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Hint: Others rounded up in the police sweep included a priest and a scout leader.

Here’s the answer: http://www.thestar.com/news/crime/article/903516–7-gta-men-arrested-in-international-child-porn-probe

And there you have it; stereotypes are stereotypes for a reason.

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First, make sure you’re physically able to perform a moderate jumping motion. To those of you who mock this warning, you’d be surprised. To those of you not surprised, I urge you to consult with a physician first.

Next, make sure you’re wearing comfortable athletic footwear and clothing and that the area around you is clear.

Stretch your calves, hamstrings, quadriceps, biceps, triceps, glutes, and anything else that stretches or jiggles. Especially if it jiggles.

Now get ready to do a little leaping!

Right down to a little village on the border between the U.S. and Mexico, a spec of mud on a dusty plain known as “concluçions”. The English pronunciation is, as usual, bastardized.

You see, in this lawless land, a man must carry the scales of justice in his own back pocket. I do. Nice, shiny set engraved by my pappy. And that can be a euphemism for whatever you like, darlin’.

I’m using the scales on old Vakhtang Makhniashvili and they’re tellin’ me this guy’s a scoundrel.

If you don’t know the guy, the original story or subsequent events, or how to pronounce his name, I can sum it all up for you in a paragraph.

The name is pronounced: “Vak-zHTeng-toænGgH   (K-CHT)   MЋë-Shnee-Shmia-Shmeely-Vooly”. The “K-CHT” is an optional clearing of the throat following the first name. He was initially famous because his daughter went missing from her high school just over a year ago (still no sign). And ‘cuz he stabbed someone ‘cuz the dude got too loud.

At that time people were all, like, “he’s under a lot of stress and he’s probably having trouble fitting in anyways on account of being an immigrant, and blah blah blabbidy blah.”

Well I ain’t from around these parts neither, missy, but I’ll tell you whut … that’s horse manure out where I come from.

So, daughter’s missing and he’s languishing in jail, seems like a crappy sitch, no? What I’m getting at is that I wouldn’t stab the people who bailed me out of there, ya know? Like he did to his neighbours, pretty much strangers until they put up the money.

So now Vakhtang’s stuck three people like so much spicy Georgian sausage and I’m starting to think to myself, hmm, you know, it wouldn’t surprise me one bit to think he might’ve stabbed his daughter too.

Is that such a far leap? I dunno, how did it feel for you?

Alls I’m saying is that most oftentimes, the obvious is correct. Occam’s razor et al. And speaking of knives, who told buddy that slashing your way out of a fight is the “in” way to resolve your differences? Knives can do a lot more damage than a pistol can so if you pull one in a fight, one of you is liable to not be walking away. Pretty sure that’s true anywhere in the world.

Stress? Pshyeah right! One stabbing, maybe … but three? Is this how he relieves stress? Well, fuck, I’m glad he’s not doing it for the sexual pleasure.

Basically, it’s summed up by that famous quote from George Bush:

“There’s an old saying in Tennessee – I know it’s in Texas, probably in Tennessee – that says, stab me once, shame on – shame on you. Stab me – you can’t get stabbed again. Heh heh.”

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Do you remember David Chen, the Chinatown grocer who kept getting ripped off by the same guy so he decided to make a citizen’s arrest? Except that the cops slapped the cuffs on David instead with bullshit charges like forcible confinement and kidnapping.

Nearly a year later, all the charges against David have been dropped.

Justice!

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Okay, it’s now been well over two weeks and I’m just about ready to put this puppy to bed.

But before I do, let me round out the G20 weekend for you, dear reader. Let’s start with the Black Bloc, the attention whores of the summit.  While I was trying to figure out who they are and where they came from, a few glaringly obvious pieces of evidence jumped out at me with a, “zut alors!”

I’m ninety-nine percent convinced that the Bloc and their comrades are Quebec separatists.

For starters, you may remember some of the shit that the FLQ — Canada’s very own home-grown terrorist organization — got up to during the sixties, demonstrating that they were more than ready to use violence, kidnapping, and murder to achieve their ends. A few broken windows and graffiti, really, wouldn’t be beyond the pale.

As “socialists”, they easily take offense to anything even resembling capitalism, so their presence at the G20 riots wouldn’t be at all out of character. Finding day-glo stickers attached to vandalism such as in the above photo (not even bothering to deliver an English version of the statement), well, that’s a pretty strong message that these folks were from out of town.

Now, do you remember the two young vandals trying to torch the CBC News van in the previous post? Well, they were part of this group:

These folks were appropriately dressed as unthinking zombies and, apart from readily engaging in vandalism, were spreading all sorts of strange mixed messages. Maybe it’s a language barrier thing. The banner above, for example – does it mean that they’re waging war against truth? In other words, spreading lies? And what about the miniature casket they were carrying around with them for effect?

In case you can’t read it, the writing down the side says, “DEMOCRATIE”. That’s French, as in Québécois, for “DEMOCRACY”. Again, I’m not sure what was meant by this – does it symbolize the death of democracy? As in, they’re mourning for it? Or are they the ones who want to bring about its demise? In hindsight, the brain-dead getups were bang-on.

