Oh, Gene.

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

*ahem*

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

I don’t get it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Huzzah for blogging!

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

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 …

The early bird gets the buck seventy-five deal :D

For cheapskates, spendthrifts, and watchapennies, today was the day to visit The Ex. Today was my day!

I think you may recall last Thursday when they were still setting up? Well, today was opening day:

There was just so much to do and see that a narrative of any kind would be foolhardy. I just kind of ricocheted back and forth along the CNE grounds until I was eventually spit out through the Prince’s Gates. Everything was there; the food, the rides … everything except the horses! *earnest disappointment* I had my lemonade all ready, and the horse pavilion certainly smelled like horses. But no horses. Equine-free. :(

Anyway, here’s some other fun stuff. I guess:

I guess that’s why it’s cheapy day today. When you pay the regular fifteen dollar cover, you get horses. For sixty more you get Bill Clinton. I guess that’s fair; horses gotta eat too. Bill though, he’s milking it. Oh don’t get me wrong, I’d be doing exactly the same if I were in his shoes. Just saying s’all.

Well, tomorrow will no doubt be similar to today. It will involve a children’s birthday party. The kids I like. We communicate on a common level. It’s the stamina that kills me. They’re as fresh on their fiftieth “helicopter ride” as they are on their first. I put that into quotes because I want you to hold whatever vision of that that pops up in your imagination. Okay, now make it just a bit too dangerous; throw the kid up just a bit too high; spin them upside down for just a bit too long; include a ceiling fan, and why not the kitchen sink?

Kids love it.

Mostly I hate having to explain to the parents. Again.

I mean well. And the kids are always ecstatic just before the tears. Bah. They’re old enough to start going to amusement parks anyway.

Hoowee!

That was a humdinger of a storm. It started at about seven o’clock; the moment I was stepping off the streetcar, in fact. For about an hour, the skies were black and rain ripped through the city.

Environment Canada’s weather forecast for this evening was “chance of thunderstorms”, so at least I brought an umbrella. But that just let me avoid most of the rain. When the downpour blew horizontally over Bay Street, the umbrella was actually seeping through and the wind was strong enough to pick up those drops on the other side and toss them at me randomly. Why fight it? The run to the other side of the street was, what, maybe four meters (about thirteen feet). Close the umbrella and dash!

I zoomed under the overhand of First Canadian Place – dripping. I estimate that I was out there maybe, umm, three seconds. Tops. Another second and I might as well have strolled home because I wouldn’t have gotten any wetter.

The air conditioning at FCP was really unpleasant, but it was  the only option that didn’t involve the butt end of a tornado, and that would get me back to my place – AND THE WIDE OPEN WINDOWS! – was the PATH. Of all the times I’d walked it, I don’t ever remember seeing water coming through the ceiling:

This is underground, beneath a Bay Street bank building. I bet the cost of the whole thing won’t be pretty. Whatever it is that hit the city, it got bashed pretty hard. Whoever was outside got wet in one way or another; umbrellas, galoshes, rain hats; we were all at the mercy of the elements:

I don’t have underwater gear for the camera so this is, unfortunately, the best I could do. By seven thirty, the water was coming down more vertically so I opened up the still-leaking umbrella and marched it on home. Took a shower, and here I am.

Wasn’t that exciting?

I’m going to cut this post a little short today because the whole ordeal tuckered me out.

Plus I’m working my programmer mojo on a side project. For the glory of TCL and her gracious readership, of course! ;)

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.

Here’s the online thesaurus:

baking, blazing, blistering, boiling, broiling,burning, calescent, close, decalescent, febrile, fevered, feverish, feverous, fiery, flaming, heated, humid, igneous, incandescent, like an oven, on fire, ovenlike, parching, piping, recalescent, red, roasting, scalding, scorching, etc.

I believe they’re all applicable. Except maybe calescent (and its cousins), because it’s supposed to mean “growing warm” and it’s way too obscure besides.

Oh, sorry, I’m talking about this past weekend. And today. Probably tomorrow too. And for a few more days beyond that.

It’s hat. That’s hot said with a mouth that’s too hot and tired to form a proper “o” sound. If you start off hissing like a cat, you’ve got it bang on.

