It is with heavy heart that I adopt my new responsibility of embedded reporter in the War on Trash. I took this role because, despite my fear, I know that someone in this city needs to get the word out; tell the people what’s really going on out here. Plus I live here.

Yesterday, as Much Music crowded the streets in a brilliant display of terrible musical taste (ohmygodohmygod!), soft-core porn, and just plain garbage, the 416/79 infantry began their tactical strike. Everyone was too busy watching Lady GaGa’s disco-stickery and highly impractical haircut to notice what was going on. Amidst the insane shrieking of pubescent teens, none but a few liquor-hardened reporters bunkered down in the CityTV newsroom took notice of the descending doom.

At midnight, war was declared.

By morning, the bandaged and patched casualties were starting to come in from the front lines:

Only later did I learn that the first salvo wasn’t fired by the other side or even by us. It was fired by a southern neighbour taking a shot at Perez Hilton. Some time in the yawningly early hours of Monday morning, trash became enemy and we got the first shot in. Thanks, America.

This is where it started; ground-zero:

Later today, I saw the first fatality of the war:

…and soon more:

The scenes are horrible, but I fear much worse and soon. And even more troubling is the new garbage bag that I installed in the kitchen today. Currently it only holds a few bits of trash, but pretty soon it will fill like all the others; swell with refuse and pride, become unruly, attack me in the middle of the night!

As the the dull shelling from my computer’s speakers draws nearer, I gather the reusables in the corner of my flat and wait. And wait. And watch. In the direction of the kitchen.

I won’t get much sleep tonight.

P.S. Congratulations to Renee for winning the Coffeetastic Giveaway! You couldn’t have chosen a worse time.

Isn’t that a tragic sight? I realized that I had neglected my ongoing campaign for free Second Cup coffee!

Well, once again I want to praise the graces of this wonderful establishment. Hosanna on highest! Blessed is he who walketh with re-usable mug (also available in stylish assortments from your nearby Second Cup location).

Now, I don’t want to give the impression that I’m getting something for writing this. No sir; 100% unsolicited and, as yet, unrewarded. But definitely my own initiative. I’m asking for free coffee for heaven’s sake!

But seriously, when the wise executives at Second Cup realize what an opportunity this is, I’m ready to talk shop. Gentlemen, I take mine black.

Other than a lack of great coffee, it’s been pretty flat here at the TCL abode. A blanket of dull, grey cloud is oozing it’s way eastward and keeping the streets shiny. It seems to have washed all of yesterday’s colourful characters off the street.

Me? I’ve been rummaging through those terribly time-consuming Toronto Archives again. I always enjoy looking at the photos and creating captions for what’s going on in the scene. But it’s been called to my attention that my interpretation may not always be the correct one. Well, I choose to squeeze that lemon rather than let it make me sour. Not good with coffee either.

So in honour of that most excellent hot beverage company, I would like to open up the floor for ya’ll. Write a caption for a photo in the comments and / or rate others’ using the shiny stars (10 being the best).

I’m going to make this post sticky (ha! No, not in that way. Gross!), until Sunday night (let’s say 8 o’clock). The best comment (if it’s a tie I toss all the winners’ asses into a random number generator and have it sort it out), gets a bag of Second Cup coffee (yes I’ll pay the goddamn s&h – but no air shipping!)  or a prominent ad in the sidebar for a month. Sweetest deal on the web, my friends.

Yeah, well; still better than getting kicked in the nuts, am I right?

Comment as many times as you like, just don’t forget to leave your email address (held in strictest confidence!) with each one so I can get a hold of you later!

Profanity will be absolutely tolerated. Encouraged, even.

Here’s the photo; I believe you will find it amply titillating:

Wednesday.

It started with screaming. Not the usual neighbourhood screaming for the hallucinatory demon to get off the street (he could get hit by a car!). That guy was by at 2 A.M. and he was surely all tuckered out by sunrise. And not the Chinese guy walking by my window now with outbursts of Mandarin-sounding … something.

