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There was much I’d planned to do in 2009 and hope to get around doing this year. Some of it I’d foolishly planned in older blog posts. So be it. Brutal, in-your-facedness, delayed plans ‘n all. As Sam Spade so profoundly put it, “when you’re slapped you’ll take it and like it!” He meant with the truth, of course.

But at least there’s always 2010. And 2011 after that. I’ll probably, eventually, sometime get around to doing everything on my list. In between I’ll stumble onto random stuff or maybe get all Prince-like and do something brooding and moody, the purple drain, when Dove makes me cry, so on. Bathroom commentary. And all still under the umbrella of life in the city of Toronto.  Haha! So’s that growth in my fridge. Still can’t believe no one had registered torontocitylife.com – totally blew my mind.

But nothing stands still. Unfortunately, the Flickr group has been quiet for a while and I only have so many photos to go around, so I’ve mothballed it. Not dead, just sleeping. Possibly terminally, who knows. I’ll try to keep it accessible until the end of days. Or until Flickr shuts it down. Whichever comes first.

In its stead I considered some ads from Google. Just … didn’t feel right. Icky. Plus, that’s no way to earn a living. So I’m back to the drawing board or the corporate sponsors really need get their asses in gear (respectfully looking your way, tasty beverage company Second Cup!)

For now though, I think I’ll just stick with the program. More photos, more writing, more stuff – and switch it up a bit in between. I’ve really been meaning to visit with my old undercover friend again; there are still plenty of locations to eat at / shoot up downtown. And I don’t remember restricting our clandestine meeting locations to breakfast joints. Though I do love a good greasy spoon :)

I also like the older bits of the city because they allow me to hearken back to earlier days, which I find amusing. Plus they look so antiquey, which I like.

Aside from these two subjects, I really will need to revisit the Toronto Blog All-Stars again. The “s” on the end implies that there’s more than one, so I kinda have to. And I’m pretty sure I’m not the only person with a blog in Toronto; just need find out where the others hang out and infiltrate their society. Secretly record our conversations. Then post them online in the form of an “interview”. All mostly not in many ways libelous.

Happily, as I look back through the archives, I seem to have a good bed of stuff to draw from. I somehow keep screwing up the pictures of Casa Loma and, although I have some photos from Honest Ed’s, I feel like that place deserves a more thorough going-through. But I managed to hit most of the major spots I’d wanted to hit — “be a tourist” was my mission when it came to locations, and I feel like I mostly achieved that.

I’m not sure sure I’ll be going to all the big events again in 2010. If TCL finally starts to pull its own weight around here, maybe I’ll hire a lackey to go cover each one. Then beat them mercilessly until they can turn in a flawless piece. Well, I’ll have standards to uphold, won’t I?

Yup, high hopes. To become a fat, industrialist newspaper tycoon with suspenders and a cigar, or to wield pitiful minions about with mere thoughts as Oprah does. Perhaps both. Have my minions bring me my cigars and send them out to wash my suspenders. Plus steak. The good life.

In the meantime, though, I still get to go outside and pull out my impressive-looking camera in front of anyone taking a photo. To men, it says danger. Full manual override danger. To women, also danger. Fully extended telescopic danger. To children, a toy to grab at and destroy immediately. But if I keep it out of their grubby little hands, it’s good. Interesting subject matter often isn’t a problem.

Ultimately, however, TCL would just be some dusty corner of the interweb without you, dear reader. It’s you who inspire me to keep moving forward and to take a shower before I leave the flat. Perhaps we’ll meet on the streets one day?

So, of all the things I’m hoping to do in 2010, the one that stands at the forefront is simply to continue to share my Toronto experience in a way that, with any luck, won’t bore you to tears. I figure you’ve got a few spare minutes so I shouldn’t waste them. I pride myself on running an expedient blog, if nothing else. And if you’re here just for the pictures, that’s okay too. I’m hoping to take the blog up a couple of interesting streets this year, and it’d be great to have you come with. Somewhere in Toronto, that’s all I can tell you right now :)

Happy New Year!

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So far, my answer has to be hells … yeah.

Ask anyone who knows me, I’m definitely not phobic of long-term relationships, I think it’s just that I’m trying to recreate some of those televised dorm room shenanigans because of my own, contrary college experience. It was a community college, strikingly similar to the grouped-together rejects of the TV show Community, but with less of the dry, carefully crafted and craftily delivered humour rolling off Joel McHale’s tongue.

I was surrounded by forty-seven-year-old men who, back home, had been military jet technicians, architects, and — no kidding — bona fide brain surgeons. Often, they would correct the professor (or teacher for those who weren’t allowed to assume the title), much to everyone’s mutual amusement. (“Can’t believe I pay for this horseshit!! Why don’t I just hang around with Mr. Kim here?!”) Plus, our language and cultures often kept our relationships simply cordial. I mean, I was curious to learn about The East, but I found that I really didn’t like kimchi at all. That pretty much put an end to me trying any Korean beer. Plus, they each had families and worked 50 hours after school + studying just to be able to cover tuition (it’s a lot higher if you’re not Canadian), and sadly, yes, in the most prototypical downtown convenience stores one could imagine.

On the recognized work experience scale, I was roughly their supervisor’s supervisor. I could definitely fire their sorry asses. It was a strange dynamic, but at least I was in enough debt that we could share that misery equally (but usually them more than me). And cheating off them was a guaranteed success (a generous coffee a day gets you places! ;) ). But it was no Joel McHale making out with Gillian Jacobs, or Alison Brie. Or even Yvette Nicole Brown. (Even though you know that that last plot line will have to develop at some point. Only way to keep the show classy.)

Maybe I’m being unnecessarily sentimental. I should probably stop listening to those awful Chet Baker songs, especially this time of year.

Are you like me? Do you like to sit on the floor in a crumpled, sobbing heap, running through all the missed opportunities of your youth in your head, again and again? Right, exactly, neither do I. I mean, I’ve tried it a few times but I just can’t seem to get the rhythm of the comforting rocking motion down. And I just don’t see how it solves anything.

But old Chet and his awful good music remind us how cool it is to be a bachelor, especially this time of year.

