own Benz so long as the thing was loud and bright and obnoxious.

But for everyone else, slowing down’s the ticket. That and keeping the old folks off the road. For practicality, I’d suggest some sort of herding vehicle to convey their beastly frames from hither to dither. Then farther.

My driving days are are in a shoebox somewhere in the back of my closet. My current credit won’t get me anything enclosed to ride in and I’m not sure if I’d want to anyway. The walking scene is hip. And if I’m involved in any sort of mishap, I instantly become a litigious money hole. Everyone wins!

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I’ma be blunt, if I may. Ashley and Madison are assholes. Nope, no link, and this is the only time I use their wretched name – from now on it’s AM, with spit on it. There, I’ve said it, it’s out in the open. The way it should be.

You know what this company does? They are a service that promotes marital infidelity. Cheating. No, not a dating service that happens to have a lot of married people, they exist specifically to help people cheat. Their slogan is “Life is short. Have an affair.”

And they’re assholes.

My idea of a relationship is pretty free-wheeling. Gay? Fine by me. Bi? A-okay. Swinger? Keep on swingin’! Miscellaneous? Please use my contact form. But an affair, that’s just simple lying. It’s deceptive, cowardly, and a big middle finger to the one you’re with. If you wanna fuck around, have the balls to say it. It won’t get easier with time, and you’re wasting the rest of your life if that’s what you really want. Maybe it’s just time to saddle up and ride off into the sunset, you know?

And AM, they’re the assholes helping people to be cowardly liars. It don’ git no plainer ‘n that.

Okay, but I really wouldn’t give a shit about them except that lately they’ve been pushing the TTC to decal two of their streetcars with AM ads (the whole things – a full wrap), even getting cocky enough to begin offering discounted fares to anyone taking their streetcars — before the ad was even approved. The Commission wasn’t too sure about it (as well they shouldn’t), and turned it over to a committee who finally gave it the thumbs down. *applause*

Unfortunately, AM decided to kick back with threat of court saying that this is impinging on their freedom of speech. Cockswaddle. An affair is grounds for divorce – in the eyes of the law, it’s wrong. Therefore, to condone an affair (directly) is to condone something that the law states is wrong. Hence, if the TTC were to allow this, they would be challenging this rather embedded legal precedent. What, for getting to whore out two streetcars? Bitch, puh-leeze!

I’d slap AM’s ass to the curb faster than you can say Q.E.D. Where do they get off, pushing the Commission around? You know, I’m not always a fan of transit, and even though there’s a tonne wrong with it, I’d rather it showed some integrity and backbone rather than put it’s ass in the air and grease up. Once again, *applause*.

Joe Mihevc, second in command to the TTC chairman — who is ideally the most impartial and level-headed person in the room — responded to AM’s threat with “We’re ready to defend our right to determine what ads go onto our brand as the TTC.” Oh yeah – I almost forgot; the TTC is a business and they have a brand image to protect. Ding ding … and in this corner … the TTC’s gonna kick your ass!

Wow, our little Red Rocket’s balls grew two sizes today! I can’t tell you how proud I am.

And as regards lying, well, I do it all the time. Lots of different ways and, sometimes, quite enjoy it. But generally not at someone’s expense, and especially not at my own. Words of wisdom, biatch!

PEACE!!

I’m out.

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Anyhow, I believe I’m in one of those moods today. It was one of those lurching days in which clarity decides to rear its ugly head – a light was cast on a vexing situation that’s been festering on my mind for a few months and – to be blunt – both shocked and pissed me right off. I probably shouldn’t go into detail because I have a feeling I’ll be wielding the business end of legal prosecution pretty soon; I can think of no other word than fraud, or something very close to it. Certainly some very odd dealings that I just can’t explain. You know? Stuff just doesn’t add up, like 1 and 1 is supposed to equal FF in hexadecimal. Yeah, that’s not even the same numbering system.

There are lots of fiddly little details that, hopefully, I’ll be able to share once it’s all done with. I think they’d make good reading if you have a few minutes on the shitter (get a netbook—best investment ever ). However, droning on about some vague misdoing is boring my tits off and I know the details, so let’s let’er rest a while there.

Besides, some things don’t need to be discussed because they kinda stare you in the face, you know?

Take the story about a young mother who was murdered in her car while tending to her two-year-old daughter. Yep, no way to put a frilly ribbon on that story; shot right in front of her little girl. The story is tragic no matter how you spin it; that kid’s just been handed a life sentence. Who’d argue with that?

But just beneath the surface there are things that aren’t quite right.

To begin with, Detective Sergeant Pauline Gray is quoted as saying, “I think the careful thing is not to look for a reason, because as far as I’m concerned, there is no reason.”

Did I read that right? The careful thing is not to investigate the motive because there isn’t one? Okay, well, for an officer to be making extrajudicial pronouncements at a press conference probably isn’t a great idea, but it also shows that the good Detective has been compromised. Clearly am emotional basket case. Hey, can’t blame her, but don’t we owe the mother and kid a proper, thorough, and unbiased investigation? The careful thing to do is to look for a reason, because as far as I’m concerned, there’s always a reason. I believe that’s the difference between first and second-degree murder — planning requires a purpose, or a reason, as they call it out west.

I also subscribe to Occam’s Razor which bluntly states that the simplest and most direct explanation is usually the correct one. Don’t over-complicate shit, I believe, is the original expression. If she had a jilted ex-husband, my odds are on him. But there’s another possibility; please allow me to connect a few dots…

She’s from Columbia where her parents still live. Upon moving to Toronto, she started a successful container shipping company. Initially she was sending a container or two a year (was that enough to live on?), but recently business had picked up to the sum of one or two per month. To and from South American countries. Do we need the white connecting lines here?

Okay, that’s just rampant coke-fuelled speculation, but any investigator worth their salt should be knee-deep in blow by now. To dismiss some possibilities because they may harm the reputation of the deceased person does them a disservice. And the little girl too. Even if some dark details are revealed, who knows what the circumstances were around those details?

If you’re a keener and read the story, you’ll note that I took most of the drug runner scenario from the Star piece. Almost verbatim, except that I took out a bunch of expletives. I still don’t know why The Star swears so much, it’s really off-putting. But the facts remain about the same. Possibly manufactured for my benefit. However, I still stand by my argument that a thorough and unbiased lookseeinto is the way to go.

It’s the same with the McCormack case. That’s the former police chief’s son (and also a cop), accused of pulling money from club and bar owners in exchange for favours. Hehe, no, not sexual ones. Although, you know, I shouldn’t judge … who knows? Definitely the accusation of money exchanging hands for services of some sort (no, no jokes about hand services, that’d be crude and never proven in a court of law). Impropriety on the one side, corruption on the other, but either way it was looking meaty.

I guess we’ll never know for sure how meaty because the case was thrown out of court for taking too long. If proceedings extend for five years, I believe, the court is obliged to remove them from before its just gaze. “And don’t let the door hit you on the way outtay”, in Latin.

Wow, my head’s really gone over to the lawyer side of the force. Maybe I’ve been spending my time in that headspace for too long and now I just zero in on any little litigious thing I see. I probably just need a good sleep – I mean, who knows, maybe I’ll dream up an out of court settlement. Or maybe cast a dark habeas corpus upon them from my slumber — the sleeping subconscious mind has mysterious powers, possibly even occult. I guess that path will be determined by my mood. Prince or Princess Bride?

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I’m talking, of course, about the Union Station Revitalization project that’s been floating around City Hall since at least last year. There were all sorts of crazy projections floating around about how long it would take to complete the thing, but most of them seemed awfully unrealistic. With no real information or experience of any kind in these matters, I came up with an arbitrary start date of 2011 with completion set for some nebulous time after that. Now, with the project winding its way through the last dusky corridors of City Hall, I’m a little troubled that the number I pulled out of my ass is probably closer to reality than anything the experts were paid exorbitantly for.

Part of the problem is that, along with my far-flung dates, I also had visions of a Hindenburg-like execution that, on top of stretching the project out to a future when the apes have taken over, includes cost overruns that are certain to result in another new tax.

The Star article that finally broke ground on reality mentioned that the construction company that will be doing most of the work will try to be accommodating and will try to “make the hoardings (crowd barriers) as attractive as possible”. I hadn’t been to Union Station for a while so I popped by again to see these attractive new hoardings for myself.

So, okay, this is pretty subjective, but I’m not feeling any aesthetic love here. I only bother to mention it because it seems to be an indicator of what is stated versus what is reality, something that, not being realized on this initial small scale, will probably translate to larger misses when the project really gets going. In other words, if this is Vanbot’s version of attractive, their other definitions/time lines/estimates are also likely to be a bit off.

I would be pleased as punch to be proven wrong on this. But really, should we care about temporary barriers? Isn’t what will ultimately be underneath be more important? I’d like to say yes, but if these things will be hanging around for a minimum of 5 years, I don’t think that the word temporary really applies; they will effectively be Union Station for the next half-decade.

The Star article also mentions that part of the move to a new Union Station is to try to make it more of a destination. Two problems with that:

• Do we really need another place to spend money we don’t have? Having restaurants near to the Rogers Centre makes sense, but how many people are eager to run for the train laden with impulse purchases?
• The GO concourse is already a destination! People arrive at the station to wait for trains and buses, maybe buy a coffee and a bagel. If not, they’re on their way to work or on their way back home. Chances are that if they’d wanted to do something elsewhere — to shop, for example — they would’ve done so on their way to the station; there’s plenty of opportunity.

Finally, and this is really more me wondering out loud, what types of new retail they could introduce that they don’t already have? Morning caffeine, newspapers, and a bite to eat are all well-represented. There’s currently a liquor store for carry-on entertainment, a bar for the less patient, and a dry cleaner for those on the vomitous tail end of either one. I can’t imagine what could be missing.

You may want to savour these images, it’s unlikely that the station will look like this much longer. Even if, as I suspect, they don’t start work for another couple of years, upkeep on something that is scheduled to be demolished isn’t likely to be a priority. It’s exactly the same reason I have for not cleaning my flat. And I don’t even sell anything (legal) from there!

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The scandal centers mostly around allegations of abuse and mistreatment of the animals in the King Street shelter:

You know, all the sad-eyed kitties and puppies that make me wanna punch whoever hurts them in the friggin’ face!! How does that feel, huh?! HUH?!

*breathe deep*

*exhale slowly*

…

Everything’s good!

So yeah, I really don’t approve of that kind of behaviour. But Bill brought up a good point, many of these animals are brought to the shelter in this state. Of course some of them will look abused, that’s why they’re here. And yes, sadly, some of them die or have to be put down because their injuries are too serious. The shelter makes no secret of this:

However, three things have come together that make me look at the situation with a whole lotta suspicion.

First is my own, albeit single, interaction with the Humane Society in Durham. The facilities were nice, the animals healthy and clean, so nothing bothered me on that end. But the staff, I dunno, didn’t really seem to care a whole lot about animals. And I thought it was odd that they seemed to be dissuading me from taking home a cat: “that one’s not very friendly, that one’s very sick, she’s blind and tends to break stuff, he’s had the most vile diarrhea for months…” In some cases, the conditions for adopting a pet seemed a bit steep: no going outside, no interactions with other animals going outside, no other animals altogether, no flats, no rural homes, no children, no balconies, and a few other things.

