Do you believe in signs? I mean, warnings of the future? Hints? Stuff like that?

I must admit, I do sometimes peek into the horoscope section of whatever I’m reading just to see what they have to say about my chances for the next day. I never actually follow up to see if there was any shred of accuracy to it afterward, mind you. I just like to be reassured.

I also like to look at the things around me as portents of things to come. Today, for example, I took another route home to try to get some inspiration for this post.  And inspired portents I did indeed find:

O — kay. The experience was even creepier because in the back there was a tent with a hunk of cardboard stuck in the front, presumably for privacy. And the whole tent shook rhythmically.  Yeah, don’t come a knockin’ rhythmically.

I guess it’s possible something else was going on in the tent. Some kinda art thing. Hehe … yeah, “art“. :D

Papier-mâché items like this (sometimes just limbs), littered the space which also seemed to double as an entrance to some flats in the back. I think. The tent was as wide as the alley so that ended that detour.

Anyway, the sculpture seemed a bit disturbing to me. Kinda like death with an empty name card. As in, anyone’s up for grabs. And then a man’s ass emerged from the tent. Eee!

I hauled.

A few blocks later I looked up and … ?!

Could be some sort of Portuguese decoration? Or maybe … ummm … I need help. Wait a minute! I’m in possession of a semi-functional brain!

Me: “Hey pal, could I trouble you a moment?”

Brain: “The heat … I was gonna go take a nap. Is it important?”

Me: “Totally! Look at that. That’s the second thing that’s reminded me of death today. That one especially because it’s obvious. Is this a warning about death? Our death?”

Brain: “Haha! No. That’s probably someone’s ‘art‘. I mean, look at it! Maybe some viral ad for something, but do you think they nailed this here just for us?”

Me: “Hmmm. Yeah, you have a point.”

Brain: “I mean, the odds of you even seeing this are astronomical. Don’t read too much into it.”

Me: “Thanks, buddy!”

Brain: “No probs.”

And then, across the street from the AGO:

Brain: “Wow. Now this surprised even me.”

Me: “Me too!”

I suppose I could look at it through the Tarot Death card interpretation. It could mean the passing away of a personal epoch, or sometimes parts of oneself. Often this is accompanied with a more positive reading, like this process will give birth to new parts of you that you didn’t know existed. Exciting! Cancerous!

That throws some healthy ambiguity on the fire. So I guess there’s still plenty of room for a reasonable explanation. I just hope that one day I find the people who put these things on the poles; they’ll be the ones with the explanation. That tent guy, well, I’m not going near him again, so we’ll chalk that up to “art” and look no further.

Dear guy who fell at the AMC theatre,

Hahaha! *wipe tear* Oh man, you made my morning today. Thank you.

So I take it you fell off the side of one of the escalators in the enclosed photograph, correct?

Look, I don’t think actions such as these should be punishable by death, so I hope you get better. But seriously? Trying to ride the handrail? Here?

I’ve done my fair share regrettable things while inebriated. That was it, right? You were drunk? I get it. I’m always a little more invincible than I really am; I don’t think as well as I should; that’s what alcohol does. But I’ve never once thought that a two or three storey, head-first plunge onto a slab of concrete would be the thing to do. And I don’t know how you could’ve overlooked the height. You probably don’t remember, so have a look at the photograph again. Besides the great visibility, you probably got a good sense of the layout on your way up, no?

Well, listen. If you’re reading this, that’s good news! Stick with the physio and you should regain almost full control over the drooly side of your face. I know your situation sucks, but to be honest, I’m glad it wasn’t me. Then again, at 27, that wasn’t me. When you can dictate or write again, please send me a reply to describe your thought process at the time. I would be most interested.

With ancticipation,
Patrick

—

Dear Ms. Mohamud,

Okay, so let me see if I’ve got the story straight.

You went to Kenya to visit a relative. Had a good couple of weeks; nice place.

So then you went to leave and the people at the Kenyan airport said you didn’t look like your passport. Something about your lips being different? I had a look for myself, as you can see in the enclosed photo, and the passport photo probably bears the greatest resemblance to you out of all your identification.

So if I have it correct so far, they held you in detention (basically jail) while they contacted Canadian officials to verify your passport. Apparently all of the other government-issued identification cards you surrendered (among other things), were also supposed to have been forged or stolen, or something like that. I bet you were thinking the Canadian government would sort it all out for you, huh? After all, you are clearly who you say you are.

If were in your shoes, I would have shat a house when I learned that Canada then cancelled my passport as a verified fake. Are you as curious as I am to know how they came up with that? A government-backed inquiry wouldn’t be a bad idea. I mean, it will take a decade, but might as well start that mossy stone rolling, no?

Okay, so no documents. Honestly, asking to be fingerprinted was really smart. I don’t remember the feds taking my fingerprints when I came to Canada as a kid, but I guess they do. It would seem obvious that as an immigrant, they’d have your prints on file too.

But they didn’t.

