Use of cars in Toronto doesn’t seem to be slowing down any.

That’s something I understand only too well. Riding on the regional GO train not only wasn’t an economically viable alternative (gas+parking+maintenance was cheaper than taking the train), but it was also an extremely frustrating exercise.

When infrequent trains or equipment would break down, GO would offer no alternatives. Despite the fact that they have a fleet of alternate vehicles (buses), they would simply shut down the system and, literally, leave everyone stranded. If the much bigger and less subsidized TTC were to do this, young Adam Giambrone would be out on his ear.

So, let’s see: GO transit sucks for so many reasons + it’s cheaper to drive than it is to take GO = everyone drives

Toronto city hall has managed to entirely miss this equation, but I suppose you can’t blame them if they’ve never had their testicles dyed blue with the chemical flush that splashes around the shallow toilet bowl of a moving train. And only after you’ve put your hand in a pile of stuff do you discover that there’s no water in the tap, all the paper towels have been used to plug up the toilet (oh, Jesus! The blue water’s almost at the rim!), and the last of the toilet paper is stuck to your shoe with a heel-bound sample of self-same stuff. And now the knock on the door: “Ticket inspector! Need to see your ticket!

Driving is just more pleasant.

So I get why people want to drive, and I happen to think a recent proposal to ban right turns on red lights in the city is boneheaded. Besides, I don’t think the inconsiderate and frankly dangerous jerks who pick off people at intersections would care one way or another.

I witnessed an altercation between a motorist and a jogger where the motorist yelled at a woman for, “running in the street.”  The lady retorted with, “Pedestrians have the right of way, and especially on a green light! I can run back and forth all I like if I want to!”

Right on, lady!

Unfortunately, Mr. and Mrs. Jerk, Jerk junior, and little miss Jerkette were already peeling out onto Lakeshore boulevard in their angry little suburban minivan (they had an Oshawa sticker on the back).

That’s the sad truth of it: the troglodyte behind the wheel barely has the opposable thumbs to operate the signals let alone understand our complex human speech. Bright colours and loud noises startle him (or her), and sends him into a fit (I think it’s called “road rage”), so he’s pretty much constantly screaming at everything around him.

I don’t mind calling such people rude names; people’s lives are at stake, and over what? So the driver can rush to the next stoplight ten meters down the road? Won’t you join me in wishing them all a heartfelt “fuck you”, another for the horse they rode in on, and one for each life they’ve put into danger?

They probably won’t hear a word. By the time your middle fingers come to full mast, they’ll be mowing down another crowd of pedestrians further down the road.

What’s a practical gentleman to do?

I’m usually in favour of something embarrassing or pejorative, but it’s clear that in this situation that won’t work. The metal shell that protects the offending party makes most standard gestures futile.

Cycling enthusiasts long ago came up with the brilliant key-down-the-side of the car, but paint jobs are surprisingly difficult to scratch these days. It’s also a procedure that can be noisy, potentially resulting in fisticuffs.

Why risk that when there are other interesting solutions?

All of these require preparation of some sort but this wouldn’t be the “practical” guide if they weren’t easy to prepare.

The first of these is very cost-effective and easy to carry around on the street: eggs. They can be kept intact or broken. I believe that scrambled (raw) would be most effective, but I don’t think you’ll lose the effectiveness either way.

Eggs on a car may seem like an obvious, even juvenile, act, but eggs are well known to either discolour or even completely strip paint off of cars. They don’t do this immediately and if the driver stops and cleans them right away, no harm will be done.  If the driver keeps on like a maniac without slowing down, the eggs will deliver delayed justice without remorse. Can you think of a more poignant and ironic way to say you care?

For an immediate effect, the ladies have an advantage over the gents. A simple splash of nail polish (this is what all those awful colours are for), will provide you with satisfaction and chuckles for quite some time. Removing this colour after it’s dried will mean potentially removing the surrounding paint as well; they bond very well. The situation can be made infinitely more amusing if one were to splay themselves on the hood of the car, blood-red polish splashed on hood and windshield, and perhaps a blood-curdling scream if one can be mustered.