Outside, someone claiming to be an employee (so it’s definitely true), told me that the shelter’s funding is based partially on how many animals it has to support. That would explain why they’d want to hold on to the animals, the old use-it-or-lose-it funding model. That would also explain why the King Street Humane Society would be so reluctant to put down animals, even if those animals have no option but to die slow, painful deaths.

I thought about the possibility of altruistic motives, you know: rover’s brought in, hurt, bad, barely breathing — mouth-to-snout resuscitation — charge paddles! CLEAR! … AGAIN! CLEAR!! … LIVE DAMN YOU!! LIVE!! Rover coughs, rolls over, and with the slightest wag of his tail whispers, “I’ve arways roved you.” I know, it’s a romantic notion but I guess it’s possible. But then I read about the mummified cat they found in a trap in the ceiling of the shelter. Police came in, arrested some of the staff, documented the place for evidence, and later came back to go through it in detail. That’s when the mummy cat was found. Wasn’t a cool out-for-revenge kind of mummy cat either, literally just skin and bones; must’ve starved in there. That’s not so altruistic.

And that’s the another thing…

I can’t imagine that the police would mount an operation so publicly, and that involved a whole organization, unless they felt pretty confident that they had some pretty darn good evidence. This story’s been floating around for the better part of a week and up until the arrests, these accusations had been around for a while before that.

"No sir, i especially don't like it."

This story must be absolute gold to the news people. Everyone and their horse is being interviewed about how shocked and sickened they are about all this, and the arrests of the shelter’s staff were out in broad daylight with the media camped out right across the street.

And I’m going to give the cops some credit and assume that they must’ve known this would happen. So I’d imagine they’d take more than a few precautions before busting down the doors – things like making sure they weren’t just arresting people on a hunch, stuff like that.

Okay, and finally, I had to ask Ollie. I mean, if anyone would have insight into this situation, it’d be a cat, no? With his natural clairvoyance and his own personal reasons for wanting to find answers, it was really a no-brainer.

After once again skipping his dinner, I added a “Y” and a “N” on the Ouija board I’d used previously, and placing some psychic motivators on them, simply asked Ollie if he thought if the people currently being charged with these crimes would be found guilty of them.

He hesitated for a bit, seemed confused. Then he wandered over to the “N” pile, sniffed it, and crunched on a pellet. Half of it fell out of his mouth but he didn’t bother going after it. I think what he was trying to get across was to indicate the course of the trial. Initially the defendants would get a nibble of innocence, for a while it’ll look like they’ll be walking out of there free.

Gut then Ollie ambled over to the “Y” pile and dug in. Clearly this cat has an appetite for justice! The interpretation: after a brief respite, the drooling jaws of the courts will come down on our defendants.

Bill Carroll was right to hold back on condemning anyone in this case, but obviously the time has now come for the condemnations to start flying. I believe my own conclusions have some merit, but if Ollie says they staff are guilty, that pretty much clinches it for me. I’ve never had a problem with his predictions before!

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Take the Toronto City Centre Airport story, for example. I’m not sure many people would care about the tussle going on there. It’s a three-way shoving match between the city, the Port Authority which controls the airport and I believe has it’s own squad of shadowy assassins, and Porter Airlines which managed to pull in record profits pretty much every year since it started flying. Oh, and the island residents who basically bitch 24-7, 365 about everything (“The city’s too loud! The lights are too bright! The planes are too scary! Wah! Wah!”)

(big!)

Bill would gnaw at this, getting angrier and angrier right up until the commercial break. I don’t remember his stance on the issue, but I clearly recall the outraged timbre of his voice. The current topic of contention is the proposed tunnel to the airport which no level of government wants to pay for.  It’s intended to replace the current ferry service which, at a full 20-second trip (maybe 30) from shore to shore, seems kind of inefficient:

But whatever. I’m sure Porter contributes to this inefficiency from its growing wallet so who cares? Bill does. Passionately. Desperately. I bet the fact that Toronto got the 2015 Pan Am Games probably caused his head to just explode. They probably had to drag his headless, blood-soaked corpse out of the studio live on the air. That would’ve been some show. If only it was still on at a time when I could listen.

I can just imagine his reaction at the $2.4 billion cost. He either would have been rejoicing that his beloved Etobicoke was getting a pool make-over, or cheesed that the athletes’ village will be in what is currently a large mud pit bisecting the east edge of town (ON TAXPAYERS’ MONEY, AND DOWNTOWN GETS ALL THE BENEFITS!!), or both.

He doesn’t care that he sometimes contradicts himself. Bill shoots from the hip and asks questions later. If there’s time. I don’t think John Moore even owns a gun.

Now I have at least three more days of waking up to do. Quite possibly a few decades on top of that. With Bill gone, I’m left sleeping in almost every day, but I don’t know where else to turn. The radio dial to. And with it staying dark outside later and later now, the problem is becoming more urgent. “Nature Sounds I” just won’t cut it, but what’s the alternative … the buzzer?!

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And they kinda did it to themselves.

I know that I spend a good chunk of my time despairing over the future of transit, especially now that I’ve contracted a rather nasty strain of lazy and the cold outside has settled in for the season. But I had a chance to ride the regional rails during a visit with my financial guy, and all those awful, tearful memories of the daily GO train commute came flooding back.

I’m not referring to the actual trains themselves; those are fairly modern, quiet, comfortable, and if you can get a seat, a nice way to travel. Each car has a toilet for when your business just can’t wait, electrical outlets for when the feature-length porn flick starts to eat into your laptop’s battery, and getting carted around in a heated space is also very nice when the snow starts to fall.

The problem I’m talking about is one of simple math. For GO people, the cost of a monthly pass to one of the regional stops (the only real reason to take GO), can actually be more expensive than driving a car. For example, my pass used to set me back around $230. That didn’t include the follow-up hop onto the TTC at Union Station, so even at a few extra trips per week it would soon add up. For most commuters, the TTC’s a must to continue into the city since the GO train line is right up against the lake. So that’s an extra $100 for the TTC monthly pass. $109, whatever.

All together, a $300 monthly public transit travel budget is not uncommon.

In contrast, a car ride of the same distance costs about $5 in gas ($10 if we include things like occasional oil, windshield washer fluid, repairs, etc.) With an average $5 a day for parking, a trip to work by car runs about $15. The same trip on the GO train, transferring to TTC, will also be $15; and that doesn’t include the drive just to get to a GO station — most passengers still need to drive a car.

It’s true that the train beats sitting in traffic … until the day when someone commits suicide on the tracks and you’re left sitting there for four hours while they scrape the bits off the front of the train. Or if there’s a signal failure. Or something’s wrong with the engine. Or someone pressed the emergency alarm strip. Or it’s the third Wednesday of the month.

For the TTC it’s a problem of bone-headedness. If you buy the monthly Metropass and take the rails / wheels 20 times a month (to and from work), you’ll just about break even compared to the cost of tokens or just paying cash.

The equation is simple:

Metropass = $109

Workdays per month = 20

$109 / 20 = $5.45 (per day)

$5.45 / 2 trips per day = $2.73 per trip ($2.75 regular fare)

Here we have a whopping savings of $0.04 per day, or the awesome sum of $9.60 per year. If the price doesn’t change, you’d be able to add $96 to your kid’s college fund in 10 years — *almost* the cost of one Metropass. I’m not sure if that includes taxes.

But whatever, it’s still technically cheaper and more convenient (plus weekends), so what’s the problem?

To begin with, the Metropass is apparently losing money for the TTC. By the end of the year, they’re expecting to be about $22 mill. in the hole.

Yup. They came up with something that’s losing them money. What that means is that the Metropass is only artificially saving $0.02 per trip; it’s actually subsidized through taxes so we still pay for it. And that’s despite record high ridership numbers this year (or maybe because of them?!)  I would just love to see the business model behind this.

So I’m gonna go out on a limb here and suggest that the latest move by the TTC to provide deeply discounted Metropasses to businesses who purchase in bulk is just totally out to lunch. I’m trying to imagine the thought process: “The current 0.7% discount is a real money pit. Hey, I know! Why don’t we go up to 12%?” However it really went, I have to ask why the TTC’s head honcho would be pitching it to the press as a good idea.

A TTC fare hike now seems to be the only solution because the thought of cut-backs and reductions in service is taboo. And while I agree that the TTC should remain in full service, I happen to think we could probably save some money by getting rid of some of the ineffective ladies and gentlemen who put the Commission into this situation. In fact, I’m all in favour of a coup d’etat at GO too because I happen to know I’m not the only one that finds their service lacking; nice seats and shitters, but how often did I get stranded by GO’s policy to just shut down when something breaks?

The city may not be for everyone, but I don’t think anyone would argue with the advantages of being able to get around on foot. I remember not having that freedom; how beholden I was to the transit authorities. A fare hike always felt like a slap in the face. Not so much because I couldn’t understand that, possibly, the cost of running things had gone up too, but because it was another missed opportunity to avoid that same feeling in the future.

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But that’s not it. There really is a lot of construction going on. In just about every direction you turn, there’s a cross educator:

Okay, well, the big ones are more like a cross. And angrier. For example:

That’s is the TIFF / Bell Lightbox, kitty-corner from where this year’s TIFFery took place. I think it’s designed to loom ominously like that.  It certainly doesn’t yet scream “film festival!!” to me.

Not all construction hangs over the city like the cold face of death, though. Take Trump Tower, for example:

Nice lid, right? And what does The Donald have to say about his new erection?

“The thing that excites me most is the architecture. Secondly, I believe that the location of this building by itself will make it very successful. So you have a combination of great location and great architecture—and that’s going to be something very special.”

Sure is, Donald. It’s a winning formula: Donald Trump™ Excitement ® + location = oodles of cash

Secondly, I hope that’s what he means by “special”.

Anyhow, these are just a couple of the more interesting taller buildings. There are many more, including ones that aren’t so tall:

I don’t think I’d be exaggerating if I said that between any two main intersections, you’d find at least two large construction sites.

I was going to stop the post here without any real point, as I am wont to do. But as I was flipping through the news over an especially messy lunch today (I must omit the details), I found a Toronto Star article about office vacancies and how they’re linked to unemployment. It deftly reveals how all this new office space is opening downtown — I can attest to that! — followed up with unemployment statistics. Get it? Those buildings are stealing our jobs!

I knew it — now it’s cranes and immigrant buildings. And Trump’s mixed in with all this too.

(Sorry about that last link. Have to keep it up as a bleak reminder never to drink and blog again.)

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Haha! I know, that last one’s not transit. But I had to share. I spent enough time around that area to have seen inebriated lawnmower drivers, and let me tell you, it’s hi-freakin-larious. Under normal circumstances, these gentlemen wouldn’t think to drive an unbalanced buggy with sharp, high-velocity, metal blades underneath, up a very steep hill. But then they partake of a few.

