Do you remember David Chen, the Chinatown grocer who kept getting ripped off by the same guy so he decided to make a citizen’s arrest? Except that the cops slapped the cuffs on David instead with bullshit charges like forcible confinement and kidnapping.

Nearly a year later, all the charges against David have been dropped.

Justice!

Okay, so I just made up a word for the title. I think, dear reader, you will find it quite apt toward the end of this series as we get down and gritty with Kensington Market, the motherless whore of Babylon. Alright, maybe not that bad, but still pretty gritty, at least for Toronto.

Before I start, and in case you’re wondering, I keep making these in series simply because I end up with a molehilly mountain of photos that I can’t deliver all in one go (a further bunch sits unused in my “keepers” folder). I would not subject you to a twenty megabyte download, dear reader. That’s rude. If you’re not sure what I’m talking about, let me just say I’m concerned about not abusing your hard-earned time. Especially not with lengthy and, ultimately, completely unnecessary spiels about how I wouldn’t abuse your time. I mean, wouldn’t I be wasting your time by alerting you, in a wastefully lengthy manner, to the fact that I’m trying not to waste your time? Aren’t I doing that right now through the use of excessively wordy questions? And any apology I could offer would now be adding insult to injury because I’m just stretching it out even more? And why am I still going on knowing all of this?

Recursive introspection, it’s not just for breakfast anymore. :D

But the trip to the market did have a bit of a serious note to it though. At least for a little while.

Of course, if you see something like this on the street, it is incumbent on you to stop and gape. So I did.

Dead? Mugged? No, just plain old alkeehol. One reclining woman and one reposed man doing his thing on the warm vent grate. The thing being him being passed out.

Momentarily, a somewhat dishevelled gentleman propped himself up against the wall I was against. He pulled his open coat behind his back with his right hand, his left making a boozily odd angle with the wall, and he leaned in slowly saying, “that’s my woman over there.” “Oh, yeah?”, I replied, partially expecting him to commence the pummeling he was holding at the ready back there for the offense I had just committed (I don’t think the details matter that much when you’re drunk).

Instead, he continued, “yeah, I can’t go over there cuz I’m drunk.” Well now there’s a pickle, isn’t it? What does one do with a statement like that? “Oh yeah?”, I replied.

“Yeah, I’m drunk, and that’s my woman. I can’t go over there right now. Oh shit, they’re not taking her?”

I guess he’d been expecting the emergency crew to gurney her up along with the snoozing dude and get her to a warm place, but she made that one classic mistake that all amateur streetfolk do: sitting up making slurringly idle chatter with the paramedics. Not really an emergency at that point, so no hospital bed.

“Well, at least she’s alright”, I tried to console him. “That’s my woman over there”, he insisted. “Right, I got that”, I nodded back.

The conversation didn’t pick up much after that. But, thankfully, the ambulance packed up and left, so the man was free to lumber back across the street to his woman where, I’m sure, he reminded her that she was his woman. Probably also informed her that he was drunk.

That was my cue and I double-timed it toward Chinatown (and Kensington Market).

Chinatown is also gritty. And I don’t mean the trash, that’s kinda normal. You have the trash, the grimy streets, the graffiti; even the most illustrious establishments are tagged up like it’s going outta style.

Oh but please don’t let me mislead you, dear reader, I think gritty’s great. I may not be able to read MC Snuhrb’s tag on yonder wall, but it certainly adds to the ambiance. The ramshackle nature of the whole area makes me think that it could all be torn down in a matter of hours and replaced with something of equally wonky construction. So much stuff … so precariously perched. Exciting!

But that’s Chinatown. Let’s see how all those European immigrants do it, shall we? On to the market!

Continued in next part…

You get so bogged down in stupid stuff sometimes, you forget to take a breath, don’t ya? I know I do. Every day I run through vapid revenge fantasies to help me deal with some of the unfortunate people I have to interact with.

My current fantasy involves coming up with some well-written, polite, but stern reasons why the person pissing me off at the moment should cease and desist their transgressions immediately, transcribing these reasons onto index cards, and pulling them out whenever the opportunity presents itself. One for every topic, arranged alphabetically. This would save me the “I should have said…” regret while allowing me to express myself in the most concise, effective manner possible. Pre-delivery, a single index finger held aloft to indicate a moment’s pause while searching through the cards. After delivery, a nod, a wave, and a now move on — you’ve clearly been bested look.

If this doesn’t come to fruition, a long walk is a good place to clear the head or scheme. I did this on east Gerrard Street yesterday; ended up feeling both more optimistic about my ability to write sharp preemptive repartee on index cards, and surprised that for some reason I’d never been there before. Another Chinatown near my own neighbourhood, and this one comes with a cool movie set:

Not unlike the Chinatown on Spadina, but a little more calm. I still managed to get authentically jostled on the sidewalk though, and there was a good amount of that genuine, frenzied replenishment action by the markets’ stock boys.

