Breasts, bikes, and beer; the triumvirate of alliterative seduction is now complete!

At around this time last year, the Rickard’s beer company (one of a number Molson‘s subsidiaries), introduced a white wheat beer that I had absolutely no interest in. It’s not that I don’t enjoy beer but my interest in it wanes, much like my interest in full-time employment. Currently, it’s waxing.

Usually I imbibe my alcoholic beverages with deep political convictions; a pint of Guinness with a sipping shot of B52, for example. Rickard’s White, though, doesn’t really make a statement other than “I taste good” — which it does.

White ale, if you’re not familiar with it, is an unfiltered beer (hence the cloudiness), that has orange peel and coriander added to it to produce a slightly citrusy flavour. Unlike lager, ale is fermented more quickly and at room temperature (lager’s kept cold).

I’ve poured all sorts of fermented crap down my gullet and this drink is truly inoffensive. The slice of orange (sometimes lemon), shown in the photo is how it’s served at various pubs around Toronto. Friday afternoon’s tart and bitter post-work bitch-outs at Shoeless Joe’s just wouldn’t be possible without it.

I’m hardly a scholar of beer and it’s fair to say that the term “enthusiast” wouldn’t apply to me, but I can recommend this one. It’s the gateway drug of the legal alcohol world.

If I could leave just one parting note to our American neighbours, I would point out that Canadian beer tends to contain a man-level of alcohol (5.5%+), so take your time. And for the rest of you who may be wondering why this entry is uncharactersitically short, you will find your answer at the bottom of my pint glass.

Cheers!

I met my superintendent outside my building as I was coming home yesterday and, I dunno if I mentioned this already but, he’s going to be leaving soon. We got to talking about what he’d be doing once he left and, despite the fact that he’s pushing seventy, he’s still lugging paint cans around and mowing the lawn with one of those mechanical push mowers. It’s amazing when you think about it – and even when you don’t; by that age I’ll be lucky if I’m breathing on my own let alone doing yard work. In fact, I’m already planning my daily diaper soiling regimen now; “plan ahead” is my motto.

What struck me as even more amazing was the fact that his girlfriend (considerably younger than he is), dropped by my place with an Austrian beer and an offer for me to take over as superintendent. Me! Can you imagine?! –* sip

I said I’d think about it. And then I thought about it.

On day one I’d be fishing snakes out of the pipes. I don’t know how they’d get there, who they’d belong to, or even why they’d all be venomous, but I just know it would happen.

“I’ve had it with these motherfuckin’ snakes in this motherfuckin’ drain!”

Day two would involve a fire.

There would be no day three.

No, I don’t think I’m cut out for that job. Also, having everyone’s keys readily available would be too much temptation.

Jobs like that should go to someone like this:

This is Pam McConnell. She’s the city councillor for ward 28, of which I am apparently a member. In this ward, the Gardiner is named a little differently, and council gets the job done! Just read between the halftone.

I know I’m going straight to hell for stating the following and, although I don’t intend to be mean, it’s also out in plain sight.

To begin with, I’m sure that Pam’s days on the dating circuit are probably over. I suspect she’s married and she’s probably on top in the bedroom – she da boss! Her clothes scream full-figured comfort and looking at her face always imbues me with a sense of motherly warmth.

In other words, Pam got to where she is through intelligence and insight, not through looks or a bitchin’ beehind. I suppose she could have connections but if she’s in any way tied up in shady dealings, that’s even cooler.

Pam puts out a quarterly newsletter which she crams full of the major photo-ops of the past few months. Here is a sampling:

She really is cute, isn’t she?

And look at all the shit she’s accomplishing. I mean, Regent Park used to be a scary place, but there’s a lot of community involvement and genuine re-building going on there. That little woman’s out there kicking asses and taking names.

I really hope that one day I catch her somewhere around St. Lawrence Market and persuade her to let me snap a picture of us together. Perhaps shaking hands, perhaps not; I don’t know if I’ll be able to contain myself. I’m already giddy!

I guess it’s just because she’s the kind of politician one could get behind, you know what I mean?

No, not in that way, even though that would be a great picture!

Toronto the good? Is that the best they could come up with?

You can just see the committee (and you know it was a committee), discussing how they were going to present Toronto to the world:

“Well how about Toronto the So-So?”

“I don’t see that as being particularly appealing, Mary.”