But I think the most damning piece of evidence was a leaflet (along with some other excellent literature), I received from a self-styled “Marxist” a few days earlier at the Allan Gardens rally (where we can also see black-clad, French-speaking “anticapitalistes”):

To me, this kinda ties it all together with a nice little bow. First we have the “Revolutionary Communist Party” identification front and center. Communism, Socialism, FLQ, pee pee poo, same same.

Although the RCP betray some of their earlier FLQ ideals by actually including English here, they nonetheless put their French acronym first in the website address and, lo and behold, they’re based out of Montreal, Quebec! And have a look at the photograph they chose to accompany the leaflet; golly gee, don’t they look exactly like Toronto’s own Black Bloc goofbags? I’m guessing that I’ll get a good gander at them in mid-December, and I’m further guessing that I won’t be a bit surprised at what I see.

Even the name Black Bloc – spelled without a “k”; the French way – it all leads back to the same place, the same people — les idiots.

Not an awful lot of brainpower involved here.

Truly the work of the mentally challenged. At least they got one word right.

PPISONS must be some sort of French flambé dish.

Not the POLIVE! Anything but the POLIVE! Or POLIUE? These French spellings always screw me up.

This one shocked me with it’s coherence. They got the anarchy symbol wrong but hey, they are rebels. Maybe this is their way of saying “FUCK ANERKY!”.

Okay, enough of douchebags and their monosyllabic eloquence. There’s one other issue that keeps getting raised over and over again: police violence.

One of the main reasons I stuck myself at the front lines was to see exactly how the police would deal with the protesters, and how the protesters engaged police.

The main theme repeatedly brought up by the Toronto Community Mobilization Network, the people who hosted all of the protesters (including the Bloc), was the use of violent police tactics. This was well before any of the protests actually began. Some of their concerns seemed legitimate; I myself discussed some of the police interactions I had had with the Network’s legal counsel. But their defeatist attitude and their refusal to lift a finger to actually aid anyone quickly convinced me that they weren’t really in it for the social change or the protest. And, despite repeated interviews (some of which I was at personally), they refused to denounce violence. At all. In any way. In fact, any time they were asked about it, they would deflect with something to the effect of, “well that was a stupid question. What about the real issues?”

So here’s a group of people, actively fomenting violent protest. I mean, freely mingling with Bloc members and (it’s even been suggested), protecting them, pretty much speaks for itself. And once again, I have my own experience to lean on – the cops I spoke to clearly stated that they didn’t want any violence and that they would refrain whenever possible. The TCMN said nothing of the sort, even going so far as to suggest that violence may be necessary for those “without a voice”. I’m not sure who these hypothetical voiceless people were, though; I could scarcely hear my own thoughts over the din sometimes.

The majority of the protests, however, were peaceful. Non-violent, I mean. Yes, the cops were out in full riot gear, and I was prepared to bolt if anyone got to shoving, but it didn’t happen while I was there.

In fact, as with the protest marches, I got the distinct feeling that many of the people either had no idea why there were there, were there to invite people to the Rage Against the Machine concert taking place later (no kidding, actually handing out glossy leaflets), or weren’t part of any protest; just kinda hanging out or there to make new friends.

When I got home that Saturday evening I followed Twitter for a while to see what was happening. One of the major online happenings that night was the brief detention of Steve Paikin, effectively TVOntario’s news anchor with The Agenda.

As his disjointed tweets rolled in, describing the riot police moving in on a group of sitting protesters on The Esplanade, people were reacting with shock and basically saying, “There? See? A respected journalist getting hassled by the police! POLICE STATE!”

My take on Steve Paikin? Not sure if I want to say it publicly. But not positive. Not at all. That goes for everyone else who was rounded up and arrested in that late-night demonstration.

Let’s get a few things straight, shall we?

To begin with, every time the police moved their lines (and by all reports, that evening was no exception), they gave everyone a good loud warning. Of course some people chose to ignore it and instead asserted that these were “our streets!”

As we’ve learned, no, zeez are not your streetz, Frenchies.

I was part of a few riot police actions and, through some miracle, managed to escape without harm or incarceration. What miracle, you ask? I GOT OUT OF THE FUCKING WAY!

This, I believe, was Steve’s first failure. I suppose that he was expecting that his prima donna status would put him above all that. His tweets certainly gave me that impression.

Next, Steve started to question why the riot police were moving on a line of peaceful protesters simply sitting out in the middle of the street, in the middle of the night, asserting their right to sit in the middle of the street, in the middle of the night. As we all do.

Two points on the ignoramus scale for Stevie here.

First, when would police ever let people block a street like that, protest or not? Tell you what, Steve, why don’t you go out and stand in the middle of a downtown intersection right now? Just stand there, or better yet, sit like the protesters did – peacefully — and refuse to move — peacefully. Go on, exercise your rights. Do it with a group of friends if it’ll make you feel more comfortable.