… Continue Reading

It was a good, proper fall day today. Rainy, cold, dark and introspective. I’m all for days like this being declared municipal emergencies; everyone stay at home in your nice warm beds until the situation is alleviated! By order of the Mayor’s office!

I will do my duty, sir! Covers at regulation height!

Unfortunately, that never happens. The closest I came was pulling the somewhat ineffectual hood of my anorak over my head as it started to rain. As the excessive flap of the coat blocked most of my vision (either that or walk like a fully extended parachute in the wind), I found myself travelling in a very trance-like state. I could only see maybe one and a half meters in front of me, so I had to assume a certain attitude of resolution. Yes, a knife-wielding maniac may come screaming from an alley, and at that visual distance, I’m fairly certain I’d be dead. I had to resolve to be okay with that.

So I started to think about that vocation thing again. What, you didn’t think I came up with that just to fill up a post, did you? This is real angst! Jeez!

Okay, angsty; something I’d like to get resolved. So I must’ve had that in my sensory deprivation cloak with me on my walk home because suddenly I snapped out of my trance — something told me to look up, and what I saw looked awfully familiar:

Of course! I’ll become a thief!

No, not a common thief; I don’t want to abscond with bananas and gum; an international diamond thief  (I guess I could steal other expensive stuff too). A sophisticated gentleman cat burglar in the style of Cary Grant in “To Catch a Thief”, or  George Clooney in “Ocean’s Eleven”. Well, George Clooney in a few roles, but that one was especially well-suited. Flashy and always well-rested. *two thumbs up*

Oh, you’re probably wondering how I went from a Chinatown supermarket to becoming a thief. Sorry, let me take you back a little earlier in the day.

Over lunch, I read a Star story about a certain Mister David Chen, owner and proprietor of one ultra-ironic Lucky Moose Food Mart (pictured above; “lucky” moose on second floor). He’s being brought up on charges of kidnapping and forcible confinement because he tried to foil another robbery at his store.

The undisputed story goes that the thief was well-known and had stolen stuff from there (and nearby stores), numerous times. So, I guess Mister Chen wasn’t going to stand for it any more and when the thief dropped in to borrow a few other items, Mr. Chen and two buddies chased him down in a van, tossed him in the back, tied him up, and beat the snot out of him. Police found him tied up in some dank corner of Chinatown.

Well, yeah, that kind of is kidnapping. But somewhat understandable, I think. Mister Chen claims (and others corroborate this), that he had requested some sort of assistance from the police, but none was given. The thief was allowed to continue running around stealing stuff even though with his record, he probably shouldn’t have been out of a cell. Or at least some sort of supervised and controlled environment.

Another thing that I think Mister Chen is allowed to have a chafed butt over is the fact that his store is so close to 52 Division. Five minutes by foot, is my estimation.

But I’m not sure if I’d resort to grabbing someone off a street and mashing them up for stealing a few plants. Plus, it’s just so unimaginative. So generally speaking, I can see where the kidnapping and forcible confinement charges come from.

But what hit me over the head in today’s article was the fact the court made a bargain with the thief to testify against the store owner!

Yes – freakin’ – way.

The little scumbag got 30 days instead of 90 (and is apparently right back up to his old tricks), and in a complete reversal of roles, the store owner is now facing some serious charges. He could be put away with the thief’s help!

My idea doesn’t seem so crazy now, does it? As a thief, I could help put away the bad guys I steal from by testifying against them. I’ll hire interns for the beatings. And if I don’t get caught, I get to keep the loot!

Flawless.

I’m even thinking of leaving behind personalized, scented business cards of some sort, bearing a message of regret for their loss, but at least they lost it to the best; or something to that effect.

I’m gonna need a little work. I don’t even know how to properly pick a lock yet! I guess it’s hardcore training from here on in.

But don’t worry, dear reader. I’m keeping TCL in the back pocket. Hey, who knows, maybe it’ll be my daytime cover story. That’d be pretty cool 8-) George Clooney cool.

Oliver had that smug, knowing look on his face this morning. It suggested that maybe I turn on the radio and get an update on the War.

I flipped over to CFRB where it’s guaranteed that even on the slowest of news days, someone will be seething live on the air over something or other. Usually the latest about the War. Today, however, a strange sound emanated from the tinny bedside radio; it sounded like cheers and claps. And it went on for a long time.

Oliver nodded in my direction to indicate that this was it; or that he wanted to be fed. In a few moments, the announcer who had been feeding the delirious applause live through his mike returned. The news did indeed warrant applause.

Before you go on, would you care to pause a moment at the end of this sentence and guess what the celebrations were about?

You are one-hundred and fifty percent correct; a peace treaty is imminent!

I should caution that we shouldn’t be unrealistically optimistic here. The “a” in that sentence means one. The 416/79 , as you may recall, is a joint squadron under two commands claiming to speak and move as one. As a condition to ratification, the 416 generals are hanging their peace treaty on a similar one between the 79 and the city. And they, as yet, have nothing. Also, there are some alarming questions being raised about how high a price has been paid for securing this first agreement.