“Well, Dick, it’s about not raising visitors’ expectations. That way they’re mildly surprised when the city’s not that bad.”

“What I meant was that we had a vote last week on that word and we decided that the first ‘So’ was negative and the second positive. We had also decided that we didn’t want any negative connotations for Toronto in its slogan. Since half of that word is, as unanimously decided, negative, I must object to its use.”

“I second that motion.”

“Thanks, Bob, but this isn’t a vote.”

“Oh.”

“I’ve got it! Toronto the Adequate! Same idea but no negativity. High five!”

“Thanks, Larry. That’s a great start, but I think we could punch it up a bit. You know, give it a pair of balls; tell ‘em what Toronto’s really made of.”

“What do you think of Toronto the Good, Dick?”

“That’s great, Mary! You’re finally using that girl brain of yours; good for you! All in favour? … all opposed? Motion is carried! Now, onto the urinal cakes at city hall…”

Eighteen ninety-eight. That’s 1898.

That’s when that name was invented, and I believe a new meaning of word “suck” was invented that very same day; call it coincidence. You can also call it coincidence that every hack/lazy writer and their dog has been dredging that old nugget out for irony ever since. The “Good” tag is just so entirely inadequate. Good what? Hot dogs? Weather? Footwear?

As I was deviating from my regular route home, I ended up in Little Portugal. I didn’t know Toronto had a Little Portugal, but it didn’t surprise me. I’m sure there’s a Little everything out there. And that’s why “Toronto the Good” is such a crappy choice. It could be “Toronto the Cosmopolitan” or “Toronto the Global”. I’d even live with “The City of Communities”. It’s a bit long but it’s both correct and sounds nicer.

To the casual observer, it might seem like these communities were planned by the city. Street boundaries are surprisingly strict with little spill-over; one block further in any direction and you’ve missed it. The street signs all tell you what community you’ve just walked into and if you happen to miss that, just look around. If it’s Portuguese, it’s in front of you. Even the people on the street suddenly suddenly seem more tanned.

It’s the same in Chinatown, of course. It all looks so genuine that it seems like it’s a setup. You might get the impression that this is mostly for tourists and occasional 4 a.m. revelers in search of greasy Chinese food and “special tea”.

In fact, I think that most of these areas are one-hundred percent authentic, functioning communities in every sense of the word. I base this on a little hard evidence I gathered on my romp through one of Chinatown’s markets. I happen to know that the products I found would only be purchased by actual Chinese people who hadn’t lost their taste for food back home, or the reconditioned expat who had acquired the taste for such items over many years living abroad. As I had.

This first example can be found widely throughout Toronto, but it’s still a proudly Taiwanese drink. The Taiwanese version of this labeling guarantees a minimum caffeine content! Awesome!

I’m still not sure exactly what Oligosaccharides are (“Oligo!”), but this sure is a tasty drink/meal:

With ingredients like lotus seed, red bean, black bean, and artificial  creamer (a must for all Taiwanese beverages), you know this is authentic:

There are products that aren’t fully legal in Canada, like this original Thai Red Bull with no English whatsoever:

And with Engrish like this, you can be assured that the Western market probably didn’t figure big in ChaCheer’s marketing:

No folks, those rats in the windows weren’t put there to draw crowds, they’re the real thing. This is authentic; I truly feel like I’m walking the streets of Taichung again. I still don’t know where it comes from, but they even managed to recreate that special stench of human excrement I remember so vividly from Taiwan’s open sewer/rainfall-runoff canals: kinda eggy with hints of fish and barley.

It’s a genuine, fully-immersive experience that’s within walking distance of home. That’s how the city should be billed: “Toronto the Experience”.

Jimmy Hendrix wailing on guitar….and….cut!

You’re welcome, Toronto. Now use this knowledge for good.

The minority Tamil population of Sri Lanka is arguably the oldest of the island’s groups and, therefore, probably has the best claim to independence in the country these days. Unfortunately, they are also the minority in a land that was quickly populated by immigrants from the Indian mainland. Tamil leaders signed away some of the rights of their people back when talks between them and the Sinhalese (Sri Lanka’s current majority) leadership were still peaceful, but it’s hard to justify the treatment they’ve received in what is essentially their own country. The word “racism” is used quite often, if you need an idea of what I’m talking about.

