Somewhere near Gerrard and Pembroke.

Share / save this post

What will replace Quigley’s Pub, I wonder? & when?

Share / save this post

I was planning to do a post about urban public gardens. I know, it seems a little bent at the wrist, but I wanted to do it more in the context of the unforgiving city. Those little squares of land nestled in between caverns of glass. Had a great story ‘n everything. Then this happens:

I know it’s not war-torn Bosnia, but still, you don’t get many brick walls coming down in such a prominent location, in the middle of the day. Extremely convenient for me, if I may be frank. So I believe this proves my point. Unless someone’s suggesting I brought the wall down just to prove a point. :|

Anyhow, can I get a little personal here? I felt totally legit today – schedule ‘n all. I weaved in and out of the news crowd like it was nothing, had conversations with a few of them. Also witnessed a Ryerson student being turned back at the yellow tape. One of the camera guys joked with me with a “nice try, eh? You’re not from Ryerson, are you?” To which I replied, “Hell no.” Reply, *nod*.

That’s how it’s done. No one stopped me when I ducked under the yellow tape. Or stood on the wall. Or the electrical box. QED.

I probably don’t need to tell you what happened if you listen to local news. But if you don’t, it’s pretty straightforward. This wall came down on a street just north of Yonge-Dundas Square, so good foot traffic. Plus it’s the edge of Ryerson University. Some time early this afternoon, it slumped. And then came down. No one was hurt, so very lucky.

See? Simple. Probably the sign attached to the front from what I heard.

I had dinner at the place next door a few weeks back and I don’t recall the building bulging any. Also didn’t notice anything every other day I walked past there either. I use that corner a lot, is what I’m getting at, and can’t say I saw anything untoward.

I really don’t expect that area to open for at least a few days. It took emergency crews most of the afternoon to go through the place, one after each other. No fire. No casualties. It was kind of like an exercise – done in a nice, orderly fashion. By the book.

Convenient for everyone concerned. Except maybe the restaurant owner. And Friday afternoon traffic up Yonge Street. (Ouch.)

Oh, and check this out — I got to experience my first media swarming. It was around a gentleman (I’ll add his name later if I find it), who claimed to be the last one out of the building as it was coming down. I call him “the survivor”.

Here’s how it the situation goes down, for if you’re ever caught in one:

1. Someone’s willing to talk!
2. They smell blood.
3. Okay, jeez! Just take it easy!
4. Ugh! Muscled out by a girl!

Now for a nice convenient weekend. Ahh. :)

Share / save this post

I got so wrapped up in it I completely forgot to write a post. That’ll happen, I’m afraid. Flash is a demanding mistress. So that’s what I did yesterday. All day. That flippy TwitPic image thingamahooie you see above is my post for Monday. If you’re reading this after March 23rd, or you’re not on the front page, that probably doesn’t make much sense. (Maybe if you visited more often :( )

Good day for indoor stuff anyhow. And today’s much the same. But you know what? I’m absolutely certain that spring officially started today, regardless of what any calendar says: they’re shooting something again.

Hmm. The notice looks strikingly familiar. The three-ring holes, the bright colour. The “we’re taking over your street”.

To be honest, I honestly don’t believe I’ve seen anything they’ve shot here. Doesn’t sound like the kind of stuff I’d watch anyway. “Lost Girl”, lost me at “Lost”.

However, I did get to watch the crew work. Seems like a pretty sweet gig. They begin by standing around, drinking coffee, and shooting the shit:

This goes on for some time. Okay, it’s still early (no idea why I was up), so that’s necessary.

Then they tarp over the lights, fans, and racks of stuff I couldn’t possibly identify, and haul them over to the location. After that, run the cables back to the trucks:

Then more standing around.

Took them all of an hour. They’re probably part of a bloodthirsty union so you know they’re being treated well.

But there’s something that the above photos give away – they were taken from my flat. Had the space heater going to warm my delicate fingers and I didn’t have to lift anything. Then right back inside for some Dao Sa buns and a glass of soy bean milk. Filthy habits I picked up on my travels — but I get to indulge. No union dues either. I’ll worry about rent when the cops are dragging me out of here.

Share / save this post

I was watching Breakfast Television this morning to see if Dina Pugliese would entice me into a passionate new day (and for the weather report). She didn’t; she’s just so dry (and it’s supposed to start raining tomorrow).  The over-boiled supposed-to-be-soft-boiled egg was digesting in my stomach, as was the thick, crunchy, crusty hunk of Vienna Rye (I buy it for a reason!) I was up early again and was feeling the need to get inspired. Portfolio’s a waitin’

Dina obviously wouldn’t do it for me so I decided to kill a few birds with one stone: head outside for a walk, get some inspiration, and take a few photos of it. I firmly believe that to solve a problem it’s best to walk away from it; just the excuse I needed.

My first thought when I hit Yonge-Dundas Square was to make the portfolio like a building. Each floor would house a project I’d worked on that you could fly into via the magic of Adobe Flash. The Woo building (I’m sure it has another name — but is it as catchy?), seemed like a suitable candidate. Lots of windows and spinny, twirly, moving things. Plus, I remember the Woo website being somewhat slick – the location must’ve worked for them.

Except that it’s been done, like, a million and one times already.  Every agency and creative somethingorother showcase their loft, or their building, or some nearby space on their web pages.

Okay, how about something like a construction site then?

I could have the shovels, umm, shoveling content. And the dump trucks … dumping … stuff. Hmmm.

That idea had two unfortunate connotations. First, the connection between trucks, dumping, and the intertubes. Not sure if that’s the image I want to give off. Second, this thing:

Ultra-cheese since it first appeared in a Netscape window. I haven’t used Netscape since I don’t even know when.

So that pretty much put an end to the construction idea.

For some reason, fire trucks were racing along Yonge Street the whole morning. I didn’t see a single emergency (no smoke or stretchers), but they did spark off an idea.

Maybe I’d been over thinking it. Maybe I could just use one complex, rotating, 3D object in the middle of a pristine white web page. The object could be something like a fire truck, the Swiss Army knife of vehicles. Or a Swiss Army knife. I imagined it would be kind fun to poke and prod this thing on screen, having each prodable doohickey act as an activator to some portfolio piece that would pop up beside it.

