Do you remember yesterday with those street-borne communiqués around the city?

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.

Ah, weekends; two days to remind you of how good life could be.

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.

The War rages on, Being Erica still makes no sense, yadda yadda.

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!

Although some comrades have fallen, Pride has managed to make things a little more colourful again. Maybe that’s because perspectives are changing; things don’t seem that black and white anymore.

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.

They marched in solidarity; all marched in peace; many marched with stately grace; some marched with erections.

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.

Some time in the red-eye hours of this morning, the commander in chief (left) made the heroic decision to dig in his heels and prepare for a lengthy siege.

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.