Given these things and the clear danger to Sri Lanka’s civilian  Tamil population in the last remaining stronghold of the rebel Tigers army, I sincerely hope that the situation is resolved immediately, that media is allowed into the region, and help reaches the people in the path of the Sinhalese war machine right away. So far, the Tamil people have nothing but my sympathy and support.

Alas, the vast majority of the people who were demonstrating this morning  in front of the US embassy not only do not get my support, they get the thumb-behind-the-upper-teeth gesture. If there was a counter-demonstration, I’d wave a placard.

Here’s why:

Those flags that they’re flying are Tamil Tiger flags. The chants that they’re chanting are in support of the Tigers. This is not a pro-Tamil/pro-peace rally, this is a gathering of  people supporting a terrorist group. And it’s not just the Canadian government’s bumbling bureaucracy that thinks so; numerous other governments, human rights groups, and NGOs don’t think too highly of the Tigers either. I’m talking things like murder, abduction, extortion, and use of child soldiers. They’re even widely renowned for coming up with the idea for modern suicide bombings.

Still, it’s not a far leap to see why the Tamil people feel that the Tigers are their liberators. Who else stood up for them in their time of need? The situation isn’t too dissimilar to that between Israel and Palestine with the Tigers playing the role of Hamas. Most Tamil civilians are stuck between them and the Sinhalese army in pretty much the same way.

The recent large exodus of civilians (about 150,000), from the region when the Sri Lankan army moved in suggests, quite heavily, that the population was being used as human shields. They weren’t sticking around to support the Tigers, they were being forced to stay where they were. Looking at the Tigers’ track record, this is not a surprise. We even felt their tender caress here in Toronto in their donation campaign.

So why are we being asked to support them? Why are their flags flying all throughout the demonstration?

The Tamils gathered on University Avenue this morning (and in greater numbers in the afternoon) were, literally, marching under a banner that directly espouses and supports violence, even down to the imagery used on the flag — two rifles with bayonets crossed in battle behind a charging tiger. Heavens!

The Tigers still have their claws in but there’s not much left to grip onto. At this time, there are still about 50,000 people inside the little north-eastern bit of Sri Lanka; I recall reading stories about tent cities. It can’t last much longer, and it shouldn’t have lasted this long.

I’m sure the Sri Lankan community here at home wants this thing to end as swiftly and sanely as possible. The Tigers aren’t the route to that solution. Dropping these military goons would make the cause a lot easier to get behind.

And maybe get a nicer flag too; one that doesn’t want to kill everyone in the crowd.

I’m on the Friday night’s third pint so please to apologize for any brevity or witlessness.

Imagine my surprise when I stumble outdoors into the still-full sunlight of seven o’clock and — there’s the streetcar. This would never have happened when I was all hypothermic in the middle of deepest darkest winter.

Me and the guys from work jump on and continue our discussion of chicks we’d do. Yes, ladies, we are admiring you from afar.

While I remark how short our wait at the TTC stop was, the conversation naturally meanders over to public transit (anything’s interesting inebriated, no?), and we get to talking about the purpose of streetcars. Or maybe that was in the bar.

Anyway, I make a sparkling remark about rails being in the earth since Toronto was a wee’un. We got ‘em, makes sense to keep using ‘em. That must have been the deciding opinion in the discussion because everyone suddenly looses interest in the topic.

As my colleagues alight at University, I settle back to dream about the future of transit in Toronto:

Neat.

I hop off the streetcar at Yonge and head straight for the subway where, much to my surprise, the same chums I left earlier are now chatting up some girls heading north on the same line. In the time it took me to make it two blocks on the streetcar, they were able to go south three, do a u-turn back north a further three, all the time making relaxed stops at stations in between while psychically enticing me to hop on the same train.

That pretty much settles the argument of streetcar efficiency in my mind.

As my buzz starts to wear off I start to wonder how a longer streetcar (that’s basically what the new vehicles will be), would have made this trip any shorter. As much as I like the idea and even the look of the new trains, I suspect that until the city either widens the street or starts randomly detonating taxis, they won’t do much to make transit faster.

But I’d still do ‘em.

If they have a toilet, cuz I really have to wee.

Since I took the time to do an in-depth examination of a woman’s butt yesterday, I thought I’d turn the tables and examine a questionable trait among men: the comb-over.