If you’re already adding paint, why not consider removing it again? Some lacquer thinner (even nail polish remover may work), and that electric blue car suddenly seems less cheery. Alas, dear reader, this technique is not one that I am personally acquainted with so I can’t recommend the most effective product. But if you spend any time walking in the city, I’m certain you’ll have ample opportunity to conduct field research of your own.

In closing, I would like to remind you that this is act is important for everyone’s safety, not just your own. I can guarantee that I will avoid any horribly defaced car I see in the future; teach your kids to do the same.

Think of the children!

Folks, I’m gonna geek out on you today. I’m gonna geek out on you long and hard. Grab onto the headboard ‘cuz here it is:

Got that in the mail yesterday.

Despite the fact that  I know what it is, I still wouldn’t enter that room without some Scrum repellent. It sounds absolutely ghastly, doesn’t it?

Couple that with a master — don’t even separate the m‘s so that you force the speaker to chew that mouldy cud in the middle of the word: ScrummmmmmmmmMaster.

Blech.

Maybe I should explain why I’m holding that letter up.

Used to be that software was a product. You’d be given a specification, the client would agree to it, and you’d build it. Anything outside of spec would be in the next release. “Sorry, Larry, that dildo Easter egg is gonna have to wait ’till version 1.1.”

Now the spec has been replaced with a scope document. It outlines in general, vague terms what the software application should “feel” like and how hard the user’s erection should be when using it. That is, if your company actually cares enough to make one.

Usually it’s just a two line paragraph describing how nice it would be to now have credit card processing as part of the software. Security – you know, like keeping your credit card details safe via encryption and such – didn’t make it to the document. Seems like that would’ve been a good area to explore.

We’re given two weeks and…WE’RE OFF!

This is where experience walks through the door, pats me on the back, and says, “Easy, buddy. Not like this has ever happened before, is it?”

“That’s right”, I answer, “my anus has almost healed too. Thanks for reminding me.”

That’s right. And Agile techniques like Scrum (but not Scrum because that’s nasty), saved my ass from further devastation. Agile sounds fancy but it’s nothing more than a way to plan work so that stuff can easily be moved around, added, or removed. How to plan for a moving target, in other words.

Could be useful in all sorts of industries, I bet.

God, if only it didn’t have such an awful, awful name because I’m sure it could be a saving grace for so many out there who are suffering.

You see, I too have been blessed by the touch of Agile development. My software is built using building blocks not unlike Lego. You can pull pieces off and reattach them elsewhere and have the whole thing pretty much stay intact. All part of the plan.

With standard development, the program is like some horrible, angular mass of flesh, teeth, and hair; a single horrible eyeball jutting out of the slimy folds as a gurgling scream emanates from somewhere inside. And it’s Satanic.

I trust I’ve illustrated that well.

And speaking of ugly, how about that Scrummmmmaster? That pile of terrifying anthropomorphic goo is what I envisage when I hear that word. And you know what? Your own deformed, horrid vision of what a Scrum is, is perfectly valid. I mean it; it’s all things nasty and your nasty is just as valid as mine.

It’s just gross.

I may be a programmer, but there is no way I’m learning how to certifiably master Scrum of any kind. Seriously, the developer community needs a marketing make-over. Maybe some of the stuff developers have been doing could help others, but only if the concept doesn’t make them retch first.

Let’s start with good names for things.

Like byte. Good word.

With half a byte, you only have a nybble. And, when you split a nybble into four, all you really have are just four little bits.

You can use that one around the water cooler next week.

Okay, geek done.

Ummm, I gotta be up early tomorrow so…yeah…I’ll call ya later.

It seems like all conversations today seemed to center around the local flora that, as if by unanimous decision, decided to suddenly explode into bloom en masse.

