At the same time, people are free not to be a part of this event. You don’t have to like gay people or the folks that come out to support them; that’s your right and I’m 100% behind you in support of that right. I’m certain that there are folks in the LGBT community that have equally close-minded opinions of the straights, or blacks, or women, etc. Whatever…we’re all a little prejudiced, racist, and otherwise bigoted, and while I don’t support those views, I support people’s rights to hold them and even express them.

If you’re not hurting, or advocating hurting anyone, or impinging on their rights or freedoms, I take no issue with you. In fact, I kinda wish there was a Straight Pride parade, and an International Men’s day, or a Caucasian Celebration Weekend, etc. None of these come from a place of hatred or jealousy as I’ve often heard implied, I’d just like to be celebrated for who I am instead of being reminded of some nebulous history that I’m associated with simply by my gender, sexual orientation, or colour of skin.

But Pride has never felt anything but welcoming to me, and I’ve never gotten the impression that it would be anything else to anyone else. And that includes our controversial mayor, Rob Ford.

Yeah, Rob doesn’t come across as someone who’d strut down Yonge in assless chaps, but as I’ve just finished explaining, there’s nothing wrong with that. Some might even say that’s a good thing. Even his comments lumping gay people with intravenous drug users and AIDS are, though dumb, mostly innocuous and somewhat representative of the 905 (that’s Toronto’s suburbs for those of you who don’t live here) — the people who voted him into office.

So what, exactly, is wrong with Rob choosing to go to his Huntsville cottage instead of attending Pride? Isn’t it his right, as mayor, to opt out of such events if he so chooses? And what about his family’s 30-year tradition of heading up north for the Canada Day weekend … why should he be expected to give that up for an event he clearly doesn’t support? Why, in fact, should he be supporting a “special-interest” group lest he be labelled a homophobe?

Okay, let me start with that last statement and explain, categorically, why he not only should be attending, but also why it’s hypocritical of him not to. Hopefully I’ll correct a few other fallacies while I’m at it.

First off, that homophobic label isn’t being assigned by the so-called “special-interest” groups that, apparently, have taken such vitriolic offense to the mayor’s snub of Pride. At least, not anything I’ve read or heard.

In fact, the only place I’ve heard the term being used is by people like Barbara Kay of the National Post who support his decision by implying that that’s what Pride supporters are saying about Ford. In other words, she’s claiming that the LGBT community is calling Ford a homophobe because he’s choosing not to attend, yet she’s the only one I’ve read actually using or even implying that term. Ford’s supporters are coming out and calling the Pride people intolerant, citing such unsubstantiated statements as fact, and then basing their arguments on these baseless and, I suspect untrue, statements.

See, when I make such broad proclamations about what a whole group of people think, I try to link to such statements … you know, back up my claims. So far, and as far as I can tell, the only people who have called Rob a homophobe are those supporting his decision not to go to Pride, and those same people are then using such statements to springboard all manner of baseless commentary. And I’ve seen Kay link to other statements, even in the article to which I refer, so I know she’s capable of it if she wants to. It’s Fox News style “reporting” which serves only to expose the bias of the author and her audience, not of the people to whom she refers.

Still, Rob has every right to avoid Pride. He also has every right to miss Caribana (erm, I mean, the Scotiabank Caribbean Festival), or The Taste of the Danforth, or for that matter any of the other nine or so major events that happen around the city every year. Yup, that’s all within his purview … he can choose to ignore all of these festivals, and it doesn’t even have to ideologically based as, I’m sure, is the case with Pride. In fact, Rob can just sit in his office, do the absolute bare-bones minimum expected of him as a mayor, and I’m sure the 905 crowd who voted him into office would be a-okay with that.

Thing is, these events are big money makers. Pride draws around a million people, and growing, every year. In 2014 and under Ford’s watch, Toronto will be hosting World Pride which promises to be even bigger, and in my estimation, the current event is nothing to sneeze at. The bottom line is the bottom line, and for a mayor who’s major platform during the election was money, money, money, you’d think he’d embrace this cash influx as something positive. He doesn’t need to walk down the street emblazoned with glitter and soaking sweaty bodies with squirt guns, but a show of support – even a simple written statement saying “enjoy the parade” – would demonstrate that he’s standing behind his own campaign pledges. Yeah, apparently this thing isn’t even worth a simple note that could be read in absentia saying “welcome to Toronto, have a fun time”.

Instead, he’s mulling ineffectual ideas like corporate sponsorship (and renaming) of our subway stations or cutting the City Hall snack budget, all the while nullifying these financial drops in the bucket with concessions to the suburbs, still clinging to 1950s notions that the car is king, highways and big houses are the bee’s knees, and the suburbs are where it’s at. His solutions exacerbate the city’s myriad problems, and the few solutions that could offer some relief, at least financially, are being rejected because Ford’s cottage takes precedence over his duties as mayor.