No, this screamer was a bit more risqué. He was yelling at the sky for them to come and kill him already. He exclaimed he wasn’t afraid to die and tore at his clothes. Picking up a rock, he demonstrated how easily he could dash his own brains out, and then threw it at the cement so forcefully that it shattered. He implored for them to “beam” him out of this “cube” already. I think I detected some tears mixed in with all that rage.

Two cops were already en route from the bottom of the street by the time I passed him.

Wednesday.

Hump day. It always seems a little skewed but today it was quite oblique.

I like to sit at the back of the streetcar in the little semi-circular huddle space. When I sat down this morning, it was empty and relaxed. Five minutes into the ride, every seat was taken. The elderly gentleman with wispy white hair who sat to my immediate left opened up his newspaper, and mumbled something gleefully as he pointed to a headline. I didn’t think much of it until he did it again, but this time without the pointing or the happiness. Then he did it again. And again. Then a whole-body tremor. Then more mormmblingg. And so on for the next six stops.

The man who sat to his left had his eyes open uncomfortably wide, not unlike the fellow at our left. With a winter parka over one knee and an occasional spastic jerk, he smacked his lips noisily at the passing scenery. And you know what? Not a single cake or ice cream shop in sight!

I don’t remember the Weather Channel calling for crazy today. Even the schizophrenic atmosphere caught quite a few people off guard. The morning was a stark, sunny deluge of insanity and the afternoon a sleepy, sedated pillow of rain. *yawn* Even the Chinese guy sounds tired.

I hope everyone gets a good night’s sleep and we can all try again tomorrow. And no skipping the meds this time!

Imagining ride-the-rides-till-I-puke fun, and fully intending to top this off with the closing performance of Luminato,  I decided to enjoy a sunny afternoon on the Toronto Islands yesterday.

No sooner had I left the docks than nature decided to go on her rag:

Kudos to all of you who spotted Bobby Lee in this photo.

Despite the ominous ceiling and ravenous  seagulls at Centreville (Toronto’s lumberjack-inspired answer to Coney Island), I managed to scarf down a funnel cake with “the works” consisting of a light dusting of icing sugar (childrens’ cocaine), early-season strawberry goop (later in the year, the storage barrel’s accumulated fly droppings adversely affect the flavour), and ice cream (childrens’ meth). The eight-dollar price tag (four bucks for the pointless, barely-dusted variety), seemed a bit steep, even if they import from Colombia.

The few rides that seemed like they could support an adult man were overrun with coke-crazed kids, and the others were closed down for repairs. Shame. But I did get to wander around, fondle some goats at the petting zoo, that sort of thing.

The northern part of the island has some interesting, less-traveled areas like the hedge maze where children come to do drugs in private and then run around screaming incoherently, presumably because of the hallucinatory insects crawling on their skin. Note for you parents: this is a good opportunity for you to suddenly and permanently “lose” your kids. Well worth the trip.

The beach at the very northern end of the island is surprisingly syringe and condom-free, but the fishy smell and the looming clouds didn’t inspire a dip. Instead, I got a good gander at the cormorants that are re-populating (and defoliating) the Leslie Street Spit, from the pier that juts out into lake Ontario. For a dollar, the coin-operated binoculars provided three minutes and twenty seconds of nude trees and hardcore bird sex.

Sexy. But not as sexy as Toronto’s very own haunted phallus, the Gibraltar Point Lighthouse:

Despite the awesomeness of this photo, the structure is barely four storeys tall. Well, maybe six. You could probably see the light out at a distance on the lake but the tree line would block it out near the island, the only place you would really need it. Most of the trees look pretty old so I can only conclude that they must’ve Agent Oranged the hell out of the place back in the day.

If you were thinking of peeking through that red gate at the base, you would be rebuffed by a Dr. Evilesque voice saying, “You will find that quite im-possible. It’s a very solid door … with lay-zers.” So outside with the mosquitoes, cell towers, and lost/urinating tourists you stay.

The building certainly looks authentic enough, and chunks where cement has patched the masonry are visible but executed very cleanly. The grey and white morning-salute to Toronto should be around for ages to come. I bet it’s breathtaking at dawn.

Alas, the day was growing dark so I returned to the docks, shoved aside a bunch of old (weak!) people and made my way to the front of the boat.