Of course, I’d have to model the thing in 3D. That’d be the only way of ensuring each of the pieces were able to move separately. Sadly, my 3D modelling skills are laughable. I could whip you up a cube in about five minutes, subdivide that sucker into a diamond in about half an hour. A truck? Probably not in this lifetime. A truck that moves? Well that’s a silly question.

Too concrete. I’d probably do better thinking more abstractly. Instead of trying to envision the page, I decided to try juggling a few words around. “Reliable.” “Innovative”. “Classical”. “Modern”.

Tossing contradictory words up in the air was very unsatisfying. Classical yet modern. What kind of bullshit services was I peddling here?

Plus, I was already supposed to have been home twenty minutes ago. To start working on my portfolio! I was sure I’d have something at that point, but nada. I mean, whaddya do in a situation like that?

Neat. And there it was. It was an effect I was looking for. Forget representing anything, it just will be.

Well, I didn’t lollygag about after that, to be sure. I hustled home and started coding. Stopped some time after 10 p.m. Solid. Late post, but I managed to bring it all home in the end. I think, that’s what matters. Tomorrow development continues and I dredge up the dusty Old Projects folders, screen-grabs of various web projects I’d worked on, printed using the most expensive type of ink / paper my current employer had. Strangely, some of the projects now exist solely on paper. Ironical.

I sometimes get the funny feeling that one day my particular skills will come to absolutely naught when society crumbles and everyone’s left to fend for themselves. Right back to the Dark Ages. A zombie invasion, for example. That’s why I took the precaution of learning how to wield a garden hoe as a weapon (I would imagine the city hoe is considerably more difficult). Also how to garden. I’ll be feasting on fresh veggies while the rest ‘a them are eating ‘coons and squirrels. Hole up in a church until winter, kill frozen zombies for fun until the thaw comes; that’s a plan I can stand behind.

The portfolio is my plan B, just in case that doesn’t happen. Just in case.

Share / save this post

I say technical because if you look at the archives, TCL only goes back to January. But it’s really been online since November of last year.

Luckily the WayBack Machine has, as yet, no record of it.

At that time TCL had a mostly-black theme with content that induced hemorrhaging from the eyeballs and projectile vomiting. Pretty awful stuff. Back then I didn’t have the experience or the sphincteric relaxation to do anything interesting, really. Had anyone suggested I run a shocking exposé on what really happens at the annual Santa Claus Parade, I would’ve balked!

But in mid-November I attended Illuminite, the annual Christmas lighting of Yonge-Dundas Square. It was a cold and rainy November night, but the show went on anyway. Try as I might, I wasn’t able to muscle my way up to the front of the crowd, and it was in that soggy moment of inspiration that I remembered it was Toronto City Life. Most of these people were alive, so they qualified. I was getting all bent out of shape for nothing!

That epiphany, and the attitudinal adjustment that came with it, carried me through all the way around to this year’s event. Good thing too because there were a lot more people this time around:

Most of the show, consisting of fire, sparks, trampolines, and dancing, took place at the far end of the square. There was a lot of loud music that, more often than not, descended into a raucous noise that in no way said season’s greetings to me. Eventually, the same spooky music I remember from last year came on as the fire dancers wound their way across the square toward the stage I’d plunked myself behind:

The dancers paraded around on stage in wintry white and silver, twirling fiery objects and having pyrotechnics go off behind them as if to say, “here’s the last blast of warmth you’re getting for the next six months”:

The audience were close enough that one slip and the girl in the red hood got a face full of fire. Now if that’s not a reason to go see something live, I don’t know what is. The fireworks were pretty scary too:

Behind the dancers was the reason for the whole display, the tree.

Nostalgia aside, I want to go on record as saying it’s great that the city doesn’t use a live tree. But what they chose instead is … not quite there yet.

I mean, obviously they were going for a theme because someone went to the bother of creating some Christmas light bears. But while nice, they and the tree seem more appropriate on someone’s 80s-themed holiday lawn than in the Square.

I also remember these things not quite making it to Christmas last year before a chunk of the lights had been broken, stolen, or had burned out. They’re a great photo-op and ideal swine flu vector, but unfortunately they don’t last:

Don’t get me wrong, Illuminite will always hold a special place in my heart because of the sopping awakening it gave me. In a way, it lived up to its name. But with the number of people packed into the square this year, I think they’ll need to come up with something a little less centralized; performances in small pockets all over the square, that kind of thing. And do something about that tree while they’re at it. Next to the longest street in the world, it doesn’t look very impressive.

I’ll do the official whoop-up for TCL in January, but I’m still happy I managed to last a year. And wouldn’t you know it, someone completed the loop on Saturday night by asking me if I was a journalist. I’ve now been asked that same question in every season. The circle of life is complete. Hakuna matata!

Share / save this post

In my defence, I was somewhat preoccupied with a perplexing new development. I mulled it over all weekend, only popping my head outside on Sunday afternoon to catch the dying gasps of fall. It was one of those staggeringly beautiful weekends that, if you miss them, you’re required to commit suicide. You just missed something that nice. So I had to.

Anyhow, it was a stark contrast to the development I mentioned, which has to do with my ex-wife and my ex-car. Okay, I know, it sounds whiny already, but I promise to keep that to a minimum. And the story gets a little unusual.

I figured I wouldn’t need the car while living downtown, so I let the ex drive it until the lease expired. I’ve been described both as a nice guy and a sucker. I’d probably stick myself somewhere in between. Besides, it shouldn’t have been a problem; car’s in my name and my folks guaranteed the lease. Whatever I chose to do at the end of it (this month), would’ve been to my advantage. Karma returning a favour, I thought.

Yeah, no.

Seems the dealership allowed my ex-wife to return the car without consent from anyone actually on the lease (I don’t think her name is anywhere on there). They didn’t even try to get in touch with anyone on the contract to verify if, you know, it was okay. I’m not saying I might not have made the same choice, but I would’ve liked to have been able to make that choice. I might’ve chosen to sell my lease … actually made some money instead of nothing. Instead, now I have no money and no car. Like a common beggar.