The right uppercut is the heat, the repeated left jab is the humidity. I was down for the count since Saturday morning, hardly able to peel myself off the sofa where my new window fan is paying dividends! I actually fantasized about having this fan last summer, kind of like a heat-induced delirium. So I got one this year. But she struggles. I have a neat little neo-vintage desk fan too, but that one’s been dropped a few times and now makes all sorts of interesting, potentially explosive noises. I keep it on at night. That way, when it happens, I die in my sleep. Groovy.

So, what would cause me to grab the fifth shower of the day and begin contemplating venturing out? Have a listen for yourself:

(If you don’t see anything, you might need Flash installed [my bread and butter; 100% legit, I promise], so click here to install it. Then just reload. )

If you invested in a good set of computer speakers or, failing that, headphones, you should be good. And turn it down a couple of notches;  it’s supposed to be ambient :)

What you’re hearing …

What? You didn’t start it playing? Just hit the little triangle! Jeez, what’re you saving your bytes for a rainy day or something?

…good. Thank you.

What you’re hearing is an unpublicized event that took place in Allan Gardens park, obviously not too far from my place. Judging by the signage, the show was put on by the Carpenters’ Union. They had a couple of politicians show up, and I have no idea what it was for. My best guess would be that it was just a union summer picnic with a talent show tacked on. If you read casually, as I do, you’re probably hearing the results of that talent show now. (You did start the audio, didn’t you?)

The first chunk was a bit of bad (in the Michael Jackson sense) bidness that was the deal breaker for me. Had to go check it out. Looped riddims and live vocals:

Yup. Hurt my pelvis a couple of times. Good stuff.

And then there were some rather fierce Punjabis. Or Pakistanis? I must confess my ignorance here and if anyone can correct me, I’d be much obliged. In any event, they beat up on the stage pretty good:

My elbow still hurts from resting it on that red strip. Thanks, guys!

I was going to leave after that; the following act were some young ladies showing off their choreographed Beyonce moves and, I must say, I didn’t approve. Terrible. No photo for you!

But then, about thirty minutes in (you can fast-forward in the audio player), comes the saving grace. A local Toronto busker named Smokie. Smoky? Yup; he’s that local:

I’m gonna go with Smoky. Again, corrections welcome.

Anyway, he really ripped up the stage; while I was busting a sweat pressing the trigger. Even more impressive, Smoky’s daughters and sons barely broke a sweat either:

Truth be told, aside from the drummer and Smoky, the act was a lot more demure. Well, except for the way those girls slapped those guitars; they should be ashamed of themselves!

So at this point, if you hadn’t pressed play on the audio player, you’ll be missing out on the performance that Smoky and his family put on. It’s a bit quiet, but you’ll get the gist of it. It was … awesome.

Okay, I know he probably sang the same tunes every week busking at Yonge and Dundas. But c’mon, with that much practice, he’s got it down!

Hands-down winner. I’ll see if I can crack a web address out of him next time.

Right. And that’s it. Too hot to do anything else. Back to the flat, plunk down on the sofa, and grow roots.

Now if you’ll excuse me …

Someone had recently asked me what my favourite part of the CNE was.

That’s easy! It’s the danger!

To sum it up, it’s the danger of riding unsafe, potentially deadly rides. Nothing quite as exhilarating. That’s what The Ex has meant to me since I first went there with my folks. I was a little immigrant kid and lots of stuff impressed me back then. These days, that’s a bit more rare, but The Ex has managed to retain that feeling of charm and wonder to it. To me, it’s still still a carnival on a really big scale:

These grounds and all the buildings on them were built specifically for the Canadian National Exhibition, which only takes place once a year. The rest of the time, the grounds are used for the Indy and the various buildings are used for conventions, shows, and other large events. But The Exhibition, that’s this place’s raison d’être.

Like most big gatherings, The Ex started way back in the day when it was an agricultural fair. You came to exhibit your prized cows, corncob pipes, and pumpkins.  Someone would buy up your handsome heifers and you’d walk off with a wad of cash. The roads were mud at that time.

