Alas, dear reader, I also have my slow days.

Aside from the production being shot across the street from me…

…it’s been a drab day. It’s kinda soggy and April-y and it’s still that time of year when it’s better to stay indoors with a couple of kick-ass kung fu flicks and something nice and warm to drink. Or do something else to keep oneself warm. I certainly hope the cast and crew of  “The Bridge” brought their galoshes.

Hmmm. I guess I just broke news on that, didn’t I? It’s Canadian made so … that’s … always … something … isn’t … it? (face grimacing with discomfort). I’m hoping it’ll be good, let’s just leave it at that.

But what I really wanted to do was to go on a little excursion into the local news to do some skimming between the headlines. Of course, a link is presented to each story, but I’m pleased to summarize them all for you as well as to boil them down to their essential component in the true and neighbourly spirit of brevity. Also, so I have something to write.

National Post -> Flu fears halt travel plans for Some Canadian schools

Summary: This one time, at band camp, they cancelled our trip because of an outbreak. So the tuba player…

One word: mild.

Toronto Star -> Can 56 angry Tamils save one girl’s life?

Summary: Seriously? You could only find twenty Tamils? Did no one bother to look outside the window or, like, lift their head up when walking home? You’re here, they’re here. Jeez.

One word: seriously?

Toronto Sun -> This is prepared?

Summary: Durham region: memories of short-longs, “racing” pickups with flames down the sides, and the smell of freshly turned manure in the mornings. Here’s Port Perry. OH FUCK! THEY LET THINGS SLIP! THE VIRUS IS EVERYWHERE! PORT PERRY FUCKED US ALL! — Calm down, Michelle. Take a deep breath. Everythying’s going to be okay.

One word: chill

Globe and Mail -> Not just us: Cockatoos have rhythm too

Summary: Rhythmic spasms in avian species are the primary indicator of Avian Influenza. Look like Mexican parrots too!

One word: fluff

I know, it’s all fluff. But that’s okay, it’s a fluffy kind of day.

Now I’m going to retire to my fluffy pillow to think fluffy thoughts. Perhaps to masturbate. We’ll see where the evening takes us.

I suggest you do the same (take your pick); unless it’s sunny outside where you are, in which case get the hell outta here!

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.

Why is the weather report such a secret?

It really doesn’t matter which station you watch; CTV, City, Global, Omni; there’s an incredible coverup underfoot to hide the truth about the weather from the public. How in the world was this conspiracy allowed to happen?!

Need proof? Just think to the last time you watched the 11 o’clock news…

…but, sadly, the kitten couldn’t be saved.

Tragic story.

It certainly is, Anne. Now we switch over to Michael to tell us what the weather will be like tomorrow. Michael?

Thanks, Gord. I’ll be telling you all about the doozie of a weekend we’ll be having. But first, here’s Kathryn Humphreys with the sports, and I must say, Kathryn, you look like you’ve gained some muscle.

Sure have, Michael. But enough about me. The Leafs. Whole team: dead. Plane crash. More after the messages…

Yadda yadda. Buy stuff, etc. Back to the news…

…police are now looking for the fugitive infant. If you have any tips, call Crime Stoppers. Gord?

Thanks, Dwight. Boy, is it me or are they getting younger and younger?

Hard to understand. Now we go over to Michael with the weather. How’s our weekend shaping up, Michael?

Well, Anne. It was looking a bit dodgy around noon but from the data we’re receiving from our two-hundred-thousand weather stations around the GTA, I would revise my earlier estimate. Things are going to change drastically!

Uh oh! Sounds ominous, Michael. Or is it swinging to extreme good weather?

Well, Anne, now you know I can’t tell you at this moment otherwise I’d have to sneak into your bedroom while you sleep and place a single drop of poison on your lips via a suspended thread, being held by me, a vague shadow somewhere on your ceiling. That is, if I was even there at all. It’s not like I would leave any evidence behind. How about I tell you the full weather picture after the commercial?

Sounds good, Michael. Please join us after the commercial break as we unveil the weather forecast for your weekend.

I’m pretty sure I missed a couple of breaks and segments in there, but you get the idea.

When the weather finally comes, it’s an orgasmic explosion of weather facts. Michael tosses them to the camera benevolently. Ahhh. Now, at long last, we will know whether to hang on for one more weekend or just end it all on Friday.

Wow. Imagine the power in that guy’s groin. He’s probably the belle of the ball everywhere he goes. Women would go to great lengths just to spend one night with him and, perhaps, bring news of the following week’s weather back to their people.