To add an extra wallop to this, they claim the car incurred substantial damages to the tune of four-thousand dollars. Yikes! The ex made a couple of contradictory claims about this amount so I’ll have to go on hard facts alone. The dealership’s damage report is coming (I’ve been promised), but verifying it may be made more difficult by the fact that the car is apparently now up for auction and may not even be around anymore. Yikes!

And this was the first I’d heard of it.

Yikes!

I think it would be prudent to seek some legal representation, or at least talk to someone with a degree. I mean, this just doesn’t seem right, does it?

By the way, how’re these photos working for you? Obviously they were taken on Sunday. I’d stopped screaming and punching random people by then so I quite managed to enjoy the outing. It was just a quick jaunt down Bloor Street but it was refreshing, cathartic, almost religious.

Perhaps, somewhere down the road, this affair will prove to be a blessing in disguise; the silver lining on a dark November storm cloud. Or the beginnings of a long and ruinous alcoholism.

Cool!

Share / save this post

Every year they keep demanding brains (like that’s gonna happen!) and better severance.

One of the things that shocked me about the whole thing was how punctual the zombies were. These days I’ve come to expect events starting thirty minutes to an hour late. But on Saturday, the undead were off and moving at 3:30 sharp.

Also shocking is the size of the demonstration, not to mention the aggressiveness of the group:

I only escaped unharmed because of one amazing fact. That I will share with you tomorrow. You see, the march was so prolific, I simply have no choice but to milk it for two whole posts. Besides, some of the zombies put so much effort into the event, I feel it’s only fair to give them a little air time:

One guess as to what this fellow was demonstrating for. Yup, brains. I don’t get it, are they that tasty?

They probably have no idea what they really want. I mean, they pick their leader based on who’s got an extra appendage:

What I found particularly interesting was that while zombies don’t have the wherewithal or the sense to eat infants in a civilized manner, they nonetheless possess the forethought to pack an umbrella for the impending rain:

You may be thinking that I escaped this terrible occasion because of the security forces attending the route. Haha! Wow, you’re so wrong. The security forces were useless. When they managed to hit their targets, it wasn’t in the head, so the zombies just got back up and kept on going. In fact, I don’t think the personnel were shooting anything by the number of zombies they managed to kill: zero!

Perched snipers seemed to have the same problem, and many of the security weren’t even armed. And the posts they gave them to guard … who thought of that?!

This guy managed to stand his ground for a little while. He beat down the first zombie that managed to climb up and then, wisely, decided to ditch his post:

He jumped into a nearby dumpster which proved to be even less effective in protecting against zombies. And they want his brains?

In the end he managed to rip free from their clutches and beat a hasty retreat around the corner of the building yelling, “28 days later!”

And then, the few civvies left were alone in a sea of zombies. We pushed through the crowd with whatever we could. Just when I thought I’d run out of compatriots to shove into the straining arms of the hordes, I discovered something incredible.

Tomorrow, the amazing tale of how I managed to preserve my voluminous brain; the secret to keeping zombies off you. You’re not gonna wanna miss it!

Share / save this post

If you guessed the trucks, but not really sure why, you’re absolutely correct! That’s a movie crew and those trucks are just sitting there like that with not a soul in sight. This is in a slightly sketchy neighbourhood, and people do sometimes help themselves to stuff they “find”. So that’s one.

Number two is the complete absence of people on the street. The aforementioned missing souls are missing from everywhere. I think we can chalk that one up to the cold.

The third, and I must admit not so easy to spot, thing wrong with the photo is that it was shot at the end of September, not today. See? Hard to spot.

But today was much like it looks in the picture. If you splashed a bit more yellow on the leaves and had steam coming up from sewers, this would be pretty accurate. And I still think it’s due to the cold.

It’s either that or my slight frame is getting even slighter. And I start to look emaciated at 170 pounds! So what else can I do but take it indoors again.

I hit the PATH from in front of the CN Tower and Convention Centre South building, which is in the lower left-hand corner of the map. That area gets windy and cold in the summer, and if it wasn’t for the brewery across the street, it’d be a completely desolate wasteland. With a big tower.

From there I shivered across the Skywalk to Union Station, tried to get warm as I made my way up through the Toronto-Dominion Centre, and did my best to thaw out as I headed east of First Canadian Place, north to Scotia Plaza, and then out to the intersection of Yonge and King through MetLife Place. Stopping every four steps to take a photo.

Outside, I was cold again. *sigh*

The Bay Adelaide Centre will be a nice addition. It’ll be the other main artery north and give me something new to look at while I try to lose the chills. My God, it’s still just October!

Okay, enough yammering. You know the drill, if you don’t have the Adobe Flash Player, get it here: http://get.adobe.com/flashplayer/

If you can see the dark, grainy silhouette of the CN Tower with a big “play” button on it below, you’re good! Just hit that button but keep in mind that this is a 5 minute animation, so give it some time to transfer to your computer first. Feel like you need a pee break? Now’s the time ;)

I think I’m going to need that Second Cup sponsorship if I’m to survive this winter. That fine, flavourful, and hot brew on a cold autumn morning, what could be better?

Share / save this post

Frustrated? FRUSTRATED?! OF COURSE I’M FRUSTRATED!!

You’d be frustrated too if you had a day job like mine. But what keeps me going is the thought that maybe, one day, Toronto City Life could be more than just a little blog. *sniff*

Why?

What’s not to love? The walking dissolves the fiery disappointment of the day into a manageable lump of smouldering coal for the evening. So that’s good. And I like what the pictures do. They let me look at the places I’ve been in their moment, seeing everything I couldn’t possibly see at the instant I was there.

So that’s good. And you know, there are so many people downtown that inevitably you always bump into someone interesting. Sometimes they’re people you’ve seen before and feel you’ve kinda glimpsed a bit of who they are. Take this lady, for example:

Note, she’s not panhandling. In fact, I don’t remember ever seeing her panhandle. She’s always been stone-cold sober and more alert than me most of the times I’ve seen her. She’s strong, lugging around all sorts of stuff all day. Lucid and entirely there. And although I’m sure she lives on the streets, she takes care of herself. Now she’s got a story! Always something interesting. So that’s good.

