With that, the Toronto garbage is strike is now officially over.

Naturally, some found it hard to let go:

This gentleman assured me most seriously that mere moments earlier, there had been a large crowd on this very spot supporting this early-morning protest. I must say, that’s exactly what’s needed these days; a sense of humour. Good guy.

But despite the comedic relief provided by these folks, it was a pretty tense day at City Hall. Everyone stood up to talk, two guys left in a huff, someone else threw crayons and teased the two kids leaving. Bad scene. How did my girl hold up in the vote? Naturally, she cast the wise choice.

And today, for the first time in forty days, birds are being flipped from truck windows again:

So, that’s it for another five years, or whenever this agreement expires.

Are you bored to tears with this strike already? Me too. Let’s get back to summer!

Just like being at the beach, huh? A sophisticated beach! That had been paved over. With no water. And big buildings. Also traffic and the occasional deciduous tree. Surf’s up!

Woaw! The zipper for the giant pants of the bank behind it. In fact, the entire financial district is filled with giant testes. (In the “they’ve got some balls!” sense. Not in the complimentary sense.)

Okay, enough of that for one day. Crotches can only take us so far and besides, we don’t want to get sunburned on the first real day of sunshine.

Speaking of getting burned, a story emerged a couple of days ago that the website of Toronto Hydro, my electricity provider, was hacked. Hydro claims that all that was stolen were the personal contact info and last bill amounts of some of their customers. We were advised that we may be receiving a letter if our personal information was accessed.

Since that moment, I’ve been walking around like a kid on December 22nd. I crossed my fingers each day as I opened my mailbox only to find that, no, I would not be the lucky recipient of the Toronto Hydro letter. Not that day :(

But guess what … today I got one! :D

Isn’t that exciting?They say it’s just a precautionary letter, but I know it’s meant just for me.

Now some twitchy teenager with a brick in his underwear knows where I live and how much juice my lair requires. Kid, if you’re reading this, you’re welcome to the info. In fact, feel free to apply some credit to my account next time you’re in there.

Interestingly, in the letter dated July 23rd, Hydro says that they don’t how the hacker(s) got a hold of the information. Meaning that they didn’t know they’d been hacked. So how did they know the information had been accessed?

I know, I don’t seem terribly concerned, but I’ve had fraud at least once on every card I’ve ever owned. And I would love to see someone try to take out a mortgage on my credit. Haha!

Ahh. That’s the best way to start a weekend; with a laugh.

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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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I flipped over to CFRB where it’s guaranteed that even on the slowest of news days, someone will be seething live on the air over something or other. Usually the latest about the War. Today, however, a strange sound emanated from the tinny bedside radio; it sounded like cheers and claps. And it went on for a long time.

Oliver nodded in my direction to indicate that this was it; or that he wanted to be fed. In a few moments, the announcer who had been feeding the delirious applause live through his mike returned. The news did indeed warrant applause.

Before you go on, would you care to pause a moment at the end of this sentence and guess what the celebrations were about?

You are one-hundred and fifty percent correct; a peace treaty is imminent!

I should caution that we shouldn’t be unrealistically optimistic here. The “a” in that sentence means one. The 416/79 , as you may recall, is a joint squadron under two commands claiming to speak and move as one. As a condition to ratification, the 416 generals are hanging their peace treaty on a similar one between the 79 and the city. And they, as yet, have nothing. Also, there are some alarming questions being raised about how high a price has been paid for securing this first agreement.

We can only hope and pray that General Miller didn’t cave under pressure. The picture that the unions paint is one of rogue trash consciously creeping out of detention and attacking tourists. Does that seem realistic?

It would be safe to conclude that Gen. Miller hasn’t set foot outside his compound since the start of the War. That would be the only explanation for his lack of oversight on the ground. The atrocity above is real, but scenes like this are increasingly few and far between. I mean, have you seen Chinatown lately? Granted my memories are bit fuzzy, but I don’t remember this intersection being so trendy:

As skeptical as I am of their dubious implications, I believe that two peace treaties will be signed before the week’s end. I can say that with a fair degree of certainty because:

a) I don’t get paid per prediction.
b) If anyone is reading this blog to forecast the future, they should consider seeing a professional. Any kind is okay; they can refer you.
c) If this blog is so influential, where the hell is my free coffee?! That’s right, no free coffee. Not even a phone call to thank me. Nothing.
d) I have seen the times to come and this blog is a record of my visions.
Just messin’ with ya  ;). See a shrink. Seriously.