Wow! I’m sure that when you look at that, you’re thinking the same thing I am: Marijuana.

There seem to be some misconceptions about what is and isn’t legal here in Toronto. There also aren’t the really important facts such as the variety and quality of weed in Toronto, price, and how much you’ll get pumped full of lead for.

To start with, 30 grams is considered a “personal” amount and unlikely to get you more than a fine – assuming police will bother. It’s still not kosher in the eyes of the law, but the current legal framework is proving very unwieldy. There’s always the possibility that some asshole cop decides he wants to shake you down, but for the most part I’ve found police to be absolutely delightful. Also, events like the Global Marijuana March convinces me that the Toronto police get it: pot smokers are, for the most part, not a big problem.

With larger amounts it’s considered trafficking and, I’m afraid, the knickers come off at that point.

So no, technically not legal unless you have a doctor’s note, but that’s a lotta hoop to jump through. Practically, however, pot is not a rare commodity in Toronto.

The selection is wonderful, although there are ebbs and flows as the big suppliers get taken down. This season has seen a mild and aromatic Blueberry, a sensuously rich – dare I say decadent — AK47, some skunky-but-a-goody shiznatch, and something that seemed to be composed entirely of THC crystal.

Now, I don’t do weights. Don’t believe in ‘em. Prefer to eyeball it.

So if you took a regular, mid-sized sandwich baggie (kind that seals), and filled it to a quarter with plump buds, that’d be about $100 worth of prime quality goodness. They key to getting the most out of such a fine product is the grinder.

Where to obtain such a grinder?

This is where Toronto steps out of the Marijuana closet and declares itself to proud and free. Queen street west alone has a number of locations such as The Friendly Stranger,  Jupiter, and the secluded but infinitely more exotic Shanti Baba (my personal fave).

Yonge street is better for the DIY enthusiast. Stores such as the cleverly titled Toronto Hemp Company carry all of the professional equipment you’ll need, while just a bit down the street lies Sacred Seed which carries an excellent, if pricey, selection of pot seed varieties. They carry all sorts of interesting seeds, in fact. And you’ll be pleased to know that seeds are perfectly legal; presumably to use in your salad. Grown plants – not so much.

You can already feel a bit of summer in the air as the leaves ooze out of the branches. It’s unsettling to think that the hedge has grown with such intensity and apparent intent that one day it will reach out, pull down my pants, and give me the wedgie of a lifetime. *shudder*

I like friendly, neighbourly plants.

Oh, and here’s the kind of grinder to invest in: http://www.jupitergrass.ca/shop/Yin%20Yang%20Grinder%20Combo.html

Kief; did you even know that was a word?

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!

As you can see, I finally got around to taking that headshot. That scar on my forehead came from a disagreement I had with a door hinge when I was about six. I bled profusely, my mom freaked, and a smirk was born.

Aside from basking in my benevolent gaze, there was something else that I thought the readers of TCL might get to learn about me.

When I started this blog I was reading a fantastic book named “The Sound on the Page” by Ben Yagoda which, aside from helping me to craft the flowery prose that blesses every electron of this page, introduced me to a variety of writing analysis methods that I found very interesting.

The one that stands out in my mind is the classification of writing as either male or female based on certain words that each gender is (purportedly), prone to using. For example, reflective words such as “like”, “think”, and “feel” are considered predominantly female while action words like “do”, “make”, and “beer” are predominantly male. I could be off on a couple but you get the idea: women are all passively touchy-feely and men are mostly self-assured brutes.

It was therefore inevitable that this theory would find its way online, along with all sorts of other interesting writing analysis tools.