Eventually, agriculture gave way to modernity, and cool fifties’ style buildings were erected; kind of like the buildings in The Jetsons but more tame, more Canadian. And as seems to be the modern trend in downtown architecture these days, old buildings were extended, built onto, with the new buildings becoming a sort of cover for the old. The older building inside was pristinely restored and, being inside, better preserved. Usually, the outside structure involved a lot of glass.

But let’s say you come for other reasons:

The rides! And for me, it’s just more fun on the old ones. I mean, some of them have taken on mythic proportions. Could you imagine The Ex without the Polar Express?

Yup, this guy’s seen some mileage. And it’s a lot of fun without stopping your heart. There’s also the ride that almost always seems to claim a casualty, my absolute favourite, the Starship 4000:

I think it used to be called the Gyrotron, or something like that, but it’s still exactly the same ride. Inside the (fully constructed) saucer are stretchers on wheels sitting against the reclining walls. You rest up against them and as the ship starts to spin, the stretchers are pulled up to the centre with the you stuck to them. One year, I also remember riding a (more common) variation where people stuck to the inside of a drum while the floor dropped out from under them. Same idea but in the saucer you move away from each other as you accelerate. And the DJ sits in the middle blasting out tunes. Sometimes really good tunes.

Invariably, some kid tries to stand up, loses his balance, and goes flying for the corner of the saucer, bashing himself up in all sorts of funny ways. It’s never as serious as it should be, but they always close the ride for a while as a result. I know it’s meant to punish us. I must say, it works.

I just don’t think that kids these days are getting the thrills they need. Roller-coaster wise, I mean. Look at this thing:

Oh, look, a pretty ladybug out for a flight in a field of smiling flowers and swaying grass. Yes, every self-respecting teen is clambering to get onto it. And this is, arguably, the tallest and fastest coaster here. I suppose that tower-drop thing will have to do.

There’s more to The Ex anyway.

To me, the old livestock pavilions are where it’s at. Serene, shaded, and hushed. The animals are chillin’, you’re chillin’. Bit of straw for you, sip of lemonade for me. Ahhh. Pleasant. The weather for The Ex is usually hot and air-con doesn’t agree with me. I’m willing to co-exist with some manure if that’s what it takes.

Wee beasties not to your liking? Well, this year the feds pumped a bunch of cash into The Ex which has been used to get some big names to pay us a visit. Like Bill Clinton. So there’s that. And you know, there’s always a lot of classic Ex food:

Plus, there’s the food building for “real” food. Oh, and the air show at the end; not as boring as it sounds.

You know? There’s a lot to do there. I guess that’s why I like it too; you can be your normal ADD self, or you can be that old fogey watching the ponies, and it all just works as nature intended. The Ex has been around for so long that a good number of the streetcar lines converge there, so it’s easy to get to. And if you take care to note the location of washrooms when you first enter, you’re golden!

Her: “No photos of the artwork, but feel free to take pictures of the architecture. Just make sure no one’s in the photo otherwise you need to get their permission.”

Permission?

Me: “So, basically, no photos.”

Her: “Sure! Just have to be patient and make sure there are no people in your shot.”

Me: “Okey dokey.”

I don’t know why I bother. I mean, I try to be polite and respectful, but why I don’t I just clamp my butthole shut while I’m at it?

First, they made me check in my bag because it was oversize. K, I can dig it. But I was told I could take it in if I wore it around my waist, as another lady with “exactly the same bag” as mine had done.

The bag is a Lowepro SlingShot, one of those single over-the-shoulder deals that’s more or less a thick, rigid backpack. I couldn’t work out the logistics of wearing it around the waist, especially since it would stick out just as far any which way I maneuvered it. “I’ll carry it”, I offered, lowering the bag into a shy, reclusive position between my legs.

The answer was still no.

“Can I at least take my camera?”, I asked. “Of course!”, replied the smiling guard. He had been almost absurdly friendly the entire time and I don’t think I would’ve thought twice about leaving my bag behind, but then his partner showed up. I don’t think a smile had creased her thin lips in years. Crab-ola!