Now, I completely understand why they would destroy your prints after doing a background check since, apparently, that’s all they’re supposed to be used for. Sensible, but obviously not of much help to you.

What I don’t get is why they kept you dangling for two weeks refusing to take them, then waiting two more while dithering whether or not to do so, then finally doing so, then two more weeks while they checked back home, and only then discovering that they don’t keep them on file.

Three months of Canada Border Services sitting on their thumbs. I can see how mistakes could be made, but this … how did you not freak out?

I know you haven’t decided whether or not to sue the government, but I want you to know you’ll have my full support if you do. The rolling of heads also gets my vote.

Sincerely,
Patrick

—

Dear busker at Dundas Station,

Thanks for letting me take your picture. Your music was like a Siren song. A jazzy Siren song. Minus the Siren. I don’t know how you managed to permeate the whole station, but it was just magical.

I hope you come back again soon.

With admiration,
Patrick

The crumply tin chairs and crumply tin tables at Dundas Square were again available tonight and I finally got to sit at one with a crumply six-dollar Stella.

The main show on stage was Disco Inferno who’s name left so little to the imagination that I couldn’t think of a word to write. I sat there certain that the scary security guard, who’s goatee alone would be considered a weapon, was peeking over my shoulder. It just wasn’t an environment conducive to concentration.

I gulped back the uninspiring lager and left the boozy oasis, seen here at back under the red umbrellas:

Note that Disco Inferno did actually have people doing the pushin’-up-the-sky dance (hold palms up and pump skyward – ooi! ooi!). If you can make out the detail above, there’s even an old lady getting out of her wheelchair in the middle of the crowd. Cured!

Here are the Inferno; numerous Bar Mitzvahs, weddings, birthday parties, and corporate events having tuned their act to this singular moment of perfection:

Far too many people were hurting themselves trying to re-live their youth and I didn’t want to join them. I wandered off to the pedestrian part of the square where there hung a bunch of photographs on triangular mounts. I guess these were intended to allow for quick juxtaposition of adjoining images, allowing us to more broadly grasp the photographer’s vision, to understand the underlying narrative that they’re trying to convey, but they were still mostly boring. Here they are being ignored:

To be honest, there were a couple of cool crowd photos. But not many.

A friend notified me that a giant red ball is being moved about Toronto to various spots and I discovered that it will be in my neck of the woods soon.  Giant red ball wedged into city crevices. That just kinda writes itself.

So far Luminato at Dundas Square hasn’t been the outlandishly artsy event it’s been billed to be. Unless you count the L’Oreal makeup tent as art. But maybe I’m not giving it a fair shake. Maybe the ball will silence me with it’s glory.

I decided that I was going to take a stroll down to Dundas Square with my wee little PC, the camera, and sit down at one of those tin little tables on one of those tin little chairs. Aluminum, really. But what’s the difference? When I plunk my ass on them, they both crumple in the same way.

I’d hoped to gawk at the tourists at the Hard Rock across the street and provide a second-by-second reportage of greasy food consumption. I was also looking forward to spotting inattentive parents and in their periphery, infant children as they put their tiny, inquisitive hands in pigeon poo. Then to experience the flavour for the first time in their lives. Magical.

Instead, the entire square was being hogged up by this:

That illegible blue banner says “Luminato 2009“.

I wasn’t yet living in Toronto at this time last year and spent most of the festival in rush-hour traffic. But I have to say, now that the sun is shining more brightly, I’m extremely glad I don’t follow the Toronto social scene too much because if I tried to, I’d be DEAD. JUST DEAD.

Luminato itself has quite a few moving parts, and the city is already packed to the rafters with stuff to do. If I’m sitting on a patio somewhere sipping a beer and snapping candid photos, that’s quite enough excitement for me, thank you!

It’s fairly certain that pedestrians will be tripping over Luminato-related events on almost every corner and, if they miss those, something else will be happening two feet further. There may not be that frenzied, singular density that Nuit Blanche has, but I’m expecting to not be able to find any tin seats or tin tables for me to sit at any time soon.

The pavement hurts my bum so.

—

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patio furniture

It’s innocuous and mostly ignored. It just stands there performing its function as best it can, providing a vital service to thousands of Torontonians each day without so much as a mumble, and lately it’s been spitting up gold.

Here is my accumulated trove from the past few days, complete with a likely reconstruction of the sequence in which they came out →

Aren’t they great? Each one a unique fuck up; some mis-cut, some mis-printed, and most that didn’t fully make it through the rollers. Then there’s Blue Mountain of messed up transfers, the double-print. Super gracias, TTC!

These will find a home somewhere on my shelf, lovingly enshrined in my homage to the quirks that make the city great. MiCkie Dick’s and towers don’t a shelf make nah more.

Should you care to brighten your own morning, visit the right-hand machine at the Dundas southbound subway platform, when it’s “fixed”. I’d be just chuffed to share your own sunny treasures here (comment or email, whatever floats your boat).