We can only hope and pray that General Miller didn’t cave under pressure. The picture that the unions paint is one of rogue trash consciously creeping out of detention and attacking tourists. Does that seem realistic?

It would be safe to conclude that Gen. Miller hasn’t set foot outside his compound since the start of the War. That would be the only explanation for his lack of oversight on the ground. The atrocity above is real, but scenes like this are increasingly few and far between. I mean, have you seen Chinatown lately? Granted my memories are bit fuzzy, but I don’t remember this intersection being so trendy:

As skeptical as I am of their dubious implications, I believe that two peace treaties will be signed before the week’s end. I can say that with a fair degree of certainty because:

a) I don’t get paid per prediction.
b) If anyone is reading this blog to forecast the future, they should consider seeing a professional. Any kind is okay; they can refer you.
c) If this blog is so influential, where the hell is my free coffee?! That’s right, no free coffee. Not even a phone call to thank me. Nothing.
d) I have seen the times to come and this blog is a record of my visions.
Just messin’ with ya  ;). See a shrink. Seriously.

*sigh* I just want to get my old Toronto back; the clean home where all cultures feel comfortable and at ease:

Update: It seems the 79 union now has an agreement too. Now my prognostication seems especially pointless.

Every Saturday(ish) as I sit in my favourite breakfast joints gobbling up artery-hardening goodness and flipping through the comics section, I remember how much I’d been wanting to write about the Toronto Star.  I do like to link to this paper so I guess it’s no secret, I think it’s the bee’s knees.

The outstanding feature of this city stalwart is how it seems to maintain that great journalistic root of hit-the-pavement reporting. It has the fewest misleading or indeterminate headlines of any of the major dailies, probably even fewer than this blog. And they’re not afraid to go where the action is.

Today, for example, I discovered an article by a brave front-line journalist named Jack Lakey. In it, he recounts a horrific scene of utter devastation; a forgotten mound of burnt wood, broken cinder blocks, smoked glass, and protruding hunks of dangerous metal; remnants of an iconic bicycle store. And garbage:

It doesn’t get any more raw than that. A salute, Mr. Lakey.

For obvious reasons, I didn’t want to stick around too long. The overcast sky was bringing an early evening and soon the crack-heads would be rising from their graves, hungering for human brains. Brains on crack. *shiver*

By the time I regained my composure, I was already halfway up Spadina in CHINATOWN! I hazily remembered the last time I’d been here; it was only day two of the tactical strike and already the troops were taking a beating. The memories of that day were like dark, hellish, black-and-white photographs. I didn’t even want to imagine how the area had ended up.

And as it ended up, I couldn’t even have imagined:

Clean streets and empty garbage bags, even in Chinatown; who’d ‘ve thunk it?

I’m actually starting to feel a little sorry for the 416/79 command. A sizeable number of their strikers have hoisted the white flag and requested to defect to our side. I believe they have seen the error of their ways and should be afforded clemency and dignity. We must eliminate this savage brutality; that wanton barbarism; those angry little picketers with their bashy smashy little placards. Take it easy, lady!

We can all still emerge from this with a little humanity. A little understanding. A little peace.

Dream of magic and unicorns, sweet prince. Or winning the lottery.

(Click on that link, I promise the story’s interesting – it’s the Star!)

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Is it fair to say that we were all concerned about Chinatown? According to the survey, those who know what a CUPE is show grave concern for the place, while only one person is definitely evil.

Well, is seems that at least one of the fears has been realized. A rather stanky waft of eggy air meanders along Dundas near Spadina among open bins, but it’s possible that the smell may have been there before the War:

You have to hand it to the resourceful shopkeepers around Spadina for ingeniously mixing trash in with the merchandise. Not only do they profit from it, but tourists take the trash with them out of the city:

The tiny little five-dollar treasure soon becomes the little Buddha with the toxic peeling golden skin and (upon closer inspection) horribly disfigured plastic face. He probably shouldn’t appear to be leering lustily at you, of that I’m fairly sure.

Despite this, these things must be selling like hotcakes (with real Canadian Maple syrup), because the stores lining Spadina are packed with this stuff:

There’s actually a store owner in there somewhere. Almost Zen-like. Almost.

The people of Chinatown certainly are resilient, but it remains to be seen how much longer trash will be tolerated in this neighbourhood; how many more good trash bins must be lost before the people declare enough.

I sure hope they aren’t depending on some fiberglass moose for luck:

Moose have never been particularly lucky around piles of trash. Usually ends up with the moose spilling something on his new white shirt. And that’s doubly aggravating because of the amount of time it took him to just get that thing out of the package. Then those awful little pins; for an animal with hooves … and the buttons!

Yeah, no moose. Bad scene.

So trash exports it is for the foreseeable future. The brave people of Chinatown march on.