And you know, when you need a breather, it’s nice to get closer to the lake and just enjoy the breeze and the views.

Ahhh, the blissful Gardiner. The only problem with all of this is that it sometimes leads to late nights. Late nights with full bladders require entrance to some strange places. But so far even these have proven to be gold:

Note the garbage bags on the dock belonged to a gentleman who, I believe, would be residing there that evening. He also appeared quite sober and built himself a cardboard shelter behind the cage. Unfortunately, he didn’t understand the requirements of long exposures, and so he’s not pictured. But again, interesting. So that’s good.

As one final piece of evidence, I give you … Chinatown:

I dunno. It sounded poignant, but I’m not sure where I was going with it. Maybe that I’m no artist, so pictures like this simply couldn’t exist in any other medium. Except maybe as stick figures. I can draw that guy with the fingers and teeth biting the horizontal line pretty well. I even add a little hair twirl for effect, sometimes eyebrows! However, I can’t get much more complex than that; the oranges would lead to tears and broken pencils.

But photos just need me to stand there and annoy Chinese people with my camera. I mean, I could try to draw something but my intention is to express enthusiasm, nor horror.

So you see, TCL is both an attempt to share some of my interest in this town, and a fairly thorough lack of skill to present it. And it’s written by a bitter, disappointed guy. I’m not an alcoholic yet, but I’m willing to try. The spiral’s just begun!

So that’s a good thing.

Share / save this post

Oh man, I don’t envy you. Now that I’ve had ample opportunity to compare the wheel to the foot, walking is just slightly slower than the car. If you include the driving around the block a few times to find a spot, then shimmying into an unparallel park, and finally gasping in disgust as the ticket machine spits out 2:30 (that’s two minutes and thirty seconds) for your two bucks, walking is actually considerably faster. And the machine makes way more than me per hour.

If you drive stick on an uncooperative clutch like I used to, you start to deform disproportionally as your right arm and left leg gain muscle, while your opposing limbs just get pastier and pudgier — except for the sunburnt left forearm. If the window’s down, that arm’s going on there.

Besides that, the amount of signage on every pole is simply irresponsible. Are we actually supposed to pay attention to all of that while driving?

If you’re not familiar with the snow route sign, you may simply think it means no parking there because the lane will be made into a ski trail. Or something equally enjoyable that employs snow. And right next to it is a sign telling you when it’s okay to park there. And that’s a busy sign. First it lists the two times that you can park there from Monday to Friday. Then the times during Saturday and Sunday. Finally, on the bottom are the arrows that indicate the directions in which this rule applies. And the times and directions thing is also happening on the no stopping sign. Then there’s the small idling limit sign which, once again may be unfamiliar  since it’s a municipal bylaw.

Squinty eyes, at the wheel with bikers squeezing by on the right, pedestrians running out in front, and the streetcar just getting by on the left. And the car behind you honking. That’s always my favourite :) And there are signs you have to pay attention to there? Yup. And they usually come in clusters like this on every pole and the little arrows and, depending on the block, the times change.

Sometimes it’s just not fair:

Did you see the hidden sign? Beneath the no parking one. That’s probably the one with the five-thousand dollar fine. And what about the arrows on that no stopping one? Does that mean that you must drive through the intersection on any light during rush-hour? Just to disambiguate, there’s a no standing one too.

That’s why I always look in all directions, twice, before crossing the street. If you get some driver trying to obey all the signage, they’re liable to kill someone. And what the hell are vendors doing hocking their stuff out in the middle of the street?

It might seem like nitpicking, but since they went to the bother of producing I don’t know how many such arrow-laden signs and sticking them to everything, you’d think they’d try to imply less idiocy on the part of the populace. Doesn’t matter which way you turn that thing, it always tells you that you shouldn’t try to sell hot dogs from the middle of the street. City Hall probably doesn’t want to clean up the mess from the collision with the law-abiding car.

Do we need all that signage? I believe it’s perfectly reasonable for a reflective, observant individual to bend the laws a little. I’m sure we’ve all crossed on a red when there was no traffic. Or mowed down a few pedestrian during a pub crawl. Hey, it’s Friday!

It’s not that I intend to become some Johnny Scofflaw, I just think that someone should re-think all of the stuff affixed to utility poles. Common street laws apply almost everywhere; you don’t need to tell people not to park in the middle of an intersection. That kinda stuff.

Simplify.

Share / save this post

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.

Share / save this post

Basically, Bryant was driving his car down Bloor Street on Monday when something – no one’s quite sure exactly what –  happened between him and a bike courier. Probably a collision of some sort, but obviously not serious because the courier got up. Then he leapt onto Bryant’s Saab convertible. The female passenger (his wife?) called police while Bryant hit the gas.

He swerved into oncoming traffic and drove up on the opposite sidewalk, purposefully running his car up against trees and mailboxes to try to get the courier off, screaming the whole way. Eventually, he succeeded. But the courier got bashed to death in the process. Possibly driven over. Guess all those wonderfully gory details will come out in the trial.

But it gets better!

Michael Bryant was the attorney general for Ontario. I believe that title means pretty much the same in most places; he was the legal bigwig of Ontario.

Also, the courier had been drinking. A lot. In fact, he had had a long history of unhappy addiction, and had about an hour earlier been stopped by police for trying to enter into a former girlfriend’s place wasted. Perhaps to visit with one of his kids?

The biker had been sober for about eight days, but the day of the incident, well, let’s just say he had indulged. The police are taking flak for telling him to go home from his girlfriend’s instead of letting him to stay. He shouldn’t have been sent home by the cops to ride drunk, they’re saying. Yeah, I say; he should’ve been walking his bike home. And in retrospect, the cops had the situation pegged; not a good time for a family visit.

