Better fashionably late than never: Happy belated Independence Day to my American friends!

I’m sorry, it’s just that my head has been elsewhere lately.

While I was waiting for my regular lunchtime installment at It’s a Wrap the other day (King and Atlantic, highly recommended!), the guy grilling the wrap started into some small talk. Naturally we got to talking about the War and I asked him how the strike was affecting him. He lamented that he was paying upwards of two-hundred dollars every week to have his trash hauled away, and then he started in on his idea about the true origins of the strike. I listened thoughtfully; you don’t argue with a man armed with a spatula, cooking oil, and a conspiracy theory. You just don’t.

He believed, quite firmly, that General Miller allowed (perhaps even instigated) the War in order to save the city some money. The battle would also go on for some time, continued spatula guy, until General Miller was satisfied with the cash he raked in.

“Think about it!”, ended spatula guy, pointing his silver flipper at the spot on my forehead where the bullet would enter if I didn’t.

So I did.

But it seems a little far-fetched.

I think that the brass at city hall have their noses too deep in the conflict to see creative ways out. Curmudgeonly prodigy Bill Carroll had the interesting notion of firing ten random people a day until the union caved. The scene painted, in my mind, had a casual Bill strolling out into a crowd of strikers and calmly calling out the names of the people who were getting axed that day. He’d then roll up the list, cool as a cucumber, and strolling a few feet into the crowd — casually like he was window shopping for strip bars, proceed to have the shit kicked out of him by anyone standing nearby. What an ironic daydream.

Bill has since changed his tune. He says it’s for legal reasons but I think he and I shared the same vision. I wonder if the crowd was naked in his too.

There must be better ways. Take this guy, for example:

He’s about to stick something to that pole, I just know it.

I’m pretty sure his company’s not renting pole space from the city and it has to pay for removal. If it were illegal to poster like this (and presumably it is), why not have the removal guys collect fines instead? Every poster carries a phone number, website address, physical address, etc.  Finding the culprits would be supremely easy; you could bring a picnic basket and plan a day trip around it!

There’s a derelict store on Queen Street that demonstrates how rich and profitable this could be. Just look how far those layers go … it’s a gold mine! (clickable too)

With the fine money collected from all of these posters, the city could afford temporary private trash patrol service that could give everyone a reprieve from the War. And why not charge per poster? Stick it to ‘em!

There was one theory floating around (not sure where I heard it), that Toronto was just getting what it deserved. That the trash strike is just karmic retribution for being a bunch of jerks. Shibaten might disagree, and he eats karma for breakfast:

I continue to believe General Miller’s doing the best he can, but he needs to stick his head out the door once in a while. Get some fresh air, new ideas, fresh perspectives. Smoke a bowl. Watch the clouds.

Now, on the verge of day 16, we’re breaking into uncharted territory (the 2002 strike ended after 16 days). This struggle needs needs a refreshing breath mint.

The War rages on, Being Erica still makes no sense, yadda yadda.

I recognize that it’s been pretty monotonous around here lately, hasn’t it? It’s not like the combative strike by the 416/79 has paralyzed the city! Let’s see what else is happening around town.

–

And I’m back! Through the wonder of digital technology, I was able to perform the kind of modern miracle of science grandpa would have voided his bowels over: turn a hyphen into three hours.

I’d intended to head down to Ontario Place for the fireworks but in this day of have-nots, it seemed rather indulgent. That was just fine though because on my way I ran into a few interesting places like the Jazz Festival. Not so much a festival as an extended concert for really relaxed people:

I managed to sneak my slight frame behind one of the tent flaps to watch Brandi Disterheft pouring out a gentle “In my solitude”. Dave Brubeck was around somewhere too, just not where I was. In hindsight, I would have loved to cut a rug with Medeski Martin & Wood, but I won’t let regret rule my life. The if-onlys are the things that kill you: if only I’d heard of the festival sooner; if only I’d read the entertainment section more; if only I’d practiced safe sex and worn those damn shin guards. If only.

I wandered away from the square and bumped into my old buddy Steve Mann, hydraulophone guy and seemingly retired cyborg:

Steve is a hero; the only man who can get women all wet by touching his worm in public. I know it’s blue, but it’s better than the green one (yep, still down there – eww!)