Yeah, but what about that family tradition? Why shouldn’t he get to spend time with his family and relax a bit?

Yeah … why shouldn’t he? Pride is 10 days long, not just one weekend (that’s the parade). Rob could easily attend something or other and still spend the whole Canada Day weekend guzzling beer and fishing. The trip back from Huntsville, which I’ve made numerous times, takes a few hours but is definitely do-able. He could even just say that he’ll come back to town and then miss the event because of “traffic” … totally believable and shows at least a modicum of effort. Or, failing that, offer the written message I’d mentioned, delivered by a representative who’ll be sticking around for the celebrations.

Even Rob’s brother, Doug, concedes that this isn’t the brightest move and said that he’d try to “twist” Rob’s arm to get him to attend, that’s how deep their family’s 30-year tradition runs. Regardless, as mayor of a city the size of Toronto, sometimes you have to break with tradition. Not that he’d have to.

To say that Rob isn’t doing this for ideological reasons is bullshit. Of course it is! But clearly Rob’s distaste for the gay community outweighs his ideology of gravy cutting and revenue making for the city. Yes, Rob Ford can dislike gay people and that doesn’t make him a homophobe — that’s his right. What people seem to be missing is that he also has a duty, as mayor, to support the city, not just when he likes it or when it doesn’t conflict with his leisure time, but for his entire term in office.

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I’m usually not a sucker for fireworks anyway, but when I went to see them last year at Ashbirdge’s Bay I accidentally stumbled on a spot that literally knocked my lid off. I mean, I’m sure they look great from the beach; the reason I know is because I heard the mighty cheers that arose from there with every new volley of thunder. I do not exaggerate when I say it sounded like a rock concert or a horde of vikings, and I was sitting entirely elsewhere.

But H-O-L-Y  F-U-C-K, pardon my Belgian – this is an experience not to be missed, and I’ve been in those crazy Asian fireworks festivals where they shoot fireworks at you. No one at walked away from the shore of Lake Ontario without beaming about the experience. From the spot I and a small group of people were at (someone complained that 20 years ago they were the only ones there), the explosions were just incredible. The thuds of each missile – oh, they’re missiles at that proximity – would actually knock me in the chest. I’d watch the flaming embers of some of the more intricate rockets fall to the shore and explode into balls of fire as they hit the rocks a mere 30 meters (about 100 feet) away. WOW!

By the way, if you’ve got problems with explosions, do not come. Oh my God, though, if you like this kinda stuff you hafta go next year! But I’m not giving away the location, you’ll have to R.S.V.P. me or something. (I like my cards scented.)

After each volley, when my hearing would return, I’d hear the crowd on the beach raised in a unison cheer – something I don’t remember last year. That told me they approved as I did.

And, I think, the fireworks probably had a lot to do with it. There was a lot of play with symmetry, sometimes creating the effect of 3D objects being cast into space.

Sometimes it felt a bit like a stage production. The timing on these things must’ve been amazing.

There were also other times where it became a bit of a free-for-all. They usually have these shows choreographed to music so that must be where the solo kicks in or something. My seating spot was no place for music though.

There were a couple of times when I almost burst out laughing. The guy behind me, startled by how close some of the explosions seemed,  repeated with increasing intensity, “no, no, NO, OH NO, NO NO NO!” When I spun my head around, he was in a state of readiness, prepared to leave his date, his coat, everything that wasn’t necessary, presumably for a dash to safety.

Okay, so I guess it’s not for the faint of heart. But seriously, if you want a true fireworks experience, you have to be prepared to actually get it! Ha!

So on top of this one overwhelming aspect of the fireworks at Ashbridge’s Bay, the overall length and variety of the presentation were also both much broader. Just a hands-down winner in the fireworks department as far as I’m concerned. There’s plenty of room to plunk your ass on the beach where people are putting on their own displays. I was a little shocked at how many people were on the boardwalk afterward, and that I had decided to trudge my bike through there. I guess it’s become quite a festival. But for good reason.

No, seriously. When was the last time I was this enthused about something? It’s a serious show. Feel free to flip through some of the archives of this blog to see some of the events I’ve attended. And this one blew my socks off. Almost literally.

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“Albert! What on earth are you doing?”

“Birthday nosh, what?”

“Oh….Albert! Mmmmm….yes…right there…”

“That attachment…uhn…we had installed…unh…is proving…unh…quite effect…URK!”

“Heavens!”

“…”

“Oh, Albert. This is why you’ll never be king.”

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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.