Second, the cops had spent the better part of the day trying to break up these groups who had demonstrated quite aptly that they were ready to engage in good old-fashioned vandalism. Gee, Steve, you couldn’t see any reason why the police might try to disperse the group? Or maybe you expected that they should’ve questioned people individually so that they could let all the good ones go? Seriously? Dumbass.

Then the situation started to get heavy. Apparently Steve witnessed a foreign reporter getting hit in the gut by riot cops. The guy happened to be unaccredited and was mouthing off to the police for being detained.

Here, again, I hearken back to my own expectations of the protests going in. I had these little hand-made paper signs that read “MEDIA: torontocitylife.com”, affixed to my bag and shirt. I expected that, should I be detained by police, they would count for exactly nothing. They were there, basically, as a form of hope that, should I be detained, the cops might treat me with some leniency. Certainly not an expectation of any kind.

Apparently Steve’s expectation was that he could just stroll out into the middle of a protest, surrounded by riot cops who had spent a day fighting burning police cars and getting harangued by rude protesters, and that…what? They’d come up to him and ask for his autograph?

I keep asking the same questions over and over again: Why was I able to read all the situations correctly (I was part of quite a few protests and standoffs that day, Steve was part of one)? Why wasn’t I hassled, detained, arrested, or even looked at funny? Why was I always looking for “outs” and making sure the cops weren’t getting ready to close in? And when they did, why was I always able to successfully side-step them?

Why does a complete amateur like me go into a situation with, what are obviously realistic expectations, and someone like Steve Paikin walks obliviously into the rabble, after everything that took place that day, and expects to come out smelling like roses?

Stay behind the desk where you belong, Steve.

And that goes for the rest of you people who “innocently” wondered into these protests and found yourselves “unwittingly” caught up in the police crackdown. Next time, here are a few clues that might tell you something might be going down, even if you do genuinely wander into these situations like the blithering idiots that you claim to be:

1. Do you see a line of heavily shielded riot police bearing shields, night sticks, and gas masks? That might be an indication that there’s a heavy police presence there and that something might happen. You may want to hang back a bit.
2. Did you suddenly wander into a pack of people who are shielding their faces with bandanas and sunglasses? Those people probably don’t want to be identified, probably because they’re up to no good. You might want to leave that particular group. Again, just hang back if you’re curious.
3. Are people engaging in illegal activity? (The law applies 24 hours a day. As far as I know, there is no moratorium on Saturday nights.) If you see something like this, chances are good that police may move in to arrest them. Chances are even better if there was a high level of illegal activity earlier in the day. If you’re in the middle of the group, the police probably won’t stop to have a pleasant chat with you about why you’re there, what your favourite restaurants are, and so on.
4. Are you in front of a line of riot police who have suddenly started to move forward? They have to move in unison in order to maintain their line so they won’t be going that fast. Maybe…get out of the way?
5. Have you just been detained by police while in the midst of a volatile situation (see above for indicators)? Try not telling them to go fuck themselves, or calling them pigs, etc. Perhaps just try following their directions? I know, I know, they just want to beat you and rape you but, hey, you might luck out. Calling them names or trying to fight them is less likely to get you out of that situation unscathed, unless you believe you can take them all on.
6. Is your head in your ass? Pull it out.

Now let’s never speak of this ugly affair again. Unless something interesting and relevant comes up.

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Like just the other day they got new pay shitters. On top of the novelty of $0.25, self-cleaning toilets, residents get the added bonus of getting to watch tourists peepee dance as they hunt for change.

On the east end alls we got now is scrub brush, mounds of dirt, and a bunch of factories.

Kinda ironic considering this section of town predates the west end. And over there they’ve got the Island Airport which Porter Airlines has nicened up considerably (so far, it seems, not abusing their monopoly), the Music Garden, not to mention the Harbourfront Centre and all the artsy shit it barfs up on the shores of Lake Ontario.

On the east end we get the Gardiner, a bunch of container ships, and blisters from climbing on aging industry. Not the whole section of the east, mind you, just the part where I live. Right after the Don Valley, at Riverdale, it starts to pick up again and keeps getting nicer all the way to The Beach. Like there’s an aesthetic-sucking vortex in my area or something.

I mean, it’s true that we have Cherry Beach, but it has yet to shed itself of the image of being a bastion of used syringes and cheap blowjobs.

Cherry Street is admittedly quaint as a summer stroll in an off-the-beaten-path sort of way, but I always feel like I should be wearing construction boots down there.

Thankfully, waterfront revitalization is slowly creeping its way eastward.  Finally.

At the foot of Jarvis, next to a new condo will stand Sugar Beach, a man-made strip of sand similar to the one on the west end.

The beach’s name comes from it’s proximity to the RedPath Sugar refinery (right). I’m told, though I’ve yet to experience this myself, that when the ships are unloading raw sugar, you can actually taste it on the air. Pretty sweet location. (C’mon, when will I have an opportunity to use that one again?!)

Next to the beach and the condo they’re putting up a new George Brown College building, and to the east of that, Sherbourne Park.

But just like the Cherry Street locale, this area can’t seem to catch a break. You know that body they found encased in concrete and stuffed in a barrel in the lake yesterday? Yeah, that was here.