Anyway, the whole thing quickly turned into a two-ring circus with all sorts of people sticking their causes to the event:

This morning, bikers got together in the spot where the courier died and staged a demonstration. Or protest. Or something. Some of them shouted out “murderer”, referring to Bryant, but made some strange remarks in a quieter voice (I was within earshot), “Yeah, if murderer means crusher of dreams, you back-peddling son of a bitch.” And so forth.

How come that kind of thing never makes the evening news? Ah, but that’s okay. I don’t think we should give the gathering too much credence. Most of the messages of condolence stuck to the spot mentioned, in one form or another, how this death was a just another demonstration of Toronto’s anti-bike streets. There was also plenty of promotion for United Messengers‘ Bloor bike lanes campaign. Guess they figured, if that bandwagon’s coming, might as well hang off the back:

So if the purpose of the gathering was to remind us about bike safety, I’d say absolutely! We could probably start by educating some of the bikers, huh?

I did an impromptu tally of helmets on cyclists for about six walking city blocks (major intersections). I counted only cyclists who were riding and on the road. Out of a total of 263 bikers, only about 45% were wearing helmets. I would like to do a follow-up study on how many also have earphones stuck in/on their ears. And coast through intersections on reds without a peek to either side.

I wouldn’t go so far as to totally let drivers off the hook either, but their infractions haven’t been as audacious as some of the stunts I’ve seen bikers pull. The only attempt at an explanation I’ve heard so far is, “We’re more vulnerable.” Umm … is that it? That’s why you don’t have to obey the rules of the road? Because you’re more vulnerable? Okay. Yeah.

I’ve been known to go out without my helmet now and again. Sometimes I also leave behind my lunch and name tag, the one that people can use to help me find my home again. But I usually get back from my walk okay because I always look both ways before I cross the street. There still seem to be so many bikers out there on whom this lesson is lost.

Oh, and the lesson about not getting pissed out of your gourd and picking a fight with a moving vehicle. Also an important lesson.

Share / save this post

Exciting scene with some woman getting pulled over by the cop. As he gets out of the squad car, she continues to roll. He yells at her to stop, she revs her engine!! … well, I won’t spoil it for you. But as I write this, the wind is picking up, possibly in anticipation of the interesting weather planned for tonight. Those prop trash bags on the lawn are keeping more than one crew member entertained; they’re filled with styrofoam or something similarly light, and they’re not tethered to anything. Flying, Valkyrian garbage! It’s happening all over again!

:D Not really.

The only things flying around the city these days are rain, knives and performers.

Dear reader, more artisans from Buskerfest (loud link!) for your entertainment. And, ah, if you wanna show your appreciation with a small donation, that would be great. Preferably bills:

Remember the Australian-region guy? He does actually do something. But not before my foot had fallen asleep waiting for him to stop flapping his gums and do it already:

And then this guy did a variation on it. He actually took the pains to point out that, unlike that guy over there, he wasn’t being supported by anyone:

And finally, the item that I so egregiously omitted yesterday, the human beatbox video. To retain the live spirit of the performance, and because I’m lazy, I didn’t edit the video at all.

Doesn’t that just take the cake?

Well, I’m all buskered out. But those folks are doing it all weekend. And why not? After this it’s back to Dundas Square or subway stations, so they might as well rake in as much as they can.

God’s speed, little buskers.

And to you, dear reader, a fair and pleasant weekend.

—

Sponsored links:

rigid foam insulation

Share / save this post

To begin with, a bunch of personalities from my wake-up radio station were axed, en masse, this afternoon. I’ve only ever heard promos for the Motts’ show and I accidentally tuned into a Michael Coren repeat one night. Didn’t care for it. And Jacqui Delaney I found to be as awkwardly appended to my daily dose of waking petulance, the Bill Carroll Show, as the spelling of her name, and this clause. Plus, she was kind of abrasive.

But I wish them all well. It’s not always easy out there on the streets.

Take the Carties, for example. Almost everyone agreed that the concept was great; let’s have some alternatives out there on the streets instead of just the ubiquitous hot dog stand. The city clenched their butt cheeks extra hard on the requirements and only eight finalists (out of twelve entries), were accepted into the program. They had to pay a ridiculous sum for the carts which were sold, and branded, by the city. The vendors also had to wear city-issue uniforms. Oh, and the city told them where they would go and conduct their business. Some locations were great. Some, not so much.

There were also suggestions that the city might want to, you know, have a chat with existing street vendors to see how they do things. Kinda pick the brains of some of the people who have done this day in, day out, for decades.

Yeah … no, they didn’t do that.

I once bought a samosa from one of the a la Cart guys. His little shack was impeccably clean, almost too much so. He probably had the city’s sanitation inspectors living in his colon. The food was okay, nothing too exciting; proper City-Hall, middle-of-the-road flavour. And what’s this about handling every little thing with a pair of gloves on? With street meat, you get a dollar-store serviette (as dainty as the word implies), holding up a propane-soaked bun which is cradling a hastily warmed specimen of “dog” of some sort. “Hot” it most certainly is not. No latex glove, that’s for sure.

It’s almost inevitable then that the Carties would start dropping off, isn’t it?

Sad.

But Buskerfest helped me forget all about it! The name says it all; a street carnival filled with buskers. Open guitar cases, hats, plastic cups, and other collection receptacles abounded.

One of the performers flew in from overseas. If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say somewhere in the region of Australia:

Strangely, this is as exciting as it got. At least for me. In the ten minutes or so that I stood there, the routine seemed to go nowhere. Those knives never saw any action. I still don’t know why those people were lying there. I waited, I applauded; tried to cheer him on. Nada.

Oh well.

Elsewhere, some of the buskers had so much polish, they were like some kinda disco machines:

It may not be to everyone’s liking, but everyone’s gotta make a living somehow. Even the very tall and gangly:

The evening ended with a rousing human beatbox, but that video is still being transjiggamafied. I hope this will suffice until then:

Share / save this post

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.

Share / save this post

It’s not that I think Mondays are bad, per se. They’ve simply been relegated to being the first days to shatter happiness and joy, to be the harbingers of pain and sorrow. And so on.