I guess there was one thing kinda related to the subway, the Toronto Sun’s lament about the state of our highways. Mostly, they were talking about this:

This is the picturesque Don Valley Parkway. It’s picturesque because it’s late in the afternoon on Sunday. At almost any other time, it’s bumper to bumper, stop and go. If you’ve been on it, you know what I’m talkin’ about, right? How many years of your life have you lost on that road? And on some sections, you’ve got a foot between you, the concrete barrier, the car on the other side, and the car in front, and the jerk behind is honking his horn for you to get outta the way. That, buddy, is how that dipshit down in the valley down there crashed his car. That’s why we’re moving extra slow. That’s why you can kiss my flatulent ass you …

Gosh, even thinking about it gets me all worked up; that’s one angry road. The attached 401’s not much better, but that’s a whole different kinda rage; high-speed, low-brow, middle-finger. You can’t shout at those speeds once you achieve them.

Torontonians know what I’m talking about, right? Yeah! Grandma’s doing eighty in the fast lane with nothing in front of her, tapping the breaks a few times a meter. What the fuck is her problem?! HONK H-O-N-K *H-O-N-K* GODDAMMITYARR!! *smash smash smash* GAAAARRR!! Then black out. Wake up under a highway overpass somewhere by the airport with blood on your hands and a dead body in the trunk of your car. Evade police for weeks in a massive manhunt through rural southern Ontario. Eh? Yeah. What Torontonian hasn’t been there?

So to avoid that scene, and since there’s no way we’re biking in from the sticks every day, there’s public transit. But not the fru-fru, surface streetcar my spoiled butt takes every day. We’re talking about the city plumbing; the subway.

There’s been a lot of talk about putting new stuff into the city center, which is fine by me, but it seems like a lot of the outlying, underground stuff is being forgotten. Specifically, the Bloor-Danforth subway line. That’s not to say that the Yonge-University line isn’t need of bit of a facelift too:

Vintage. The tiles look nicotine-friendly, don’t you think? But, at least, in good condition.

However, in the stations, if you’re in a hurry, headphones in, reading email, you might not notice how rustic they’re getting.

Often, it’s not straight ahead; that’s just an attractive young blur. Sometimes you have to wait for the crowd to clear (as in Sunday), and then look up:

Or you have to be at the right end of the platform:

Right, not that right. The other right. Your right. Right And you’re right, it is unsightly. But I haven’t heard of any plans to take care of it. Has Scabby Row been foresaken? I did my teen years there and it was pretty grungy. I was back recently and Kennedy Station had an even more watch-your-back feel to it than I remembered.

I’m one of those incurably sunny people who think that one of the ways to deal with the problem is to make the place nicer. For being so busy, it’s a grim station. On one side, it’s got a raised road with a raised LRT train track under it (two storeys of concrete, basically) so it’s dark, and on the other the parking lot of a grey-slab of a community centre. Stabbing or shooting someone here doesn’t seem out of context.

So, change the context I say. I’m sure it’s been tried and tested somewhere. And I’m sure I didn’t come up with it; wouldn’t that be a sad world to live in? I’m just too lazy to find a link.

Spruce up the stations. Scrub off some of that water damage. Repair some of those broken chunks. Put a little more life in there.

That probably won’t come out of the downtown streetcar money, which itself is in question. And that  infrastructure funding that was supposed to have paid for things like this turned out to be not so much. But there is the community.

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Basically, Bryant was driving his car down Bloor Street on Monday when something – no one’s quite sure exactly what –  happened between him and a bike courier. Probably a collision of some sort, but obviously not serious because the courier got up. Then he leapt onto Bryant’s Saab convertible. The female passenger (his wife?) called police while Bryant hit the gas.

He swerved into oncoming traffic and drove up on the opposite sidewalk, purposefully running his car up against trees and mailboxes to try to get the courier off, screaming the whole way. Eventually, he succeeded. But the courier got bashed to death in the process. Possibly driven over. Guess all those wonderfully gory details will come out in the trial.

But it gets better!

Michael Bryant was the attorney general for Ontario. I believe that title means pretty much the same in most places; he was the legal bigwig of Ontario.

Also, the courier had been drinking. A lot. In fact, he had had a long history of unhappy addiction, and had about an hour earlier been stopped by police for trying to enter into a former girlfriend’s place wasted. Perhaps to visit with one of his kids?

The biker had been sober for about eight days, but the day of the incident, well, let’s just say he had indulged. The police are taking flak for telling him to go home from his girlfriend’s instead of letting him to stay. He shouldn’t have been sent home by the cops to ride drunk, they’re saying. Yeah, I say; he should’ve been walking his bike home. And in retrospect, the cops had the situation pegged; not a good time for a family visit.

Anyway, the whole thing quickly turned into a two-ring circus with all sorts of people sticking their causes to the event:

This morning, bikers got together in the spot where the courier died and staged a demonstration. Or protest. Or something. Some of them shouted out “murderer”, referring to Bryant, but made some strange remarks in a quieter voice (I was within earshot), “Yeah, if murderer means crusher of dreams, you back-peddling son of a bitch.” And so forth.

How come that kind of thing never makes the evening news? Ah, but that’s okay. I don’t think we should give the gathering too much credence. Most of the messages of condolence stuck to the spot mentioned, in one form or another, how this death was a just another demonstration of Toronto’s anti-bike streets. There was also plenty of promotion for United Messengers‘ Bloor bike lanes campaign. Guess they figured, if that bandwagon’s coming, might as well hang off the back:

So if the purpose of the gathering was to remind us about bike safety, I’d say absolutely! We could probably start by educating some of the bikers, huh?

I did an impromptu tally of helmets on cyclists for about six walking city blocks (major intersections). I counted only cyclists who were riding and on the road. Out of a total of 263 bikers, only about 45% were wearing helmets. I would like to do a follow-up study on how many also have earphones stuck in/on their ears. And coast through intersections on reds without a peek to either side.

I wouldn’t go so far as to totally let drivers off the hook either, but their infractions haven’t been as audacious as some of the stunts I’ve seen bikers pull. The only attempt at an explanation I’ve heard so far is, “We’re more vulnerable.” Umm … is that it? That’s why you don’t have to obey the rules of the road? Because you’re more vulnerable? Okay. Yeah.

I’ve been known to go out without my helmet now and again. Sometimes I also leave behind my lunch and name tag, the one that people can use to help me find my home again. But I usually get back from my walk okay because I always look both ways before I cross the street. There still seem to be so many bikers out there on whom this lesson is lost.

Oh, and the lesson about not getting pissed out of your gourd and picking a fight with a moving vehicle. Also an important lesson.

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Yes!

Every week I left my name and number on the back of that blasted breakfast receipt along with a healthy tip (*wink wink*) and now, finally, it had been drawn. “Yes, R.! I’ll be by to pick up the certificate on Saturday! Wonderful! Thanks so much!” (R.’s the tall, thin guy with a stache, glasses, and porn-star do. He conducts himself like the place is his – which it may be. In a good way, I mean.)

Unfortunately, Saturday was the day of the big power outage in the neighbourhood. You may have read the blow-by-blow in the new Twitter feed thingy I added at the right (what do you think of the name “Tweetness”?) I didn’t think anything nearby would have power so I decided to postpone until the following day.

On Sunday I strolled into Chew Chew’s like a man about to win something. I was thinking a free breakfast, maybe two? It’s a mom and pop joint so I figured it wouldn’t be anything big. But still, nice to win

R. handed it to me the moment I walked in. A couple of conditions were stapled to the front:

Okay, that’s fair. The weekends are probably the busiest times, and while they provide free food, they wouldn’t want to get stiffed on the taxes. And a tip is nice.

The part beneath the note simply has Chew Chew’s address and a notice that this ticket expired on August 31, 2008. Again, mom and pop joint; I’m sure it’ll be kosher when it comes to redemption time.

No mention of the actual prize though. I flipped it over:

Wow. I’d just won a coupon. With newly revealed, pre-existing staple holes. A re-used coupon.

My typical bill is around twelve dollars so I’d be saving a buck twenty. I tip considerably more than this. And I can’t imagine the next time I’ll be there on a weekday. *sigh*

I don’t think I’ve ever kept my feelings about the Shwa (an east Toronto burb), a secret. But having gone through this emotional roller-coaster, I totally empathize with them when they got the news today. KISS (yes, the rock band), was supposed to play there after the Shwabians won an online contest involving lots of votes. It was supposed to be one of those we’ll come to your little town if you can all pull together kinds of contests. Clearly Oshawa has a lot of KISS fans.

So can you imagine how elated they must’ve felt when they won?

Ah, good for them. Most of Oshawa revolved around the auto industry, and that went tits up here just like it did everywhere else. They really could’ve used a break like that. So when KISS crapped on their parade, I was genuinely saddened to hear about it. I mean, I might not like to be in the place, but that doesn’t mean I wish it harm.

KISS decided on good old Toronto because, as their spokesman put it, “the size of the production turned out to require a larger venue”. Bummer. They said they’d do something, but didn’t quite say what. Those lines are so far apart, you can read a whole stage play between them: “Ummm … shit … we can’t do the concert there … a … an autograph session? … that’s pretty weak … ummm … something … for me to come up with later”

Hope it’s something good!

While on the subject of reading, I came across a couple of articles, well, a few articles, that caught my attention in the past few days. The first was by the Toronto Star’s David Olive who kinda beats up on bloggers when he says that when the going gets tough, bloggers run to the mainstream media for a paycheque. Well, I don’t know about you, but this blog is something I just like to do. I have a steady day job and TCL is my excuse to get outside, get some fresh(er) air, and some much-needed exercise. It also forces me to keep my eyes open every day and just try to observe. Instead of sitting at my stuffy Toronto Star desk pontificating about all bloggers’ nefarious motives. Besides, my means to world domination are other. After that, who needs money?

Is it possible that some bloggers would be pleased as punch to merge into the mainstream media? I bet you could find a few. Is it possible that sometimes blogs feed the mainstream media? It’s been known to happen.

Nota bene (heh, the only Latin I know – I use it when I try to sound lawyery): I made mention of “The Bridge” (a police flick), way back in May. I suppose that I could have asked a few more questions, but whaddya gonna do? I don’t recall going to reporter academy, I’m just a guy living his life. And I happened to be there first

Oh, and you may recall the short interactions I’ve had with Steve Mann, watery musician and cyborg (the links explain all). Well on Sunday, out of the blue, The Star got the exact same idea! Yeah, totally ripped me off.

Anyhow, I didn’t want to argue against the mainstream media. Clearly I’m a news-breaker and some of them are just biters, that’s all. And sometimes I’m just lucky. Sometimes there are as many reasons to blog as there are bloggers. For me, it’s a way to escape the Dilbert strip I otherwise live in. If someone paid me a few bucks to write what I was gonna write about anyway, minus a couple of expletives, I wouldn’t be against it. As long as I wasn’t against it, dig? I fail to see the evil. But hardly suckling at the tit.