*sigh* I just want to get my old Toronto back; the clean home where all cultures feel comfortable and at ease:

Update: It seems the 79 union now has an agreement too. Now my prognostication seems especially pointless.

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The morning started out normal enough. Ever the early bird eater, Oliver chided me awake for neglecting my blogging duties. And his litter. He’s a real hard-ass, but keeps me motivated:

By the afternoon, it was obvious that Environment Canada were up top their usual hijinx. With a batting average of about fifty percent, this week’s forecast had reliably managed to misinform almost all my umbrella decisions. Thank the darkened heavens I decided to forego it today and simply poke my head out the window:

The downpour didn’t last very long, but it brought down a lot of water. Typically this wouldn’t be a bad thing, but with the War going the way it’s been going, the water now serves to help detention centre run-off seep into the ground. This is hardly desirable under good circumstances, but with the advent of chemical warfare, especially in the urban theatre, it’s much more serious.

A swelling grass-roots movement is trying hard to reverse this. Today they held a candle-lit vigil in Moss Park to shine a light on this under-reported consequence of the War:

The underground movement’s savvy organizers appear to be keenly aware that the War is not only fought on the ground, but also in the mind. While General Miller and the 416/79 leadership seem to have abandoned public relations, the people who pulled this little shindig together did just the opposite:

That’s Francis D’Souza in the fancy threads. He swept in out of a parked Citytv SUV like a mother hawk with hungry chicks spotting the first meal of the day; split-second reflexes at the ready for the live six o’clock feed.

“What should we do?”, asked the demonstrators while the TV crew was setting up. “Don’t you worry none”, responded Francis in a John Wayne drawl, “you just stand there ‘n I’ll do the reportin’, little missy.” He was actually talking to a man, but that’s how certain Francis is of his own rugged masculinity. Who could blame him?

The report was over in seconds.

With a gunpowder cloud still hanging in the air, he thrust the microphone into it’s low-slung hip holster and sauntered back toward the waiting car, spurs marking out his confident gait at regular intervals. It was only when someone cried out “Francis!” that he stopped. “Francis!”, came the pleading voice again, “what did you say about the four-one-six?”

He swaggered back toward the group. “Here’s what I know”, he said. “If’n that four-one-six gang don’t get their comeuppance by midnight Sundy, they’re fixin’ to walk away from the table.”

That wasn’t what anyone wanted to hear. The group thanked Francis who, with the tip of his Stetson, rode into the dying sunset, his shadow grown tall on the street behind him in the shape of his true self.

(He’s actually a lot smaller than he looks on TV. And he’s not a cowboy. It just seems appropriate to describe him like that.)

To punctuate the grim news, the suggestion was offered that this action may signal the need for binding arbitration; the beginning of the end. Wouldn’t that be something?

As I was preparing to leave myself, I spotted a couple of the brightly-shirted gentlemen I’d been meaning to speak to for the past few days. You may recall they were, contrary to all detention centre reports, actually helping people schlep trash from the trunks of their cars. To assuage my curiosity, I asked them if they were associated with the union. No, they said, they were not. They were management staff and had never left their post.

Management doing the hard work. What a crazy, topsy-turvy war this is.

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The outstanding feature of this city stalwart is how it seems to maintain that great journalistic root of hit-the-pavement reporting. It has the fewest misleading or indeterminate headlines of any of the major dailies, probably even fewer than this blog. And they’re not afraid to go where the action is.

Today, for example, I discovered an article by a brave front-line journalist named Jack Lakey. In it, he recounts a horrific scene of utter devastation; a forgotten mound of burnt wood, broken cinder blocks, smoked glass, and protruding hunks of dangerous metal; remnants of an iconic bicycle store. And garbage:

It doesn’t get any more raw than that. A salute, Mr. Lakey.