For a while there I thought I might be losing my hair too (it ended up just needing a good wash). I swore to myself that if my hair ever did start to thin I would lop off my golden mane in a heartbeat. Dicking around with hair to make a single strand look like a whole head-full is just bad. Nothing else. Just bad.

With any sort of head movement, that reverse ponytail slips off its intended resting place to produce…well, let’s call it like we see it; it looks dumb. Partial coverage is just as bad as soon as that head is below eye-level, as was aptly demonstrated by one gentleman’s noggin on the subway, the full sphere of the lie is revealed.

Yeah, it is a lie. You’re looking at the guy standing and everything seems okay. Despite the strangely elevated curve of  hair above the scalp, it looks plausible. You’re led to believe that this man still has a head full of hair. But then he drops a pencil.

Situations like that can be controlled; bend from the knees while maintaining eye contact, or get an underling to retrieve the pencil for you. But when you’re on a windy street you either have to wear a snug hat or risk having your hair salute passerbys on your behalf.

Please allow me to illustrate.

No more than five minutes after the first gentleman I mentioned, I spotted this next example. There, I really didn’t know what was going on.

His hair waved upward from the spot on his forehead where a horn would grow if he were a unicorn. It stood up in the breeze much in the same way as a unicorn’s horn might. That tuft of hair waved about in the breeze as though it were celebrating its emancipation from the rest of the hairline, a sole island of erect hair that I just couldn’t picture being molded into anything believable.

You try and try not to laugh but, DAMN IT! Coffee, through nose, onto lap.

Man. I wouldn’t want to be blog fodder for some jerk in the future; get laughs for the urine stain on my pants, sure, but not a drafty hair tower. That’s not cool.

By the time I had thought to look up, it was already too late. My face stopped just shy of the wall of denim that now entirely blocked out everything else.

It took me a moment to realize where I was; having your senses deprived like that tends to disorient you. I pulled my head back a bit to get a better view of the full picture.

The ass that stared back was simply thunderous.

The domes were a foot if they was a mile, I tells ya!

I want to be clear here, I’m not talking a bit of chub in the hub. This thing was the prototype for yo momma so fat jokes. I sit on one end, you sit on the other; plenty of room for Gary in the middle – that kinda big. No one was getting in or out of the subway until the the caboose left the station.

I was now stuck between a rear and a crowd and the only thing to do was wait and ponder the ponderous. As I stood there on the steps, straining to twist my head around to focus on something else, I wondered why I had never noticed this before. I mean, surely I would’ve noticed such a beast before if for no other reason than the traffic jam it would’ve caused.

In fact, most of the people in the crowd I spotted around me were pretty normal-sized. Not too many extremes in either direction.I fit into that  generic mid-ground too, though I used to carry a few more pounds  Recently I had noticed that my clothes were a bit baggier and I was using a new hole on my belt. Not much, but I did notice.

The funny thing is, my diet hasn’t improved much since I started living in the city (it arguably got worse), so how to account for this?

When I lived in the sticks, I was driving just about everywhere. Now I walk.

The nearest store was a ten-minute drive. Now, it’s a ten-minute walk. It used to take me an hour and a half to drive to work. Now it’s a fifteen minute stroll to the streetcar. It used to take me another hour and a half to get back home. Now it’s an hour-long walk. Sometimes. When I feel like it. On the weekends I hop over to Chew Chew’s. Groceries; thirty-minutes south at a relaxed pace. If I get the munchies, you guessed it, doin’ a snack run on foot.

It’s really not much, but I guess it must add up. With a full Brazilian I still wouldn’t be ready for bikini season, but it’s nice to see that urban life has advantages other than convenience. Well, that and a few other things.

Toronto missed the fattest cities list a while back so it can’t be doing that bad. It’s not that people here are any less able to put on weight, it’s just that they’re missing the one ingredient that weightier suburbs have: the car. I know, lots of people here own them, but it’s such a pain in the ass to get the car out of that narrow little lane behind the house when you could just walk to wherever you need.

Plus, it’s a lot more interesting. Half of this blog wouldn’t exist without me tripping over unusual people on the street. But really, they don’t need to be that big, I can see just fine.

Here’s the problem with the CRTC’s Do-Not-Call list: $55 for an area code, $1,125 for the whole show. That’s how much it costs to get a one-month subscription to a list of all the people registered for the program.