Ooh! Laundry’s done! Very good news. Star, I give you permission to break it. You know I love you, you big lug. *playful punch on chin* Mail the cheque(s), I trust ya

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Hahaha! *wipe tear* Oh man, you made my morning today. Thank you.

So I take it you fell off the side of one of the escalators in the enclosed photograph, correct?

Look, I don’t think actions such as these should be punishable by death, so I hope you get better. But seriously? Trying to ride the handrail? Here?

I’ve done my fair share regrettable things while inebriated. That was it, right? You were drunk? I get it. I’m always a little more invincible than I really am; I don’t think as well as I should; that’s what alcohol does. But I’ve never once thought that a two or three storey, head-first plunge onto a slab of concrete would be the thing to do. And I don’t know how you could’ve overlooked the height. You probably don’t remember, so have a look at the photograph again. Besides the great visibility, you probably got a good sense of the layout on your way up, no?

Well, listen. If you’re reading this, that’s good news! Stick with the physio and you should regain almost full control over the drooly side of your face. I know your situation sucks, but to be honest, I’m glad it wasn’t me. Then again, at 27, that wasn’t me. When you can dictate or write again, please send me a reply to describe your thought process at the time. I would be most interested.

With ancticipation,
Patrick

—

Dear Ms. Mohamud,

Okay, so let me see if I’ve got the story straight.

You went to Kenya to visit a relative. Had a good couple of weeks; nice place.

So then you went to leave and the people at the Kenyan airport said you didn’t look like your passport. Something about your lips being different? I had a look for myself, as you can see in the enclosed photo, and the passport photo probably bears the greatest resemblance to you out of all your identification.

So if I have it correct so far, they held you in detention (basically jail) while they contacted Canadian officials to verify your passport. Apparently all of the other government-issued identification cards you surrendered (among other things), were also supposed to have been forged or stolen, or something like that. I bet you were thinking the Canadian government would sort it all out for you, huh? After all, you are clearly who you say you are.

If were in your shoes, I would have shat a house when I learned that Canada then cancelled my passport as a verified fake. Are you as curious as I am to know how they came up with that? A government-backed inquiry wouldn’t be a bad idea. I mean, it will take a decade, but might as well start that mossy stone rolling, no?

Okay, so no documents. Honestly, asking to be fingerprinted was really smart. I don’t remember the feds taking my fingerprints when I came to Canada as a kid, but I guess they do. It would seem obvious that as an immigrant, they’d have your prints on file too.

But they didn’t.

Now, I completely understand why they would destroy your prints after doing a background check since, apparently, that’s all they’re supposed to be used for. Sensible, but obviously not of much help to you.

What I don’t get is why they kept you dangling for two weeks refusing to take them, then waiting two more while dithering whether or not to do so, then finally doing so, then two more weeks while they checked back home, and only then discovering that they don’t keep them on file.

Three months of Canada Border Services sitting on their thumbs. I can see how mistakes could be made, but this … how did you not freak out?

I know you haven’t decided whether or not to sue the government, but I want you to know you’ll have my full support if you do. The rolling of heads also gets my vote.

Sincerely,
Patrick

—

Dear busker at Dundas Station,

Thanks for letting me take your picture. Your music was like a Siren song. A jazzy Siren song. Minus the Siren. I don’t know how you managed to permeate the whole station, but it was just magical.

I hope you come back again soon.

With admiration,
Patrick

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1. “Hello? … How can I help you, Larry? … Oh my God! Is carbon monoxide dangerous?! OH MY GOD!! WHAT DO I DO?”
2. “Right, so I’ll get the gas out by breaking a nearby window? With the heaviest object I can find? OKAY!”
3. *grunt of exertion* “C’mon, Ollie. You’re saving my life, buddy. Don’t be so selfish.”
4. “LARRY?! OH MY GOD, LARRY!! HE’S GOT MY EYEBALL!! LARRY?! WHAT DO I DO, LARRY?!”

Now that I’ve set the context, imagine this actually happening, minus the cat, but plus the breaking of the window.

Or someone calls you at the fast food joint you’re working at, tells you that you need to activate the chemical sprinkler system immediately, and then strip down and wait outside because the chemicals spraying you are highly toxic.

I know, right? My first inclination would be to do exactly as they say.

Seriously, if Tariq Malik is the guy behind PrankNET, he’s someone I’m going to be watching very closely. He (from Windsor), his Toronto accomplice, and few other members have been prank calling people in the US and getting them to perform what I’ve describe above. And more. Many of the pranks result in damages, some of them quite severe.

I hadn’t actually heard of PrankNET until The Smoking Gun ran an expose that was picked up by local news. As soon as I read the story, I had to have a listen for myself!

I must say, the pranksters did sound awfully convincing, sometimes teaming up to sound even more official. But there was always a point where, if I were in the same situation, I’d have to say, “Woaw now. Hold on just a second.” Being told to break a labeled safety seal on a hotel sprinkler system would be one. Another would be trying to bash a hole in my hotel window as per telephone instruction, after sealing the door against the poisonous gas in the hallway, then having someone in the hallway tell me to stop hitting the window (or maybe they were standing outside the hotel and I opened the window to talk to them), then coming back and repeating all this three or four more times.

Sometimes people complied and successfully destroyed property on the first try. Sometimes they really had to work for it.

Just a word of advice from personal experience; if you’re ever in a similar situation you may be tempted to just wreck the whole place, but hold on! You have an alternative: “What? You want me to break out the window with a chair? Sure, let me just call you right back. *click* *dial* Hello, front desk? Did you just ask me to break out my window with a chair? No? Can you call the police please? Thanks ever so much.”

It’s obvious Tariq and William Marquis (the Torontonian), are at least guilty of impersonation (of police/fire officials), but it makes me wonder if they’ll be held responsible for all the damage that people did simply because some stranger on the end of a phone told them to. How far does personal responsibility extend? What is the measure of “better” in “they should’ve known better”?

(Don’t worry, Ollie’s just fine. My eyeball will heal too.)

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Have you ever done that thing where you rub the palm of your hand into your forehead in an agitated, twisting motion? Yeah.

Do you wanna know what I think happened? I think that City Hall saw Caribana looming and figured it couldn’t afford to lose it. Perhaps because of money. Perhaps reputation. Perhaps both. The negotiators blinked and, as a result, Miller has offered our collective anuses up for all sorts of wanton abuse. I can’t believe I used to call him General.

Oh well, at least it’ll be settled soon and we can all get back to doing whatever it is we do. Which is actually pretty much the same thing we’ve been doing all this time. How exciting.

Sarcasm, you say? Moi?! The impropriety!

Just hit the streets if you require evidence of various, excitingly subversive a-goings-ons:

Now who feels like an impudent little monkey?

Unfortunately, these people are so underground, I have no idea who they are or what this is all about. It’s clear they’re fucking with the post office, I  just can’t fathom why. Until they make themselves known, I guess we’ll just have to call them the Jacket Mailers Collective, or JaMaCo for short.

I know, right? That would make a good song. JaMaCo, down in Key Largo, blah blah blah blah, on the go, etc. Already half written! Unfortunately, JaMaCo is going to need a kick-ass stage show because someone already beat them to the headlines:

Pleasehelpusmrsnixon.com, a domain whose brilliance is bested only by torontocitylife.com

The nifty people behind this campaign are targeting one Janet Nixon, wife of Gordon Nixon, president and CEO of the Royal Bank of Canada. RBC is one of the few remaining bank conglomerates in Canada and I believe Gordon can have people legally “disappeared”. He’s that powerful. The bank invested in a, let’s say, controversial project called the tar sands. It’s a messy way to get oil out of tar-covered sand patches.

The group has been trying to stop the project’s source of funding, which is RBC, but Gordon doesn’t much care for their company. What to do?

Of course; talk to the guy’s wife!

The website features a fireside chat addressing, in a casual and friendly manner, Mrs. Nixon, asking for her assistance in helping her husband see some reason. “Thank you, Janet. Thank you very much.”

So nice.

In keeping with the sentiment, I’m so glad you could join me and share a moment of your time. That’s right, I’m pointing directly at you. Thank you.

Now, unfortunately, I have other duties to attend to, so I’ll have to bid you adieu. I’m sure you understand that I would never eschew you for something if it wasn’t critically important.

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Thirty-six days of military analogy was getting to be challenging, to be quite honest. For some strange reason I had decided I would never use the same term twice to describe the unions. Maybe I was trying to illegitimize them. Half an hour each night trying to come up with a new military unit: squad … squadron … division … unit … Luftwaffe … damn it! … squad? … I’VE ALREADY SAID THAT! … hmmm … how about … unit? … *much wailing and gnashing of teeth*

Not easy work; the cogs turned slowly and in circles much of the time. Did it keep me honest? Oh no, just constipated.

Terrible.

But at least it’s over. Here, have a final gander; bury your face in this one last time:

Has anyone invented Smell-O-Web yet? Because this is the reason to avoid that.

However, I really want to take a moment to stress that this really is both temporary and isolated. A TCL reader had expressed concern that the agreement would be too little, too late for this weekend’s Caribana festival.

I give you my personal pledge of honour (it involves a hand gesture!): even if the strike hadn’t been resolved by this weekend, the wiser and more responsible Caribana leadership had a contingency plan in place. Too many people would be really bummed out if it was canceled, especially over something like garbage. There’s the loss of income thing too.

Besides all of this, neighbourhoods and businesses have done a great job in keeping their own surroundings clean. They’re not as clean as usual, but that should be taken in context; for a major metropolis, Toronto is unusually feces free.

Anyone with a struggling shop open in a highly populated area understands that people don’t want to be shopping on rotting filth. It’s just natural that they’d want to keep the place looking neat.

If you’re looking for something to worry about during your visit, may I suggest murderous teens?

I had followed this case a while ago because it had so many interesting elements. The story basically goes that a teenage girl withheld sex and goaded her boyfriend to kill a girl she had perceived as her rival (though they had probably never met). The boy stabbed the “rival” outside of her own home on New Year’s day, and the murder’s been pretty much under wraps until the verdict. That came today.

The guilty part wasn’t surprising. The fact that they tried and convicted her as an adult was. And the life sentence. First-degree murder, pre-meditated through hundreds of very clear text messages. Not a very bright girl. And then there’s this:

The guy killed for that?!

Look, that’s not even being shallow; everything I’ve read indicates she’s unbelievably self-centered, clearly manipulative, crass, and devoid of any remorse or personality. Along with the extra storage for the winter months, that doesn’t leave much room for advancement in her life, does it?

Obviously, the boy’s father should be held responsible for not teaching him about masturbation, porn, the internet; even a simple Sears catalog for heaven’s sake! The whole nightmarish thing could’ve been prevented.

Such lovely brazier models. If only …

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But I was hard.

Then, just before Christmas one year, I was handed an envelope. On it, in scratchy writing was “Happy HoliDa ys, YOUR UniOn”. Hand-written; that couldn’t be good. It felt thick – was this a letter bomb? Had my antics finally pissed them off?