Hopefully, once the dust settles and that post-apocalyptic wasteland look recedes, the crime and seediness will move out east to Scarborough where they belong. I just hope it happens within the next five years because it would really look bad on the city for a bunch of Pan Am athletes to be found sleeping with the fishes.

—

Sponsored links:

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The downtown AM radio station was part of my regular morning schedule. I’d wake up, shove an energy drink into my face, and get good and worked up to Bill Carroll’s latest rant.

As the weekday morning guy, Bill was on top of local topics before most people, and he’d always deliver them with an abundance of vociferous opinion. Sometimes he’d be so wrong that I’d have to stand up in protest. At other times Bill would say something so accurate and poignant that I’d have to rise in support. Either way I’d be out of bed and into my day with a tank full of caffeine and indignation.

In February Bill was shipped down to Los Angeles and replaced with John Moore who, as yet, has not been able to get me frothing at the mouth like Bill used to. KFI AM 640’s (the LA station’s), page for Bill Carroll links to his @billcarroll1010 Twitter account. Hint hint?

However, with my extended leave of absence from employment, I’ve had the opportunity to check out some of Newstalk’s other shows and I must say I’m pleasantly surprised by what I’ve heard.

Afternoon host John Tory, politician and business guy turned media personality, got into a terrific tizzy the other day. I don’t even remember what it was about, but I remember it being very satisfying. Generally speaking, I tend to agree with John’s take on a lot of things, so that doesn’t hurt. And every afternoon Bill calls in from LA so that the two of them can go head to head. Now if the show could just be broadcast in the morning…

Another extremely effective host is Jerry Agar who comes on after John Moore. Jerry’s an opinionated, FOX-News-friendly US import (though born in Canada), and I’ve actually told him he’s an idiot more than once in the middle of his broadcast. Unfortunately, Jerry can’t hear me from my flat, but he gets his fair share of dissenting opinions on the air from others too.

I’ve texted the station in response to some of Jerry’s public adoration of corporations and big business – sure they have our best interests at heart, Jerry, just look how wonderfully beneficial massive businesses and banks have been to the United States – and I keep listening for the next bit of drivel that Jerry’s going to spout. In terms of his ideology I think Jerry’s a potato, but as a talk show host he’s fantastic. Keeps me listening and angry!

And it’s not all “let’s profess love for our corporate gods”. Today, for example, Jerry chatted with Curtis Sliwa (left), founder of the New York Guardian Angels, in response to a mugging that happened on the subway on Saturday.

The mugging made headlines because it happened in front of a number of people in a closed subway car  and no one helped — echoing a similar but fatal incident in New York.

The muggee chased after his attackers (three of them), who took off at Chester station. He wasn’t badly hurt and his empty wallet was later found outside the station, but the incident raised some obvious questions.

Curtis, of course, suggested that civilians need to be directly involved in fighting crime rather than waiting for police to show up. If you don’t feel comfortable taking on the assailant(s), he insisted, at least try to distract them so that the victim has a chance to escape.

Except that cops regularly dole out their own instructions which are contrary to Sliwa’s: call the police and keep your distance. (No one mentioned the lack of cell phone service down in the tunnels.)

If that New York stabbing is any indication, the cops are probably right.

Still, how come no one pressed the yellow emergency strip?

I happen to think that Curtis’ organization is nothing more than a group of vigilantes. Good intentioned? I think so. Disciplined? For the most part, probably yes. But without a mandate from the people, the Guardian Angels are just thugs in reverse.

However, Curtis did make a good point when he said that Toronto has to recognize that it’s a big city, crime and all. I don’t know that Toronto’s been “ignoring the problem for years”, but I also don’t know that Torontonians are prepared to deal with it — we’re told to call 911 and then look the other way. That’s it.

Giorgio Mammoliti (running for Mayor), is suggesting arming bylaw officers (Green Hornets for the most part), because according to him they’re usually the first on the scene of a crime. Giorgio didn’t have situations like the mugging in mind though, he was thinking more about targeting graffiti, I guess to blow the head off any kid spray-painting a happy face on a wall. Doesn’t seem terribly practical to me.

I’m sure that this topic is far from done. Unless the criminal element of Toronto decides to collectively go on vacation, it’s only a matter of time until something happens again. However that situation ends up, I’m sure Jerry Agar will be flapping his gums about it the next day. If only I had a solution brilliant enough to stick it to his smug mug.

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Two brothers, I dunno, ten and and eleven, were escorted to the back of the streetcar where I was sitting, by their dad. He sat them down and suddenly realized he’d forgotten to get transfers. The one kid was buzzing to look out the back of the car and he kneeled on the empty seat between me and the matronly, scraggly-haired woman on the other end. His dad sat him back down. Guess he thought the kid would be pestering us.

There were two empty seats across from me – the back  is a half-circle facing each other – so I offered to give the kid my seat. I knew the dad would want to sit with the kids anyways (correctomundo, btw), so I thought the kid might as well have a few seconds of fun gazing out the back of the streetcar. I loved looking out through the front of subway cars when I was young, so I get it. And I honestly didn’t see the harm. The boy was polite, he was obeying his dad, he was keeping his feet off the seats, backpack neatly to the side – damn if that kid didn’t deserve an ice cream sundae!