It was a few minutes later as I was entering into the main gallery of the AGO that I had a second conversation with another (and considerably friendlier), female attendant. That’s the first part of this post. I thought that maybe swapping the denials chronologically would make them seem less harsh.

Nope.

You can understand why I was starting to get a bit miffed, especially since just beyond the attendant, in the main lobby, a woman was chasing a guy in a Sasquatch suit snapping pictures randomly and yelling, “Stop, Sasquatch! Stop!” Strangely, he did, while the girl pushed her way through the crowd that had suddenly formed behind him. As soon as she was through, he lumbered off again past cowering, horrified children. Snappity snap McSnap all the way.

Not to mention the sign I found just around the corner. Visitors were advised that they may have their photos taken at any moment for use in promotional material. Only by actively approaching any guy or girl with a big lens and notifying them of your wishes would you be assured that this wouldn’t happen.

So I broke the rules. But after I had wandered a bit, I realized that, probably, that’s what was necessary in a place like this. Some unfettered appreciation. Do you think the artists would mind?

Like a digital reproduction could ever do it justice! I mean, you can actually commit a heinous crime and totally wreck some major artwork, that’s how close you’re allowed to get to it. And, to keep you interested, each new room is fronted by an outstanding piece from the collection:

Once inside, the pieces are respectfully spaced but I have to say, the signage s-u-c-k-s! They’ll have two paintings side by side, four labels next to each one, and one in between just for good measure. Halfway through the Impressionists, some young girl went to great lengths to embarrass herself to her friend as she described the flowing, smooth style of Gauguin in the painting in front of them. Wrong label. Wrong painting too.

But I shouldn’t be overly critical. There were a number of pieces on display that I didn’t particularly get but that had genuinely excited buzz around them:

Yup, there’s a lot of stuff to see; the Art Gallery is actually quite large. The piece that runs along Dundas is just for show; the building behind it is the actual gallery and it runs upward about five storeys via that crazy spiral staircase in the lobby. And it’s art all the way up; old, new, and stuff that I sat on.

I should probably take a bit of that back. I didn’t mean to imply that the part along Dundas is totally wasted:

The inside is genuinely impressive, but I still think the architect is a hack. I saw a documentary where he demonstrates his creative process: He’ll take a stiff card of cardboard, then crumple it (not too tightly), then flatten (not too much). Then point to it and say, “okay, now you guys build me that.” The team go sprinting out the door while Gehry leans back in his chair and takes a sip of his coffee. Hack-ola!

Ha! Listen to me go on like I paid for the experience or something! No, dear reader, Wednesday evenings are free. I think they probably have special exhibits that are off-limits to all us freeloaders, but since this was my first visit since the reno, it’ll be a while before I get bored.

In the meantime I’m going to work on getting my bag to wear like a fanny pack. I’ll show them!

What to say?

Not every day has a festival or intriguing political scandal. Some days I just get up, leave the apartment, shake my software developer ass for a few bucks, then straight back home again:

That could get pretty bleak, pretty fast. So, on days like these I try to break up the momentum by taking a detour. Today I marauded through Trinity Square, getting into all the nooks and crannies I’d not previously explored:

I do believe that’s a real water well! Kinda picturesque, don’t you think? But what makes this spot that much neater is that it’s right outside the Eaton Centre. I want to emphasize right outside:

Most people walking through the mall turn out onto Yonge Street instead of taking the opposite doors to the Square. That’s a shame because the church kicks-ass and the little park attached to it is the kind of park where lonely old men come to feed the pigeons and sigh about their bygone days (also kick-ass):

Right at the back of the photo you can make out a gushing mini waterfall. It hits a shallow stream that runs along the side of the building and underneath a wide bridge, both of which form the path to the main church entrance. I guess this is intended to ritually cleanse the spirits of pedestrians as they pass over hallowed ground. Or to ward off vampires.

There’s also a circular labyrinth off to the left side of the Square. Every photo I took of it somehow managed to capture a woman with an unflattering backside trying to find her way to the end. I have a responsibility not to post images like that. It’s just better for everyone.