New parka, check. Hat, check. Gloves, check. Tunage, check.

Shaven, unknown. Showered, unknown. Clean underwear, unknown. Underwear, unknown.

Time for a stroll down chilly Carefree Avenue.

Also, there’s usually a sentence near the end of each Chet Baker tune where you realize that you’d been misunderstanding the lyrics the entire time, Chet’s actually telling the bitch off; then you have to listen to the thing again. Reminds you of the moral ambiguity of life and how, at any moment, you have to be prepared to bring down the hammer. But be cool, baby, be cool.

Chet does wax nostalgic, doesn’t he? At least he seems to be. It’s why I chose some Baker tune to accompany my first TCL post. As if to say, remember this. AND GET BETTER!!

Yup, it’s almost been a year of proper, recorded Toronto City Life. Chet was hinting that I do some sort of year in review thing, but that seems kinda stupid. Besides, everyone does that. “Hey, look, here’s all the crap we did over the past year.” I can look it up myself, thanks. What about taking the road less travelled? The one paved with good, or at least okay, intentions? Ideas that, for one reason or another, either broke their leg and had to be put down, or are still hanging out back in the stables munching on barley. Kinda like failed horse analogies, simply didn’t have the legs to carry them out the starting gate.

Unfortunately, I’ll have to do that tomorrow because Chet’s incessant demands have tuckered me out (he grows more persuasive over time). I’ll also tell you what happened in the TCL sidebar, and more importantly, why. But for now, I can feel the bachelor lifestyle catching up to me. And on a school night too!

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I then typically follow up by popping open a browser (this is usually at work), hitting TCL, and showing them last year’s thing. “Wow, you’d never catch me out there freezing my ass off”, is typically the next statement. “Well, you keep warm by virtue of shared body heat. That’s what makes the evening so magical; improper touching”, I try to sell it. But that’s usually not enough. After revelations that there’s no booze and that the place is swarming with kids, the conversation just peters off into other subjects, “So … Toronto City Life … what is that, a government website?” “Yup.” “Not very interesting.” “Yeah.” ”Have lunch yet?” “Nope.”

People are too jaded. Perhaps because they’re hungry. The Cavalcade of Lights, with this year’s record lack of snow, didn’t really classify as a winter event, so all that hoopla about buttocks falling of in the cold were for naught. The kids were there, but you couldn’t hear them over the din of the show and any ones caught underfoot were pretty much fair game so that problem wasn’t overly daunting. I managed to get up to the front of the crowd with barely any resistance:

The alcohol prohibition thing is also a bit of a moot point. I was not once searched even though I carried a bag big enough to conceal a small keg. A mickey stolen away in a coat pocket would most certainly have gone unnoticed, or you could do as any self-respecting adult would and simply go already lubricated. Essentially, sobriety is for children, the infirm, and stupid people.

But I don’t want to get hung up on methods of smuggling drinks in because with the kind of cover you get in both the scenery and the crowd, you can pretty much set up a temporary shelter where you and your junkie friends can shoot up in complete privacy. Drinking? Please, the cops have bigger things to worry about. Like heroin addicts. Or those guys that sell all that light-up crap that the kids use once before it explodes toxically in the car on the way home. Domestic-quality Chinese products are always hit-and-miss:

The best way to avoid these shuckers of mens’ wallets is to simply avoid them. Look for the guys with the craziest head gear — dead giveaway — and beeline it in the other direction. If you have children with you, a) Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha! Hehe! Hahaha! *wipe tear* Oh man. Why would you do something like that? and b) Avert their gaze from crazy hat guy. If nothing else, at least save yourself some cash.

I managed to avoid most of the vendors by pushing my through the thickest part of the crowd, mostly elderly and children — easy!

I don’t know what it is with Citytv but every year they choose the dorkiest personalities they have to introduce the acts. Seriously, the weather guy?

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got nothing against Michael Kuss; nothing for him either. He is adequate in his role to deliver the weather report in a timely manner. That is all.

For something exceptional, we need only look beyond Michael’s adequate head to see City Hall looming expectantly, waiting to be lit up like some kind of incendiary device:

To me, this is the real reason to go; a grand fireworks display that goes off way too close to City Hall. I know that immaculate planning goes into this thing, but who can predict that one unexpected gust of wind, or that one errant firework that’s just a little too far off course? Now you’ve got the holiday display of the season!

There were no showers of jagged glass or flaming audience members so, sadly, the errant firework didn’t happen this year. But the explosions packed a good wallop and this scared the kids, so it was satisfactory. Also, the Christmas tree at City Hall was unveiled during the show and this is more the official tree of Toronto I was thinking of. It’s a massive beast of a white spruce, about 18 meters (60 feet) tall and laden with an indecent amount of decoration. Hard to miss. Unfortunately, it makes for a difficult photo but while I work at it you can get a sense of the tree in the background here:

Even though the celebration’s over, the skating rink remains open until spring so there’s plenty of opportunity to watch people hurt themselves. Say what you will about City Hall, it can occasionally be very entertaining. Even in the cold.

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Consider this, for example:

Awww. You see Santa’s Workshop, a few rosy-cheeked, satisfied elves sitting outside with the happy labours of the year past, some cute houses topped with fluffy snow and powdered sugar. Merry Christmas, kids!

From another angle, this is Santa’s Sweatshop, miserly and terribly underdressed children cast outside their warm shelters in the middle of a cold Siberian winter, no doubt for under-producing for the “jolly old elf” (who’s probably enjoying himself a back-alley rub-and-tug somewhere in Bangkok). Merry freakin’ Christmas, kids.

At this point, some parents may say, “But I’ve taught my kids well. They’ll make the right choices.” I’ve no reason to doubt anyone’s parenting skills, but upbringing is no match for military-style indoctrination. Pretty soon your kid’s goose-stepping down University Avenue with the rest of his comrades:

Still not willing to co-operate? Let’s see how he feels after this:

No? I see; junior likes to play hardball, huh?

That’s right. If they don’t get him one way, it’ll be another. Do you really want your kid playing a tuba? What kind of a horrible parent are you to even consider that question?