So shit, peeking through a greasy, filth-covered window for ten seconds seemed appropriate for a young man of that calibre.

Offered it to him twice. Twice he refused.

Scraggly-hair to my left says, “good for you!”, to him. “You listen to your dad!”

Okay, guess she had a point. But you know, not like he’s gonna roll up his sleeve, tie off a vein, and start hitting the dragon back there. Plus, potential weirdo ends up in a seat farther away from the kids. Where would be the downside?

Dad came back, seat gladly accepted. The opportunity was gone.

Oh well, the kid did refuse. And that should’ve been the end of it.

Scraggly-hair pointed at the kids and said to the dad, “You shouldn’t leave them alone like that here. This isn’t a safe neighbourhood.”

Internally, I begged to differ. Oddballs? Painful piercings? Imaginative body modifications? Yes, yes, and yes. Dangerous? No. But, this was still just between her and the three of them. :)

The dad replied, “I teach my sons well and they know how to handle themselves.”

The buzzing kid popped erect, beaming a smile, and immediately added, “We take the streetcar by ourselves all the time. We walk home, we take the subways, we take the buses. I know what to do if I get lost. On this streetcar, if I got lost, I would get off at St. Andrew Station and …”

It went on for another five minutes with the other boy interjecting excitedly in sporadic bursts to further heighten the tales of their prowess. The dad finally stopped them when they got on the subject of late-night taxi rides (if only he’d let them look out the window).

“You never know who’s around them down here. All sorts of people”, responded scraggly-hair after a short pause. “It’s just not safe.”

Then she looked over at me. For fucks’ sake!!

“I didn’t mean to imply that you’re a criminal”, she explained sheepishly.

Steady, old boy, I thought to myself. Not a problem, a broad smile and that’ll be my reply. No problem. I never felt myself to be a criminal, so ho harm no foul. And no statement. :)

“But don’t you think it’s dangerous?”, still looking at me. :(

“Well”, I replied, measuring each word, “I remember watching a documentary about urban parents that send their kids into the city by themselves. This guy isn’t alone. Personally, I’d be hesitant to send out any kid younger than ten, maybe eleven. But, you know, that’s just me. Not my call to make on anyone else’s behalf.”

“But you gotta admit it’s dangerous. Even for us!” She wasn’t going to let this go.

“To be honest”, I said gingerly, “I’ve lived in a number of cities and I can’t say that Toronto is that bad. I’d let my kids out by themselves.”

The look on her face … the look on her face … lipsed pursed tight, eyes squinting shut, head shaking gently from side to side, mouth pulled back in that broad, thin smile that says, unequivocally, that  you are so fucking wrong.

I shrugged my shoulders.

“Well I’ve lived here for six years and I’ve experienced some terrible moments”, she retorted.

Out of nowhere, the dad cut in firmly, “I’ve lived here for forty years and I think it’s just fine.”

Silence for the next two stops, at which point the three left the streetcar.

Scraggly-hair stayed on with me for another few stops. She’d only meant it in the best interests of the boys, she assured me. He (the dad), was mad at her, she could tell.  Yeah, she was sure of it. And Toronto is no place to be sending children alone. She was attacked not too long ago herself!

“Oh wow, what happened?”, I asked, hiding a regretful and nearly instantaneous wince.

“Just down there … you know … the park on Queen?”

“Yeah … Trinity.”

“No, the one on McCaul.”

“Oh, that one.” (There is no park at McCaul and Queen.)

“Some drunk, or maybe whacked out on drugs, grabbed my backpack like this”, she motioned feebly at the air much as an injured walrus might. “If my partner wasn’t there, I don’t know what would’ve happened. My partner stood between him and me”, she made another pathetic attempt at a blocking gesture with her elbows, “he stood between us, and he said ‘no!’ And the man was scared because my partner is, like, six foot two, and then he ran away. My partner scared him away. Lucky for me.”

Lucky indeed, I thought. Lucky he’s your “partner”, as you keep reiterating, and not some other less formal entity in your life. That ten-foot pole distance would probably suit me fine too.

But lucky for me, her stop had come more suddenly than she’d realized and she had to bid me a hasty goodbye as she ran for the rear exit. “Stay safe!”, she urged, leaning back into the car for one final wave.

Maybe, I remember thinking, my kids will have something to fear down here after all.

By the way, the faux posters above are from a new National Post campaign to promote better manners on public transit. They may be real posters if anyone prints them out — large sizes available on the Post’s site. The “TTCC” stands for “Toronto Transit Civility Commission”; a quiet pet project of the paper. Normally I make a point of linking to the Star but what can ya do? A good idea is a good idea.

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Anyhow, I believe I’m in one of those moods today. It was one of those lurching days in which clarity decides to rear its ugly head – a light was cast on a vexing situation that’s been festering on my mind for a few months and – to be blunt – both shocked and pissed me right off. I probably shouldn’t go into detail because I have a feeling I’ll be wielding the business end of legal prosecution pretty soon; I can think of no other word than fraud, or something very close to it. Certainly some very odd dealings that I just can’t explain. You know? Stuff just doesn’t add up, like 1 and 1 is supposed to equal FF in hexadecimal. Yeah, that’s not even the same numbering system.

