Okay?

Just flour. Maybe bleached. Let’s say it is. And slightly lumpy.

If you chucked it in my face, that’d suck. If it got in my eyes, like happened to a high school vice-principal in June of this year, it would really suck. Could it do some longer term damage? I think it’s likely. But would you call it a weapon?

I know that legally, if it’s not your fist it’s a weapon, but it seems like a funny definition. Why not assault with an object? Does an object become a weapon the moment I pick it up to bash someone with? So if I were to fling cats at people, those cats would become weapons? Haha! Oliver would not want to stay in a police evidence baggie.

Laws is weird! :o

Hmm. I guess it kinda makes sense that laws would be a bit loopy. They’re put there by people who’ve listened to the most fucked up criminal trial shit day in day out for decades. Like the Rengel case. You remember:

Oh man — that doesn’t get any easier.

This is the teenager who coerced her boyfriend into killing another girl because she was jealous of her. She was tried and sentenced as an adult and the boyfriend, D.B., is on trial now. In his case, it’s going to be simply a matter of how much time he’ll get. The trial will just be going through the motions. And they’re deliberating whether or not to try him as an adult, meaning they’d release his identity as they did hers. Sure hope they do! I’m curious to see, aren’t you?

The other thing I’d be curious to see would be the plans for the proposed Loblaws supermarket / Ryerson hockey rink. Right. And not just some weird hybrid, but inside the hallowed halls of Maple Leaf Gardens, no less:

You may remember a few years back when Loblaws tried to buy the Gardens to make the building into another supermarket. I’m one of those odd Canadians who don’t follow hockey at all, but even I knew that that wouldn’t fly. After all, the Gardens are an institution. To have a university hockey team in there seems appropriate, but a supermarket… It just doesn’t sound like a way to popularize the idea of re-opening the place.

There’s also the problem of having all that flour (not to mention other baking supplies), near all that violence and with no laws.

Out of TCL’s loyal following of at least three readers (hi mom!), I’ve recently received a comment that made me think that I need to clarify things a little. It has to do with veracity; the veracity of these posts. The truthicity of the blog.

In other words, do I make stuff up to fill in the spaces between the photos?

The answer to that is complex. I like to think of the question as an open-ended one, like religion or Marxism. Or the purpose of the chicken in crossing the boulevard. So the answer is, yes, I make up nonsensical sentences to sandwich between photos. Or are they so sensical that they’re BLoWINg yOuR MiNd?!

Okay.

However, I only make up stuff real-sounding stuff when it’s easy to verify as being made up. Like me being friends with George Clooney. I mean, if anyone took that seriously … I found that jerk passed out on my couch one Saturday morning, the whole place trashed, underwear of every gender on everything, I don’t know how many condoms on the living room table; I told him, if he’s gonna self-destruct, he’s not taking me out with him. He basically spat in my face for an answer. Friends, we are not.

Anyhow, I don’t feel it’s fair to pull the wool over anyone’s eyes when I talk about the day. If it was boring, I’ll just resort to writing a post in which I explain the factuality of the blog or some crap like that.

To confess, I do sometimes embellish. A little. A difficult woman with a large heinie may, for example, be described as a backside as gelatinous and stark as shrieking horror itself. But I don’t think the embellishment’s that extreme. And I think it helps get the point across: that the big-bummed woman was unpleasant.

I guess it’s the high school semester I spent hunched over the junior writer’s / gofer’s desk at the prestigious Scarborough Mirror, but that *umph* for journalistic integrity stuck with me. Journalistic integrity with irritable bowels. Sometimes uncomfortable and cramped, but relax and it’s party time in your pants.

So, since I’m on the ugly truth thing, I guess I should come clean about something. I didn’t care to see Natalie Portman today because something distracted  me. And it had something to WITH THIS!!

… no, wait. WITH THIS!!

To begin with, what’s with the giant blogTO plug? Who nibbled on who’s private parts to get that in there? This is the kind of thing that makes my inner journalist vomit internally.

Can you imagine TCL in print on the street? What a rude way to use to use a dead tree. Seriously.

Then, you’ve got this teeny-tiny format tabloid newsed-paper that looks suspiciously like the National Enquirer. It’s being handed out at strategic locations by … not my words … retro-branded “Newsies”. I shed a tear every evening watching them stand there on the corner pretending like the thirties are relevant to anyone. And for the dumb hats they have to wear.

When you visit the website of the paper, it’s suspiciously void of any information. Owned and operated by “three Torontonians”? That narrows it down to everyone here. Seems shifty. Real shifty.

And with all the free publications around town, t.o.night is stepping into a snug alley. I’m pretty sure that Now Magazine and Eye Weekly aren’t above administering a mugging.