And if you think that maybe some discipline might actually be good for your kid, take a moment to consider this: these groups are all about coercion, cohesion, group-think; discipline here is mostly founded on fear and mistrust. They don’t think twice about throwing a few members under the car to preserve the organization:

If, at this point, you still think that attending the parade with your children is acceptable, consider how the police will protect your kids once they’re “in the wild”:

Exactly, not at all. The cops stood there the entire time, not a care on their faces. Smiles, some of them. Instead of doing their jobs and clubbing / shooting / arresting people, they just stood around watching the procession like it was the eleven o’clock news. I think some of them were even drinking some sort of hot chocolate beverage. Drinking. On the job.

I did mention some of these displays were insidious, didn’t I? See if you can spot the hazard in the following scene:

Yes, university-aged girls are dangerous, but I’m talking about something more immediate. Imagine, the moment the pyramid goes up, the sweaty old men come out of the woodwork clutching their malodourous camera phones, flashing yellow smiles, and sporting all sorts of unpleasant stains on their sweatpants.

I’m sorry to have to get so graphic, but it’s important that parents everywhere be aware of what really goes down every year. This is simply no place for kids.

And finally, what about jolly old Saint Nick? What’s his ultimate role in all of this?

I don’t think any secret has ever been made of Santa Claus’ hyper-critical judgment of humanity: rewarding lists of people who fall within his insane definition of “nice”, monitoring those on the “naughty” lists for whom he reserves his own personal retribution. And heaven help you if you don’t accept one of his magnanimous “gifts” come Christmas.

Once again, I can’t stress enough how terribly inappropriate this event is for children. The numerous examples given in these two posts are, I think, sufficient to convey the imminent dangers you’d be placing your children under. Keep them away for all the right reasons.

Plus, they start to get irritatingly loud and underfoot after a couple of hours.

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To begin with, you have strange men winding their way through the audience snapping random pictures of children and posting them on only God-knows what website. That alone should be enough, but there’s much more to be wary of.

Consider the example set by  pre-pubescent delinquents who don’t think twice about defacing public property:

“Welcome Santa” must be kid code for “deliver crack cocaine here”. If only that were the worst of it. What happens when your child learns to steal cars? Driving without a license (and training) not only means a harsher jail sentence, it’s also extremely dangerous:

If you don’t believe me you can ask the cops. There were plenty of them along the parade route, handing out literature to educate the young about the dangers of falling in with the wrong crowd. Why they even allowed kids to attend is beyond me:

Those are just a few of the criminal influences that could befall your child at the Santa Claus Parade. Besides the dangers of running afoul of the law, kids also run the risk of mental / emotional trauma. Those who attended and have a fear of clowns are probably catatonic by now:

Reasonable people would think that inspiring terror on this scale would be enough. They’re just kids, for heaven’s sake! But no, parade organizers had to take it to twisted new heights:

As if fear weren’t enough, bringing children to the event means exposing them to all sorts of filth:

Every cunning device is used to ensure that no child escapes unscathed. For those with more active imaginations, a terrible portrait is carefully painted to resonate with their young minds. Imagine being held fast by a giant, blood-red beast who’s probably already feasted on your friends:

The parade of horrors continues with strange, nightmarish creatures that are neither beast nor man, but some ghoulish mixture of both:

Unfortunately I’ve run out of space in this post, but sufficed to say that the hazards lurking about the Santa Claus parade are many, some much more insidious than what’s shown here. I’ll continue with these tomorrow but if you have a kid or two and are considering a similar event in your home town, I urge you to reconsider. Attending is a first-class ticket to a shattered future. Won’t you please think of the children?

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I say technical because if you look at the archives, TCL only goes back to January. But it’s really been online since November of last year.

Luckily the WayBack Machine has, as yet, no record of it.

At that time TCL had a mostly-black theme with content that induced hemorrhaging from the eyeballs and projectile vomiting. Pretty awful stuff. Back then I didn’t have the experience or the sphincteric relaxation to do anything interesting, really. Had anyone suggested I run a shocking exposé on what really happens at the annual Santa Claus Parade, I would’ve balked!

But in mid-November I attended Illuminite, the annual Christmas lighting of Yonge-Dundas Square. It was a cold and rainy November night, but the show went on anyway. Try as I might, I wasn’t able to muscle my way up to the front of the crowd, and it was in that soggy moment of inspiration that I remembered it was Toronto City Life. Most of these people were alive, so they qualified. I was getting all bent out of shape for nothing!

That epiphany, and the attitudinal adjustment that came with it, carried me through all the way around to this year’s event. Good thing too because there were a lot more people this time around:

Most of the show, consisting of fire, sparks, trampolines, and dancing, took place at the far end of the square. There was a lot of loud music that, more often than not, descended into a raucous noise that in no way said season’s greetings to me. Eventually, the same spooky music I remember from last year came on as the fire dancers wound their way across the square toward the stage I’d plunked myself behind:

The dancers paraded around on stage in wintry white and silver, twirling fiery objects and having pyrotechnics go off behind them as if to say, “here’s the last blast of warmth you’re getting for the next six months”:

The audience were close enough that one slip and the girl in the red hood got a face full of fire. Now if that’s not a reason to go see something live, I don’t know what is. The fireworks were pretty scary too:

Behind the dancers was the reason for the whole display, the tree.

Nostalgia aside, I want to go on record as saying it’s great that the city doesn’t use a live tree. But what they chose instead is … not quite there yet.

I mean, obviously they were going for a theme because someone went to the bother of creating some Christmas light bears. But while nice, they and the tree seem more appropriate on someone’s 80s-themed holiday lawn than in the Square.

I also remember these things not quite making it to Christmas last year before a chunk of the lights had been broken, stolen, or had burned out. They’re a great photo-op and ideal swine flu vector, but unfortunately they don’t last:

Don’t get me wrong, Illuminite will always hold a special place in my heart because of the sopping awakening it gave me. In a way, it lived up to its name. But with the number of people packed into the square this year, I think they’ll need to come up with something a little less centralized; performances in small pockets all over the square, that kind of thing. And do something about that tree while they’re at it. Next to the longest street in the world, it doesn’t look very impressive.