There are lots of fiddly little details that, hopefully, I’ll be able to share once it’s all done with. I think they’d make good reading if you have a few minutes on the shitter (get a netbook—best investment ever ;)). However, droning on about some vague misdoing is boring my tits off and I know the details, so let’s let’er rest a while there.

Besides, some things don’t need to be discussed because they kinda stare you in the face, you know?

Take the story about a young mother who was murdered in her car while tending to her two-year-old daughter. Yep, no way to put a frilly ribbon on that story; shot right in front of her little girl. The story is tragic no matter how you spin it; that kid’s just been handed a life sentence. Who’d argue with that?

But just beneath the surface there are things that aren’t quite right.

To begin with, Detective Sergeant Pauline Gray is quoted as saying, “I think the careful thing is not to look for a reason, because as far as I’m concerned, there is no reason.”

Did I read that right? The careful thing is not to investigate the motive because there isn’t one? Okay, well, for an officer to be making extrajudicial pronouncements at a press conference probably isn’t a great idea, but it also shows that the good Detective has been compromised. Clearly am emotional basket case. Hey, can’t blame her, but don’t we owe the mother and kid a proper, thorough, and unbiased investigation? The careful thing to do is to look for a reason, because as far as I’m concerned, there’s always a reason. I believe that’s the difference between first and second-degree murder — planning requires a purpose, or a reason, as they call it out west.

I also subscribe to Occam’s Razor which bluntly states that the simplest and most direct explanation is usually the correct one. Don’t over-complicate shit, I believe, is the original expression. If she had a jilted ex-husband, my odds are on him. But there’s another possibility; please allow me to connect a few dots…

She’s from Columbia where her parents still live. Upon moving to Toronto, she started a successful container shipping company. Initially she was sending a container or two a year (was that enough to live on?), but recently business had picked up to the sum of one or two per month. To and from South American countries. Do we need the white connecting lines here?

Okay, that’s just rampant coke-fuelled speculation, but any investigator worth their salt should be knee-deep in blow by now. To dismiss some possibilities because they may harm the reputation of the deceased person does them a disservice. And the little girl too. Even if some dark details are revealed, who knows what the circumstances were around those details?

If you’re a keener and read the story, you’ll note that I took most of the drug runner scenario from the Star piece. Almost verbatim, except that I took out a bunch of expletives. I still don’t know why The Star swears so much, it’s really off-putting. But the facts remain about the same. Possibly manufactured for my benefit. However, I still stand by my argument that a thorough and unbiased lookseeinto is the way to go.

It’s the same with the McCormack case. That’s the former police chief’s son (and also a cop), accused of pulling money from club and bar owners in exchange for favours. Hehe, no, not sexual ones. Although, you know, I shouldn’t judge … who knows? Definitely the accusation of money exchanging hands for services of some sort (no, no jokes about hand services, that’d be crude and never proven in a court of law). Impropriety on the one side, corruption on the other, but either way it was looking meaty.

I guess we’ll never know for sure how meaty because the case was thrown out of court for taking too long. If proceedings extend for five years, I believe, the court is obliged to remove them from before its just gaze. “And don’t let the door hit you on the way outtay”, in Latin.

Wow, my head’s really gone over to the lawyer side of the force. Maybe I’ve been spending my time in that headspace for too long and now I just zero in on any little litigious thing I see. I probably just need a good sleep – I mean, who knows, maybe I’ll dream up an out of court settlement. Or maybe cast a dark habeas corpus upon them from my slumber — the sleeping subconscious mind has mysterious powers, possibly even occult. I guess that path will be determined by my mood. Prince or Princess Bride?

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The scandal centers mostly around allegations of abuse and mistreatment of the animals in the King Street shelter:

You know, all the sad-eyed kitties and puppies that make me wanna punch whoever hurts them in the friggin’ face!! How does that feel, huh?! HUH?!

*breathe deep*

*exhale slowly*

…

Everything’s good! :D

So yeah, I really don’t approve of that kind of behaviour. But Bill brought up a good point, many of these animals are brought to the shelter in this state. Of course some of them will look abused, that’s why they’re here. And yes, sadly, some of them die or have to be put down because their injuries are too serious. The shelter makes no secret of this:

However, three things have come together that make me look at the situation with a whole lotta suspicion.

First is my own, albeit single, interaction with the Humane Society in Durham. The facilities were nice, the animals healthy and clean, so nothing bothered me on that end. But the staff, I dunno, didn’t really seem to care a whole lot about animals. And I thought it was odd that they seemed to be dissuading me from taking home a cat: “that one’s not very friendly, that one’s very sick, she’s blind and tends to break stuff, he’s had the most vile diarrhea for months…” In some cases, the conditions for adopting a pet seemed a bit steep: no going outside, no interactions with other animals going outside, no other animals altogether, no flats, no rural homes, no children, no balconies, and a few other things.

