The 416/79 phalanx showed its face today. Faces, actually. Two of them were on break while the third did an enviably blasé job:

That’s what we’re up against, and despite appearances, the danger is real.

If side-saddle got up a fast enough speed, she could probably bowl me over. Yes, it’s a she. A she with a thirst for battle.

After taking the photo, I back-stepped down the street gingerly as she didn’t seem appreciative of having a portrait done.

A block away I stopped to listen to an amateur musician. Extremely good, and clearly not part of any union:

I hate making these obvious juxtapositions, but it’s important that everyone understand what the War is really about. It’s becoming clear that trash is simply being wielded as a rancid weapon; the 416/79 unit are pulling the strings.

When you think about it, it makes perfect sense. There hasn’t been a single report of trash attacking anyone. It’s just a pawn in the subversive game that the 416/79 corps is playing.

But on the ground, for the urban Torontonian caught in the middle of this conflict, it doesn’t really matter. All the anguish and bitterness ends up festering on their front lawns either way.

Back on the street and now blocks away, children played in an empty urban wasteland, devoid of vegetation and life, but still somehow brimming with hope:

With the sun, it’s not so wasteland-y.

I find these pictures very comforting; that even in the middle of such a terrible conflict, the city  still manages to get by somehow. The children still manage to be children, buskers still dot the streets, people still live their lives as best they can.

Clearly the 416/79 offensive is losing ground. Their hierarchy of two managers for every striker is probably hurting them. The only way they’d be able to make any headway now would be to take a good long look in the mirror and pick at some of those blemishes. Until they’re able to do that, all we can do is carry defiance in our eyes. (a pint in the hand is good too)

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Is it fair to say that we were all concerned about Chinatown? According to the survey, those who know what a CUPE is show grave concern for the place, while only one person is definitely evil.

Well, is seems that at least one of the fears has been realized. A rather stanky waft of eggy air meanders along Dundas near Spadina among open bins, but it’s possible that the smell may have been there before the War:

You have to hand it to the resourceful shopkeepers around Spadina for ingeniously mixing trash in with the merchandise. Not only do they profit from it, but tourists take the trash with them out of the city:

The tiny little five-dollar treasure soon becomes the little Buddha with the toxic peeling golden skin and (upon closer inspection) horribly disfigured plastic face. He probably shouldn’t appear to be leering lustily at you, of that I’m fairly sure.

Despite this, these things must be selling like hotcakes (with real Canadian Maple syrup), because the stores lining Spadina are packed with this stuff:

There’s actually a store owner in there somewhere. Almost Zen-like. Almost.

The people of Chinatown certainly are resilient, but it remains to be seen how much longer trash will be tolerated in this neighbourhood; how many more good trash bins must be lost before the people declare enough.

I sure hope they aren’t depending on some fiberglass moose for luck:

Moose have never been particularly lucky around piles of trash. Usually ends up with the moose spilling something on his new white shirt. And that’s doubly aggravating because of the amount of time it took him to just get that thing out of the package. Then those awful little pins; for an animal with hooves … and the buttons!

Yeah, no moose. Bad scene.

So trash exports it is for the foreseeable future. The brave people of Chinatown march on.

The War rages on, Being Erica still makes no sense, yadda yadda.

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!

Happy aborted Canada day, everyone!

I know used this photo already, but it still expresses my feelings in the best possible way: Canada gets a thums-up, I get naked. It’s what this great country’s all aboot, eh?