I’ll do the official whoop-up for TCL in January, but I’m still happy I managed to last a year. And wouldn’t you know it, someone completed the loop on Saturday night by asking me if I was a journalist. I’ve now been asked that same question in every season. The circle of life is complete. Hakuna matata!

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So where did I leave off yesterday? Oh yes, the zombies had me surrounded and I’d run out of people to toss in their path. The situation was getting really ugly:

The great discovery happened when I pulled out my camera and started to take photos. I figured I could record my final few moments for TCL; become the first post-mortem blogger — I believe that would make for interesting content. But it wasn’t to be.

You see, it seems that zombies actually like to have their photos taken. Anyone in the crowd who happened to be brandishing a camera was given a wide berth and, often, cooperative smiles (or menacing grimaces – whatever the scene called for):

And I feel that branding them all as brain-hungry murderers really isn’t representative of the zombie population. Being undead, apparently, isn’t enough to stave off the requirements of the workaday world, but the zombies seemed to take it all in stride. If it wasn’t for the homicidal tendency of ingesting live human brains, they’d probably make decent citizens.

Haha! *insert social commentary here*

Speaking of commentary, who’s tailing the wag here?

That’s a little slice of a-okay, isn’t it? :D

Basically, there was a very good chance that most of the non-zombie participants in the walk would have made it out had I not panicked. But like the army used to say, “gullibility costs lives”, which would’ve been especially poignant had I actually said it to someone before pushing them into the flesh-eating crowd. Or if that were a real army slogan. Or if it applied in any way.

“Hmmm. No, you may not hide behind me and my camera. Go buy your own protective gear, cheap-ass!” *shove*

I did what I had to do to survive.

Eventually, I came to the conclusion that unprovoked, the zombies really just want to walk around complaining loudly about a lack of dietary cerebellum. That’s pretty much it. Only if you shove people into the throng will you get a reaction.

But, you know, I did what I had to do to survive. I’m not saying I’m proud of it.

Haha! Watching people turn into zombies is awesome though! The first symptom of zombiedom is a total loss of memory. Well, yeah. No brain!

“That’s right, fella, you’re with the rest of them! Yeah, good brains to you too!”

*yoink!*

And now I move in style :D

And sometimes you just need to direct the zombie’s attention away just because it’s kinda gross. Take the next gal (“that’s a girl in there?!”, someone exclaimed), for example:

Yeah, the “hands” are pretty creepy, and then there’s the chicken on the head. No thanks. Shove a sacrifice thataway and the zombie follows. It’s all about keeping it simple, effective, to the point. And grabbing the wallet before she gets her highly impractical “hands” on him.

Anyhow, the denouement of this story is a bit of a snooze so I won’t bore you with it. Needless to say, camera and hapless strangers helped to ease the journey until I eventually found myself outside the pack, and stumbled wearily back home.

But I don’t want to leave you with a totally bad impression; the undead population includes some interesting personalities so at least one of them was bound to show up at some point:

There you have it, a Halloween tale to scare the pants off your friends. The attractive ones. And for that extra depantsing kick, you can tell them that most of it really happened! And for a small fee, I can even corroborate your presence in this tightly-woven, explosive narrative. That’s guaranteed pantlessness!

You know how to get a hold of me.

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Every year they keep demanding brains (like that’s gonna happen!) and better severance.

One of the things that shocked me about the whole thing was how punctual the zombies were. These days I’ve come to expect events starting thirty minutes to an hour late. But on Saturday, the undead were off and moving at 3:30 sharp.

Also shocking is the size of the demonstration, not to mention the aggressiveness of the group:

I only escaped unharmed because of one amazing fact. That I will share with you tomorrow. You see, the march was so prolific, I simply have no choice but to milk it for two whole posts. Besides, some of the zombies put so much effort into the event, I feel it’s only fair to give them a little air time:

One guess as to what this fellow was demonstrating for. Yup, brains. I don’t get it, are they that tasty?

They probably have no idea what they really want. I mean, they pick their leader based on who’s got an extra appendage:

What I found particularly interesting was that while zombies don’t have the wherewithal or the sense to eat infants in a civilized manner, they nonetheless possess the forethought to pack an umbrella for the impending rain:

You may be thinking that I escaped this terrible occasion because of the security forces attending the route. Haha! Wow, you’re so wrong. The security forces were useless. When they managed to hit their targets, it wasn’t in the head, so the zombies just got back up and kept on going. In fact, I don’t think the personnel were shooting anything by the number of zombies they managed to kill: zero!

Perched snipers seemed to have the same problem, and many of the security weren’t even armed. And the posts they gave them to guard … who thought of that?!

This guy managed to stand his ground for a little while. He beat down the first zombie that managed to climb up and then, wisely, decided to ditch his post:

He jumped into a nearby dumpster which proved to be even less effective in protecting against zombies. And they want his brains?

In the end he managed to rip free from their clutches and beat a hasty retreat around the corner of the building yelling, “28 days later!”

And then, the few civvies left were alone in a sea of zombies. We pushed through the crowd with whatever we could. Just when I thought I’d run out of compatriots to shove into the straining arms of the hordes, I discovered something incredible.

Tomorrow, the amazing tale of how I managed to preserve my voluminous brain; the secret to keeping zombies off you. You’re not gonna wanna miss it!

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The Citytv crew made a big to-do about how the station would now be in the actual heart of the city. They’re probably right, but I suspect they just wanted to be closer to my place. Either way, it was a wise decision.

The move has been in the works for about two years. Gord Martineau, Citytv’s sneering six o’clock news anchor, has pitilessly plugged his involvement in the move stating that he was the one who brought up the idea with boss Ted Rogers, the guy who owns every co-ax cable in Toronto (and then some).

The building itself was an Olympics-themed tourist attraction for a couple of years, hence the big cone-torch thingie at the top. Aside from the pleasantly phallic symbolism (granted, a horribly deformed phallus), the building also forms an interesting arch over the intersection of Victoria and Dundas. Streetcar tracks go through the arch but there are no open power lines, probably because the construction workers were afraid of electrocution. Babies. Anyway, I’m certain that once they open it up it’ll make for a great place to throw back a couple of swigs of paper-bagged hooch, away from scornful eyes.

But Gord’s masturbatory visions weren’t the only things making headlines on Tuesday. U. of T. and York U. put their first-year students through the wash for the first day of frosh week:

All the noobs were baptized in the waters of City Hall with a ritual involving a Kindergarten-style initiation. A girl on a megaphone shouted out some rhyming instructions with all the students acting out the directions while repeating what she said. The Universities were only mentioned a couple of times during the chanting; they spent more time pretending to be alligators, crabs, and sleeping monkeys. Hurray for our future workforce!

What a time to lose my internet connection! And with TIFF coming up ‘n all:

Couldn’t have come at a worse time. Despite George Clooney and I being best buds, I doubt he’ll postpone his arrival for my technical difficulties.  I bet he’s disappointed.

Sorry, George. You’ll have to takeit up with my ISP. I tried and I guess I’m just not famous enough.

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Anyhow, there it is. Guess I’ll just have to deal with it. Medication, maybe.

I don’t think I could ever tell you more about the festival than the actual website, but one of the things that does seem to be lacking is a useful celebrity list. The Toronto Star has a very complete list but much of the time I couldn’t put name to face.  I’m usually not great with names, more of a faces guy. Do you suffer from the same affliction? You may find this somewhat useful:

http://www.torontocitylife.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/09/TIFF-celeb-list.jpg

That took more than a few pee breaks, but — it’s complete! Or at least as complete as it’ll get. Some of the names were either a bit too obscure or their web presence wasn’t very strong. By that I mean that if I had to click more than once to find out who it was, it just wasn’t worth it. I don’t get paid by the click, you know!

I figured it could be used as an “Oh shit, is that who I think it is?” list.

Yep. Now you know it’s someone famous. You just don’t know who.

And who cares?! Take a picture, take one more … nnnnnn Run! Push everyone aside – grandma can go straight to hell – leap over hoods of cars – here’s my indicator, buddy!! — figure it all out later.

Get p-a-i-d!

Slick.

Well, maybe not so much for me. I know that the moment I’d go to run, I’d slip on something and come straight down on my chin and camera and all. One big flubby smash, digitally stored in a multitude of devices and angles, many of which would be capable of playing it all out in slo-mo. And the blood. Lots of it. People would panic, some guy in front of me would faint. I’d be a mess, bawling from the awfulness of it all. The celebrity now long gone having been whisked into a waiting car even as I was still coming down. Probably the scream. And the photographers — pissed. I’d just cost them the day’s wage.

So, yeah, I hope to be there.

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Those tall fences along the Caribana parade route were a good idea. Unfortunately (for the people in the parade), the fencing only ran down one side of the road, and only for half the distance. That left three-quarters of the roughly one kilometer route (a little over half a mile), open and easily accessible. Once people started climbing the barriers and walking along it, the procession slowed to a crawl.

Despite the crush of people, almost everyone was wearing a grin and either dancing or chowing down on the food that lined the route. It was pretty hard not to have a good time; my rump also shook rhythmically. The sound systems didn’t hurt either; to say that they mashed up the placed would be a bit of an understatement. I still have a collapsed lung!

Awesome.

Today is Simcoe Day and I’ve yet to set foot outside so I’ll let the photos take over from here on in. Don’t worry, this isn’t one of those Wordless Weekday things, just capping off the holiday with bit of a break.

Enjoy!

(And be patient; the post takes a while to load)

Oh, and there’s a part 2, too.

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I highly recommend grabbing a coffee or a Red Stripe before you continue. The photos go on as long as the parade did.

Great parade, but maybe next year a helicopter might be a better way to get around; I don’t think it’s getting any less popular.

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This time we have a website and a comfortable patch of grass. I would applaud this effort, I really would. But I actually started to read the web page:

“We want to re-examine public space and to create work which explores our relationship with the space we inhabit. We wish to de-center and disrupt the accepted n…”

*snore*

*snore*

Wuzzuh?!

*wipe drool*

I don’t know what that site meant but I’ve reprimanded my netbook for showing it to me. I’m sorely tempted to put my programming skills to use in creating a tedious content filter of some sort. When it would detect a web page that fell below the customizable tedium level, the browser would warn you with a gentle weeping sound lest you waste a moment of your valuable life. Also, a shudder if your hardware is equipped for it.

Meh. I’d rather be outside anyway. It’s hard to be bored, especially with Caribana just around the corner. And the rampant crime that goes with it:

That’ll go up to twenty bucks on the weekend. Bumbaclot!

Lamport Stadium is where the Caribana judging takes place, and if memory serves, they have about one-hundred million-billion floats and get-ups to evaluate. It’s a lot, whatever the precise number is.

When it comes to parade costumes, people go certifiably insane. They seal themselves up in darkened workshops for months on end, devoid of any human contact. There, they toil away, metamorphosing wire, fabric, and sequins into wings, antennae, and gaudy headdresses.

Finally, after many months and a third refinancing of the house, they emerge.

As a beautiful, gargantuan butterfly!

I’m sure it’s much more impressive than it looks. From what I remember of past parades, the costumes are enormous. That thing he’s pulling out of the truck is probably meant to be worn on the eyebrow. The rest of the costume usually arrives by helicopter.

I suppose I can understand why they’d want these creations protected behind fences this weekend, but I’m not sure if they’re legally allowed to call it Caribana unless everyone, including spectators, are jumping around. Seems like a fence would dampen that enthusiasm.

When I walked along Lakeshore Boulevard (the parade route) today, it felt a bit like I was in a penitentiary exercise yard. With the natural barrier of Lake Ontario on one side, and the gun-turret-like projections of the Direct Energy Centre on the other, winin’ and/or grinin’ just seems out of place.

Guess we’ll just have to see.

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It’s not that I think Mondays are bad, per se. They’ve simply been relegated to being the first days to shatter happiness and joy, to be the harbingers of pain and sorrow. And so on.

The gosh-durn WordPress update never seems to go smoothly (it’s always one plugin after another, isn’t it?) and, well, the weekend was so interesting, I almost forgot that the War still lurked just around the corner — with a bat and a belief I owed it some money.