Outside, someone claiming to be an employee (so it’s definitely true), told me that the shelter’s funding is based partially on how many animals it has to support. That would explain why they’d want to hold on to the animals, the old use-it-or-lose-it funding model. That would also explain why the King Street Humane Society would be so reluctant to put down animals, even if those animals have no option but to die slow, painful deaths.

I thought about the possibility of altruistic motives, you know: rover’s brought in, hurt, bad, barely breathing — mouth-to-snout resuscitation — charge paddles! CLEAR! … AGAIN! CLEAR!! … LIVE DAMN YOU!! LIVE!! Rover coughs, rolls over, and with the slightest wag of his tail whispers, “I’ve arways roved you.” I know, it’s a romantic notion but I guess it’s possible. But then I read about the mummified cat they found in a trap in the ceiling of the shelter. Police came in, arrested some of the staff, documented the place for evidence, and later came back to go through it in detail. That’s when the mummy cat was found. Wasn’t a cool out-for-revenge kind of mummy cat either, literally just skin and bones; must’ve starved in there. That’s not so altruistic.

And that’s the another thing…

I can’t imagine that the police would mount an operation so publicly, and that involved a whole organization, unless they felt pretty confident that they had some pretty darn good evidence. This story’s been floating around for the better part of a week and up until the arrests, these accusations had been around for a while before that.

"No sir, i especially don't like it."

This story must be absolute gold to the news people. Everyone and their horse is being interviewed about how shocked and sickened they are about all this, and the arrests of the shelter’s staff were out in broad daylight with the media camped out right across the street.

And I’m going to give the cops some credit and assume that they must’ve known this would happen. So I’d imagine they’d take more than a few precautions before busting down the doors – things like making sure they weren’t just arresting people on a hunch, stuff like that.

Okay, and finally, I had to ask Ollie. I mean, if anyone would have insight into this situation, it’d be a cat, no? With his natural clairvoyance and his own personal reasons for wanting to find answers, it was really a no-brainer.

After once again skipping his dinner, I added a “Y” and a “N” on the Ouija board I’d used previously, and placing some psychic motivators on them, simply asked Ollie if he thought if the people currently being charged with these crimes would be found guilty of them.

He hesitated for a bit, seemed confused. Then he wandered over to the “N” pile, sniffed it, and crunched on a pellet. Half of it fell out of his mouth but he didn’t bother going after it. I think what he was trying to get across was to indicate the course of the trial. Initially the defendants would get a nibble of innocence, for a while it’ll look like they’ll be walking out of there free.

Gut then Ollie ambled over to the “Y” pile and dug in. Clearly this cat has an appetite for justice! The interpretation: after a brief respite, the drooling jaws of the courts will come down on our defendants.

Bill Carroll was right to hold back on condemning anyone in this case, but obviously the time has now come for the condemnations to start flying. I believe my own conclusions have some merit, but if Ollie says they staff are guilty, that pretty much clinches it for me. I’ve never had a problem with his predictions before!

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Just flour. Maybe bleached. Let’s say it is. And slightly lumpy.

If you chucked it in my face, that’d suck. If it got in my eyes, like happened to a high school vice-principal in June of this year, it would really suck. Could it do some longer term damage? I think it’s likely. But would you call it a weapon?

I know that legally, if it’s not your fist it’s a weapon, but it seems like a funny definition. Why not assault with an object? Does an object become a weapon the moment I pick it up to bash someone with? So if I were to fling cats at people, those cats would become weapons? Haha! Oliver would not want to stay in a police evidence baggie.

Laws is weird! :o

Hmm. I guess it kinda makes sense that laws would be a bit loopy. They’re put there by people who’ve listened to the most fucked up criminal trial shit day in day out for decades. Like the Rengel case. You remember:

Oh man — that doesn’t get any easier.

This is the teenager who coerced her boyfriend into killing another girl because she was jealous of her. She was tried and sentenced as an adult and the boyfriend, D.B., is on trial now. In his case, it’s going to be simply a matter of how much time he’ll get. The trial will just be going through the motions. And they’re deliberating whether or not to try him as an adult, meaning they’d release his identity as they did hers. Sure hope they do! I’m curious to see, aren’t you?

The other thing I’d be curious to see would be the plans for the proposed Loblaws supermarket / Ryerson hockey rink. Right. And not just some weird hybrid, but inside the hallowed halls of Maple Leaf Gardens, no less:

You may remember a few years back when Loblaws tried to buy the Gardens to make the building into another supermarket. I’m one of those odd Canadians who don’t follow hockey at all, but even I knew that that wouldn’t fly. After all, the Gardens are an institution. To have a university hockey team in there seems appropriate, but a supermarket… It just doesn’t sound like a way to popularize the idea of re-opening the place.

There’s also the problem of having all that flour (not to mention other baking supplies), near all that violence and with no laws.

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Let me start by saying that KISS ended up doing the right thing and scheduling that concert in Oshawa. Good call, gentlemen. But I guess Gene Simmons didn’t like the negative spotlight of this little aside and he went and started blaming the media for spoiling the surprise the band had had in store the entire time.

