For the past three weeks my breakfast plans had to be put on hold because I had no tea. This was simply due to the fact that I had neglected to follow my own advice to write my shopping list while sober. Delicious, chocolate-covered snack foods always made it on there somehow, but not tea.

So it was a happy day today when I finally remembered to pick up a box at the local Metro. As I stood in line at the checkout I ran through the great conversation I would have with the cashier: “I see you bagged that tea quite expertly. Would you consider yourself a professional teabagger?”

Two things put a major damper on that:

First, the lady ringing in my box of Wagon Wheels and no-name English Breakfast Blend had a pretty rudimentary grasp of the language and it probably wouldn’t have made the splash I was looking for. It was intended for her benefit, after all; I already know how witty I am.

Second, she preempted me abruptly with, “For five cents each, would you like to buy bag, sir?”

That shrunk my enthusiasm down to embarrassing cold-water scrotum size, and it was all thanks to that new plastic bag bylaw that came into effect today. Retailers must now sell their bags to customers at a minimum of five cents a piece and at this time next year, no retailer will be able to carry bags that are non-biodegradable.

Right.

The Indian woman with the unlikely name of Linda stood there behind the counter blinking at me, waiting for a response. “I guess I’ll take one,” I replied, “but make sure to put the tea in professionally.” — DAMN IT! The whole paying-for-a-bag affair set me off kilter. In my displacement, I couldn’t quite put my finger on why this bothered me.

It’s not the concept of paying for bags that bothers me. The intent is to put less into landfills while still giving the option to people if they want them. I think that this is as far as the planning for this project went at city hall. Had they not been so eager to get out and hoist a few, they may have noticed a few byflaws in their bylaw (damn that’s witty!):

• The money for each bag is collected and kept by the retailer to do with as they please. The bylaw recommends that this surplus money be put into community initiatives and such like. I’m sure you’ve already reached the same conclusion I have: yeah, right.
• The five cent charge is the minimum. Retailers may charge as much as they want. Locals may be apt to punch the greedy store owner in the face, but tourists…
• The Blue Box program recently started accepting plastic bags, presumably for the purposes of recycling. If this is not the case…ummm…why are we recycling again?
• My plastic bags, the same ones I use to take excessive, non-biodegradable, non-recyclable packaging to the garbage bin in, don’t really seem like the worst offenders in the grand scheme of things. Could we charge industry for packing all those unnecessary layers in there? Maybe some compensation to the Ontario Health Plan for the benefit of all those who experience injury and suffering sustained while trying to open some of those horrible plastic packages!

Consider this:

Plastic bags can be very useful and I feel it’s fair to say that no one likes to see them flapping from trees. A nickel is not a terrible price to pay for a bag that you can reuse a few times if you are so inclined. Some of the detractors of the bylaw are trying to convince people that cloth bags are cesspools of bacteria and fungi. True, if you’re keen on keeping your bag in that warm, special, moist place. So hang it up on something for a couple of days. Not really a very good argument.

Besides, plastic bags aren’t the biggest problem. I don’t mind an initiative to reduce them as long as there’s an equal share of the responsibility on the manufacturing end. Our sacks are important and everyone must lend a helping hand to support them.

I know, that was terrible. I’m still traumatized from that cashier lady.

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When I read about the baby potbellied pig that was found on the highway today, it made me want to become a vegetarian.

I mean, what if that were my own potbellied pig out there?

Okay, so pig is the wrong word; let’s say gourmand. — Would I be able to eat him?

Look, have no illusions here; I’m fairly certain that Oliver would be feasting on my bloated corpse the moment I breathed my last. He might do so sadly, with a tear in his eye, but still manage to splatter bits of my entrails all over the kitchen floor. He is, after all, a meat eater. A very messy one. He’s just built that way.

So are we…kind of. We can do quite well on a non-meat diet and people have been proving that for quite some time. Let’s face it: meat eaters, of which I am one, really have no good excuse except maybe to say that it’s tasty.

I can’t rightly say don’t eat meat, just maybe not so much. And even less baby animals; that just doesn’t seem right, does it? While we’re at it, why not choose meat from an animal that has had a decent life? Of course you pay more for that, and that’s because it really should be a premium: Eat it less and savour it more. Veggies are, pound for pound, dirt cheap anyway, even if you buy organic which simply means your food’s been exposed to less crap. Save money, potentially more healthy, and happier creatures. I fail to see the downside.

Those who will tell you free-run, organic whatever tastes better are, for the most part, sadly deluded. The non-organic fruit tastes as good as the organic, the free-run don’t run on the butter better than the no-free-run — now three times fast.

There is this one milk that, to me, seems less gamey and more creamy than other local brands, but aside from that I wouldn’t recommend buying these things for improved flavour. Some, like fruit, will actually go bad quicker than the non-organic versions, but that’s probably because bacteria aren’t repelled by it.

Ultimately, it seems like it’s not a bad thing to be a bit more mindful of where our food comes from, even if just for ourselves. Making food more precious makes it taste better somehow, despite what I’ve just stated in the previous paragraph. It’s the difference between a single orange and a crate-full. You’ll never eat the whole crate before they rot so you can, nay must, be wasteful. You could fling armfulls at people for fun and still have a glass of freshly squeezed. A single orange, though, would be peeled so much more carefully, coquettishly even. And long after the orange was gone, the rending peel would remind your of the golden days of yesteryear, when you still had your orange.

I was going to start this paragraph with “But I digest…“, but after some reflection I came to the conclusion that I can’t stomach that kind of humour. I’ll just end by reminding you of that orange. Remember that orange? How it looked up at you with those sad, teary eyes? Remember?!

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.