For obvious reasons, I didn’t want to stick around too long. The overcast sky was bringing an early evening and soon the crack-heads would be rising from their graves, hungering for human brains. Brains on crack. *shiver*

By the time I regained my composure, I was already halfway up Spadina in CHINATOWN! I hazily remembered the last time I’d been here; it was only day two of the tactical strike and already the troops were taking a beating. The memories of that day were like dark, hellish, black-and-white photographs. I didn’t even want to imagine how the area had ended up.

And as it ended up, I couldn’t even have imagined:

Clean streets and empty garbage bags, even in Chinatown; who’d ‘ve thunk it?

I’m actually starting to feel a little sorry for the 416/79 command. A sizeable number of their strikers have hoisted the white flag and requested to defect to our side. I believe they have seen the error of their ways and should be afforded clemency and dignity. We must eliminate this savage brutality; that wanton barbarism; those angry little picketers with their bashy smashy little placards. Take it easy, lady!

We can all still emerge from this with a little humanity. A little understanding. A little peace.

Dream of magic and unicorns, sweet prince. Or winning the lottery.

(Click on that link, I promise the story’s interesting – it’s the Star!)

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So I ranted. For a long time.

Later on, I started to wonder if he was playing the contrarian just to bait me. I mean, is it even possible that the 416/79 have any supporters left?

Take that, CUPE!

They must know that they’re taking a bit of a beating right now. People are refusing to put up with their style of guerilla warfare:

As my own small contribution to the struggle, I was recently mulling around the tactic of generating income for the city, to be used for private waste disposal, from unsolicited city posters. I realized soon after that there was a fatal flaw in the plan; if the removal guys are collecting fines, who’s removing the posters?

Today I received an answer:

They remove themselves!

Can victory really be that far off? For the final push, General Miller must mobilize all troops, especially those in public relations. Because right now, both sides are being described as exceedingly bratty kids, the kind that make you want to go in there and just clip ‘em both behind the ears a few times. They can’t even sit in the same room together!

Maybe they need to see the real situation on the ground; see which way the pendulum is swinging. Some districts are not coping as well as others, but there are increasingly more oases of so-clean-you-can-eat-off-it serenity:

Dear reader, I hope you trust that all of my accounts are true as far as I know them to be. I have been witness to this war from the very first day, and the simple reality is that most of Toronto doesn’t suck as badly as the 416/79 would like it to. In fact, most of it doesn’t suck at all.

I’m going to look up that blog again to insinuate inserting my digital boot up his binary ass for trying to suckify the city. Especially when blending is such a clear and easy answer.

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That’s what I’d like to know!

Well, I guess by the title you’ve already guessed that the offensive is still in full swing. I really do wish I had something more to report but the War has either moved into ultra-secret territory, or both sides are sitting on their thumbs. Something I read stated that this could potentially lead to a large increase in the rat/mouse population. According to the exterminator that was being interviewed.

But I think the implications go much deeper than a few extra rodents. Garbage on the streets has now become commonplace, so much so that many people don’t think twice about just tossing stuff to the ground. Even I find myself struggling to find that line that separates garbage from, umm, not garbage:

Ah, blessed gaudy stars, rusty segues into my next encounter, another television shoot somewhere on Victoria Street. Here I was cautiously approached by two police officers who asked if it wouldn’t be a better idea if I asked before taking a photo. I explained to them that I really just wanted a quick snap of the “ambiance”, and verified that this was considered a public location and was I within my rights?. “Yes”, said the Asian officer, ”but it would be nice.” And then, he asked if he would like me to have him ask the crew on my behalf. No trouble. “That’s quite alright, officer”, I replied, and moved on:

A few steps up the street, the other officer (right) caught up with me. “Don’t worry”, he assured me, “I’m not following you. Just on an unrelated errand. Nothing to do with you and I don’t want you to feel alarmed.”

I reassured him that I was as cool as a cucumber and that it hadn’t even crossed my mind. And it’s true.

So had I come across as that much of a dick? Skittish, maybe? An over-informed citizen with a hard-on for litigation?

Now, to pull a final segue out of my pants, I think it’s safe to say that we are all a little curious to know if the guy clocked at 140 kilometers an hour (87 miles), on the 401 this morning, while awash in portable DVD pr0n, had both hands on the wheel.  Ha ha! The wacky things people do behind the wheel. Precious.

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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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This is the second too-long day of a second too-short night. This time it was the tail end of the Copper film for which they were shooting night scenes. Late night scenes.