Here’s the main site with all the toys: http://uclassify.com/
For a friendlier page with just the gender analysis tool: http://www.genderanalyzer.com/

I started off with a baseline reading, some random blogs from the directory where the author’s gender and disposition are well known. Here are the picks and their stats:

Subject: Joey deVilla
Known gender: Male
General disposition: Jolly
Site: http://www.joeydevilla.com/
Random article sampling:
http://www.joeydevilla.com/2009/05/05/kiss-off/
http://www.joeydevilla.com/2009/05/05/quiero-que-me-quieras-the-most-awesome-accordion-cover-ever/
http://www.joeydevilla.com/2009/05/05/smooch/

Gender analyzer detected gender: Male (3 out of 3 times)
uClassify mood detected: Happy (3 out of 3 times)

Subject: Teena
Known gender: Female
General disposition: Mirthful
Site: http://www.purple4mee.com/
Random article sampling:
http://www.purple4mee.com/2009/05/ask-tricia-hot-names-can-die-out-in.html
http://www.purple4mee.com/2009/05/heroes-were-ruff-around-edges.html
http://www.purple4mee.com/2009/05/does-this-lipgloss-really-quell-your.html

Gender analyzer detected gender: Female (2.5 out of 3 times – one was pretty ambiguous)
uClassify mood detected: Happy (3 out of 3 times)

So far the analyzers seem to be quite accurate.

Subject: Patrick
Known gender: Male
General disposition: Nonplussed
Site: Apple, intestines, and pinchy bum hole: @&* – What else was I supposed to put here? You know my address!
Random article sampling:
http://www.torontocitylife.com/2009/05/04/the-folly-of-dick/
http://www.torontocitylife.com/2009/05/01/interesting-smells/
http://www.torontocitylife.com/2009/04/30/fluffy-pornographic-thoughts/

Gender analyzer detected gender: Female (2 out of 3 times – one was eunuch)
uClassify mood detected: Mostly angry (2 out of 3 times)

I always knew I was a lesbian trapped in a man’s body; I never knew I was so pissed off.

Well, there you have it. Now you can identify me on Queen Street to the CAMH people and even describe my symptoms.

It was probably that bash on the head.

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.

As they set up to shoot the night scenes for “The Bridge” (a police biopic, I discovered), I took the opportunity of snapping a few photos of the outdoor set. This is the only one that didn’t feature one or another person’s ass:

Aside from the doily on top, I’m sure they chose this house because of its age.  It’s probably the oldest on the block, though there are numerous contenders for that honour in the neighbourhood.

My own apartment building is an old-style house not unlike the one pictured here, only wider (to accommodate ten apartments), and minus the personality.

It’s, let’s say, quaint. It feels warm and comfortable like my previous residence in rural Pickering in the same way that an old sock does. That smell of feet never really airs out and it’s drafty around the toes, but man it’s comfortable.

In the context of my neighbourhood, I think that my place is probably mid-range (price, size, etc.) A tall apartment building directly to the left of the “Bridge” house would be best described by the words “swollen” and “hovel”. If I were an upwardly-mobile young crack whore, I’d be setting my sights here. A little paint, some vacuuming, and that stank of bitter, life-ending self loathing comes right out.

But there are also places with “ROB THIS HOUSE” posted on every inch of the property; multi-million dollar reno jobs spilling over with gaudy fountains, ostentatious statuary, and semi-circular driveways on properties not more than eight meters (twenty-six feet) wide. They’re clearly just for show. Or clown cars.

Stuck between Casa di Rockbottom and the House of Betterthanyou are numerous alleys where the destitute make their home. Here, property boundaries are divided into areas for disposed bottle caps, areas for disposed Listerine bottles to which those caps belonged, and areas for inebriated homeless guys with sparklingly fresh breath who had recently consumed said bottles of Listerine.

I’m telling you, my neighbourhood’s a panoply of colour!

Unfortunately, the drafty window in my bedroom played a part in my decision to start looking for a new place. Well, that and the fact that the German superintendent is leaving soon. Who knew Germans could be so non-genocidal?

Now, I haven’t actually started looking so the ultimate decision about whether or not to move isn’t available. But I thought, if I’m out there looking through other peoples’ places; going through their medicine cabinets; stealing anything I may enjoy on my own shelves; why not take the readers of TCL along?