I tore into it. What in god’s name could it be? I flipped it over and shook the open end over my palm in front of everyone (that way we would all go together – including the bastard who delivered it).

With a yule tide jingle, out came exactly $2.47 in change.

I believe it was a dollar coin, four quarters, four dimes, a nickel, two well-worn pennies, and one face in absolute disbelief. I held the envelope up to the light to see if there was anything else in there.

Nope. Nada.

And that’s how it ended. No goodbye. No thanks for the dinner. Nothing. Not even a hello.

That was, in fact, the first I’d heard that I was in a union and that I had been paying fees off every paycheck. I don’t recall signing anything or anyone welcoming me into the “brotherhood”.  I felt so violated.

The stuff in the envelope were the crumbs distributed to part-time lackeys like me; a fair cut of whatever unwilling contribution I had made to their organization over the past year. For a kid who could clear two to four-hundred a paycheck, that was just a slap in the face. Ooh! I can buy a coffee! — Here, keep it. No seriously; buy yourself something frilly.

God, I was a petulant youth.

But that’s the impression unions left on me. So when I hear that CUPE 416/79 are ready to strike, I’m already a bit defensive. When I see the mess that the garbage crew (of that union) leave on the streets every week, I’m also not enthusiastic. And when I compare their demands to cushy private sector jobs like mine, I think they’re being pretty bold.

But that’s not so bad, not when you read the latest few items on CUPE 416’s own site. Their further demands are that “all concessions” (of which there are 118), that the city has tabled for discussion be cleared. In other words: “City, our members want to communicate just how much we don’t give a shit about any of what you want.” (Wow! Somebody got into the wrong cookie dough!)

I’m going to point out the blazingly obvious and say that this is the worst time for that kind of approach.

I’m sure the hammer swings both ways, but Monday’s the day when the city could be without trash pickup, and for what?

For the love of all that is good and holy, won’t someone please remember Chinatown!

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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.

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“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…

1908

Toronto Police Inspector Gilks. Size 8 in a city of size 9s, croissant aficionado, and hiding something.

1914

North of the city, a determent camp for bad cops. Prisoner 5409, seen here sowing potatoes with wife and daughter. Those are the olden days for ya!

1949

Two officers showcasing the latest uniforms. Note that one is partially smiling, thus happy, while the other is not smiling at all and has quite violently soiled himself, thus unhappy. Thank God for the restraining bands at the knees!

1936

“On the roster today, gentlemen, fellatio! As per our venerable group’s induction rules, these two young gentlemen will now…”

1910

Police Inspector Cronin’s bizarre, inexplicable, toxic, yet oddly hypnotic hairpiece was, most experts agree, the cause of his prolonged constipation. Look at that concentration!

1939

The first and last year in which the facial pole catching event was held. It was determined to be too detrimental to the police population with only half an officer making it to the podium that year, scoring a disappointing bronze.

1927

In the next three years Canada would purchase a second motorcycle (rated for up to 12 officers at a time), to service the western half of the country. It was customary to give the captain (at right), the “swan” perch on the handlebars with the other officers forming a protective cocoon around him.

See all the shit the cops had to put up with? If you weren’t getting your face poled or having to pleasure your commanding officers, you were required to wade around the city in your own filth.

The cops sure have come a long way since then. I think they’re doing a good job for the city at the moment, despite the alarming rise in murder reportage, but I also believe that they could probably be doing more. Just think of their predecessors!

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So it was a happy day today when I finally remembered to pick up a box at the local Metro. As I stood in line at the checkout I ran through the great conversation I would have with the cashier: “I see you bagged that tea quite expertly. Would you consider yourself a professional teabagger?”

Two things put a major damper on that:

First, the lady ringing in my box of Wagon Wheels and no-name English Breakfast Blend had a pretty rudimentary grasp of the language and it probably wouldn’t have made the splash I was looking for. It was intended for her benefit, after all; I already know how witty I am.

Second, she preempted me abruptly with, “For five cents each, would you like to buy bag, sir?”

That shrunk my enthusiasm down to embarrassing cold-water scrotum size, and it was all thanks to that new plastic bag bylaw that came into effect today. Retailers must now sell their bags to customers at a minimum of five cents a piece and at this time next year, no retailer will be able to carry bags that are non-biodegradable.

Right.

The Indian woman with the unlikely name of Linda stood there behind the counter blinking at me, waiting for a response. “I guess I’ll take one,” I replied, “but make sure to put the tea in professionally.” — DAMN IT! The whole paying-for-a-bag affair set me off kilter. In my displacement, I couldn’t quite put my finger on why this bothered me.

It’s not the concept of paying for bags that bothers me. The intent is to put less into landfills while still giving the option to people if they want them. I think that this is as far as the planning for this project went at city hall. Had they not been so eager to get out and hoist a few, they may have noticed a few byflaws in their bylaw (damn that’s witty!):

• The money for each bag is collected and kept by the retailer to do with as they please. The bylaw recommends that this surplus money be put into community initiatives and such like. I’m sure you’ve already reached the same conclusion I have: yeah, right.
• The five cent charge is the minimum. Retailers may charge as much as they want. Locals may be apt to punch the greedy store owner in the face, but tourists…
• The Blue Box program recently started accepting plastic bags, presumably for the purposes of recycling. If this is not the case…ummm…why are we recycling again?
• My plastic bags, the same ones I use to take excessive, non-biodegradable, non-recyclable packaging to the garbage bin in, don’t really seem like the worst offenders in the grand scheme of things. Could we charge industry for packing all those unnecessary layers in there? Maybe some compensation to the Ontario Health Plan for the benefit of all those who experience injury and suffering sustained while trying to open some of those horrible plastic packages!

Consider this:

Plastic bags can be very useful and I feel it’s fair to say that no one likes to see them flapping from trees. A nickel is not a terrible price to pay for a bag that you can reuse a few times if you are so inclined. Some of the detractors of the bylaw are trying to convince people that cloth bags are cesspools of bacteria and fungi. True, if you’re keen on keeping your bag in that warm, special, moist place. So hang it up on something for a couple of days. Not really a very good argument.

Besides, plastic bags aren’t the biggest problem. I don’t mind an initiative to reduce them as long as there’s an equal share of the responsibility on the manufacturing end. Our sacks are important and everyone must lend a helping hand to support them.

I know, that was terrible. I’m still traumatized from that cashier lady.

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I mean, what if that were my own potbellied pig out there?

Okay, so pig is the wrong word; let’s say gourmand. — Would I be able to eat him?

Look, have no illusions here; I’m fairly certain that Oliver would be feasting on my bloated corpse the moment I breathed my last. He might do so sadly, with a tear in his eye, but still manage to splatter bits of my entrails all over the kitchen floor. He is, after all, a meat eater. A very messy one. He’s just built that way.

So are we…kind of. We can do quite well on a non-meat diet and people have been proving that for quite some time. Let’s face it: meat eaters, of which I am one, really have no good excuse except maybe to say that it’s tasty.

I can’t rightly say don’t eat meat, just maybe not so much. And even less baby animals; that just doesn’t seem right, does it? While we’re at it, why not choose meat from an animal that has had a decent life? Of course you pay more for that, and that’s because it really should be a premium: Eat it less and savour it more. Veggies are, pound for pound, dirt cheap anyway, even if you buy organic which simply means your food’s been exposed to less crap. Save money, potentially more healthy, and happier creatures. I fail to see the downside.

Those who will tell you free-run, organic whatever tastes better are, for the most part, sadly deluded. The non-organic fruit tastes as good as the organic, the free-run don’t run on the butter better than the no-free-run — now three times fast.

There is this one milk that, to me, seems less gamey and more creamy than other local brands, but aside from that I wouldn’t recommend buying these things for improved flavour. Some, like fruit, will actually go bad quicker than the non-organic versions, but that’s probably because bacteria aren’t repelled by it.

Ultimately, it seems like it’s not a bad thing to be a bit more mindful of where our food comes from, even if just for ourselves. Making food more precious makes it taste better somehow, despite what I’ve just stated in the previous paragraph. It’s the difference between a single orange and a crate-full. You’ll never eat the whole crate before they rot so you can, nay must, be wasteful. You could fling armfulls at people for fun and still have a glass of freshly squeezed. A single orange, though, would be peeled so much more carefully, coquettishly even. And long after the orange was gone, the rending peel would remind your of the golden days of yesteryear, when you still had your orange.

I was going to start this paragraph with “But I digest…“, but after some reflection I came to the conclusion that I can’t stomach that kind of humour. I’ll just end by reminding you of that orange. Remember that orange? How it looked up at you with those sad, teary eyes? Remember?!

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Breasts, bikes, and beer; the triumvirate of alliterative seduction is now complete!

At around this time last year, the Rickard’s beer company (one of a number Molson‘s subsidiaries), introduced a white wheat beer that I had absolutely no interest in. It’s not that I don’t enjoy beer but my interest in it wanes, much like my interest in full-time employment. Currently, it’s waxing.

Usually I imbibe my alcoholic beverages with deep political convictions; a pint of Guinness with a sipping shot of B52, for example. Rickard’s White, though, doesn’t really make a statement other than “I taste good” — which it does.

White ale, if you’re not familiar with it, is an unfiltered beer (hence the cloudiness), that has orange peel and coriander added to it to produce a slightly citrusy flavour. Unlike lager, ale is fermented more quickly and at room temperature (lager’s kept cold).

I’ve poured all sorts of fermented crap down my gullet and this drink is truly inoffensive. The slice of orange (sometimes lemon), shown in the photo is how it’s served at various pubs around Toronto. Friday afternoon’s tart and bitter post-work bitch-outs at Shoeless Joe’s just wouldn’t be possible without it.

I’m hardly a scholar of beer and it’s fair to say that the term “enthusiast” wouldn’t apply to me, but I can recommend this one. It’s the gateway drug of the legal alcohol world.

If I could leave just one parting note to our American neighbours, I would point out that Canadian beer tends to contain a man-level of alcohol (5.5%+), so take your time. And for the rest of you who may be wondering why this entry is uncharactersitically short, you will find your answer at the bottom of my pint glass.

Cheers!

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What struck me as even more amazing was the fact that his girlfriend (considerably younger than he is), dropped by my place with an Austrian beer and an offer for me to take over as superintendent. Me! Can you imagine?! –* sip

I said I’d think about it. And then I thought about it.

On day one I’d be fishing snakes out of the pipes. I don’t know how they’d get there, who they’d belong to, or even why they’d all be venomous, but I just know it would happen.

“I’ve had it with these motherfuckin’ snakes in this motherfuckin’ drain!”

Day two would involve a fire.

There would be no day three.

No, I don’t think I’m cut out for that job. Also, having everyone’s keys readily available would be too much temptation.

Jobs like that should go to someone like this:

This is Pam McConnell. She’s the city councillor for ward 28, of which I am apparently a member. In this ward, the Gardiner is named a little differently, and council gets the job done! Just read between the halftone.

I know I’m going straight to hell for stating the following and, although I don’t intend to be mean, it’s also out in plain sight.