How was this allowed to happen? The weather should be free for everyone! We should all have the right to know whether to wear galoshes or sandals to work tomorrow.

Or tune into the Weather network where they apologize out their ass for not having that shit in front of you, on a silver platter, every ten minutes.

Stone cold pimpin’

The new Netbook I purchased yesterday has been inaugurally dropped, shaken like a wailing toddler by a coworker, and still appears to be running. I can’t adequately express the excited shivers I feel running up my spine as I write this in the thick of it: on the streetcar! Must be why they call it the Eee PC.

Or maybe it’s just the caffeine. There’s not really much going on; streetcar’s a bit off schedule. Hum.

Actually, I got this funny little conpooter because my gargantuan laptop; well, she’s about to die. She can’t boot sometimes and that horrible, horrible clicking sound coming from somewhere in that portly package, that usually signals imminent death. *sob*

I could almost survive without the teevee (which is one of Bertha’s — that’s the computer — functions), but not having TCL, that would have been too much. So I bit the pillow and shelled out a few hundred for this little wonder of a gizmo. If only my fingers weren’t so big-boned. The keyboard’s in the lowest order  of  comfortable typing surfaces, but it should do until I scrape enough money together to purchase a beefier machine. Or at least something that’ll let me play Tomb Raider comfortably.

For $350 bucks I got a 1.9 gigahertz processor, a gigabyte of RAM, a 160 gigabyte hard drive, and the soothing knowledge that when Bertha finally kicks it, I’ll at least have something to fall back on. If those specs don’t mean anything to you, trust me, it’s a good price.

My shopping prowess aside, such good deals can be had commonly in a little section of College Street between Bathurst and Spadina that I’ve taken to calling Computer Alley. It’s not really an alley, but doesn’t it make it sound somehow more intriguing?

On this short strip you will find an unusually high density of computer stores, many of them operating directly beside each other, and many staffed by Indian, Sri Lankan, or Pakistani men, which always implies good bargains (you know it’s true). Sometimes the price cuts are so deep, it’s a hemorrhagic wonderland of bargains. Even if you only have twenty bucks burning a hole in your pocket, you’ll find a nifty gadget to spend it on. For the gentlemen, besides computer hardware there are plenty of wierd and useless digital devices that will help to demonstrate the superior size of your penis to the ladies. Ladies, some of these things are *sooooo* cute. There; all bases covered.

The really great thing about strolling down Computer Alley is the number of licensed establishments interjected between these hardware shops; liquor, money, and digital hardware is a fun afternoon for everyone, especially the kids. You might even spot me there inebriatedly trying to squeeze some bargains out of the hapless shopkeeps. Then again, with no photo of me, that may prove to be somewhat challenging. How about this? I’ll be the guy schlepping the Asus around.

Despite the love, hate, or ambivalence you may feel for the TTC, you have to admit that it manages a pretty big spread over a pretty wide area. Occasionally, the quality of service is going to slip. Sometimes, though, eager young TTC staff take their duties seriously and perform them with a smile and a tip of the hat. It’s a nice change from the cocky smirk and sputum in the eye one usually gets.

For example, my morning commute on the 504 King West was handled by a dapper fellow donning the full Transit Commission regalia. His headwear was not unlike a full police constable hat (did you know they made these?), his uniform was Picardesquely neat and authoritative, and the mirror shades and Gestapo gloves he gesticulated wildly with were the final word on professionalism.

Here’s a wholly inadequate picture that I took:

If you look real close, you can make out the edges of the hat.

Like I said, wholly inadequate. But that doesn’t matter because I didn’t want to single out one specific driver, though you’ll always be in my heart, streetcar number 4187 operator.

What the situation reminded me of were some of the old photos from the Toronto Archives I’d been browsing recently while stealthily dodging work; pseudo-nostalgic images of a gentler time in the TTC’s history when men were men and ulcers were the size of a baby’s head.

Here are some of the tippity-tops from my short list:

On the way home to murder the cheating wife at a Wellesley bus stop, 1957:

Distracted-lesbian guided tour at King subway station, 1957:

Tommy Holmes, TTC conductor and chronic masturbator, 1930s:

Little Oliver Twist with his mum and their parole officer, 1926:

Holy shit it’s sinking!, 1927:

Hahahahahaha, 1928:

On the way to the re-education camp, 1928:

Here I am plunking down $2.75 a trip and the streetcar doesn’t even mow down pedestrians with a cow-catcher anymore. The TTC used to be the better way, now it’s just the adequate way. At least the operator of the  4187 car is making an effort to rekindle the glory days.

Them’s the times, I guess.