It doesn’t matter though, because the “maze” is ridiculous; it’s so easy to cheat! It’s a roughly nine meter (thirty foot) diameter circle made of compact, concentric paths. The whole thing is paved but the path part is made of different coloured stone. That’s it! No walls! Nothing! Yup, just walk right to the end, save yourself an awful lot of bother and solve that sucker in record time. My tip to you ;)

The only possible reason I can come up with for the construction of such a dumb “maze” is that it’s some sort of demonic ritual symbol that, if enough people trace its sinister shape toward the dark stars, summons Cthulhu. So then the water’s dumb because there’s no way that that’s going to help. Good luck, Trinity Church!

But as my friend Rob points out, a church will probably hold out until at least winter at which point all the zombies will either slow to a crawl, starve, or freeze to death. Yup, with Cthulhu come zombies; that’s just fact. And with zombies come shotguns. :D

Then for Christmas we could all watch A Christmas Story, as is the custom at Trinity. By this time next summer, we’ll have forgotten all about it. But the maze will still be there … waiting.

And so will I.

Unless there’s a festival or some intiguing political scandal afoot.

I feel I should apologize if TCL is a bit sluggish today; it’s been t-h-i-c-k around here. Temperatures were running in the high thirties (close to a hundred Fahrenheit), and that insidious humidity crept in right along with them. Soupy is not the right word, unless you mean French Canadian split pea soup. Then, yes.

I had somehow managed to forget just how much of a punch this kind of weather delivers. I spent four years living on a proper tropical island and I can say with some authority that Toronto’s summer is not unlike a tropical one. It’s hot, sticky, humid, and relentless. I like the challenge – see how far I can walk before I pass out from dehydration – but Ollie tends to take a more pragmatic approach:

I took the day off today to be a tour guide to my folks and a Czech student they’re showing around. We hit some of the more air-conditioned locations such as the PATH, the lakeshore, and the Toronto Reference Library.

I particularly enjoyed the reactions to the Korean BBQ lunch. If you’ve never been, imagine the hubcap from a small car sticking out from the middle of a restaurant table on which you cook your own prepped food (usually meat). Most places heat it using a gas line that runs up through the centre of the table, but more elegant places use lye beneath the cooking plate – kinda like a fondue setup.

During the lunchtime conversation, the word “exotic” was used more than once. “Good” also. I’d add “inoffensive” as long as you stay away from the kimchi – I’m just not a big fan of fermented cabbage. I mean, I know what I like and it’s allowed my weight to hover above average, so I think I know what I’m talking about here. It’s the same reason I never trust that skinny chefs will ever produce anything really tasty. It simply … can’t be.

Luckily, the chefs along the Taste of the Danforth route yesterday were, for the most part, not svelte. There were plenty of beefy characters serving up beefy skewers. And chicken. And pork.

The short stretch of Danforth Avenue essentially had all its Greek and Mediterranean shops (and every other shop in between), spill their food onto the street for sampling. At most places you got a meaty skewer for $3 and for $5 you got the skewer on a gyro with veggies and tzatziki.

The idea behind Taste is pretty simple; stuff your face the entire way, and then do it again on the way back:

It’s a flawed concept; it’s just not possible. I got through two skewers, one gyro, and one cob of corn before I threw in the towel. I didn’t even have room for baklava, and I don’t remember the last time this has happened.

Maybe I’m just getting old. I mean, with the liquor stops along the way being off-limits due to the heat, I felt like that didn’t leave much else for the adults. Okay, that’s not entirely true; there’s plenty of music to get down and dance a Greek-ish jig to:

The gentleman waving the flags is Mr.Canada, as emblazoned on his custom-made maple leaf suit. Unfortunately, I didn’t get to ask him anything as he kept scooping up ladies out of the audience and entertaining them with his flag dance:

It had a semaphoric quality about it; stiffly elegant and clearly sending out all sorts of unintended signals. Guess you can’t blame the guy, it was just as hot during Taste as it is today and the fact that he made any sort of effort should be applauded. The fact that he wore that suit on that day … well, maybe he should see someone about that. I mean, I wasn’t dressed very sensibly myself, and I was a puddle (I layered, just too much!).

Next year I’ll take a note from the Danforth’s regulars and keep it simple, classic, and timeless: