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.

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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The Criterium had all the bone-crunching, flesh-rending action I was looking for. Too bad none of it happened where I was standing. Oh well, here’s some other stuff instead:

No visible injuries, but we can be certain that at least a good number of testicles were crushed (have you seen those seats?!). Next year perhaps they’ll incorporate fast and hungry animals or perhaps someone riding shotgun, with a shotgun, in the pace Lamborghini. Just for the psychological effect.

Still, it was a pretty good race and I got to smell the ass crack of almost every racer. It was a very real, very intimate experience.

And plenty of alcohol along the route too!

It’s been a soggy couple of days in the city. When it wasn’t outright raining, a maritime mist kept everything slick, and the fog that followed ensured it stayed that way. I was starting to feel a bit under the clouds as I sat on the Dundas West streetcar, wondering what the heck I was going to write about today. See how much I care about you?

I was flipping around the idea of mentioning some of the outrageously asinine conversations I’ve been overhearing lately on the same route, but that was quickly dismissed when I spotted this thing:

A giant demi-sperm stuck to a wall; brilliant! At first I thought it might be an installation that spilled across the street from the AGO, but a mere two photos later, a goggle-headed face appeared from behind the glare in the window beckoning me in.

This actually happened some time back in March. I kept putting off writing about it until I completely forgot. Until today, that is.

I was schlepping groceries from Chinatown on my way home when I spotted the worm (called Nessie). Steve Mann’s get-up initially startled me, mostly because he looked like an extra from a Mad Max movie. But those dreamy eyes…

Without a second thought, I lept up those steps with bags, camera ‘n all, and parked myself in the middle of the space.

That’s Steve at the back there.

As you can see, the stuff inside is even more interesting than the halved spermatozoa stuck to the outside. The bathtub is actually being fitted to become a musical instrument called a Hydraulophone. Instead of blowing air through the pipes as you would with a standard instrument, this one uses water which vibrates various pipes, each of which is tuned to a produce a different frequency. In this case, the instrumentalist sits inside the tub, which is often done up for public appearances to look like a real bathing scene. Except here the lady sings and plays the tub. I know, I’m blushing too.

It’s an exact science and Professor Mann’s the man in the field. He does the Hydraulophone thing professionally, between stints as a teacher and a cyborg, I guess. I can barely hold down a job and a blog, so I have to respect the guy. He’s also got a permanent Hydraulphone exhibit in front of the Science Centre. I accidentally dropped one of Oliver’s  poops while disposing of them behind the building; it’s probably still there. Just doesn’t really compare somehow.

At least I managed to go the whole post without making any off-colour references about music being made by inserting fingers into wet holes. See how much I care about you?

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!

The exact sequence of events yesterday at the Bickford Centre are still a bit hazy.

Some time in the late morning a gunman, or gunmen, stormed the adult ESL school and took the principal hostage. The school went into “lockdown” although none of the articles I read about the incident explained what “lockdown” means. Let’s assume that it involves locking the doors, keeping everyone huddled in the corner, and asking them to pray to whatever heathen gods they pray to.

This next part is what’s not quite clear to me. The Star seems to insinuate that the police showed up only after everything was over and only after calling the school to warn them that a threat was present. Presumably the Emergency Task Force took up positions outside the building, aimed their semi-automatics, and did their tactical entry thing.

Some time elapsed; a pregnant woman was carried out on a stretcher moaning; worried friends, relatives, and neighbours stood behind the police cordon nervously awaiting news. The atmosphere was thick with tension. And thickness (read on).

About an hour later it was all over. No shots had been fired and no one had been hurt. And that’s because it was just a drill.

Well, it was a drill according to the school’s administration; they just didn’t tell anyone about it. They said that they wanted to see how people would respond in a real-world emergency situation and so they didn’t provide anyone with advance notice. The real-world part seems reasonable but some of the other stuff…not so much.

For example, didn’t anyone in the school’s administration think to call the police just to let them know what was going on? Apparently this happens (minus the ETF), twice a year so it’s not like they haven’t done this before. It also happened at a school where, at the very least, I would expect someone to exercise a modicum of critical thinking. I mean, I’m not qualified to be a teacher or anything,  but the equation that led to this incident seems fairly straightforward:

Secret simulated hostage crisis + People with cell phones = High probability of serious police involvement

I’d use the word “embarrassing” but that requires the ability to be cognizant of the embarrassing circumstances; that seems not to be the case here. This is a school being run by people who are in charge of teaching newcomers to the Canada how to communicate (oh dear!). Furthermore, if the Star story is right and the cops called only after it was all over, I think we can agree that the ball was dropped by someone somewhere. Calling the potential victims of a crime after that crime has been perpetrated is pretty ball-less if you ask me. Lotta boobs though; especially the school administration.

Bill Carroll put me on the Wall of Shame this morning.

Actually, it was all Torontonians and not me specifically, but I still felt the cold finger of blame pointed squarely at my face.

If you don’t know, Bill Carroll is the prime time personality for local radio station CFRB (AM 1010). His soothing repartee is my morning wake-up, usually taken with a caffeinated beverage, and followed by 680 News and a sunny toilet bowl.