Today I’m pleased as punch to present the traveling variety show that sets up camp across the street from my apartment at this time of year. Give ’em a chance; if the cheerful yolp in the first clip doesn’t brighten your day, very little will!
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Are you reading this with coffee? No? Well, do you wanna get one? I can wait…

I think it’s good to immerse yourself in a subject much, as it happens, like good coffee in hot water. It provides a much richer froth of experience and warm sensory delectation. Mmmm, I know you can taste it.

Now let me tell you why Second Cup is UH-SO-MUCH (said with gusto!), better than Starbucks. First, let’s take a detour to the basics: the bean. It starts as the green seed of a red cherry. The cherry part is stripped or sometimes left to dry off, the husk around the two beans in the center (sometimes one) is dried off along with the beans themselves, then they’re bagged, stored, and shipped. Basically: strip, dry, husk, bag, and deliver.

Up until this point, with the exception of coming from different equatorial regions around the world, most beans are pretty much the same. Green, there’s not much flavour. When slow roasted, though, some kinda magical alchemical reaction takes place in the bean and it starts to slowly release all sorts of flavourful oils onto its surface as it browns.

The lightest roast is green-brown. You probably wouldn’t want to drink it; probably something like boiled cabbage and two-day-old underwear. When brown, the next step up, the bean is nicely toasted throughout, but there’s no oil on the surface. The next roast up is medium. Here you can easily see oily spotting on the bean. Finally, with a dark roast, the bean is visibly blackened and very oily all over. If you’ve ever bought a French or Italian roast, that’s the guy.

So, the next time you step into a Starbucks, don’t forget that you’ve just wasted however long it took you to read that. If you skipped it, good for you. It’s pretty much irrelevant because everything at Starbucks is cinder. That’s the American style of producing “strong” coffee; burn the bean to hell and back and throw in milk and sugar like it went out of style two seasons ago.

But I don’t want to be too critical. Good blackened beans are good for a proper frothy espresso or espresso-based drinks.
Which I barely ever have.
End of story.

Second Cup, on the other hand, runs the whole gamut of browns. If you visit their bean counter, they usually have a display mounted front and center where they show off what I described above. There’s usually not much guess work between a light roast and a medium roast; just look at the differences in oil on the surface. I’ve been told their default dark roast is a bit sub-par but, at more than one location, they’ve made special cups from freshly ground bagged beans from the bean counter. Never hurts to ask because that’s how you might hit on that one awesome bean.

Not only that but the majority of their stuff is excellent; fair-trade-before-fair-trade ones like my fave of faves, La Minita Tarrazu, a coffee that has never disappointed. Mellow and just so laid back. That coffee doesn’t have a care in the world.

Summatran/Indonesian blends are also very accessible; their sun curing process creates a coffee that in some seasons tastes like cocoa. When done in a french press, it creates a really rich brew with some of the very fine particles of coffee suspended in the liquid. This thick hot suspension and it’s aroma of nuts and chocolate all get plunged into a sweetened steamed-milk bath. Like I said, accessible.

At Starbucks, the choices are basically: black, pitch, inner-anus, and very very dark. Even with caramel, I don’t like them odds.

Buy proud Canadian coffee instead! Raise that morning cup ‘o northen glory high and pronounce with pride:

Today it rained all day.

May flowers are looking pretty distant right now. My shoes, having been on my feet most of the winter, are now starting to get that glorious and ripe spring aroma that is released through repeated drenching in April’s showers.

On my way home I passed a few hotels with some unprepared tourists milling about in front trying to figure out how to stretch the openings of handbags wide enough to use them as dilapidated hats. Others were pulling their t-shirts over their heads, shoulders shrugged in a in a pitiful huddle to accommodate the relocated collar, which was now an elongated port hole through which they peered helpless, dazed, and destitute.

Poor poor people. Did no one tell them Toronto weather can’t be trusted?

Weather. Yes, fine topic. Isn’t that the topic you choose when you want tell someone that you’re absolutely not interested in any sort of meaningful conversation?

It’s a conversation that too few travel guides about Toronto have, if you ask me. What’s there is usually something like: “…frigid in January…blah blah…sweltering in August…blah blah blah David Miller is so hot…blah blah.” It’s fair to say that this crass generalization encompasses all guides about Toronto so there’s no need to provide links or supporting quotes.

Instead of waiting for them to get their acts together, I’m going to deliver my piece on Toronto weather in a single word: layers

Start with a comfortable cotton undershirt. A button-down shirt with expertly “distressed” cuffs and collar on top of that. Next, a loosened cravate emblazoned with a funky puke green-brown, retro seventies, broken strip pattern; or maybe a happy, bright, fun one with a stylized flower in a gay colour.