Good luck, t.o.night. Because there’s an ass-kicking scheduled for t.o.morrow.

Okay, so now it’s going to look like I’m obsessed with movie stars or something. But that’s not it at all. I just happen to pass the TIFF bigwig red carpet every day, and the bigwigs just happen to be there. In essence, they’re making themselves available for me. I’ll drop in for half an hour but, I mean, I’ve got other things to do. If they can move it along and show some appreciation for my sacrifice, I’ll humour them. I’m not a jerk.

They’re usually pretty courteous and … oh look! It’s Keanu Reeves!

Thanks, Keanu. You’re looking … well.

But Rebecca Miller, she’s too transfixed by someone’s scruffy locks to say hi to me:

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Roy Thomson Hall. TIFF premiere of something starring someone.

“Who’s here tonight?”

*mumble* ” Sheen.”

“Martin Sheen? Really? I didn’t know he was supposed to come.”

“Yeah.”

“Haha! You can’t handle the truth!”

“What?”

“You know … from that movie?”

“Oh. Yeah.”

I was sceptical.

I’m not very good with names, but I was pretty certain that no *mumble* Sheen was involved with A Few Good Men. The shrug that I got along with “Oh. Yeah”, also made me think that Martin Sheen wouldn’t be showing up. But before I had a chance to ask anyone else, people started to arrive for the premiere.

First to stroll up the path  (guess the locals walk — or take the bus), were a few members of Toronto FC, the city’s red-scarf-donning professional soccer club:

With Jim Brennan (the team captain), and his cadre making an appearance, I figured the movie had something to do with soccer. Or football, as the majority British crowd was calling it. Those were also important clues :)

While I waited for the search of the evening’s screening schedule to load up on my mobile, I exchanged pleasantries with retired general and current mayor, David Miller:

Many people think that because of Miller’s handling of the War on Trash, he might be out of a job come the next municipal election. I was also disappointed that after a forty day strike, he ended up giving the unions everything they asked for.

Oh well.

Let’s ask these people what they think:

Never heard of Miller. Who struck who now?

But, as it turns out, the British couple had seen The Damned United (the movie being premiered), a full six months earlier. The gentleman confirmed that it was indeed a football pic about Brian Clough, the manager of the Leeds United football club. Mr. Clough’s part was was played by Michael Sheen, which explained the earlier confusion about the name. Except that I still had no idea who Michael Sheen was. But then … oh look! It’s Michael Sheen!

Riiiight!

He played the leader of the Lycans in Underworld and, more recently, British TV personality David Frost in Frost/Nixon. No relation to Martin Sheen.

I like to think that if I’m ever being held hostage and threatened with my life unless I can identify who this actor is, I’ll walk away safe and sound. Not sure what circumstances would lead me to be in such a situation, or why my captors would ask such a question, but at least I’ll be prepared.

Of course, I’ll still stand around future red carpet events like an ignorant potato. I could find out who’s coming, but unless my life’s in danger, what’s the point?

I just had to visit the CN Tower eventually, and with the coupon graciously donated by a fellow stargazer at Thursday’s TIFF event, the decision to go tonight came easily.

I hadn’t been there since … jeez, I can’t even remember. I have vivid memories of going on the Tour of the Universe ride with my family so it’s probably close to twenty years now. God I’m getting old.

The tower obviously hasn’t changed much structurally, but they did add some bells and whistles to get people’s attention.

The most visible change is the one on the outside — the light show that the tower puts on at night. Surprisingly, this isn’t achieved through spotlights or involve any gerbils; it’s done using hundreds of small panels (about the width, height, and depth of a pad of legal paper), of ultra-bright LEDs.

The inside isn’t terribly different (from memory), but fun bits like the glass floor have been kept intact:

Three-hundred and fifty meters (eleven-hundred feet) straight down to a squishy, high-velocity death. Depending on wind conditions, you might even plummet through the open dome of the Rogers Centre (the blue building), taking out a couple of Jays players in the process. You’d be doing them a favour — and I don’t even follow baseball!

But if you ask me, the glass floor is a cheap gimmick compared to the view on the observation deck:

This is north-east. City Hall is nestled in behind the Sheraton Centre (building at far left with red neon); Yonge Dundas Square is the bright white piece (slightly up and to the right of the Sheraton Centre); the Royal York on Front Street is in everybody’s face just like the queen likes it (building at right with red neon); and I keep my clothes, food,  Oliver, and a toilet somewhere in behind the BMO building (center, tallest building).

You try and you try but you just can’t seem to escape those with too few brain cells and too many mouths. One mouth, in many cases, is too many, but in my case it was two — a Philippino couple — and they were incorrectly identifying every street they pointed at. The girl went on and on about how Calgary, the city of lights, was better than Toronto, and how neither compared to Paris.  My brain hemorrhaged a little.