Now, can you believe there’s such a thing as a dishonest telemarketer? Maybe not in Canada, heavens no. But maybe elsewhere. I don’t suppose the Nigerian barrister entrusted with distributing the late Mr.Whatever’s millions is too worried about complying with Canadian law. I bet he clicks on all those “I Accept” checkboxes without a care in the world. I bet his tea tastes just fine in the morning.

And why not? All you need is a credit card. The sign-up system for telemarketers doesn’t even verify the email address you enter. By the time someone in the government server room realizes that the information is in the hands of someone who shouldn’t have it, the barrister will be safe and sound on his chair in front of his computer; about two minutes later; same place he was when he started.

Even if we assume that every telemarketer in Canada is honest [insert knowing head-nod here], there are plenty of places for our phone numbers to make unsavoury friends. Basically, I say avoid that no-call list like it’s a pussing, Gonorrhea-infected sore.

I accidentally discovered the solution to telemarketers when I decided to actually do a phone questionnaire one night. I was in a good mood.

The first question was, “Do you or someone you know work for a marketing, media, or telemarketing firm?”  I said that yes, I did, because at the time I was working for CTV.

The phone call was over; I didn’t qualify and thanks for my time.

Huh.

The next time I got a call, I curtly cut into the introduction with, ”I work for your telemarketing firm”, and laughed.

The woman on the other end of the line sounded like she had just farted on her dear mother’s grave. She was so, so, so sorry and…how could this have happened? No, this is not right! So sorry, sir. Your name will be taken of the list right away. This has never happened before; so unusual. So sorry.

Huh.

It’s something to try.

If you don’t want to go the full distance and lie about working at their company, pick one at random in or near the field [of evil!] and make yourself an honorary employee. Don’t get the government to lie for you, they suck at it.

Even on a day when the temperature eventually touches the nicer end of twenty degrees Celsius (sixty-eight  Fahrenheit), it’s still possible to dress inappropriately. For example, dressing in nothing more than green-white-yellow boxers (don’t care what you say, those are not shorts), and miniscule t-shirt turned out to be a poor decision by the young man shivering on the subway.

There was a wee nip in the morning and, without exception, everyone else was dressed so as to retain some body heat. He was, as I could gather from the small logo on the sleeve of his t-shirt, a cadet of some sort. Sure, you gotta be a bit tougher for that kind of thing, but I hope that some wisdom intercedes before he’s given a firearm. He looked absolutely frigid, huddled in a small, pale mass on the subway bench next to a svelte woman twice his size.

He was, basically, really tiny and really cold.

The only other reason I could see for someone being so wholly under-dressed would be if they had just returned from vacation. You’ve seen them: doe-eyed sadness, brown and suddenly stripped of the sun by a bitter northerly wind raking their naked skin as they step through the terminal exit. Genuinely amusing; but I can appreciate the more relaxed attitude. Unless they were returning from one of those Conquest vacations. In that case, the blazing inferno of their concentrated displeasure would probably sear a hole in the side of the plane.

Imagine going south with your family after pinching pennies for a year only to discover that the company you had booked with went tits-up while you were sipping Pina Coladas. That, in and of itself, wouldn’t be the real pisser though. What would light your fire would be the fact that you might have had to pay for the remainder of your vacation, and your trip home, out of pocket. Or else.

So, where did the money go? I mean, last time I booked a vacation I had to pay for the full thing before I was given the flight tickets, and it sure as hell wasn’t cheap. In other words, I had already paid for my vacation. So imagine my surprise if I ended up in Cancun only to find out that, in fact, no I hadn’t. Except I had. Meaning, somebody stole my money. If it was a matter of bad credit between businesses then trying to shake down the customers to try to get it back is a theft on both fronts. Is it any more complicated than that?

The moment my feet hit Canadian soil, I would be exceedingly and most exceptionally pissed. Until then, I’d be high-tailin’ it through the jungle like a greased monkey. I’d probably discover later that I’d hurt myself real bad during my coca-fueled flight, but I would make it to a road. There I would swap English lessons and charm for rides, putting increasingly happy miles between the hotel and me. Thus, riding a crest of elation, I would find myself not north as I had expected, but south — in Brazil. Fiery Brazil.