The final Luminato show was an hour-long delay with people in the crowd shouting, “What the fuck? This fucking sucks! Where’s the cock-sucking show you assholes?” Sophisticated art lovers all, just not my type of crowd; plus my dogs were barking something fierce, so I decided to call it a day.

Suckers.

It’s not that I forget about giant red balls or apartment hunting, it’s just that I take a relaxed attitude to writing TCL. Some have described it as procrastination. Others, laziness. Others still, too much banana leaf. Who knows?

Sometimes it’s just because the big red ball needs a day off. That was yesterday. Today, it was up bright and early at the Ryerson campus Podium.

The location was perfect because it allowed the sunlight to hit the ball’s sumptuous, silky surface in the most striking way:

Clearly the glorious red vision was designed to attract because, like flies, children were soon buzzing around it, touching it in inappropriate ways:

I’m sure you’re asking, did I meet the genius behind this wonder? No, I did not. In fact, I don’t believe he was there. The same guy that had crushed my spirits two days ago was the same guy now in charge of the current display. He had a female assistant, but please trust me when I tell you that neither one of them was the artist. They just weren’t Caucasian enough. No, that guy’s probably sitting on a sailboat lighting cigars with hundred-dollar bills.

But I did get an attractive brochure:

I’m gonna wax a bit here and posit my own personal belief as to the ball’s purpose. That would be to highlight sections of the city that you may pass daily but wouldn’t otherwise notice if a giant red ball wasn’t wedged in there. It’s a sort of way of saying, take back your city, explore those strange little alleys between buildings, have another look at something you pass every day. And for God’s sake, you can’t see it from over there! Come closer! Come!

It draws attention. Gets noticed. Not afraid to show it’s ass in public. I mean, that’s the very definition of “photogenic”.

So if this was the artist’s aim, I give it two thumbs up. The ball has shown us sacred ground. Maybe it’ll even be visible from a satellite. Maybe it’s a Google marketing ploy. Who knows? I’m still glad it came and allowed me to bask in it’s glory for one brief moment before I had to trudge off to work.

*sigh*

Oh wait, it’s still around all weekend!

If you don’t live in the city, I’d like to take this opportunity to remind you of how different you are.

This morning, as I was trying to decide which pair of underwear was less disintegrated and thus suitable for duty, a radio spot came on for Walmart’s “Walk for Miracles” campaign. It occurred to me that I hadn’t been to a Walmart in ages. Hence no underwear.

That’s probably because there aren’t an awful lot of them in Toronto itself, and not within easy strolling distance. Walmarts, that is. You have to admit, their distribution in the Greater Toronto Area is pretty uniform, even in the outlying sub-suburbs like the ‘Shwa.

I’m going to come clean right now and say that I don’t care for Oshawa. Not one bit. Didn’t like driving through it, didn’t like stopping for ice cream. It was the first time I saw a bona fide Springeresque trailer park. If you insist on going through, the main thoroughfare’s okay, just … don’t wander.

Anyway, I don’t want to get off track. The point is that the expectations seem to get a little bit lower wherever a Walmart is present.

Look…

…that’s CIBC, well represented anywhere you look on a map of southern Ontario. Also a very heavy presence here in the city. Gentle running seems like a good middle ground of physical exertion. Especially when you look at the 100% downtown Princess Margaret crew:

That’s a two-day bike ride to Niagara Falls. And as an option you can hop along for an extra ride with Steve Bauer for some real action.

Walmart, serving who they serve, decided on this:

Families with kids aren’t really into running. Neither are the ‘Shwabians.

In the trendy, sea-bound urban centers of Vancouver, they also tried walking, and look at the result:

I know, right? That’s exactly how twisted, wheelchair-bound super villains start. I bet he’s seething with rage.

I guess it’s because city dwellers just don’t get “walking”. They need that hardcore rock climbing biznatch all up in yo mother’s face (that’s how they talk out west). Urbanites want to come home with an arm missing or a cavity where there previously was none. CHA-RI-TAE*! WOOOOOOOOOO**!

Better start getting my pudgy ass in shape. Bikini season’s just around the corner!

