Well, last year’s G20 fiasco notwithstanding, the doubters really should think again. The many parallels are hard to ignore:

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One of the most iconic images of the G20 riots a couple of weeks ago was the that of the burning police car. You know the one:

I’ve heard a lot of criticism of the Toronto Police for leaving the vehicles unattended (as though that was, somehow, justification for them being set on fire). I’ve also heard much speculation on why the cars were there in the first place. Well, I have some theories on the second point (they were following the rear of the protest parade, perhaps?), but I believe I can answer the first one succinctly and authoritatively:

Putting resources (riot cops) to work guarding other areas, at that point, seemed like a pretty wise move. I suppose they could’ve tried to send a tow tuck in there to try to retrieve the cruisers but I think it’s reasonable to think that the truck could easily meet with the same fate. And that’s assuming they could get the seated “protesters” out of the way.

Some people have tried to convince me that these seated youngsters were there in order to protect the cops.  Haha! No shit! The same people trying to convince me heard it “from a friend” or other such reliable sources. But I tend not to trust those sources so much. Also, I took some time out to speak to the people on the ground directly — and that’s not the story I got.

I approached the young man with the glasses and leather jacket seated at the bottom of the last photo above to inquire why he was there. He initially misunderstood me and said, “No!”

I retried it with something simpler, “Where are you from?!”

“I’m from here! Toronto!”, he replied. (It was pretty loud)

“Who is this group you’re seated with?!”, I continued.

“I don’t know!”, he smiled, “I just sat down with them when I saw they were forming a line!”

“Oh!”, I shouted back, quite surprised. (I’d assumed the group was more organized than that.) “So what’re you protesting?!”

“I just don’t like the police!”, he shouted back, smiling, and shrugged.

Unfortunately, the mainstream media got there considerably later (as usual – slow pokes!), and it was they who were initially berating the cops for abandoning their cars (plus engaging in a little melodrama for the cameras and my amusement later on). Essentially, I don’t think they really had access to the full story.

Probably all that heavy equipment they have to lug around. Plus, they have to find a place to park their vans. In an urban environment, it’s just not the most efficient way to get around.

I’m seriously considering applying as a freelance (or staff), reporter for the local media. I’m thinking that me and my feet are a lot cheaper than a fleet of vans and fancy lighting — seems like a good deal, no?

Anyhow, by now you’ve probably already heard that the Black Bloc (I’ll be writing more about this in a later post), were responsible for the majority of the damage that day. They claim that the name refers to a tactic rather than an organization. I claim that it refers to a bunch of snot-nosed kids with way too much time on their hands.

In hindsight, it was really nice of them to pose for a group photo like this. It was even nice for a few of them to unmask themselves, albeit unwittingly.

You really can’t blame these revolutionary heroes for hiding their faces though. If their mom and dad ever found out I’d bet they’d get grounded for, like, forever. And without their disguises they’d never have been able to seamlessly blend back into the crowd afterward.

If this is a prime example of Black Bloc tactics, I’m going to suggest that they need a new tactician. For starters, maybe not dressing in all-black so as to suggest, you know, Black, would help.

Perhaps they thought that black would be slimming.

Continued in next part…

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How do you make the Toronto mayoral race interesting?

Well, I dunno if I have a definitive answer to that, but there’s a bunch of stuff you can do to prevent it from being less relevant.

I mean, the first televised debate earlier this week on local all-news CP24 was mangled pretty good. Judging by the reaction from the few remaining media outlets not owned by Rogers Communications, I wasn’t the only one underwhelmed by the ADD spectacle. This was made more acute by the fact CP24 is owned by Citytv which is owned by CTVglobemedia, a Rogers joint. I wouldn’t be surprised if Rogers already owns a controlling interest in Toronto City Life. Monopolistic issues aside, none of these organizations is exactly new to this type of thing, so their combined wisdom really should’ve produced something a bit more substantial.

Really, my biggest issue with the thing was that out of the twenty-six candidates currently running, CP24 invited only the six they thought were most worthy.

Okay okay, I wouldn’t invite some of these people to a public internet chat room let alone a televised debate, but some of them are viable candidates who are simply being ignored. Take Wendell Brereton, for example; a well-spoken, intelligent Regent Park Pastor and former police officer with a solid platform and an enthusiasm for this city’s future.

Some people have suggested that candidates like Wendell weren’t invited to the CP24 debate because their chances of being elected are slim, this based on their level of experience in municipal politics. If that’s the case then could someone explain how Sarah Thomson got a seat at the table? Nothing against her personally; she’s also got some good ideas, a vibrant personality, and she handled herself well in the debate, but I’m sure Wendell would’ve done just as well. If it was a matter of having the token female candidate present to level things out, wouldn’t a token black candidate have been a good inclusion as well?