The gosh-durn WordPress update never seems to go smoothly (it’s always one plugin after another, isn’t it?) and, well, the weekend was so interesting, I almost forgot that the War still lurked just around the corner — with a bat and a belief I owed it some money.

Sadly, our own local detention center has now moved off-court onto (I believe) wood-chip-covered earth:

Can you believe that it’s been almost a month now?

But luckily there’s a curious twist at this point, otherwise I’d just be regurgitating the same old war stories again. That’s gross.

If you look at the photo again, right at the back on the left are two guys in DayGlo-yellow shirts. They’re actually taking trash from people’s cars and hauling it in here themselves. Somehow, the 416/79 cavalry have managed to miss my little enclave; these guys were actually helping people get their trash in. Most excellent service too, if I may say. I’ll definitely have to ask more questions tomorrow.

But you know that even if they were strikers, which they were not (?!), it wouldn’t stop some kind of festival from happening. With genuine regret, I managed to completely miss the Festival of India parade, but at least managed to fill my crowd quota for the day with the big balls of Just for Laughs:

All the comics must’ve been on their smoke breaks because everyone there was definitely not funny. Well, there was this one funny part where a gymnast flew dangerously off course, and oh-so-close to the audience:

The look on his face as he lifted himself off the canvas was a masterpiece of raw human emotion; disbelief, horror, embarrassment, relief, self-doubt, and anger; the kind of face you make when you’re in the privy trying, grimly, to eject a particularly unrealistic log. OH, C’MON! WE’VE ALL BEEN THERE!

Anyway, it was funny.

Funnier than cleaning my sofa when I got back to my place:

Eureka, leave a comment and I’ll contact you about where you can send the royalty cheques. What? You didn’t think it’d be just one, did you? Just like foxes, you are.

Now, dear reader, before you berate me for the frequency of my house-keeping, I would like to point out that this is a week’s worth of collected Ollie hair and open-window city exposure.

Plus, we’re in the middle of a war! A dusty, dusty war.

Share / save this post

I was trying to avoid the roadside carnage by keeping the camera lens pointed upward, but I was met with an umbrella in the face when I attempted a snap of a film shoot on Queen Street west. I’m fairly certain it wasn’t raining horizontally wherever I chose to stand. I considered that maybe he was trying to hide his face, but guess what?

That’s the umbrella guy looking straight at us. Obviously not camera shy; probably just fiercely protective of the set; which was actually indoors. In fact, I have no idea why he gave me the facial parasol. Maybe he’s just angry because of the unforgiving rod that’s up his ass.

So to drive home my point, I crossed the street and took the photo. Zoom lens; they just don’t make umbrellas big enough. Plus, when I finally saw the photo, there was really nothing going on behind him. Not like this:

Merry Strikemas!

Strangely, no one would have stopped me if I had chosen to desecrate this unique war memorial. The “snow” looked a lot more convincing if you were approaching it from down the street. Even more strangely, the stuff piled up against the sides of buildings was real snow (cold and making a big puddle).

Umbrella guy’s motives and the reasoning behind using real snow in the middle of July caused me greatly disorienting confusion. I think this is what veterans describe as shell shock. I stumbled about for a while until the gentle pitter pat of rain on my forehead snapped me back to reality.

My mission to ignore trash was succeeding (mostly), but not as I had imagined.

I suddenly found myself in front of what used to be a convenience store, now lined with young people and a quick banner job around the front advertising the new Harry Potter movie. Everyone was there to meet Tom Felton. The fans seemed to be as old and uncomfortable as the actors in the film (what’re they, like, 30 now?).

Then, remembering my own boyhood love for thumbing through curried library books, I chided myself for being too harsh; I’m sure these gangly teens have a fond childhood connection to their Wiccan mistress. But I don’t remember them guzzling Red Bull at Hogwarts — or was that in one of the newer novels (newer than the first ten pages of the first one)?

A picture as confused as I was.

The rain was now coming down harder and, as I don’t much care for Potter and his kind, I decided to move. By the time I got to city hall, the sun had broken through the clouds and was shining down on a very orderly and polite Iranian election demonstration.

I spoke to one of the gentlemen holding a placard and we swapped war stories. I assured him that he had my support and he in turn wished me luck on the rest of my journey.

The encounter left me calm and peaceful. I strolled home slowly in the bright sunshine feeling lucky to be alive. Things could have gone so much worse; that umbrella could’ve gone right in my eye; all sorts of bad stuff.

Maybe it was General Miller’s inspirational, uplifting words running through my mind that got me through it:

“Get your donut-eatin’ asses back to work in the next five minutes or I will personally come down there and kick them out of the picket line myself you sonsabitches!”

Share / save this post

I’m sorry, it’s just that my head has been elsewhere lately.

While I was waiting for my regular lunchtime installment at It’s a Wrap the other day (King and Atlantic, highly recommended!), the guy grilling the wrap started into some small talk. Naturally we got to talking about the War and I asked him how the strike was affecting him. He lamented that he was paying upwards of two-hundred dollars every week to have his trash hauled away, and then he started in on his idea about the true origins of the strike. I listened thoughtfully; you don’t argue with a man armed with a spatula, cooking oil, and a conspiracy theory. You just don’t.

He believed, quite firmly, that General Miller allowed (perhaps even instigated) the War in order to save the city some money. The battle would also go on for some time, continued spatula guy, until General Miller was satisfied with the cash he raked in.

“Think about it!”, ended spatula guy, pointing his silver flipper at the spot on my forehead where the bullet would enter if I didn’t.

So I did.

But it seems a little far-fetched.

I think that the brass at city hall have their noses too deep in the conflict to see creative ways out. Curmudgeonly prodigy Bill Carroll had the interesting notion of firing ten random people a day until the union caved. The scene painted, in my mind, had a casual Bill strolling out into a crowd of strikers and calmly calling out the names of the people who were getting axed that day. He’d then roll up the list, cool as a cucumber, and strolling a few feet into the crowd — casually like he was window shopping for strip bars, proceed to have the shit kicked out of him by anyone standing nearby. What an ironic daydream.

Bill has since changed his tune. He says it’s for legal reasons but I think he and I shared the same vision. I wonder if the crowd was naked in his too.