* Charity — I know, that west coast accent always messes me up too.
** An overdrawn WOO — Them and their crazy Vancouverese, you gotta love ‘em!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After my last assignment, I’m sure you’ll understand why I had to lay low for a while. This is a dangerous town and I had to make sure that when I popped my head back up, I wasn’t going to get it blown off. With my Walther PPK strapped snugly against my ribcage, I straightened my tie and headed out.

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.

I took in an evening of Qubit tonight. It’s a new science quiz show that will probably play on the Discovery Channel and maybe other CTV affiliates soon(ish).

The audience line waiting outside the Masonic Temple studio was  a curious mix of downtown sophistiques who had undoubtedly just come in straight from the Annex, a ragtag group of teenagers for whom adolescence seemed to be going especially painfully, and other assorted people who served mostly as organic wallpaper. There was some drama in the air above us as a flock of pigeons circled a hawk; I think he had encroached on their turf and shit was about to go down.

Unfortunately, they huddled us in and up the stairs to the second floor of the studio before I had a chance to see how it ended. I remembered being here before; with my sister and friends; when the walls were sweating and the Beastie Boys were discussing the importance of the individual freedom to celebrate and enjoy oneself. The Temple staff certainly got the stank out good since then.

The Qubit set was pretty neat; at the center was a very large sheet of of plastic or maybe polarized glass leaning diagonally like a big canopy over the main stage. From below, some kind of projector shone a moving image of a glassy 3D cube (the logo), onto the screen creating a pretty realistic hologram effect. I sat right in front of it and that shit was trippy. On camera, you can’t see the screen at all so the effect is even better.

You’d think they’d use this in some cool way, wouldn’t you? You know, have the contestants duke it out virtually with the dreaded cube in the final round or something. Unfortunately, no, the entire show takes place in front of the hologram screen which, though admittedly cool, seems a bit gimmicky.

Nothing about the show was explained to us except that we should clap — at a moderate level — whenever the contestants hit a “Wildside!”. Whatever that was. The whole thing had a slightly first-day-of-grade-1 tinge to it: we practiced clapping and then the audience host gave out pens and book bags to those who participated in his activities. The female half of the nice couple that sat beside me remarked that he was probably a comedian from Yuk Yuk’s. I think she was right. I didn’t realize they let those people out on the streets!

After a lot of movement, light checks, and swooshy sound effects, they finally brought out the three contestants: two men and a woman. The men were comprised of David, a stout gentleman with a British accent and regular make-up reapplications, and John, what Spud from the Trainspotting movie would have looked like had he not done so much smack. The lady’s name utterly escapes me but I remember her being short and unremarkable, so it’s just as well.

This being the first taping, I don’t think it’s surprising that there were a few glitches. The most outstanding one was when the entire hologram shut down and a singular “Unlicensed” floated above the contestants’ heads. I don’t think they downloaded the entire show off BitTorrent though because everything else in the studio seemed to work well.

The game isn’t based on a dazzling or particularly unique concept: contestants choose a prize amount which represents the difficulty of a question in a category. Think Jeopardy but with a cube instead of a board.  There are a couple of twists such as questions that can be made easier during timed rounds in exchange for penalties, but nothing to write home about. No full-contact anything here, that’s for sure.

Bob McDonald, angelically illuminated by a studio light over his seat at the back of the studio, was quizzed by the audience host (not the show’s host), to pass time during breaks. I’m fairly certain that the comedian completely failed to recognize who he was talking to. You can taste the sweet, tangy irony, can’t you? The studio host of a highly science-focused quiz show talking to the science guy of Toronto, maybe even of Canada, and he doesn’t know who he is. “Are you retired, sir?”, was the question he asked Bob.

I sure do hope Qubit does well and that I can sell my first-show ticket on eBay years from now at a considerable markup. The game could do well if they ratcheted up the volume a bit; have the host smoke some crack before the show; intercut the segments with softcore erotica; a pool filled with gelatin for the two-people round. I still think that 3D projector should be interactive somehow. Who’s to say all these concepts couldn’t be combined in some way?

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

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

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

That illegible blue banner says “Luminato 2009“.

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

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

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

The pavement hurts my bum so.