There were also suggestions that candidates like Mr. Brereton weren’t doing enough to reach out to media in order to make themselves visible. I know from my own research that some of the mayoral wannabes really don’t seem to want to be found. But in the case of Wendell, and I suspect a few other candidates besides, this isn’t the case.

Newstalk 1010’s resident loudmouth Jerry Agar, after watching the debate, invited Wendell onto his talk show where they touched on the topic.

Jerry: “People in the media, me being one of them, we get accused sometimes of ignoring the supposed other candidates. But I’m talking to you, you’re a Pastor, you’re a former police officer, you’ve got this idea of above-ground rail like they have in Chicago, of a visitor road toll that might affect the 905 [Greater Toronto Area] but not 416 [Metro Toronto], and these are the kinds of the issues that some reporters, some talk show hosts, might hook into, wanna talk about. How come I’ve never heard from you? I mean, in the end is it your fault I didn’t talk about you before I decided on my own to talk to other candidates?”

Wendell: “No, I’m gonna blame you.” [both laugh] “We put up our web site, I think we have…”

Jerry: “I don’t have control of web sites. Why haven’t you sent me a press release on these ideas?

Wendell: “We have! We press release weekly, I’ve actually called your station…”

Jerry: “But you haven’t contacted me.”

Wendell: “No I haven’t contacted you directly … we’ve tried. We’ve done our best, we’ve contacted media. We’ve reached out but unfortunately, news is news. People want things that are newsworthy, the media want things that they consider to be newsworthy, and for some reason they did not consider us to be newsworthy. But we kept pushing…”

Look, TCL’s political research department at the moment is me. Our newsgathering budget is whatever lint I have in my pocket. My investigative journalistic experience extends to a summer I spent at the Scarborough Mirror writing ad copy. Yet, little old Toronto City Life not only knew about Wendell Brereton well over a month ago, but I linked to his site and even watched his campaign video. So my question is, what the fuck is everyone else’s excuse? Sorry, Jerry … I love your station and your show, but that’s pathetic.

Aside from the fact that air time is allotted mostly to people hocking new movies, useless pet products, and other shit that is in no way news, CP24 and it’s parent stations suffer from a few other problems that were blatantly obvious during the debate.

To begin with, why CP24? Why choose a station where the debate is stuck into about a quarter of the screen (before any extra graphics are added to squeeze the real estate even more), surrounded by weather reports, stock market tickers (really? the majority of people really need this info?), and banner ads for junk removal services?

Citytv, CP24’s parent station, broadcasts full screen and is about as downtown Toronto as it gets. They seem unwilling, however, to preempt The Bachelor or whatever fluffy piece of crap they happen to be showing at that time.

Then there’s the format.

CP24 had Ben Mulroney on constant standby as they cut away from the debate for pointless commentary and insightless analysis with random passer-bys. Maybe they were thinking that with his dad being the former Prime Minister, Benny might be well-suited for the role. Except that he’s spent most of his broadcast career hosting award shows and waxing mundane on various Hollywood starlets’ pantiless excursions. And Benedict Martin Paul Mulroney is a snooze at that, kind of like a well-groomed rock — if he simply exists on camera, says nothing, does nothing, the show is about as exciting as otherwise.

The one redeeming quality about this whole thing is that it’s only the first of six televised debates, so they’ll have another five chances to get it right. You know, get hosts that at least seem to know something about municipal politics, maybe do a Google search to see if there are more than six candidates running, pretend like they’re professional news organizations — that kinda thing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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After all, the word “novem” means new. Or nine, but that doesn’t make much sense so Newvember it is! I realize that it’s not exactly the month of visible renewal. It’s a month in which the last of the leaves reluctantly leave their perch in the branches to join their departed brethren below. It’s a time of year when I switch to the “Sentimental” category of my MP3 collection and consider taking up drinking hard liquor to match the ambiance. Yeah, it’s solo-sax-on-the-street time.

That leads me to the first change for which my friend Casie Stewart is responsible. She’s managed to land herself a gig with the social media people at MuchMusic/MTV/CTV.

So congratulations, Casie!

According to the words I put in her mouth, I will never have to stand outside another CTV-run event like a common schmuck. Imagine, backstage passes to the MMVAs! No more standing around naked in the bushes outside of parties anymore.

And that leads me to the second change around here; I’ve decided to try writing in the morning rather than at night. I’m hoping this will give the posts a bit more clarity, less of that slobbering grunting quality. Also, I was recently invited to participate in a Whisky tasting by a local ad firm, and that’s happening tonight. Even if I manage to soberly comport myself (I don’t see those chances being high), I’ll still be getting home too late to think of anything interesting to say about it. And being able to pull strings with Ms. Stewart will probably mean more evening events like this.

We’ll see how it goes. This is my first morning post and I haven’t passed out yet, so we’re in strange new territory. This might yet work out, but as I’m getting light-headed, I won’t push too hard. How do people get up in the mornings?!

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It didn’t pan out.

First off, I wouldn’t know fashion if it ran up to me, tugged at my sleeve, and called me dad. So most of the clothing stores and their slight, jaded attendants with aborted personalities, were out of the question. And any haircut I would plunk down three digits for (as if!), would be experimental. I don’t wear experimental well. I have a utilitarian, European head. It’s made for thinking, imbibing spirits, and spectacular love-making. Not for unusual hair styles.

But that’s okay. If I can’t spend my money on anything else, I can always buy a new MIDI controller of some kind that I’ll use, like, three times and then forget about.

I used to flip through the comics at Silver Snail regularly as a teen, but they don’t carry much of what I enjoy anymore. I keep tellin’ em there’s a market for it. They keep tellin’ me that what I want is “illegal” and “sick” and that they “never carried it” and “please stop masturbating”.  Hey, their loss.

I’ll happily take my business elsewhere.

I enjoy a genital piercing as much as the next guy, but I was pretty intent on getting that haircut. That’s the problem with Queen West though, isn’t it? There’s always something to distract you. If it’s not a novelty condom store or the exciting fall 2009 line of designer bongs and smoking accessories,  it’s street voodoo:

So, naturally, by the time I got to the old Citytv building, the first thing and the other thing (there were two, right?), had broken free of my skull and fled. Something about a hat and a vest?

Oh well, there’s always tomorrow. Wish I could say the same for  poor Moses Znaimer.

Oh yeah, now I remember. Yeah. No way I’m getting a haircut now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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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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It really doesn’t matter which station you watch; CTV, City, Global, Omni; there’s an incredible coverup underfoot to hide the truth about the weather from the public. How in the world was this conspiracy allowed to happen?!

Need proof? Just think to the last time you watched the 11 o’clock news…

…but, sadly, the kitten couldn’t be saved.

Tragic story.

It certainly is, Anne. Now we switch over to Michael to tell us what the weather will be like tomorrow. Michael?

Thanks, Gord. I’ll be telling you all about the doozie of a weekend we’ll be having. But first, here’s Kathryn Humphreys with the sports, and I must say, Kathryn, you look like you’ve gained some muscle.

Sure have, Michael. But enough about me. The Leafs. Whole team: dead. Plane crash. More after the messages…

Yadda yadda. Buy stuff, etc. Back to the news…

…police are now looking for the fugitive infant. If you have any tips, call Crime Stoppers. Gord?

Thanks, Dwight. Boy, is it me or are they getting younger and younger?

Hard to understand. Now we go over to Michael with the weather. How’s our weekend shaping up, Michael?

Well, Anne. It was looking a bit dodgy around noon but from the data we’re receiving from our two-hundred-thousand weather stations around the GTA, I would revise my earlier estimate. Things are going to change drastically!

Uh oh! Sounds ominous, Michael. Or is it swinging to extreme good weather?

Well, Anne, now you know I can’t tell you at this moment otherwise I’d have to sneak into your bedroom while you sleep and place a single drop of poison on your lips via a suspended thread, being held by me, a vague shadow somewhere on your ceiling. That is, if I was even there at all. It’s not like I would leave any evidence behind. How about I tell you the full weather picture after the commercial?

Sounds good, Michael. Please join us after the commercial break as we unveil the weather forecast for your weekend.

I’m pretty sure I missed a couple of breaks and segments in there, but you get the idea.

When the weather finally comes, it’s an orgasmic explosion of weather facts. Michael tosses them to the camera benevolently. Ahhh. Now, at long last, we will know whether to hang on for one more weekend or just end it all on Friday.

Wow. Imagine the power in that guy’s groin. He’s probably the belle of the ball everywhere he goes. Women would go to great lengths just to spend one night with him and, perhaps, bring news of the following week’s weather back to their people.

How was this allowed to happen? The weather should be free for everyone! We should all have the right to know whether to wear galoshes or sandals to work tomorrow.

Or tune into the Weather network where they apologize out their ass for not having that shit in front of you, on a silver platter, every ten minutes.

Stone cold pimpin’