To begin with, I’m sure that Pam’s days on the dating circuit are probably over. I suspect she’s married and she’s probably on top in the bedroom – she da boss! Her clothes scream full-figured comfort and looking at her face always imbues me with a sense of motherly warmth.

In other words, Pam got to where she is through intelligence and insight, not through looks or a bitchin’ beehind. I suppose she could have connections but if she’s in any way tied up in shady dealings, that’s even cooler.

Pam puts out a quarterly newsletter which she crams full of the major photo-ops of the past few months. Here is a sampling:

She really is cute, isn’t she?

And look at all the shit she’s accomplishing. I mean, Regent Park used to be a scary place, but there’s a lot of community involvement and genuine re-building going on there. That little woman’s out there kicking asses and taking names.

I really hope that one day I catch her somewhere around St. Lawrence Market and persuade her to let me snap a picture of us together. Perhaps shaking hands, perhaps not; I don’t know if I’ll be able to contain myself. I’m already giddy!

I guess it’s just because she’s the kind of politician one could get behind, you know what I mean?

No, not in that way, even though that would be a great picture!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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There was a wee nip in the morning and, without exception, everyone else was dressed so as to retain some body heat. He was, as I could gather from the small logo on the sleeve of his t-shirt, a cadet of some sort. Sure, you gotta be a bit tougher for that kind of thing, but I hope that some wisdom intercedes before he’s given a firearm. He looked absolutely frigid, huddled in a small, pale mass on the subway bench next to a svelte woman twice his size.

He was, basically, really tiny and really cold.

The only other reason I could see for someone being so wholly under-dressed would be if they had just returned from vacation. You’ve seen them: doe-eyed sadness, brown and suddenly stripped of the sun by a bitter northerly wind raking their naked skin as they step through the terminal exit. Genuinely amusing; but I can appreciate the more relaxed attitude. Unless they were returning from one of those Conquest vacations. In that case, the blazing inferno of their concentrated displeasure would probably sear a hole in the side of the plane.

Imagine going south with your family after pinching pennies for a year only to discover that the company you had booked with went tits-up while you were sipping Pina Coladas. That, in and of itself, wouldn’t be the real pisser though. What would light your fire would be the fact that you might have had to pay for the remainder of your vacation, and your trip home, out of pocket. Or else.

So, where did the money go? I mean, last time I booked a vacation I had to pay for the full thing before I was given the flight tickets, and it sure as hell wasn’t cheap. In other words, I had already paid for my vacation. So imagine my surprise if I ended up in Cancun only to find out that, in fact, no I hadn’t. Except I had. Meaning, somebody stole my money. If it was a matter of bad credit between businesses then trying to shake down the customers to try to get it back is a theft on both fronts. Is it any more complicated than that?

The moment my feet hit Canadian soil, I would be exceedingly and most exceptionally pissed. Until then, I’d be high-tailin’ it through the jungle like a greased monkey. I’d probably discover later that I’d hurt myself real bad during my coca-fueled flight, but I would make it to a road. There I would swap English lessons and charm for rides, putting increasingly happy miles between the hotel and me. Thus, riding a crest of elation, I would find myself not north as I had expected, but south — in Brazil. Fiery Brazil.

So…I hope that the tourists who got the royal shaft from Conquest will be doing that when they get home because, frankly, I haven’t heard a single critical note on Conquest pipe put of any of the local media. Where are the kick-ass take-downs? Where are the public photos of Conquest execs hanging their heads in shame for absconding with their customers’ money?

That’s right, I’m asking for poo to be flung.

“Customers who have booked a Conquest vacation will likely get the money back.” – *sob*

“Oasis [resort] staff told the 200-odd guests who booked through Conquest they must pay the $1,078-per-person bill – or police would come to the airport the day of their scheduled departure and force them to clear their tab.” – Ouch.

“Conquest Vacations regrets the inconvenience caused to the passengers due to cessation of its operations” – !

“Canadians clashed with Mexican hotel security guards Thursday when a group of 28 people staying at the Golden Parnassus resort tried to leave the premises after disputing their bill, according to one of the travellers.” – Image, gone.

“At home, Conquest’s sudden demise is raising questions about the travel-industry watchdog’s role in preventing such inconveniences.” – You know, that is inconvenient.

“As a gesture of goodwill, we are offering travellers who are rebooking their vacations with Sunquest over the next 10 days $100 off the lowest current Sunquest rates — with proof of their Conquest Vacations purchase” – Turning frowns upside-down.

“In business since 1972, Conquest served destinations in Canada, the United States, the Caribbean, Mexico and Europe.” – Good to know. Good to know.

“Beaver had recently planned a trip to the Dominican with her boyfriend.” – I’m so so sorry. I just couldn’t stop myself. It was automatic – like clicking in a dream.

The guy across from me on the streetcar this morning had the face, bristle, and thick-rimmed glasses of Elvis Costello, the fashion sense of Paul Giamatti, and the hair of Sideshow Bob. I walked through the entrance to my building with the spitting image of a female manservant Hecubus. We both passed the building’s property manager who bears more than passing resemblance to Dr. Evil.

Shouldn’t people like this be on camera? Some people don’t think so.

In an article today, The Star published a publicity piece for a group (led by Ryan Ringer) calling themselves Methinks Presents, which if you ask me, is a total misnomer.

What they intend to do is to swarm the Google Street View car that has recently been making the rounds in Toronto in order to bring attention to the “creepy nature” of Google’s project. As part of the event, they’ll probably be taking pictures in a public location.  In the process, they’ll probably be capturing the numerous random faces of people who just happen to be passing by and won’t have any say in  (or even knowledge of), being photographed. Not to mention the number of random webcams, camera phones,  and “security” and traffic cameras that cling to every available nook and cranny downtown. It’s a safe bet that everything will find its way onto Flickr, YouTube, blogs, etc.

To argue that Google is invading our privacy from the inside of a car, from a public road, means that it shouldn’t be legal for anyone to take photographs from anywhere, of anything, for any reason. Or is it just Google because they’re “evil”? Maybe Methink’s protest is intended to be somehow artistically ironic? Somehow, methinks not.

My shitter being equated to the middle of my street throws the notion of “reasonable expectation of privacy” out the window. Everything would be considered private (if the street would, what wouldn’t be?). Recorded images of any kind would have to be illegal, probably forcing the government to ban the use of cameras. While at it, why not extend the same courtesy to audio recordings? That would really suck for quite a few people.

I suppose one alternative would be to ask permission whenever you took a picture; permission of anyone in the shot (or blur them out); permission from the owners of any properties in the frame (or blur them out); permission from owners whose pets appear in photographs (or blur them out). God help you if an identifiable airplane or bus happens to pass into your shot.

Sounds silly, doesn’t it?

Not only does Methink’s plan sound horribly illegal (“hey, let’s go swarm a car because we don’t like what it’s doing”, but they’re pushing an idea that is contrary to the public good. Mine especially. I bought a brand-spanking new camera not too long ago and I don’t want to be  ambushed by Methink’s grouptards for taking a picture of the Eaton Centre.

I don’t think most people would be bothered  if they saw themselves walking down the street in a Street View scene, unless maybe they were caught doing something questionable. In that case, may I suggest maybe not doing that in public?

Oh, and when the Google car does approach, I think there’s a much better way to deal with one’s public image. Do a quick straighten-up, put on a giant shit-eatin’ grin, and give a crazy big thumbs-up as the car passes. The virtual tourist will find Toronto to have very inetersting people. Isn’t that much more productive?

Are you reading this with coffee? No? Well, do you wanna get one? I can wait…

I think it’s good to immerse yourself in a subject much, as it happens, like good coffee in hot water. It provides a much richer froth of experience and warm sensory delectation. Mmmm, I know you can taste it.

Now let me tell you why Second Cup is UH-SO-MUCH (said with gusto!), better than Starbucks. First, let’s take a detour to the basics: the bean. It starts as the green seed of a red cherry. The cherry part is stripped or sometimes left to dry off, the husk around the two beans in the center (sometimes one) is dried off along with the beans themselves, then they’re bagged, stored, and shipped. Basically: strip, dry, husk, bag, and deliver.

Up until this point, with the exception of coming from different equatorial regions around the world, most beans are pretty much the same. Green, there’s not much flavour. When slow roasted, though, some kinda magical alchemical reaction takes place in the bean and it starts to slowly release all sorts of flavourful oils onto its surface as it browns.

The lightest roast is green-brown. You probably wouldn’t want to drink it; probably something like boiled cabbage and two-day-old underwear. When brown, the next step up, the bean is nicely toasted throughout, but there’s no oil on the surface. The next roast up is medium. Here you can easily see oily spotting on the bean. Finally, with a dark roast, the bean is visibly blackened and very oily all over. If you’ve ever bought a French or Italian roast, that’s the guy.

So, the next time you step into a Starbucks, don’t forget that you’ve just wasted however long it took you to read that. If you skipped it, good for you. It’s pretty much irrelevant because everything at Starbucks is cinder. That’s the American style of producing “strong” coffee; burn the bean to hell and back and throw in milk and sugar like it went out of style two seasons ago.

But I don’t want to be too critical. Good blackened beans are good for a proper frothy espresso or espresso-based drinks.
Which I barely ever have.
End of story.

Second Cup, on the other hand, runs the whole gamut of browns. If you visit their bean counter, they usually have a display mounted front and center where they show off what I described above. There’s usually not much guess work between a light roast and a medium roast; just look at the differences in oil on the surface. I’ve been told their default dark roast is a bit sub-par but, at more than one location, they’ve made special cups from freshly ground bagged beans from the bean counter. Never hurts to ask because that’s how you might hit on that one awesome bean.

Not only that but the majority of their stuff is excellent; fair-trade-before-fair-trade ones like my fave of faves, La Minita Tarrazu, a coffee that has never disappointed. Mellow and just so laid back. That coffee doesn’t have a care in the world.

Summatran/Indonesian blends are also very accessible; their sun curing process creates a coffee that in some seasons tastes like cocoa. When done in a french press, it creates a really rich brew with some of the very fine particles of coffee suspended in the liquid. This thick hot suspension and it’s aroma of nuts and chocolate all get plunged into a sweetened steamed-milk bath. Like I said, accessible.

At Starbucks, the choices are basically: black, pitch, inner-anus, and very very dark. Even with caramel, I don’t like them odds.

Buy proud Canadian coffee instead! Raise that morning cup ‘o northen glory high and pronounce with pride:

It may have been the general aversion to such a word as “bum” by the company I kept during my formative years, but other than being used to describe:

 
…well, you’re not supposed to call people of no fixed address that. That is the only foul version of that word.

Panhandling is done for many different reasons so I try to judge each book by it’s cover. If the person looks really destitute, I won’t miss a quarter. But there are others who make it a bit harder to part with my nickels.

This morning, for example, I passed a fellow under the subway tracks who I recognized as an area local. Aside from not being able to figure out if people were dropping imaginary money into his cup, or if he was taking sips of imaginary coffee, or if both were real and he was just drinking change, I couldn’t help but notice his clothes.