In contrast to last night’s festivities, the crew were as quiet as very polite mice. Their lighting, however, was quite loud:

Right into the bedroom window. Clean, straight line. Living room too. And that’s pretty much my entire place.

At around 2 a.m., they packed up their trucks, pointed their New York license plates south, and quietly rolled out. Not only had they crept out with a whisper, but they’d also left my neighbourhood cleaner than it was before. Aside from two strips of gaffer’s tape marking out an “L” on the sidewalk, the place was impeccable.

They were still sweeping the left-over bits of trash  from the location house this morning. The front lawn looked well-trodden but the house looked better than it had. They made it out to look like a real hussy, didn’t they?

I guess cops have to fight crime somewhere; might as well be in a nearby crack house. Or maybe it’s an abstract film where the cops stare and occasionally shout at a pear sitting on a blue plate for exactly forty-one minutes (with a midget dancing backwards in the background); those curtains are for the really-fuck-the-audience’s-mind effect. Does David Lynch still make movies?

Either way, I guess that’s fairly realistic, because danger really can lurk behind any shadowy corner:

One mistake and it’s all over. Your windshield. With open windows, your sleeve. Kid in the back gets banana peel in the schnoz. And who gets the half-drunk bubble tea cup in the frontal area? Maybe you, maybe me. And no one deserves that. It’s just not something you’d wish on your fellow human beings.

I think it’s a sign of desperation; a cry for help. Children are now being employed to produce impassioned pleas for an end to the savagery. I’m sure Walter Cronkite would have approved, and with a respectful doff of the cap, we thank him.

So under slightly more gray skies we find ourselves at the end of the week. As the tide of war waxes and wanes like a poorly thought-out metaphor (or simile?), more casualties are inevitable:

I guess it never gets easier.

It probably shouldn’t.

Well, maybe with a good night’s sleep it could.

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Every surface scrubbed, every possible source of food triple wrapped; still the fruit fly population seems to have doubled overnight. Their strategy appears to involve coating all my traps with the bodies of their dead, allowing the few that survive to fly kamikaze into the first available orifice:

Someone thought that printing house flies on the paper was a good idea. Momentarily fool you into thinking it’s more effective than it actually is, maybe?

The return of the 4 a.m. import glee club across the street compounded the struggle, making today very long and generally painful. Dragging my ass through the garbage battlefield in my dozy state would have been dangerous, so I chose instead to do a desk-bound reconnaissance of this conflict’s past through the Toronto Archives.

As always, I was left in awe of what people of the past were able to cope with; how much they were able to do with the simple mud streets and steamy horse shit they were given. The garbage collectors pulled the garbage carts around by themselves like real men. There would always be a partner to help position the pole (barely visible in the photo) from behind.

In the fifties, garbage collectors relaxed a bit as they were now relegated to merely tossing their cans in the rear. The white garbage trucks were probably a bad call, but at least the initial collectors on duty could be assured of looking fabulous while in them. Of course after repeated use, the back sides would become quite filthy.

Ah, those were the gay ol’ days. But that changed almost as soon as the union barged in, plopped on the couch, and cracked a beer. In no time flat, the city was employing five supervisors to one garbage collector.

And pretty soon the messy business we’re dealing with now took form in the appointment of two additional government clerks to ensure proper work apportioning. Everyone was fully qualified for one specific duty and also given special training to cease to comprehend English when a task was in danger of falling outside that duty, or on break time.

It’s not really so hard to understand how we got here, is it? If history teaches anything, it’s that modern-day garbage collectors are not expressing their flair nearly enough. No wonder they’re so pissy!

And there’s your golden nugget of knowledge for today. Tomorrow, if I get to sleep before dawn, maybe something else.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hilarious.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I feel it’s only right to ask…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Merry Strikemas!

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

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

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

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

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

A picture as confused as I was.

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

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

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

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

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

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During the 2002 conflict, the provincial government legislated and end to the assault and brought in an arbitrator to lay down the conditions of the peace pact. This time around, with cooler temperatures making the trash less goopy, there is no call for immediate action.

Our provincial government has forsaken us.

Chritie Pits is already at the breaking point. Residents are fending off mutant rats (those that survive the poison are necessarily mutants), and hell-spawn mosquitoes (ditto re: the poison, but much more satanic). With an area the size of two football fields and about 3 meters (10 feet) deep, government forces evacuating, and hot weather moving in, that’s sad news for the folks of the Pits (apropos, no?). Like your kitten getting hit by a car during your birthday party kind of sad. A birthday party no one came to kind of sad.

Even though I’m convinced that trash is no longer the evil force driving this conflict, I don’t think anyone would want this near their home:

The Toronto Star’s baffling story on a San Fransisco travel advisory was another shot to Toronto’s groin. And the city itself  is making matters worse by preventing citizens from proactively trying to defend against the onslaught. Permits for these actions are nice but wouldn’t it be tough to get them when the permit office is on strike?

Guerrilla vigilantism is clearly the only answer. I’m ready to do my part.

Respect mah authoritae!

As the sun sets on another miserable day in our blighted metropolis, and I struggle to fit just one more bag into my building’s garbage shed, I see one faint sign that pierces the bleakness. A yellow sign.

Somehow, despite the trash and slowly blooming odour traipsing in from just down the street, the brave men and women of the entertainment industry march on resolutely, producing questionable (but improving!) content. God bless ‘em; they’re tryin’

Hope they clean up after themselves when they leave.

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I’m sorry, it’s just that my head has been elsewhere lately.

While I was waiting for my regular lunchtime installment at It’s a Wrap the other day (King and Atlantic, highly recommended!), the guy grilling the wrap started into some small talk. Naturally we got to talking about the War and I asked him how the strike was affecting him. He lamented that he was paying upwards of two-hundred dollars every week to have his trash hauled away, and then he started in on his idea about the true origins of the strike. I listened thoughtfully; you don’t argue with a man armed with a spatula, cooking oil, and a conspiracy theory. You just don’t.

He believed, quite firmly, that General Miller allowed (perhaps even instigated) the War in order to save the city some money. The battle would also go on for some time, continued spatula guy, until General Miller was satisfied with the cash he raked in.

“Think about it!”, ended spatula guy, pointing his silver flipper at the spot on my forehead where the bullet would enter if I didn’t.

So I did.

But it seems a little far-fetched.

I think that the brass at city hall have their noses too deep in the conflict to see creative ways out. Curmudgeonly prodigy Bill Carroll had the interesting notion of firing ten random people a day until the union caved. The scene painted, in my mind, had a casual Bill strolling out into a crowd of strikers and calmly calling out the names of the people who were getting axed that day. He’d then roll up the list, cool as a cucumber, and strolling a few feet into the crowd — casually like he was window shopping for strip bars, proceed to have the shit kicked out of him by anyone standing nearby. What an ironic daydream.

Bill has since changed his tune. He says it’s for legal reasons but I think he and I shared the same vision. I wonder if the crowd was naked in his too.

There must be better ways. Take this guy, for example:

He’s about to stick something to that pole, I just know it.

I’m pretty sure his company’s not renting pole space from the city and it has to pay for removal. If it were illegal to poster like this (and presumably it is), why not have the removal guys collect fines instead? Every poster carries a phone number, website address, physical address, etc.  Finding the culprits would be supremely easy; you could bring a picnic basket and plan a day trip around it!

There’s a derelict store on Queen Street that demonstrates how rich and profitable this could be. Just look how far those layers go … it’s a gold mine! (clickable too)

With the fine money collected from all of these posters, the city could afford temporary private trash patrol service that could give everyone a reprieve from the War. And why not charge per poster? Stick it to ‘em!

There was one theory floating around (not sure where I heard it), that Toronto was just getting what it deserved. That the trash strike is just karmic retribution for being a bunch of jerks. Shibaten might disagree, and he eats karma for breakfast:

I continue to believe General Miller’s doing the best he can, but he needs to stick his head out the door once in a while. Get some fresh air, new ideas, fresh perspectives. Smoke a bowl. Watch the clouds.

Now, on the verge of day 16, we’re breaking into uncharted territory (the 2002 strike ended after 16 days). This struggle needs needs a refreshing breath mint.

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That’s what we’re up against, and despite appearances, the danger is real.

If side-saddle got up a fast enough speed, she could probably bowl me over. Yes, it’s a she. A she with a thirst for battle.

