Three months later and … it’s still very nice!

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Sam Pollock Baseball Diamond, Riverdale Park West

The doctor says, if’n you ain’t got yourself one of those fancy Chinese fans to keep cool, stay outta the outdoors today. Ancient Chinese proverb. For realsies.

Every once in a while a well-meaning relative or friend asks me, “why don’t you come and live out here?”

Part of the answer is in the question, really, isn’t it?

“Out here”.

“Out” can be nice, sure – for a visit — but “in” is definitely more my style. Yet often that’s a bit too abstract to be accepted as an answer. Not like you can’t get good doughnuts out in Whitby or a decent cup of coffee in Burlington. I’m convinced you can even get a good Greek meal out in the far-flung mining town of Sudbury. And the people? Yeah, sure, I bet they’re not all backwoods rapists and gun-toting hillbillies. Somehow, though, the context lacks poetry.

So in lieu of a concrete explanation, I hope to use this post to paint a picture. Perhaps I can print it off and simply hand it over next time the question is put to me – save me having to put up half-smiles and awkward references to twanging banjos.

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No, I’m sorry, but the fireworks at Ontario Place suck serious donkey balls. So much so that even my photos of them suck.

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.

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This morning, on my way through Allan Gardens to get my daily jitter, I noticed a City of Toronto truck parked smack in the center of the central path with a curly-haired city employee standing beside it waving down passing cyclists. After a brief lecture the cyclists all dismounted and walked their bikes until over-the-shoulder glances confirmed that the guy was no longer looking, at which point they got back on and rode off.

“What gives?”, was my initial reaction, but without a jolt of caffeine and the other magical energy ingredients found in my canned morning concoction, I’m pretty much useless at that time of day, so that’s as far as that line of questioning went.

But once I got back to the flat and downed all 473 millilitres of liquid inspiration it suddenly dawned on me that something in the park was amiss, so I grabbed my camera and my curiosity and headed back.

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It’s looking like that post about Toronto’s urban gardens I mentioned the other day is just not going to happen. Not exclusively, anyways.

Lately, every time I set out to visit some of my favourite concrete-edged green spots, something else comes up. I think it’s a trend.

As I was adding more stuff to TCLand (you haven’t been?! It’s that map icon at the top of the page; basically TCL on a map, current to mid-July 2009 as of this post), I was looking through the archives to see what happened in April last year. That’s when the number of posts jumped … lotsa stuff happening, it seems. I have every reason to believe that this year should be much the same. Although I don’t know if I can count on another Tamil protest happening.

Movie productions, though, probably yes.

They blocked off a section of Victoria at King to shoot a scene for The Thing. Once again Toronto was whored out as New York. Manhattan to be precise. Okay, I can understand not wanting to alienate the massive US market. And I guess it’s a compliment. But one day people will learn the truth about their idyllic New York. Then they can come to Toronto to see what it really looks like. :)

Thing or no, I did actually manage to hit a couple of in-town parkettes.

Berczy Park, unfortunately, wasn’t in full swing yet. The fountain was off and only the early-spring flowers were poking through the soil. I’ll have to re-visit. But the upshot is that the rear facade of the adjacent Flatiron building is mostly visible from the park.

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So, let’s have a look at what we have here, shall we?

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First of all, ignore the percentages shown above. The -41% thing would suggest that, perhaps, they’re not entirely accurate.

So, out of 42 votes cast the highest percentage (21%), believed that Mondays should be illegal. A further 14% cast a disparaging glance at the rest of the week too — something about shooting the weekdays while we’re at it? Crazy gun-nutty Americans :) Most shocking, however, are the serious allegations of impropriety on the part of Mondays, with a whopping 17% of you (that’s nearly 1 in 5), reporting that Mondays have made unwanted sexual advances toward you. Only one vote was cast for the whole poll not making any sense, and I cast that one, so we can safely assume everyone understood the question. Except me.

But who cares? Isn’t that shocking?! I sure do hope the local media pick up this story.

My own experience with Monday is one of pain. I woke up today in some discomfort, having finally attended Dream in the Park.

The discomfort portion of the story, I’m ashamed to report, is one-hundred percent me.

They do recommend bringing a blanket, jacket, and bug repellant. I did not. To complicate matters further, I had biked to High Park, pushing it up that final bitch of a road like a real man:

Then walking the remaining half of the hill like a real tired man.

By the time I got to the top I had worked up a good, healthy sweat. As I may have mentioned before, the seating for Dream is literally on the ground. The stage is simply a wooden platform and the audience sits in an amphitheatre cut out of the hillside in front of it. Luckily, I did have something between me and the moist earth, but I hadn’t planned on the chill wind that swept down into the valley that night. If the play hadn’t been so engrossing, I would’ve picked up and left. But those assholes were so damn good that I ended up with a sore back!

Okay, so it’s Shakespeare. Yeah, it put me to sleep in high school too. English; borringest subject ever. The Tempest; *sticking finger down throat*. But people actually brought their kids to this!

I don’t want to sound like someone’s paying me to say this because, alas, I remain sponsorless, but this is really a show to see. With the Pay-What-You-Can pricing, it’s always affordable. You’re encouraged to bring snacks and anything you want to make yourself comfortable. And I can assure you that whatever your equivalent of the suggested $20  donation is, the feature-length show will be well worth it.

The beauty of this production is that it’s been taken back to its roots. No, not rag-adorned, unwashed, Elizabethan showmen; I’m talking about the people for whom Shakespeare wrote his works for. Unfortunately, the language isn’t quite as up-to-date as it once may have been, but the actors make up for this through their modern intonation, great acting, and physical improvisation. They really bring out the comedic, entertaining nature of the play. And even though they’re all speaking at a fair clip, the whole story is completely intelligible. It’s almost like you’re a filth-covered Shakespearean commoner out for a night on the mud.

I had never actually read The Tempest. I knew the gist of it; banished wizard-Duke Prospero, big storm, deserted island, yadda yadda; but never the nitty gritty. I’m fairly certain that the glaring Gilligan’s Island overtones present throughout the Dream version are not part of the original story, but it did help to set the context.

Prospero was replaced with Prospera (Karen Robinson), and Ariel (Audrey Dwyer) did a couple of Lion-King-inspired musical sequences, presumably to give the show a softer touch. Nothing over the top, mind you; old Willy’s work is still kept pretty much intact. Just enough to break up the slow parts. Worked for me.

The music and sound effects worked with the trees, bees, and birds around them rather than trying to fight it out. The crickets started to sound like cicadas after a while. You kind of got the feeling you were actually on Prospera’s island:

Yeah, I really liked it. A modernized classic that was genuinely entertaining. Can’t say any of that about any movie I’ve paid to see lately.

Okay, time for me to get back to the heating pad. Mondays …

Is it me or was it really mean-looking today?

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.

As the steady stream of sweat rolling down between my ass cheeks will attest, the heat is on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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