So…I hope that the tourists who got the royal shaft from Conquest will be doing that when they get home because, frankly, I haven’t heard a single critical note on Conquest pipe put of any of the local media. Where are the kick-ass take-downs? Where are the public photos of Conquest execs hanging their heads in shame for absconding with their customers’ money?

That’s right, I’m asking for poo to be flung.

“Customers who have booked a Conquest vacation will likely get the money back.” – *sob*

“Oasis [resort] staff told the 200-odd guests who booked through Conquest they must pay the $1,078-per-person bill – or police would come to the airport the day of their scheduled departure and force them to clear their tab.” – Ouch.

“Conquest Vacations regrets the inconvenience caused to the passengers due to cessation of its operations” – !

“Canadians clashed with Mexican hotel security guards Thursday when a group of 28 people staying at the Golden Parnassus resort tried to leave the premises after disputing their bill, according to one of the travellers.” – Image, gone.

“At home, Conquest’s sudden demise is raising questions about the travel-industry watchdog’s role in preventing such inconveniences.” – You know, that is inconvenient.

“As a gesture of goodwill, we are offering travellers who are rebooking their vacations with Sunquest over the next 10 days $100 off the lowest current Sunquest rates — with proof of their Conquest Vacations purchase” – Turning frowns upside-down.

“In business since 1972, Conquest served destinations in Canada, the United States, the Caribbean, Mexico and Europe.” – Good to know. Good to know.

“Beaver had recently planned a trip to the Dominican with her boyfriend.” – I’m so so sorry. I just couldn’t stop myself. It was automatic – like clicking in a dream.

The streets are a wonderful place for spotting memorable people.

The guy across from me on the streetcar this morning had the face, bristle, and thick-rimmed glasses of Elvis Costello, the fashion sense of Paul Giamatti, and the hair of Sideshow Bob. I walked through the entrance to my building with the spitting image of a female manservant Hecubus. We both passed the building’s property manager who bears more than passing resemblance to Dr. Evil.

Shouldn’t people like this be on camera? Some people don’t think so.

In an article today, The Star published a publicity piece for a group (led by Ryan Ringer) calling themselves Methinks Presents, which if you ask me, is a total misnomer.

What they intend to do is to swarm the Google Street View car that has recently been making the rounds in Toronto in order to bring attention to the “creepy nature” of Google’s project. As part of the event, they’ll probably be taking pictures in a public location.  In the process, they’ll probably be capturing the numerous random faces of people who just happen to be passing by and won’t have any say in  (or even knowledge of), being photographed. Not to mention the number of random webcams, camera phones,  and “security” and traffic cameras that cling to every available nook and cranny downtown. It’s a safe bet that everything will find its way onto Flickr, YouTube, blogs, etc.

To argue that Google is invading our privacy from the inside of a car, from a public road, means that it shouldn’t be legal for anyone to take photographs from anywhere, of anything, for any reason. Or is it just Google because they’re “evil”? Maybe Methink’s protest is intended to be somehow artistically ironic? Somehow, methinks not.

My shitter being equated to the middle of my street throws the notion of “reasonable expectation of privacy” out the window. Everything would be considered private (if the street would, what wouldn’t be?). Recorded images of any kind would have to be illegal, probably forcing the government to ban the use of cameras. While at it, why not extend the same courtesy to audio recordings? That would really suck for quite a few people.

I suppose one alternative would be to ask permission whenever you took a picture; permission of anyone in the shot (or blur them out); permission from the owners of any properties in the frame (or blur them out); permission from owners whose pets appear in photographs (or blur them out). God help you if an identifiable airplane or bus happens to pass into your shot.

Sounds silly, doesn’t it?

Not only does Methink’s plan sound horribly illegal (“hey, let’s go swarm a car because we don’t like what it’s doing”), but they’re pushing an idea that is contrary to the public good. Mine especially. I bought a brand-spanking new camera not too long ago and I don’t want to be  ambushed by Methink’s grouptards for taking a picture of the Eaton Centre.

I don’t think most people would be bothered  if they saw themselves walking down the street in a Street View scene, unless maybe they were caught doing something questionable. In that case, may I suggest maybe not doing that in public?

Oh, and when the Google car does approach, I think there’s a much better way to deal with one’s public image. Do a quick straighten-up, put on a giant shit-eatin’ grin, and give a crazy big thumbs-up as the car passes. The virtual tourist will find Toronto to have very inetersting people. Isn’t that much more productive?