There must be better ways. Take this guy, for example:

He’s about to stick something to that pole, I just know it.

I’m pretty sure his company’s not renting pole space from the city and it has to pay for removal. If it were illegal to poster like this (and presumably it is), why not have the removal guys collect fines instead? Every poster carries a phone number, website address, physical address, etc.  Finding the culprits would be supremely easy; you could bring a picnic basket and plan a day trip around it!

There’s a derelict store on Queen Street that demonstrates how rich and profitable this could be. Just look how far those layers go … it’s a gold mine! (clickable too)

With the fine money collected from all of these posters, the city could afford temporary private trash patrol service that could give everyone a reprieve from the War. And why not charge per poster? Stick it to ‘em!

There was one theory floating around (not sure where I heard it), that Toronto was just getting what it deserved. That the trash strike is just karmic retribution for being a bunch of jerks. Shibaten might disagree, and he eats karma for breakfast:

I continue to believe General Miller’s doing the best he can, but he needs to stick his head out the door once in a while. Get some fresh air, new ideas, fresh perspectives. Smoke a bowl. Watch the clouds.

Now, on the verge of day 16, we’re breaking into uncharted territory (the 2002 strike ended after 16 days). This struggle needs needs a refreshing breath mint.

Share / save this post

I recognize that it’s been pretty monotonous around here lately, hasn’t it? It’s not like the combative strike by the 416/79 has paralyzed the city! Let’s see what else is happening around town.

-

And I’m back! Through the wonder of digital technology, I was able to perform the kind of modern miracle of science grandpa would have voided his bowels over: turn a hyphen into three hours.

I’d intended to head down to Ontario Place for the fireworks but in this day of have-nots, it seemed rather indulgent. That was just fine though because on my way I ran into a few interesting places like the Jazz Festival. Not so much a festival as an extended concert for really relaxed people:

I managed to sneak my slight frame behind one of the tent flaps to watch Brandi Disterheft pouring out a gentle “In my solitude”. Dave Brubeck was around somewhere too, just not where I was. In hindsight, I would have loved to cut a rug with Medeski Martin & Wood, but I won’t let regret rule my life. The if-onlys are the things that kill you: if only I’d heard of the festival sooner; if only I’d read the entertainment section more; if only I’d practiced safe sex and worn those damn shin guards. If only.

I wandered away from the square and bumped into my old buddy Steve Mann, hydraulophone guy and seemingly retired cyborg:

Steve is a hero; the only man who can get women all wet by touching his worm in public. I know it’s blue, but it’s better than the green one (yep, still down there – eww!)

Anyhow,  that subject is probably best left to sit in the sun and gather flies. Just as well because I was getting a bit weary of listening to Steve explain (for the third time) the inner workings of the instrument to two people (Mr. Whitey ensemble at the right + guest) who had asked the same question (verbatim) three times. No! The water doesn’t activate electronic actuators! What is wrong with you two?! He just told you it doesn’t! God!

I could actually taste the bitterness subside as I headed back home. I stopped at a lonely a la cart guy in front of Metro Hall to buy a lukewarm veggie samosa. At two bucks it was a greasy good deal, but not really much personality. That was a bit further uptown in front of Metropolitan where I found a bunch of chess players slapping clocks and talking trash:

One of them had a fist raised to the other, growling for “revenge!”. Perhaps jokingly, but I knew that full-contact Aussie rules chess was imminent. I got out of there fast, past overstuffed garbage bins and noticeable roadside litter, as fast as my little legs could carry me. What a night!

Maybe not in that exact order but … what a night!

Share / save this post

This time it would be to the George Street Diner.

It seemed pretty far off the radar. Nice spacious outside views from every booth so as to avoid an unwanted side of sneaky assassin with my breakfast. The booths were those proper squishy diner kind that would require close-quarters combat, but that was okay. More fun. And if the contact who was to meet me there proved to be uncooperative with me, the vintage stools at the counter would provide a good place for a quick and painful Q&A. My Q, his A.

I placed my order for the regular; the measure of a greasy spoon’s worth: the bacon & egg special. It doesn’t matter if it’s not called a “special” in this particular establishment, they should know exactly what you mean. Besides, I had ways of letting the female staff know exactly what I meant that didn’t require any talking. The only other male in the place was the kind who’d be the first to catch a bullet in the forehead in a gun fight. Mental note: human shield.

About $9 later, the chipper young waitress brought me breakfast: two eggs, four strips of well-done bacon, a healthy helping of home fries, and toast. Except…what was this? The toast seemed to be coated entirely in some sort of yellow grease. Maybe it was some strange intensely-coloured butter coating or — they were trying to poison me.

My mind started to race. If I kept my heart rate down, I could probably plug each of these yahoos and manage to make it back to my place for an antidote. Unless there were more of them out of sight.

So it began.

I reached slowly, ever so slowly for the holster while at the same time inching the bread towards my mouth. I unclipped the strap and gently tugged at the gun, releasing the safety. I passed the bread slowly under my nose; no detectable odours other than butter. Great. That left about one-thousand other possible toxins.

My senses went into top mode; I was aware of every creak and squeak around me; could see every motion reflected in the stainless steel backboard that ran the length of the restaurant. I could feel sweat gathering on my brow; my hand tightening on the Walther PPK as the bread passed my lips. This was it…death time.

Oops, my mistake. Just butter.

Good butter too, or a pretty good imitation. The bread was soft and moist and caused me to relax my grip on the gun. It was still a very unnatural colour but…no poison. It looked like the staff were regular civvies so I wouldn’t have to kill them after all. It would have been a shame to destroy all the kitsch on the walls though. Some of it looked genuinely old and all of it belonged in an old-time diner like that.

I dug into the meal; bacon was good and crispy; eggs were well done and adequately greasy; organic coffee was dark and a good complement to the meal. The place was licensed but it didn’t look like they’d be able to serve me a proper Martini.

I finished my coffee slowly, waiting for my contact who was now five minutes late. The bill came promptly and I got up to leave. For a man with as many enemies as me, it was foolish to wait around any longer.