Anyhow,  that subject is probably best left to sit in the sun and gather flies. Just as well because I was getting a bit weary of listening to Steve explain (for the third time) the inner workings of the instrument to two people (Mr. Whitey ensemble at the right + guest) who had asked the same question (verbatim) three times. No! The water doesn’t activate electronic actuators! What is wrong with you two?! He just told you it doesn’t! God!

I could actually taste the bitterness subside as I headed back home. I stopped at a lonely a la cart guy in front of Metro Hall to buy a lukewarm veggie samosa. At two bucks it was a greasy good deal, but not really much personality. That was a bit further uptown in front of Metropolitan where I found a bunch of chess players slapping clocks and talking trash:

One of them had a fist raised to the other, growling for “revenge!”. Perhaps jokingly, but I knew that full-contact Aussie rules chess was imminent. I got out of there fast, past overstuffed garbage bins and noticeable roadside litter, as fast as my little legs could carry me. What a night!

Maybe not in that exact order but … what a night!

After my last assignment, I’m sure you’ll understand why I had to lay low for a while. This is a dangerous town and I had to make sure that when I popped my head back up, I wasn’t going to get it blown off. With my Walther PPK strapped snugly against my ribcage, I straightened my tie and headed out.

This time it would be to the George Street Diner.

It seemed pretty far off the radar. Nice spacious outside views from every booth so as to avoid an unwanted side of sneaky assassin with my breakfast. The booths were those proper squishy diner kind that would require close-quarters combat, but that was okay. More fun. And if the contact who was to meet me there proved to be uncooperative with me, the vintage stools at the counter would provide a good place for a quick and painful Q&A. My Q, his A.

I placed my order for the regular; the measure of a greasy spoon’s worth: the bacon & egg special. It doesn’t matter if it’s not called a “special” in this particular establishment, they should know exactly what you mean. Besides, I had ways of letting the female staff know exactly what I meant that didn’t require any talking. The only other male in the place was the kind who’d be the first to catch a bullet in the forehead in a gun fight. Mental note: human shield.

About $9 later, the chipper young waitress brought me breakfast: two eggs, four strips of well-done bacon, a healthy helping of home fries, and toast. Except…what was this? The toast seemed to be coated entirely in some sort of yellow grease. Maybe it was some strange intensely-coloured butter coating or — they were trying to poison me.

My mind started to race. If I kept my heart rate down, I could probably plug each of these yahoos and manage to make it back to my place for an antidote. Unless there were more of them out of sight.

So it began.

I reached slowly, ever so slowly for the holster while at the same time inching the bread towards my mouth. I unclipped the strap and gently tugged at the gun, releasing the safety. I passed the bread slowly under my nose; no detectable odours other than butter. Great. That left about one-thousand other possible toxins.

My senses went into top mode; I was aware of every creak and squeak around me; could see every motion reflected in the stainless steel backboard that ran the length of the restaurant. I could feel sweat gathering on my brow; my hand tightening on the Walther PPK as the bread passed my lips. This was it…death time.

Oops, my mistake. Just butter.

Good butter too, or a pretty good imitation. The bread was soft and moist and caused me to relax my grip on the gun. It was still a very unnatural colour but…no poison. It looked like the staff were regular civvies so I wouldn’t have to kill them after all. It would have been a shame to destroy all the kitsch on the walls though. Some of it looked genuinely old and all of it belonged in an old-time diner like that.

I dug into the meal; bacon was good and crispy; eggs were well done and adequately greasy; organic coffee was dark and a good complement to the meal. The place was licensed but it didn’t look like they’d be able to serve me a proper Martini.

I finished my coffee slowly, waiting for my contact who was now five minutes late. The bill came promptly and I got up to leave. For a man with as many enemies as me, it was foolish to wait around any longer.

Nice place, I thought as I adjusted my Italian silk tie. Good atmosphere and great decor, but nothing explosive about the breakfast. Just as well, I suppose.

Then I spot him, my contact, running down George Street with my suitcase, being chased by a very tall man with what looks like…metal…for teeth and a very nasty looking gun shooting at — my suitcase.

Damn, that makes me mad.

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!

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.

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.