If you’re thinking of moving to urban Toronto or just enjoy descriptions of interesting smells, perhaps you may get something out of the series. It won’t be regular or anything, but I will try my damnedest to divulge the disturbing/kinky/amusing secrets of the places I visit.

Huge bags. Large purses. Portly rucksacks. Plump portmanteaus.

They’re digging into my ribs, making inappropriate contact with my nether regions, and just generally making their unwieldy presence known.

The male version is usually a backpack filled to capacity with god-only-knows-what. It sticks out behind the wearer like a malignant growth, taking up twice the space that he normally would. It’s kind of like he’s carrying the grossly deformed embodiment of himself on his back. Every turn on a crowded streetcar positions the plump doppelganger in someone else’s way or worse, into their gut.

This can be especially problematic when sharp items stick out of the bag, like the protractor that kept threatening to pierce my stomach on the packed King streetcar.

Pointiness and space consumption: A serious threat.

The female equivalent involves the sidewalk portage of behemoth shoulder bags, often accompanied by small purses whose purpose, presumably, is to make the bearer more fashionable. Small purse: Yes. Huge cousin tagging along for the ride — to use the vernacular of the moment: Fail.

These tend often not to be dangerous so much as painfully annoying. Sitting face to face with a knock-off Ralph Lauren and getting the backhand from it when it’s owner reaches for her mobile (which is, of course, tiny), is not a nice feeling. Look, for a guy to get a mug full of any connotation of the word “bag” is unpleasant. For ladies on the receiving end, well, I’ll leave that one up to you.

So what’s the practical gentleman to do?

In this installment of the Guide, I offer three choices:

1. Tief or spill

This one’s rather simple. Since you’re already pressed into the bag, why not help yourself to some of its contents? If that sounds a bit risqué, perhaps simply leaving the zippers/buttons undone will provide a modicum of enjoyment as the target disembarks at the next stop. The aim here is to produce maximum spillage but only as the streetcar speeds away.

Does this sound a bit harsh? How about the sticky thing in the backpack that’s going to give me an unwelcome nipple piercing at the next set of lights? Tit for tat, say I: Curse at me all you want, you’re on the street!

2. Jerk ‘n laugh

For this one you need to come prepared with a short length of twine or sturdy string. Simply attach the bag (any likely spot will do; have fun with it!), to the nearest pole and prepare to hold your sides in uproarious laughter. I believe that with practice one could learn to judge the center of gravity on a bag well enough to cause consistently hilarious total-body wipeouts.

Be sure to get off at the same intended stop as the target: Curse me all you want, you’re in the streetcar!

3. The Stick of Justice

This requires even more equipment but it’s the thing that’s least likely to get you brutally beat up. Here we simply affix wide adhesive labels to the target’s baggage to warn others of the dangers you’ve experienced. Keep the message simple, to the point, and brief. Old stalwarts like “Wide Load” or “Baby on Board” are always a good first try.

Just ‘till you get the feel of it. Then feel free to improvise; “Ass” with an arrow pointing upward; “Ask me about child molestation” adorned with a stylized question mark; “Yes, it was me who farted”; “Contact torontocitylife.com to rent this space”; the sky’s the limit. Take that hat off and feel the wind in your hair; inspiration happens in the least likely of moments.

In this scenario the chance of an altercation occurs only when the target notices, or is notified of, your maneuver: Curse me all you want, you’re a rapist! (or whatever’s written on the tag)

Outstanding!

Really, the aim is to make our transit less baggy, and more people-y. The bag on the seat really isn’t a solution, either. I don’t see a transfer in that thing’s hand and it’s bigger than the fourteen-year-old sitting behind it. And don’t look me in the eyes and then go right back down to the book like you didn’t see me! God!

I’m sure there are much more creative solutions out there; I’m merely one punctured guy. The important thing is to exact generous retribution for insolence suffered. And also to laugh.

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.