After taking the photo, I back-stepped down the street gingerly as she didn’t seem appreciative of having a portrait done.

A block away I stopped to listen to an amateur musician. Extremely good, and clearly not part of any union:

I hate making these obvious juxtapositions, but it’s important that everyone understand what the War is really about. It’s becoming clear that trash is simply being wielded as a rancid weapon; the 416/79 unit are pulling the strings.

When you think about it, it makes perfect sense. There hasn’t been a single report of trash attacking anyone. It’s just a pawn in the subversive game that the 416/79 corps is playing.

But on the ground, for the urban Torontonian caught in the middle of this conflict, it doesn’t really matter. All the anguish and bitterness ends up festering on their front lawns either way.

Back on the street and now blocks away, children played in an empty urban wasteland, devoid of vegetation and life, but still somehow brimming with hope:

With the sun, it’s not so wasteland-y.

I find these pictures very comforting; that even in the middle of such a terrible conflict, the city  still manages to get by somehow. The children still manage to be children, buskers still dot the streets, people still live their lives as best they can.

Clearly the 416/79 offensive is losing ground. Their hierarchy of two managers for every striker is probably hurting them. The only way they’d be able to make any headway now would be to take a good long look in the mirror and pick at some of those blemishes. Until they’re able to do that, all we can do is carry defiance in our eyes. (a pint in the hand is good too)

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Well, is seems that at least one of the fears has been realized. A rather stanky waft of eggy air meanders along Dundas near Spadina among open bins, but it’s possible that the smell may have been there before the War:

You have to hand it to the resourceful shopkeepers around Spadina for ingeniously mixing trash in with the merchandise. Not only do they profit from it, but tourists take the trash with them out of the city:

The tiny little five-dollar treasure soon becomes the little Buddha with the toxic peeling golden skin and (upon closer inspection) horribly disfigured plastic face. He probably shouldn’t appear to be leering lustily at you, of that I’m fairly sure.

Despite this, these things must be selling like hotcakes (with real Canadian Maple syrup), because the stores lining Spadina are packed with this stuff:

There’s actually a store owner in there somewhere. Almost Zen-like. Almost.

The people of Chinatown certainly are resilient, but it remains to be seen how much longer trash will be tolerated in this neighbourhood; how many more good trash bins must be lost before the people declare enough.

I sure hope they aren’t depending on some fiberglass moose for luck:

Moose have never been particularly lucky around piles of trash. Usually ends up with the moose spilling something on his new white shirt. And that’s doubly aggravating because of the amount of time it took him to just get that thing out of the package. Then those awful little pins; for an animal with hooves … and the buttons!

Yeah, no moose. Bad scene.

So trash exports it is for the foreseeable future. The brave people of Chinatown march on.

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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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Unfortunately, the news machine has managed to omit some of the truly important details while focusing on the less relevant.

For example, Michael Levine (Jackson’s former manager), is quoted as saying, “It seemed to me that his internal essence was at war with the norms of the world.” Uh-huh. If by “internal essence” he meant penis, and by “norms of the world” he meant adults. The explanations for Michael’s behaviour were as clunky as that analogy. I grew up with his music just like all the other teary-eyed mourners out there, but he’s still a kiddy diddler. That kinda spoils it for me.

Come to think of it, we’ve really been under-served by our the media during this conflict. The strike survival guides that have been prepared for civilians leave a lot to be desired. Here are some samples citing how to deal with trash:

“Hold onto it”

There are no words to express how disappointed I am that this should be suggestion number one on this list. My imagination actually hurts now.

In the CFRB version (which links to a dry, generic Blogger blog), we find this incriminating gem hidden at the bottom:

“Get out of town”

I believe that’s called DEFECTION DURING WARTIME! … and is considered high treason.

Jerk.

And that was all I could find. Pretty sad, huh?

Here’s some advice from my close and personal friend, Generalissimo Pragmatico:

1. Sauces flush.
2. It’s not your garbage if it’s your neighbour’s.
3. Raccoons’ll eat anything. (but away from your place –- shifty fuckers learn fast)
4. Most perishables can eventually be puréed. See 1.

We won’t win this war if General Miller’s propaganda office isn’t making an effort. It’s a war of image as much as it is a war of trash; filthy, dirty trash [spit disgustedly].