The “Wall of Shame” segment, usually on just after 8 a.m., is a way for Bill to vent his rage and frustration in a generally non-violent way. Usually it’s the denizens of city hall or some child-abusers (I don’t think Bill sees a difference), who receive the honour of the simulated hammer-and-nail routine, but this morning Bill decided that Toronto — and everyone in it — was worthy of being shamed.

What got Bill so mad? The “minority” bicycling population of  Toronto is trying to impress their anti-car agenda on the city and we’re all just lying back and taking it. This stemmed from news that the group is trying to revive the proposal for a bike-only lane to be added to a section of Bloor Street West. Bill took this to be a personal afront: he drives, these people are obviously anti-car, hence they’re against him.

Usually Bill fake-hammers the virtual nail with measured disdain, but today he was pounding and yelling into the microphone like a man on a mission.

Why aren’t all car drivers furious with this “minority” agenda, he asked? Why is city hall filled with car haters? Why the hell isn’t the population of Toronto up in arms?! WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH ALL YOU PEOPLE?! (or something similar)

Bill phoned the deranged organizer of this three-ring circus to ask him what the big idea was. The guy on the other end replied that the city would be much better off if everyone rode a bike: environment, health, etc. Bill disagreed vociferously. The plan would be unworkable for the “vast majority” of people. It’s unconscionable how the bike-riding “minority” is trying to hijack city hall for it’s own nefarious purposes. How many people would use this extra lane anyway? Numbers! How many people, really?! TELL ME HOW MANY OF YOU SONS OF BITCHES THERE ARE!

The interviewee couldn’t come up with any stats.

How typical! Bill was sure it wasn’t a lot of people, not like drivers; there’s a lot of those, definitely a “vast majority”.

As Bill launched into another tirade, this was pretty much the end of the dialogue. Perhaps the interviewee left the conversation, maybe Bill hung up on him. The voice on the other end of the line simply stopped attempting to speak in between the Carroll deluge.

Now with only himself to convince, Bill kept absentmindedly knocking the imaginary nail while slowly descending into something resembling normalcy, all the while trying to re-frame the topic so that even the thickest of us would understand how awful it really was.

The phone lines were opened up.

The first caller agreed with Bill’s assertions and managed to earn himself a second sentence. “Why not lead a protest group like the Tamils?” he asked. “I can’t get involved,” replied Bill. “If you’re famous and lead a protest, they’re all over you. Somebody else needs to do this. Are you listening, Toronto? I’m so sick and tired of…”, and so on.

And then came the traffic report.

Old Vickie had a blast on her birthday yesterday. Here’s a blow-by-blow:

“Albert! What on earth are you doing?”

“Birthday nosh, what?”

“Oh….Albert! Mmmmm….yes…right there…”

“That attachment…uhn…we had installed…unh…is proving…unh…quite effect…URK!”

“Heavens!”

“…”

“Oh, Albert. This is why you’ll never be king.”

Walking. Is there anything better?

I’m fairly certain I’ve mentioned this before but walking around the city is the cat’s puss.

Not only do you not have to hunt down and maim ever-scarcer parking (the fight with the rival in front of the spot is the maim part), but you don’t even have to find a pole to strap your bike to. You wanna go there, you just go!

Also, it allows you to meet up with fellow walking enthusiasts like the pleasant young Brazilian ladies I played tour guide to today. No matter what angle you looked at that walking from, it looked really good. (I must apologize, I’ve been extremely negligent in my duty to carry a camera. I will try to rectify the situation post-haste.)

I probably shouldn’t go any farther with that, I blush easily. But I will say that my zeal for walking has been greatly rejuvenated. The tourists are sometimes just as, if not more, interesting than the natives. And they’re just walking around like it’s nobody’s business. Awesome!

In a way, we kind of owe much of this to map makers. Especially those who produce maps for tourists. Most of the visitors are on foot while the maps are focused on streets. Great if you’re in a car, but not very informational for someone who can travel a much wider area on foot.

A while ago I was toying with the idea of how a walking map might be different from a driving map. What kind of data should be on there that already isn’t and would also be useful to pedestrians?

Well, for one, I thought, why not mark all areas that are accessible to pedestrians? Lots that can be walked through; breaks between buildings that are not roads (pedestrian alleys); paths through buildings that are generally open to the public (why go around when you can go through?); that kind of stuff.

Here’s an example where the green overlay demonstrates all pedestrian accessible areas.

That covers a lot more ground than a car, even though this map is actually missing a lot of detail; areas indoors and under/over the ground that you could also use to get around, for starters.

Meh. It’s Thursday.

I saw an example walking map in Spacing Wire a while ago but grading sidewalks as “pleasant” or “unpleasant” struck me as genuinely useless. I personally found some of their “unpleasant” sections extremely enjoyable. You’d think for a magazine dedicated to thinking about such stuff, they would’ve had a few good ideas.

Now, as regards the tourist population of the city, I’m not suggesting that we would ever export such maps; what I’m thinking is that we use the guides domestically to give the appearance of being extremely knowledgeable about the city. Breaking the ice could be as simple as, “Hey! Can I show you around in that alley back there!”