His shoes were sparklingly new, as were his bright white slacks and a gorgeous scarf tossed carelessly around his neck. Yes, he had an ensemble. Meanwhile, I was walking by in deep need of new shoes and a winter jacket that finally allows me to use the word threadbare. It’s a good word. Lotsa uses.

No, my money wasn’t going into that coffee.

As I stepped on the escalator to the platform, the word “bum” floated through my consciousness and I caught myself feeling a bit embarrassed. But then, with majestic bravado, the manly part of my brain walked on over, swooped that little lady off her feet and told her everything would be alright. After all, he really was trying to “bum” money off me. If the need were great, it would be “begging”, “panhandling”, or “soliciting”. If the need doesn’t seem that great, it’s “bumming”, and the person performing that action is a “bum”.

If we take some of the generalized pejorative connotations out of the word, it sounds a bit more reasonable. In fact, I’m in favour of adding a little weight on the cheeky side of the definition because I believe those kinds of “bum fights” would make the world a better place.

Though down, be not thee out.

I say “hell no!”  on their behalf, and and also for me by way of corollary (pure logic, baby). There’s a million and one things to get behind, from diseases, to famine, to war. Expecting anyone to get behind them all of them really just mirrors the decrier’s own lack of sanity. It’d be easy enough to clam up anyone who decides to go down that path by scaling the question  down to pleb level and asking which local charities they themselves haven’t contributed to. The only correct follow-up to their answer is, “well why not, jerk face?”  — that usually pacifies everyone.

Oh, and also, I’m not a celebrity. So with righteous aplomb, I continue.

I have the flu. If it isn’t the flu, some bacterium is a master of disguise. I have all the classic symptoms; chills, intermittent fever, headache, sneezing, snotting, and otherwise expelling pus. I’m writing this from my convalescence couch (eh, who am I kidding, by convalescence I mean just regular ole’ life. I just like alliterations).

“Oh, big whoop,” I hear you say, “everyone’s had the flu. My four-year-old niece doesn’t blog about it when she’s sick; what’s so special about you?”

What a loaded question, dear  imaginary interlocutor. Let me start by casting doubt on your niece’s ability to write a multi-paragraph expository work of any kind. That is all. I guess I shouldn’t have started that without a second point. Oh well.

My aim wasn’t to heap aspersions on your nieces or nephews anyway,  but rather to draw attention to the fact that Influenza is probably the world’s deadliest communicable disease and, since it’s affecting me, to try to encourage you to do something about it.

The statistics are a bit fuzzy at the upper end of the scale because Influenza is lumped into the “Lower respiratory infections” group (basically lung problems). A bit of reading reveals that yes, the flu can cause this type of complication, but not always. Usually this happens in the elderly or infirm, but there’s always one variant or another that has the ability to be more profoundly harmful to everyone.

On top of all this, apparently the influenza group hasn’t budged from its number one spot in the charts for decades. H5N1, the bird flu; that scared quite a few people because of the possibility of another pandemic, but once all the birds were dead, people pretty much forgot about it. Getting all lathered up does nobody any good, but there should be a level and ongoing discussion on the topic of Influenza in general (including all its variants, not just the few in the spotlight).

The government is quick to point out that flu vaccines are not entirely effective (roughly 80%), in staving off infections. This stems from the virus’ ability to evolve and change outfits before going out on the town.

The virus essentially wears a chemical mask which it uses to sneak by our body’s bouncers and get in. By the time the bouncers realize what’s happened, the virus has already taken control of the bar.

Vaccines work by providing the door security with photos of the virus’ newest disguises, but that 20% miss rate indicates that two in ten virii still manage to sneak by undetected. The other problem is that, in a typical season, we provide the bouncer with snapshots of only three of the most common viral disguises (which are many and growing each year). If any one of those variants decided to bring a weapon, that would really suck.

In other words, flu vaccines are a stopgap solution to a potentially deadly and widespread problem.

Academia and government are definitely concerned over this, but I don’t remember the last time someone marched up Yonge street waving a “United against the flu” placard. Don’t remember the last time I saw that for HIV/AIDS neither, come to think of it.

We need to get out there and rally against this horrible, horrible disease. It’s making me not enjoy Ren & Stimpy and I can’t taste hot dogs. I can’t imagine how it could get worse, but apparently it can. The flu must be stopped now.

Please, for my sake.

First the employment.

I don’t want to paint an unnecessarily rosy picture; there are certain sectors out there that are getting beat up left right and center. These seem to be mostly in old, established manufacturing jobs with most of them tied to car makers. However, many emerging and newer fields are on a broad upswing. Consider the letter I mentioned above. What makes that email uplifting is that it’s for the job in which I’m currently employed; I know because I helped to write the job description. We could chalk this mistake up to ignorance (more on that later), but le’s say for a moment that this was for a job that I wasn’t already in; what does the email say about the job market in my field (Flash developer, if you didn’t bother)?

First of all, the employment agency went to the trouble of describing my employer as a “Medium Sized Trendy Company”. In a brief discussion about this, my fellow developer and I came to the conclusion that we most certainly are the heppest things since hep became a word.

Going to the bother of adding trendy words indicates that a little bit of extra oomph is needed to attract candidates, something to which I can definitely attest. We’ve been trying to fill this position for about a year now. There have been a lot of dismal, head-shake-inducing entries and unfortunately, those that have been good were poached by competitors.

I don’t think that this job situation requires any heavy analysis (like this helped any “experts” forecasting our current monetary troubles); it’s a simple matter of supply and demand. Most high-tech skills, especially really nerdy ones like programming have large gaps between what employers need and what they can get. Sure, the learning curve is pretty steep but I think that an intensive six month course in your technology of choice should be enough to get you in on the $60K/year gigs. More often than not, there will be good room for negotiation.

Most developers I know are aware of the current global economic fiasco by name only. If you’re looking for a job, Toronto is probably faring a bit better than most places, but it’s hurting just as bad in those areas where people are getting axed globally. Despite this, it seems to be smooth sailing for all the fields that are opening up either because of changes in technology, ageing of the population, or recognition of global problems like the environment. By new, I mean somewhere in the neighbourhood of five to six years. I’m considered senior for God’s sake!

Don’t poopoo jobs because they’re different. Work environments are bound to change; if you’re freelancing now you probably have a better idea of what the workplace of tomorrow will look like than the standard nine-to-five guy. Keep your mind open when looking for a new job; the opportunity may seem unlike anything you’ve ever tried, and that’s usually what makes it the one to go for. There is an element of uncertainty, but as a general risk-averting pussy, I can honestly say that it’s a lot smaller than you think (mostly just an excuse).

In closing, I wanted to just touch on head hunters in the employment maelstrom. You can do without them! After all, their modus operendi is to make money off of you in exchange for providing a job seeking service as well as backing you up when you’re on the clock.

At least, that’s the theory.

In my experience with about seven different agencies, most fucked off after my first day on the job. In most cases I had to hunt down my rep who, more often than not, would be generally unavailable because of “meetings”, and that didn’t go down well on payday when the cheque didn’t show up. For the forty-odd bucks they were charging on top of my hourly, you’d think they’d be able to actually do what they say they’d do. Besides this, I had better luck finding good jobs myself ; they exist and agencies usually don’t have exclusive dibs. My delicate feet never hit pavement either.

And do keep in mind the level of competence exemplified by some of these chuckleheads; like the one who sent me a job offer for my own job. I wonder if he has opposable thumbs.

In case your cave doesn’t get cable yet, the story is one of your basic teenage withholding-sex-for-murder deals. Right now the jury’s still out on whether or not the female half of the duo is culpable, but the precendent that appears to have been set has already been decided.

After all, if you can say “I didn’t really mean it” when on trial for first-degree murder (meaning it was planned), you should certainly be able to use it in almost any other criminal and civil defence.  Consider this courtroom evidence, a few excerpts from instant messages between the two:

“I want her dead … if it takes more than a week, then we’re just gonna be friends”
“ur getting blocked until u kill her”

The mother of the accused girl suggests that “they were trying to make each other jealous”. Her lawyer says that “things don’t necessarily mean what they appear to mean”*. Presumably Judge Nordheimer weighs each defence before allowing anything under the sun into his courtroom, so in this instance it must have been deemed a-okay.

I’m not suggesting that the defence will fly with the jury. Arguing that the words “dead” and “kill” in instant messages (where brevity usually prevails) mean to disassociate or block, especially when the longer word  “blocked” is used to mean just this, is a huge stretch. Even punctuation seems to be well thought out, and the diminutive “ur” and”u”, and a captilized “I” suggest a domninant attitude in the relationship.

Whatever; the point is that whichever angle you approach this from, it’s been allowed to be a part of the defence, including the bit where it wasn’t really serious. I really hope that when the full transcripts are released, these few details will somehow make sense. Right now, I get the impression that I should be able to make death threats of all sorts as long as I laugh about it afterwards.

I feel like I’ve discovered a bewitching new world right where my TV monitor used to be. In the same sense as car crashes or deformed kittens are so damn compelling, local access cable offers a dizzying variety of shows that make looking away impossible.

I just want to point out, right up front, that this is neither moaning, bitching, nor complaining. I watch enough dreck that tries to pass itself off as entertainment that, production values aside, local cable is a comparative gleaming jewel.

I mean, there’s absolutely no pretense here.  These folks know that their audience is extremely limited so their shows have a real laissez-faire atmosphere. During weekdays, some of these shows must skim dangerously low over the ratings plains. The effort matches the budget, matches the content, [unfairly] matches audience numbers.

Yet, despite these seeming obstacles, we find encapsulated in each frozen frame a vast, endless realm of entertainment. Kind of like a heavy acid trip.

Take this screencap of late night with The Canadian Shopping Channel. Unfortunately I managed to miss the frame in which the announcer’s finger aided in relativizing the scale of the merchandise, but hopefully you’ll trust me when I tell you that this is an old Canadian ten-dollar bill.

Have a good look; let the ambiance of it set in.

Now we can begin an organized, scholarly analysis.

First, we come to the obvious motif; perhaps a bit antiquated, but many people would still recognize good old Hermes up front, caduceus held jauntily close to his jibblies, vanguard of the modern transportation age.

According to the announcer, behind the Winged Messenger (at his feet), lies a globe symbolizing “Canada’s prominence in global transportation.”

The prominence of Central America, whose strangely emaciated shores stand front and center on the globe, is the only feature I can pick out. The U.S. is tucked safely behind Hermes’ calf  so calling it “prominent” would be somewhat of a misnomer; casting Canada as “prominent” in this scene, slung somewhere toward the back of the globe, is a happy irony. The Royal Mint was apparently real easy with double entendres in the thirties.

The next item that the presenter pointed out was the strange, hat-like shape just to the right of Hermes in the sky (you’ll need to view the larger version of the image for this). In this spot, the aforementioned finger was pointing to the newest,  choice form of Canadian international travel: the airplane. Maybe the face of the bill is faded (!) or maybe the detail is smaller than I expected, but all I see an airborne snot rag. Maybe it’s an U.F.O., or maybe more commentary by our boys at the Mint.