We have to win.

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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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My unit scurried through the bush thick with heat and humidity. [funny va-jay-jay-joke here]. The trees were abuzz with tension and frenzy. Birds were playing dangerous walk under if you dare games, clinging to wires and branches, and aiming. Always aiming.

Then, happening so suddenly I didn’t even notice, I was hit from a wire-bound sniper!

It took me a few steps and the sudden feeling of warm, watery goop running down my arm to realize what had happened. Not thinking, not feeling, just acting, I quickly staunched the wound with a napkin. Only when I was satisfied that it had absorbed all that it could did I lift the corners of the makeshift bandage.

Clear. Good news! It was only a flesh wound! No … wait … bird poo is supposed to be opaque. Maybe that bird wasn’t healthy. Hmmm.

No. No time for regret. No time for tears. Have to keep moving on. War doesn’t stop to be grumpy.

The unit resumed it’s march. Just a little farther down the trail, we encountered a booby trap:

Cunning, but easily defused. A sure sign we were getting closer.

The insects shrieked around us as we pushed through the soupy air. The noise of the nearing conflict was beginning to grow. Or maybe it was the nearby cabs. It was just really loud and hot.

On a nearby ridge, we found scattered propaganda and spent artillery shells:

According to our source, we would soon be where we needed to go.

As we descended down the embankment, we found it. Right in the middle of the jungle, a pile unlike any I’d seen yet:

And then, even farther down where the skeletal trees met the dead earth, more carnage:

When they failed me, someone nearby had chiseled out my words for me:

You may now weep.

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Here, the boys are being pressed back into service:

They’re doing their best given the circumstances, and sometimes even getting a helping hand from the locals. There was a big pile of yellow garbage bags where this cage used to be:

Trust me, the little Chinese lady camouflaged inside the ramshackle shop is one of us. And enjoys sitting on trash.

In all possible ways, people all over the city are getting involved in the resistance. At some of the transfer stations (more like detention camps), the waste is piling up very high, very quickly.

That’s where the 416/79 platoon is stationed. I don’t know what their strategy is, but marching around in front of summer-heated garbage seems ill-planned. Or maybe the plan is so deviously Machiavellian that I couldn’t even begin to comprehend it.

Despite their best planning, strategy, and all sorts of fancy antique maps with blustery men exhaling trade winds, the stark reality is that it’s far too late for some:

I’m sorry folks, but that’s the real face of war; it was never meant to be pretty.  The horror and revulsion you feel is normal; tell the world what you saw here!

Now, as the sun descends again, it seems as if everyone in the city is taking a long deep breath; preparing for an onslaught of heat and misery. I also wait with bated breath, Oliver crouched on the floor beside me, both of us ready for the darkness.

And tomorrow, hell. Also, maybe no booze!

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Yesterday, as Much Music crowded the streets in a brilliant display of terrible musical taste (ohmygodohmygod!), soft-core porn, and just plain garbage, the 416/79 infantry began their tactical strike. Everyone was too busy watching Lady GaGa’s disco-stickery and highly impractical haircut to notice what was going on. Amidst the insane shrieking of pubescent teens, none but a few liquor-hardened reporters bunkered down in the CityTV newsroom took notice of the descending doom.

At midnight, war was declared.

By morning, the bandaged and patched casualties were starting to come in from the front lines:

Only later did I learn that the first salvo wasn’t fired by the other side or even by us. It was fired by a southern neighbour taking a shot at Perez Hilton. Some time in the yawningly early hours of Monday morning, trash became enemy and we got the first shot in. Thanks, America.

This is where it started; ground-zero:

Later today, I saw the first fatality of the war:

…and soon more:

The scenes are horrible, but I fear much worse and soon. And even more troubling is the new garbage bag that I installed in the kitchen today. Currently it only holds a few bits of trash, but pretty soon it will fill like all the others; swell with refuse and pride, become unruly, attack me in the middle of the night!

As the the dull shelling from my computer’s speakers draws nearer, I gather the reusables in the corner of my flat and wait. And wait. And watch. In the direction of the kitchen.

I won’t get much sleep tonight.

P.S. Congratulations to Renee for winning the Coffeetastic Giveaway! You couldn’t have chosen a worse time.

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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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