Sadly, our own local detention center has now moved off-court onto (I believe) wood-chip-covered earth:

Can you believe that it’s been almost a month now?

But luckily there’s a curious twist at this point, otherwise I’d just be regurgitating the same old war stories again. That’s gross.

If you look at the photo again, right at the back on the left are two guys in DayGlo-yellow shirts. They’re actually taking trash from people’s cars and hauling it in here themselves. Somehow, the 416/79 cavalry have managed to miss my little enclave; these guys were actually helping people get their trash in. Most excellent service too, if I may say. I’ll definitely have to ask more questions tomorrow.

But you know that even if they were strikers, which they were not (?!), it wouldn’t stop some kind of festival from happening. With genuine regret, I managed to completely miss the Festival of India parade, but at least managed to fill my crowd quota for the day with the big balls of Just for Laughs:

All the comics must’ve been on their smoke breaks because everyone there was definitely not funny. Well, there was this one funny part where a gymnast flew dangerously off course, and oh-so-close to the audience:

The look on his face as he lifted himself off the canvas was a masterpiece of raw human emotion; disbelief, horror, embarrassment, relief, self-doubt, and anger; the kind of face you make when you’re in the privy trying, grimly, to eject a particularly unrealistic log. OH, C’MON! WE’VE ALL BEEN THERE!

Anyway, it was funny.

Funnier than cleaning my sofa when I got back to my place:

Eureka, leave a comment and I’ll contact you about where you can send the royalty cheques. What? You didn’t think it’d be just one, did you? Just like foxes, you are.

Now, dear reader, before you berate me for the frequency of my house-keeping, I would like to point out that this is a week’s worth of collected Ollie hair and open-window city exposure.

Plus, we’re in the middle of a war! A dusty, dusty war.

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I recognize that it’s been pretty monotonous around here lately, hasn’t it? It’s not like the combative strike by the 416/79 has paralyzed the city! Let’s see what else is happening around town.

-

And I’m back! Through the wonder of digital technology, I was able to perform the kind of modern miracle of science grandpa would have voided his bowels over: turn a hyphen into three hours.

I’d intended to head down to Ontario Place for the fireworks but in this day of have-nots, it seemed rather indulgent. That was just fine though because on my way I ran into a few interesting places like the Jazz Festival. Not so much a festival as an extended concert for really relaxed people:

I managed to sneak my slight frame behind one of the tent flaps to watch Brandi Disterheft pouring out a gentle “In my solitude”. Dave Brubeck was around somewhere too, just not where I was. In hindsight, I would have loved to cut a rug with Medeski Martin & Wood, but I won’t let regret rule my life. The if-onlys are the things that kill you: if only I’d heard of the festival sooner; if only I’d read the entertainment section more; if only I’d practiced safe sex and worn those damn shin guards. If only.

I wandered away from the square and bumped into my old buddy Steve Mann, hydraulophone guy and seemingly retired cyborg:

Steve is a hero; the only man who can get women all wet by touching his worm in public. I know it’s blue, but it’s better than the green one (yep, still down there – eww!)

Anyhow,  that subject is probably best left to sit in the sun and gather flies. Just as well because I was getting a bit weary of listening to Steve explain (for the third time) the inner workings of the instrument to two people (Mr. Whitey ensemble at the right + guest) who had asked the same question (verbatim) three times. No! The water doesn’t activate electronic actuators! What is wrong with you two?! He just told you it doesn’t! God!

I could actually taste the bitterness subside as I headed back home. I stopped at a lonely a la cart guy in front of Metro Hall to buy a lukewarm veggie samosa. At two bucks it was a greasy good deal, but not really much personality. That was a bit further uptown in front of Metropolitan where I found a bunch of chess players slapping clocks and talking trash:

One of them had a fist raised to the other, growling for “revenge!”. Perhaps jokingly, but I knew that full-contact Aussie rules chess was imminent. I got out of there fast, past overstuffed garbage bins and noticeable roadside litter, as fast as my little legs could carry me. What a night!

Maybe not in that exact order but … what a night!

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Take the detention camp down the street; I pass that pile of trash bags regularly to watch their behaviour in daily life and I have to be honest, they don’t seem that aggressive.

Actually, they seem downright lethargic. Engaged in a game of pickup, most of them just flop over each other like dirty hippies:

No wonder they’re so out of shape!

As the War gets more complex and information becomes muddled, I’m starting to wonder how much of a threat they really are. Maybe they’re just puppets of the 416/79 light infantry. Mushy, stinky puppets.

I wonder if they feel loss the same way we do, if they express their grief and sorrow just like us:

(yup, more Pride stuff)

Where was I going with this again? Oh yeah; grief and sorrow just like us. I wonder if they love and hate like we do, raise children, grow old, have to keep putting up with incessant TV shoots in their neighbourhoods:

I’ll admit it; I’m confused.

Who’s Being Erica, and why is she in the middle of my War reportage? Maybe after the War correspondence desk gets some shut eye will it make more sense. Maybe after some sleep will the War correspondence desk will stop referring to himself as a desk in the third person.

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Pride two-oh-nine. Despite the overcast, it was a blast. People of all sorts showed up, from the surprisingly foreign to the surprisingly naked:

Wow! Bet you didn’t expect that with your Sunday croissant! But it wasn’t all fun and free-swingin’ frolic. General Miller scurried through the crowd seeking out insurgents and taking them out with his bare hands:

The man in the middle of the group conducting himself surreptitiously is Adam Vaughan. He’s not been too popular with the electorate lately; maybe that’s why he’s hanging out with my girl. Too bad being awesome doesn’t rub off as easily as body glitter.