Delightful!

So, okay, we have a couple of relatively minor graphical things that may have simply been interpreted wrong by the  announcer. They do chip away at my credulity and would make me think twice before parting with nearly a grand, but let’s not dwell on this. Especially since there is so much more to discover!

Next I wanted to turn our attention to the artistic merits of the bank note as a whole. What, exactly, is it that makes it look a little strange (subject matter aside)? It’s quite simple. Notice the ships at the left side; they’re resting at a proper angle on top of the water. The vanishing point,   a point in the image where all perspective lines converge, is somewhere in the center of the picture. The ships’ lines correctly radiate out from this point, giving the viewer the impression that the ships are real, three-dimensional objects.

The right half of the centerpiece, however, appears to have tossed out this convention in favour of a train track where the vanishing point would force the locomotive to drive deep into the ground. The cow-catcher would be sadly obsolete, but that would be the least of our worries in such a reality.

Assuming the whole set has about seven bills in it ($1, $2, $5, $10, $20, $50, and $100), that would make the cost roughly $128 a pop. That, to me, is excessive for a bill where the details are poorly preserved (assuming they’re there), and where highschool art class concepts are discarded for seemingly no good reason.

But that’s all aesthetic, right? To each his own and all that. Besides, the art on legal tender is not within the presenter’s control, so let’s zoom out to a more macro-level view and look at the other features of the program that really make it stand out. Why not start with the obvious?

I had more than a passing fancy in Numismatics so I know at least a touch about bill and coin collecting. Let’s assume you don’t have an introduction in this field. Regardless of how much you may or may not know, you’d think it would be safe to assume that the items being sold on “The Coin Show” would be coins. Not so.

Moving on, the toll-free number in the corner was surely the invention of some rebellious marketeers.  Here they’ve shunned the one-three-three-four digit combination pattern for a startling one-three-four-three sequence.

Outrageous!

A bit of hyperbole, I know, but you have to admit something there feels wrong. The numbers are grouped in mnemonic sets, which I suppose makes sense, but they’re just begging to be misread and mis-dialed. And why not? The pink “Shop” logo in the other corner indicates the target audience; mostly women and mostly, I suspect,  middle-aged. That often means glasses which are intended specifically to prevent the misreading of oddly-grouped and small-fonted  information.

At this point you’re probably thinking, “You know, Patrick, this sounds an awful lot like whining, bitching, and possibly complaining.” Well, you’re wrong.

These things I point out are the things that keep me so enthralled with local cable. I chose only one, and in hindsight, somewhat weak example from the pseudo-local Shopping Channel. Had I been tuned to Rogers Cable 10, I would have been treated to an expansive, multi-layered array of brilliant programming such as Toronto’s Talent, Sex @ 11, and GTHL Minor Midget Hockey.

These programs are something that the big networks with their budgets, polished scripts, and personable hosts can never hope to approach. It’s precisely the awful, poorly scripted and ultra-low budget shows that local channels carry that makes them so enjoyable.

Pulling comparisons between major network shows and those found on local access TV is mostly an apples-and-oranges affair. As I pointed out at the beginning, if you’re not willing to crack a smile when they’re on (especially the “serious” ones), you are going to suffer some form of brain damage.  However, if you’re able to check your presumptions at the door and just enjoy shows as the  genuine entertainment that they are, I’m sure you’ll find that local access television in Toronto is the bee’s knees. It’ll help while reading TCL too.

So it came as no surprise when, flipping through the latest edition of Eye Weekly while stuffing my face with a Liberty Village jerk chicken sandwich, I was drawn to Shawn Micaleff’s article on development in Toronto and the tensions it raises between pro/anti-urban development advocates.

Like an earlier article I had written, Shawn points out that construction around the metropolis is rampant (the second largest in North America), and that many of the new highrises are indelibly changing the historic face of the city.  He also makes an aborted attempt to connect what’s happening today to a hackneyed version of the future as it was seen from the nineteen-eighties. Aside from a few weak parallels between the cyberpunk genre, Shawn mostly misses the point.

The griminess of the cyberpunk future is really a co-construction that wasn’t any one writer’s or director’s alone. The term “cyberspace” (and it’s associated imagery), came out of Gibson’s novels while the concept of antiquated urban construction being superceded by new buildings came mostly from Blade Runner scenery (though this new/old mix is never explicitly discussed in the movie). Shawn makes the point that the vision presented in the movie loosely matches what we see today; old buildings being subsumed by newer and larger ones.  Aside from this, however, there isn’t much to tether either idea to reality.

The article comes to the ebullient conclusion that, despite the criticisms and minor drawbacks that urban developments carry, we should embrace these changes as the “the new beautiful”.

Only problem is, I’m not sure what the hell Shawn’s talking about.

He’s trying to show what a “new” vision of the city should be through a descriptive frame that’s almost three decades old, and science fiction to boot. This portrait includes either behemoth, tilted buildings jutting out of an ocean of air muck, or neon-addled  “grey slabs” that serve mostly as a backdrop for cyberspace hijinks.

Whatever the case is, it’s a holding up the of past (of an imagined future), as a lens through which we can view and interpret the shaping of the city. Personally, I think the view is pretty shitty.

After all, the visions ripped out of these inspirations come with no context. Until I get my Replicant hunting license, the concepts plucked from Blade Runner don’t help me to appreciate the new building on the corner. As much as I like Gibson’s work, his prospects of a distopian setting serve more as a mood device than anything I would recognize on the street. Describing all of this as “Cyberpunk built by the Swiss” makes an already fuzzy concept fuzzier [As though sturdy, affordable bunk beds somehow make the Swiss master civil engineers].

Here’s where I prove myself the asshole in the conversation; I don’t have an alternative to this [non-constructive criticism=moaning, bitching, and/or complaining].

I don’t know how we should look at our modern, highly volatile landscape. I know I appreciate the aesthetic when I see it and, generally speaking, I’m in favour of the new as long as it’s not created exclusively for the sake of being new. Considering how much a building costs to put up, though, that’s not really a concern.

I don’t believe we’ve yet discovered how these shifting elements will affect the culture in which they’re nestled. Even if we partially mimicked something from the past (literary past included), it does the modern a great disservice to throw these used and worn labels over it. Expecting the present to conform to them is a square-peg/unknown-hole situation.

So, thanks but no thanks, Shawn. I appreciate the effort but, despite my fondness for it, there’s no way that Mona Lisa Overdrive expresses what a current metropolis is and, more importantly, what it could be.

I’m veering away from my regular existential indulgences for a bit to wax oracular about a highly visible trend around the sprawl: the influx of permanent influences that will change, and are changing, the face of city.

None of this will even begin to approach news for most Torontonians.

The slow and stealthy creep of Metro stores over the past few years as the company gobbled up A&P/Dominion, Loeb, and other grocery stores, was clearly visible even as it came as a bit of a surprise to locals (that was my impression anyway). The re-branding was simply a facelift on a done deal, but it threw light on a trend which is continued by extra-Torontonian projects such as the Ritz-Carlton Group’s Ritz Residences, the Maned One’s Trump Tower, and even the sweet and matronly franchise of Chez Cora’s.

This isn’t even anything that’s new or unique. Walmart’s been blighting the burbs for years and Starbucks has become so ubiquitous that one recently opened in my living room.

What makes the changes happening now different is the fact that they involve the take-over of at least a block (or more) of prime downtown real estate and, more often than not, a razing and complete rebuilding on the site. Unlike a simple facade or signage appended to part of a lot’s building, the entire lot is being transformed. It’s not that these external influences are simply appended to the fabric of Toronto, they become the fabric of Toronto. In other words, people who neither live here nor spend much time here are guiding the development, look, and feel of Toronto.

Everyone knows that generalizations suck, so let’s not do that here. There is a lot of city-borne development going on and even if some are of these projects aren’t Torontonian, at least they’re Canadian.

Cora’s influences on Toronto, for example, have been to broaden the breakfast experience and give permission for thriving businesses to come across as local and quirky. Although the company is expanding quite quickly, Cora’s locations are mostly appropriated ones. The restaurant is a blush of Montreal colour on the broad palette of Toronto.

The Ritz and Trump Tower, however, are much more direct. In these cases, even if the building’s ownership changes to Canadian hands, many of the characteristics of U.S. design, U.S. ownership, and U.S. management will remain. The architectural style will definitely stick around for a few generations and, although the buildings will become part of the Toronto skyline, they will remain at heart un-Torontonian.

I’m not saying that this is necessarily a bad thing.

Toronto is superbly racially and culturally mixed and, unlike the necessary Americanization of immigrants south of the border, here you can spend your entire life in the isolation of your own culture (whatever that happens to be). Immigrants have left their mark on Toronto since day one, but the majority of the city is built on Edwardian ideals.  Stores may have Cantonese signage, but this is often affixed to confederation-era (or analogous) buildings.

The new mega-developments that are springing up around town in increasing numbers are removing these colonial vestiges, but not with anything that is uniquely Torontonian or even Canadian.

The general stance taken against all of this is that new architecture is removing the beauty and uniqueness of Toronto along with its history. Change, goes the argument, is slowly eating away at the city. What this seems to forget, however, is that change is sometimes a catalyst for improvement.

The modern city of Paris, for example, only became one of the jewels of Europe when Napoleon decided to completely raze it and re-build it from scratch. If the occasional city block bothers critics now, old Parisian revisions would have driven them insane.

That’s not to say that this is all a good thing either, but I’m hardly qualified to make a judgment either way. Like Paris, only time will tell what these big changes bring. However, it’s not the changes themselves but their influences that make this such a unique moment in history.

Most major urban renovations have been, up until maybe the last one-hundred years, fairly isolated. In GTA suburbs this is still mostly true, but also with a characteristic that sets them apart. A hundred years ago, urban buildings were built locally and were also, for the most part, unique. Today’s urban buildings are unique but not, as mentioned, always built or owned locally. Suburban communities are mostly built locally, but uniqueness isn’t a prominent (or sometimes present) feature.

I think that the suburban trend is horrendous, not only for the lack of uniqueness or character, but also for the deep environmental, social, and cultural impacts such communities have.

The urban trend, however, is a bit more hazy. There’s no indication that it will abate any time soon so it’s reasonable to expect more xenophilic ownership, development, and cultural influence into the future. With big names like Ritz-Carlton and Trump jumping into the game, an increased American role in urban re-development is quite likely.

What this means is that, unlike any other era in urban planning or development, Toronto (and I suspect many other North American cities as well) will be facing an even greater crisis of identity — if you buy the notion that we already have an issue in this area. Many of the facts used to support this belief also incorporated the changing downtown environment as proof of a disappearing culture (not that anyone can clearly define what that culture is). In the past I would’ve used the Parisian counter-argument to moot that point.

With truly non-Torontonian influences carving out great swathes in the city’s make-up, however, they have more solid footing for their complaints. Then again, Trump Tower could be the greatest thing ever to happen to this city and may help to add some edges to that definition of what it means to be a Torontonian.