*ahem*

What was the surprise again? I mean, the cat was out of the bag and running around the room hissing and  breaking things when KISS announced that Oshawa had won the well-publicized contest. Toronto was a contender in that contest, as were Los Angeles and New York. Was the “special” surprise that the winner wouldn’t be getting a visit from the group? Would they be revealing some awesome piece of the show simply by announcing that they would be having a show? That would make the tour an awful spoiler. Contest too.

I don’t get it.

Another thing I don’t get is this story of the twenty-two year old student who faked his own kidnapping last weekend. Well, no, I get the story; I don’t get the plan behind it.

If you don’t want to read the whole article, basically the guy called his family some time in the middle of the afternoon last Saturday. He said two guys with guns were trying to run him off the road. Then silence. Parents called the cops; “he’s been kidnapped!” Almost immediately, strange facts start to pop up in the news. He’d just been fired from his part-time job at IBM and was also arrested for stealing stuff. And he had two grand in his pocket at the time of the kidnapping, allegedly on his way to fly out of the country; a big no-no on account of the theft thing.

Then, yesterday, they found the guy in St. Catharines. No kidnappers. No kidnapping. Just a snitch.

Disappearing, okay, that I can appreciate. The kidnapping though. I mean, that’s a guaranteed manhunt; even more people looking for you. And it’s a race against time because now there’s reason to believe your life may be in danger. Sweet sweet irony.

Look, if you’re evading the law, the best and only way is to fake your own death. Something fiery and bally you can watch from the distance while sipping a rare liqueur. I’ve been considering the various avenues now that the government has decided it’s time for me to start paying my back taxes :( Death is an option.

But that’s not my m.o. I’ll just have to become a master criminal so cunning that the shadowy income I pull in will quickly eliminate any debt I have. The death I’ll save for retirement.

What’s the alternative? Blogging? HahahHAHAHahAHAHAhahe hehe HAHAHAhaha! Oh man that’s funny. *wipe tears*

Huzzah for blogging!

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So it came as no surprise when, flipping through the latest edition of Eye Weekly while stuffing my face with a Liberty Village jerk chicken sandwich, I was drawn to Shawn Micaleff’s article on development in Toronto and the tensions it raises between pro/anti-urban development advocates.

Like an earlier article I had written, Shawn points out that construction around the metropolis is rampant (the second largest in North America), and that many of the new highrises are indelibly changing the historic face of the city.  He also makes an aborted attempt to connect what’s happening today to a hackneyed version of the future as it was seen from the nineteen-eighties. Aside from a few weak parallels between the cyberpunk genre, Shawn mostly misses the point.

The griminess of the cyberpunk future is really a co-construction that wasn’t any one writer’s or director’s alone. The term “cyberspace” (and it’s associated imagery), came out of Gibson’s novels while the concept of antiquated urban construction being superceded by new buildings came mostly from Blade Runner scenery (though this new/old mix is never explicitly discussed in the movie). Shawn makes the point that the vision presented in the movie loosely matches what we see today; old buildings being subsumed by newer and larger ones.  Aside from this, however, there isn’t much to tether either idea to reality.

The article comes to the ebullient conclusion that, despite the criticisms and minor drawbacks that urban developments carry, we should embrace these changes as the “the new beautiful”.

Only problem is, I’m not sure what the hell Shawn’s talking about.

He’s trying to show what a “new” vision of the city should be through a descriptive frame that’s almost three decades old, and science fiction to boot. This portrait includes either behemoth, tilted buildings jutting out of an ocean of air muck, or neon-addled  “grey slabs” that serve mostly as a backdrop for cyberspace hijinks.

Whatever the case is, it’s a holding up the of past (of an imagined future), as a lens through which we can view and interpret the shaping of the city. Personally, I think the view is pretty shitty.

After all, the visions ripped out of these inspirations come with no context. Until I get my Replicant hunting license, the concepts plucked from Blade Runner don’t help me to appreciate the new building on the corner. As much as I like Gibson’s work, his prospects of a distopian setting serve more as a mood device than anything I would recognize on the street. Describing all of this as “Cyberpunk built by the Swiss” makes an already fuzzy concept fuzzier [As though sturdy, affordable bunk beds somehow make the Swiss master civil engineers].

Here’s where I prove myself the asshole in the conversation; I don’t have an alternative to this [non-constructive criticism=moaning, bitching, and/or complaining].

I don’t know how we should look at our modern, highly volatile landscape. I know I appreciate the aesthetic when I see it and, generally speaking, I’m in favour of the new as long as it’s not created exclusively for the sake of being new. Considering how much a building costs to put up, though, that’s not really a concern.

I don’t believe we’ve yet discovered how these shifting elements will affect the culture in which they’re nestled. Even if we partially mimicked something from the past (literary past included), it does the modern a great disservice to throw these used and worn labels over it. Expecting the present to conform to them is a square-peg/unknown-hole situation.

So, thanks but no thanks, Shawn. I appreciate the effort but, despite my fondness for it, there’s no way that Mona Lisa Overdrive expresses what a current metropolis is and, more importantly, what it could be.