I imagined the boisterous procession would be a wonderful morale booster and I think the crowd supported that idea. Everyone screamed as loudly as they could at every opportunity, trampling trash underfoot to demonstrate their spirit of solidarity and resoluteness. The throng was composed of every age, every colour, every race, every gender, and many in between:

(this is Olive Mee)

As you may recall, I had eagerly anticipated the military portion of the parade. Keeping in mind that the two Canadian tanks we have are off fighting the War, I was pleasantly surprised to see almost the entire remaining fighting force winding its way down Yonge street:

As the parade wound down and out onto Gerrard (yeah, it’s that kind of street), the crowd dispersed in every direction creating that hilarious people-wedged-in-the-doorway moment. On a much bigger scale. It wasn’t funny being part of it though. The trash underfoot was making all sorts of ridiculous noises and everybody wanted to stop in the middle of the sidewalk to make a phone call. The only people to escape the crush were the people hanging off the sides of buildings:

How’s that for not liking trash? They don’t even want to be on the same level as it!

True patriots.

At the end of the day I was filled with renewed pride (so that’s why they call it that!), renewed hope, and renewed vision. And the streets are neater today than they were yesterday! Well done. Well done.

I even got a little naked.

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The first step was to set up detention centres for asylum seekers; the city has no doubt that we’ll be seeing many defectors from the other side. I was skeptical but hardly had they opened the gates than the first truckload was brought in.

Despite looking exactly like the deathly piles of trash we’ve been witness to, this lively group made a conscious decision to abandon their ranks:

Of course, this skill for mimicry makes them that much more dangerous. I remain skeptical.

General Miller is offering an olive branch; let’s see what happens. But just in case:

The building in the back is the Moss Park Armoury; no coincidence. I don’t mean to say that I’m a fan of herding bags into steel cages with guns pointed at them, but I’m also a pragmatist. I hope for the best but know that this is all likely necessary.

The short distance to my flat is unnerving, but I suppose nowhere in this town is safe. Even the front lawn is  a short distance from becoming a pedestrian parade of obscenities:

That’s what war does to people; make them write using words like “pedestrian” and “obscenities”. And “parade”. What a price.

Actually kinda sounds like Pride. Words too. I expect to see a few military men there. Certainly uniforms of some kind. And it’ll be one of the few areas that’ll be trash-free thanks to a private security firm. Gaydar towers scanning continuously on all frequencies, water bottle and condom distribution duty; some among them will make the ultimate sacrifice and go commando*.

These are the unsung heroes of the war. Maybe I’ll have the honour of telling their tales one day.

* I had a spin-off with G-String Joe and COBRA but it just started getting out of hand. Sorry.

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Sometimes it’s just because the big red ball needs a day off. That was yesterday. Today, it was up bright and early at the Ryerson campus Podium.

The location was perfect because it allowed the sunlight to hit the ball’s sumptuous, silky surface in the most striking way:

Clearly the glorious red vision was designed to attract because, like flies, children were soon buzzing around it, touching it in inappropriate ways:

I’m sure you’re asking, did I meet the genius behind this wonder? No, I did not. In fact, I don’t believe he was there. The same guy that had crushed my spirits two days ago was the same guy now in charge of the current display. He had a female assistant, but please trust me when I tell you that neither one of them was the artist. They just weren’t Caucasian enough. No, that guy’s probably sitting on a sailboat lighting cigars with hundred-dollar bills.

But I did get an attractive brochure:

I’m gonna wax a bit here and posit my own personal belief as to the ball’s purpose. That would be to highlight sections of the city that you may pass daily but wouldn’t otherwise notice if a giant red ball wasn’t wedged in there. It’s a sort of way of saying, take back your city, explore those strange little alleys between buildings, have another look at something you pass every day. And for God’s sake, you can’t see it from over there! Come closer! Come!

It draws attention. Gets noticed. Not afraid to show it’s ass in public. I mean, that’s the very definition of “photogenic”.

So if this was the artist’s aim, I give it two thumbs up. The ball has shown us sacred ground. Maybe it’ll even be visible from a satellite. Maybe it’s a Google marketing ploy. Who knows? I’m still glad it came and allowed me to bask in it’s glory for one brief moment before I had to trudge off to work.

*sigh*

Oh wait, it’s still around all weekend!

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My journey around old city hall has consisted of about five meters, four of which have thus far been spent in regrettable company.

Not more than a step further, I find myself with a raised eyebrow, arched in the direction of an encircled, chanting muddle of the local Krishna chapter . They’ve positioned themselves in an awkwardly dark and inaccessible point just a bit further along the embankment.

I’ve only basked in the live Krishna experience in what seemed to be ad hoc processions around Dundas Square or Bloor and Yonge. Today, donning coats that resemble puffed-up pigeons, they’ve festively interjected “Happy New Year” with every other “Hare Krishna”. They seem like a nice, warm little community. Don’t you think?

Wrong, commie!

I mean, is that copy of the Bhagavad Gita really free or what? What do they mean by “join” them in “conversation”? Money? What does Lord Krishna need my money for? Twenty bucks?! That’s the suggested donation?!

Shifty with a capital “S”.

This is especially true tonight as the entire group of twenty or so people huddle close, doing a slow shuffle around the bald guy in the center. That must be the head honcho.

When I try to get closer to see what’s happening one of the group, a woman over numero uno’s shoulder, flashes me an undeniably dirty look. Something to the effect of, “fuck you and the horse you rode in on.” Maybe I’m misreading her expression, or maybe it’s because I’m sporting a camera, but you’d think I’d just fried her young into an omelette. So, for a 50/50 chance at a display of mutual spite, I take a hasty and poorly lit picture, and promptly leave.

So far the photographic record of the evening is piss-poor. I revert back to my original plan and stare across the intersection at the south side of Queen street, trying to find a spot from which to watch the light show.

I spend the next five minutes (it’s ten to midnight now) wandering around the south side of the street looking for somewhere to stop. Unfortunately, the emptiness I saw from the chanting circle isn’t really empty at all. The space is filled with photographers and they, along with their equipment, are donned in ninja-black, camouflaging them in the cavernous darkness of the buildings behind them. Only from behind can you see how many there are, and there are many. The space is packed with rows of neatly aligned, manned telephoto lenses. Only a narrow fjord-like foot path strings along between them and the building. Someone has managed to create, using nearby-discarded Timmy’s cups, a miniature river of hot chocolate on the ground to complete the effect. Fresh and sticky.

Fuckers.