Slide into a happening blazer. Water-proof, wind-proof, child-resistant, anti-corrosion, and weather-treated coat to top it off. Now you’re ready.

The thing that the guides rarely mention is that you’re as likely to spend your time indoors as you are outdoors. There are a couple of times in the year where the outdoor temperature and humidity match most indoor ones, but these are as rare as the savage marital rites of the women of Balthazar. Never heard of them? Exactly.

For all other times in the year you’re either going to be:

1. One of those Starbucks-carrying chicks (sorry, but it usually is chicks), twitching spasmodically down Yonge street in a frantic attempt to keep warm with nothing on but a t-shirt, torn jeans, and irresponsibly tiny shoes, as the outdoor temperature starts to fall below -10^oC (14^oF) .
2. A delirious puddle of flesh swimming in the squishy lining of your massive parka that, now that you’re indoors you either have to wear, or portage above your head like a canoe because it’s just too fucking big to carry any other way. Why the hell did you buy that thing?!
3. Just dripping. I mean totally drenched; socks, underwear, inside, outside, every layer; you name it, it’s wet. Summer soakers are even worse. In an air-conditioned mall, hypothermia sets in in minutes. A combination of hyper-erect nipples and annoying squeaky sneakers can result in severe and dangerous facial flushing.
4. Some really funny combination of the above.

Even Toronto’s famous soupy summers require layering, but for a different reason. In this type of weather an undershirt does most of the absorption and evaporation of sweat. Unless your pits are soaked, most of it won’t transfer to the light shirt you wear on top. An extra sweater comes in super handy when you sit down at the movies where the A/C always seems to be cranked to 11. Finally, a light jacket should make you more comfortable in the wind by the water, and protects your clothing when tucking into a leisurely nautical meal where “instant seagull delight” is on the menu.

Funky fresh dressed to impress, ready to party.

Nerdiness — with an “i” in the middle — is, in fact, not the right word. It implies a superficial or physical quality: taped glasses; gangly appendages; possible tendencies to be aroused by Klingon women.

Nerdness implies a more profound enlistment of less tangible, but more powerful, traits: the ability to hypnotically cause others to lose all sense of self and surroundings through a dark power called “work talk”;  the skill to instantly and deeply connect with anyone who thinks that the word “nybble” is funnier after learning what it means; the cojones to wax non-commital* in such a way that a deeply engaging chat can continue for upwards of thirty minutes.

The men and women that together comprise this second group are the people who could turn into super villains so easy, it’s best that we do everything we can to push them toward the good side. I am, of course, talking about Saturday morning library patrons, of which I am occasionally one.

So I speak from experience. I too have bathed in my own inner turmoil, distanced by those I had tried to help and left to question my place, if any, in society.

After travelling to Mars and building a giant, crystalline, clockwork palace of thought, I set upon contemplating whether or not humanity deserved my help; would they not simply work towards destroying themselves in increasingly ingenious new ways? Had I not been reminded by my foxy protege of  various great works of human artistic aspiration, I may have simply left this galaxy altogether.

The others, battling Eric Van Lustbader in the stacks and some horrid deformity of Dewey’s in the Hindi magazine section, too would lose faith unless…unless that which gave them to know in their hearts that humanity was still worth fighting for, was re-affirmed. That thing most upheld and uplifting, the beating heart of humanity’s purest hopes: beauty, love, truth, wonder — and art.

Art, above all others. The purest pursuit.

This, surely, must be the reason why the library had decided to widen the MAP program to all regular patrons. A blast of culture and learning to sweep over our fair city and its citizens, heroes, and villains alike. A vertiable explosion of truth and purity to expel the sicknesses of corruption and crime from our streets.

And by virtue of a clumsy four-paragraph segue, I am now free to mention completely out of context that the library carries comics and graphic novels as well. You know that MAUS one? Yeah, even that one; assuming whoever’s had it out for six months returns it.

If you’re cheap and sans BitTorrent, DVDs and CDs are available too, but the selection should not be described as dazzling. Keep hopes and expectations at low to low-medium for best results.  Besides, library loaners are a poor substitute for stuff you would otherwise have to pay for. Only trick is, ticket numbers are limited weekly.

Get yours tomorrow (or later)!

* The ability to carry on a conversation without actually saying anything about anything or, to put it another way, avoiding commitment to any possible viewpoint whatsoever (i.e. “Certainly a lot of weather we’re experiencing today” or “What a season the team’s having, huh?”)