Nice place, I thought as I adjusted my Italian silk tie. Good atmosphere and great decor, but nothing explosive about the breakfast. Just as well, I suppose.

Then I spot him, my contact, running down George Street with my suitcase, being chased by a very tall man with what looks like…metal…for teeth and a very nasty looking gun shooting at — my suitcase.

Damn, that makes me mad.

Share / save this post

No visible injuries, but we can be certain that at least a good number of testicles were crushed (have you seen those seats?!). Next year perhaps they’ll incorporate fast and hungry animals or perhaps someone riding shotgun, with a shotgun, in the pace Lamborghini. Just for the psychological effect.

Still, it was a pretty good race and I got to smell the ass crack of almost every racer. It was a very real, very intimate experience.

And plenty of alcohol along the route too!

Share / save this post

Actually, it was all Torontonians and not me specifically, but I still felt the cold finger of blame pointed squarely at my face.

If you don’t know, Bill Carroll is the prime time personality for local radio station CFRB (AM 1010). His soothing repartee is my morning wake-up, usually taken with a caffeinated beverage, and followed by 680 News and a sunny toilet bowl.

The “Wall of Shame” segment, usually on just after 8 a.m., is a way for Bill to vent his rage and frustration in a generally non-violent way. Usually it’s the denizens of city hall or some child-abusers (I don’t think Bill sees a difference), who receive the honour of the simulated hammer-and-nail routine, but this morning Bill decided that Toronto — and everyone in it — was worthy of being shamed.

What got Bill so mad? The “minority” bicycling population of  Toronto is trying to impress their anti-car agenda on the city and we’re all just lying back and taking it. This stemmed from news that the group is trying to revive the proposal for a bike-only lane to be added to a section of Bloor Street West. Bill took this to be a personal afront: he drives, these people are obviously anti-car, hence they’re against him.

Usually Bill fake-hammers the virtual nail with measured disdain, but today he was pounding and yelling into the microphone like a man on a mission.

Why aren’t all car drivers furious with this “minority” agenda, he asked? Why is city hall filled with car haters? Why the hell isn’t the population of Toronto up in arms?! WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH ALL YOU PEOPLE?! (or something similar)

Bill phoned the deranged organizer of this three-ring circus to ask him what the big idea was. The guy on the other end replied that the city would be much better off if everyone rode a bike: environment, health, etc. Bill disagreed vociferously. The plan would be unworkable for the “vast majority” of people. It’s unconscionable how the bike-riding “minority” is trying to hijack city hall for it’s own nefarious purposes. How many people would use this extra lane anyway? Numbers! How many people, really?! TELL ME HOW MANY OF YOU SONS OF BITCHES THERE ARE!

The interviewee couldn’t come up with any stats.

How typical! Bill was sure it wasn’t a lot of people, not like drivers; there’s a lot of those, definitely a “vast majority”.

As Bill launched into another tirade, this was pretty much the end of the dialogue. Perhaps the interviewee left the conversation, maybe Bill hung up on him. The voice on the other end of the line simply stopped attempting to speak in between the Carroll deluge.

Now with only himself to convince, Bill kept absentmindedly knocking the imaginary nail while slowly descending into something resembling normalcy, all the while trying to re-frame the topic so that even the thickest of us would understand how awful it really was.

The phone lines were opened up.

The first caller agreed with Bill’s assertions and managed to earn himself a second sentence. “Why not lead a protest group like the Tamils?” he asked. “I can’t get involved,” replied Bill. “If you’re famous and lead a protest, they’re all over you. Somebody else needs to do this. Are you listening, Toronto? I’m so sick and tired of…”, and so on.

And then came the traffic report.

Share / save this post

The new Netbook I purchased yesterday has been inaugurally dropped, shaken like a wailing toddler by a coworker, and still appears to be running. I can’t adequately express the excited shivers I feel running up my spine as I write this in the thick of it: on the streetcar! Must be why they call it the Eee PC.

Or maybe it’s just the caffeine. There’s not really much going on; streetcar’s a bit off schedule. Hum.

Actually, I got this funny little conpooter because my gargantuan laptop; well, she’s about to die. She can’t boot sometimes and that horrible, horrible clicking sound coming from somewhere in that portly package, that usually signals imminent death. *sob*

I could almost survive without the teevee (which is one of Bertha’s — that’s the computer — functions), but not having TCL, that would have been too much. So I bit the pillow and shelled out a few hundred for this little wonder of a gizmo. If only my fingers weren’t so big-boned. The keyboard’s in the lowest order  of  comfortable typing surfaces, but it should do until I scrape enough money together to purchase a beefier machine. Or at least something that’ll let me play Tomb Raider comfortably.

For $350 bucks I got a 1.9 gigahertz processor, a gigabyte of RAM, a 160 gigabyte hard drive, and the soothing knowledge that when Bertha finally kicks it, I’ll at least have something to fall back on. If those specs don’t mean anything to you, trust me, it’s a good price.

My shopping prowess aside, such good deals can be had commonly in a little section of College Street between Bathurst and Spadina that I’ve taken to calling Computer Alley. It’s not really an alley, but doesn’t it make it sound somehow more intriguing?

On this short strip you will find an unusually high density of computer stores, many of them operating directly beside each other, and many staffed by Indian, Sri Lankan, or Pakistani men, which always implies good bargains (you know it’s true). Sometimes the price cuts are so deep, it’s a hemorrhagic wonderland of bargains. Even if you only have twenty bucks burning a hole in your pocket, you’ll find a nifty gadget to spend it on. For the gentlemen, besides computer hardware there are plenty of wierd and useless digital devices that will help to demonstrate the superior size of your penis to the ladies. Ladies, some of these things are *sooooo* cute. There; all bases covered.

The really great thing about strolling down Computer Alley is the number of licensed establishments interjected between these hardware shops; liquor, money, and digital hardware is a fun afternoon for everyone, especially the kids. You might even spot me there inebriatedly trying to squeeze some bargains out of the hapless shopkeeps. Then again, with no photo of me, that may prove to be somewhat challenging. How about this? I’ll be the guy schlepping the Asus around.