If I hadn’t smoked that joint before coming out, I would probably be disheartened by now. Instead I start feeling the coldness of the night working its way through my coat’s layers,. As I wander off slowly into Nathan Phillips Square, I hope that the huddle of people will provide some warmth.

Alas, this proves equally ineffective as the crowd is impassable. Staring at the teeming wall of flesh I remind myself that there are two sides to even this coin: Heads – when the riot begins, at least I’ll be clear of the whole mangled mess; Tails – no way am I getting near the stage and definitely not by midnight.

I put my last-resort plan into action, skirting the undulating crowd as I make my way toward the west end of the stage.

The location isn’t stellar. Even if I stand on my toes and hold the tripod above my head, the best I can hope for is a completely blurry picture of the lights. With a resolute sigh I set up my trusty Powershot and start snapping some long exposures of the crowd just as the countdown begins.

Dot dot dot.

As the crowd screams “one”, the square explodes into colour. An air cannon at the foot of the stage peppers the crowd with confetti. The whole scene is ablaze in action, and my camera is picking up exactly none of it.

In between expletives, I poke my head up and realize that every lens around me is pointing up at city hall instead of the stage.

I swivel my tripod in the same direction just in time to see the first fireworks bursting in the air perilously close to the building. I quickly re-adjust and start taking pictures.

I could blame the camera, which is, after all, just a simple point-and-shoot. I could blame the fact that I have no real experience with photography. I could blame the crowd for being so fidgety. Hell, I could even blame the itch in the crack of my ass for making me impatient. But all of these things completely fail to explain why now, when the clock has struck midnight and this fairly arbitrary segmentation of time has elapsed, the pictures are coming out good.

The last moments of 2008 seemed like one doomed attempt after another. Now it’s 2009 and it’s looking like a one-hundred and eighty degree reversal.

As the fireworks subside and the mildly toxic mists descend on the crowd, I pick up the tripod and decide to test my newfound luck. At the southern end of the square I set up again and start shooting.

I’m no more than two pictures in when random people start to walk in front of the camera, posing. Some even hang around for multiple pictures. And by people, I mean young people. And by young people, I mean teenage girls.

As I’m quickly discovering, they will jump in front of a camera at the drop of a hat with nary a worry. Sadly, they all seem to lack understanding of long exposures and, frankly, they’re all quite tipsy anyway.

I didn’t realize the tripod carried such…power.

With effort (and mental note to *always* carry equipment), I turn my attention to the receding crowd. It’s barely twelve-fifteen and already half of them is leaving. With everyone moving so fast, only a few suckers would be standing still long enough for an interesting picture.

And it’s at this point that I have to stop dead and switch your focus onto the web page. This is not a photoblog. It just includes photos.

After coming to the realization that someone probably took a good, long crisp snap of my ass much as I did to these folks, I also realized that this series of pictures have no story behind them. They’re just photos of people standing. Period.

What sucks most about this is that I really wanted to have something to say at the end of all of it. I wanted the story to go out with something, produce a narrative with deep, meaningful ambiance. Instead, I have to really reach here.

There are a few classical considerations for the ending. One is that I’ve learned my lesson and grown one year older. Another is that the story of our lives is the ultimate enigma, unknowable, perhaps, even beyond this mere breath. Yet another is the lesson of stopping to smell the roses, or in my case, the alcohol fumes emanating from the numerous friends I made along the way.

But really. Doesn’t that sound like the loudest dick smack you ever heard? It does to me too. I’m going to propose that some shit happened and I took a few pictures. I hope I’ve presented it accurately.

Happy New Year

Instead, he invites me up onto the embankment where he directs his wife and son to pose. Somewhere from within three out of four uncomfortable grins, I align my shot and take it. The flash is weak and the picture doesn’t come out.

Fucking asshole of an idiot me.

I say “shit”, just a titge too loud, while grinning into the dim glow of the image. Before I even have a chance to confirm that, yes, I do want to permanently delete this already sullied scene, he jumps into action.

I, clearly, didn’t get my money’s worth.

This time I’m thinking, fuck it, if he’s going to the bother of gathering up his family – again – I’ll oblige. So I take my time. I readjust my camera and hold that trigger down, blasting my AF beam silently into their retinas.

All the time I’m looking into the image window, previewing the glorious photo I’ll have when this thing’s over. I can see pretty good detail too, and it’s not good.

He’s tall, maybe six feet plus. Probably around fifty-five, sixty. He’s definitely eastern European. Trust me on this, he is.

Big guy.

He’s dressed in a Honest Ed’s discount parka that is fully unzipped, and probably too small to be done up anyway. This despite the fact that – as I had predicted – it is inner-nose-freezing cold out here.

Now my eyes pan left and down. The child.

I can’t decide if it’s boy or girl because it’s just a big bungle of parka not dissimilar to the father’s. Same size, but done up, with a scarf. The eyes say east Asian. Chinese?

On to the woman.

Oh yeah, she’s definitely east Asian, all seventy-five years of her. I’m sticking with Chinese.

Good god, if she’s not in her twilight years then she must’ve had one hell of a drug problem. She definitely appears advanced in years to him, by a few, and he’s just not a man to whom the word “young” can be applied any longer.

…waiting for that goddam flash to charge up…

This must mean that, if this is the child’s mother, she must’ve given birth sometime in her late sixties or, perhaps, early seventies.

But that’s ludicrous! The imagination can’t wander thus.

No, she must be the child’s grandmother.

Here.

With his father selling loonie trinkets, in the cold, on an evening of celebration.

Where’s the mother? In fact, is this their regular income? It seems like a family enterprise, only the family dynamic is *really* dynamic. It just feels…wrong. What kind of dog and pony show is this?!

FINALLY, the flash goes off, and I KNOW, I JUST KNOW I’m not going to say anything other than, “thanks”, then turn around and march the hell off in the opposite direction.

Without a further mumble, I spin around, and leap off the embankment, back into the surging flow of people.

Blissfully the crowd, the same crowd that could smother me to death in some sort of riot, is pulling me tenderly in its current towards Nathan Phillips Square for the new year thing.

Ahhh.

I swear to god I can hear chanting.

It sounds exactly like a group of Krishna devotees.