Thank the darkened heavens above I had something to distract me:

This is the corner of King and Simcoe. The brightly lit building at the bottom is the north end of Roy Thomson Hall where TIFF opened on Thursday; the green rooftop is the as-yet incomplete Ritz-Carlton; and the building facing us at left is the Elephant & Castle pub for people with fat wallets.

The Philipinno girl mentioned how this section of Bathurst seemed a lot different from this height. No no, retorted the boyfriend, this was was Front; Bathurst was further south. Now I had a full-on bleeder.

The lake side of the tower is not so thrilling at night. The sky’s black, the water’s black, and if it doesn’t have a lamp post sticking out of it, it might as well not exist:

You know, for a city this size it’s shocking how few pervs hang around parks at night. That’s HTO Park and hardly a trench coat in sight. The “urban beach” concept here is a bit weird (especially in winter), but I suppose it beats sunbathing on concrete. And I’m sure all the neighbourhood cats love their giant litter box.

Unfortunately the tinted, smudged glass of the observation deck wasn’t ideal for all viewing. Do people really need to wipe their greasy hands all over the windows? Don’t you have a napkin or your girlfriend’s hair? Yeah, I’m talking to you, mister Bathurst-Street-is-in-the-lake.

I’ll have to visit again when they don’t allow special people into the tower. But even at night and with dopey conversation the place has a cool, aloof,  planning-a-bank-heist feel to it.

Of course, for that I’m going to have to enlist the help of George Clooney. I know he’s down there somewhere!

I remember last year’s TIFF taking up a lot more real estate. Probably because they had decided to sell tickets just off Yonge Dundas Square, and all the latte-bearing movie-goers hogged up the sidewalk for a week. This year, most of the red carpet entrances are happening at Metro Hall / Roy Thomson Hall. Guess I’m just a bumpkin, but I’ve never seen an illumination balloon before:

So now that I’ve been a-gawkin’ for the first time I can say that there’s an awful lot of standing around and scratching your butt. The stars come in piece-meal, irregularly spaced, and they don’t stick around long. Out of of the hour or so that I stood there, maybe five or six TIFF SUVs rolled bearing someone or other. A Toyota Camry also made an appearance; no idea who that was. But still, you had to stay on your toes because … oh look! It’s Jennifer Connelly!

Then, whoosh! Inside. Didn’t even autograph my butt cheeks; isn’t that kinda rude? I used to have a crush on you, Jennifer! *sigh*

And then more waiting. I quickly lost my illusion that the event was being televised live or something because even the hosts did a lot of standing around:

I could see how there can be a lot of alcohol involved in the live broadcast industry. Later, when I saw the edited broadcast at YDS, some of the responses that the interviewers got made me wince. Calling Jennifer “smokin’ hot” in front of her husband seemed inappropriate. And a lot of the questions really missed anything substantial, like what she thought of her dresses in Creation, the Charles Darwin biopic she was cracking the seal on. Paul Bettany was asked about his inspiration, his thoughts on Origin of the Species, etc. The bunch watching the rebroadcast at YDS were less enthusiastic than even Jennifer seemed to be:

So the delayed feed isn’t a crowd pleaser. It is better to be there live. But YDS did fill up once the band came on:

That’s DJ Champion on the decks. You can hear for yourself what it sounded like: http://www.djchampion.net/

I’m a big fan of deep house, and I don’t snub my nose at other styles of house, but this just didn’t catch me. Sounds like it’s trying to be all things to all people, so it comes across as a bit of a dud. To me, anyway.

Aw, who cares. Plenty of options out there; the Dixie Chicks are coming!

Haha! Nah, just kidding. My inner snob is alive and well there. I’m sure there’ll be more stuff; hope doesn’t die with a twang. And the butt cheeks may yet have a signature on them.

I opened up my fridge today and all that came out were tumble weeds and cobwebs. Strange stuff to have in the fridge, huh?

But no food, which means I get to take a trip to St. Lawrence Market! I guess you can tell by the exclamation that I really dig the place.

It’s got that established old market feel to it, much like Kensington. But I think St. Lawrence is a bit older, and by my sharp eye, a bit bigger. Stores are packed closely together in the two-storey hall (plus one more on the north side of the street on weekends), which is great if you’re either lazy or it’s cold outside. Or both, really.

The north farmer’s market is awash in local produce this time of year. There are some genuine salt of the earth people there, trucking their stuff  in for a 5 a.m. opening on Saturday mornings. The people who sell vegetables have rough, calloused hands with dirt under the fingernails. Much of the food was still in the ground the night before. And if you fancy wild deer, maybe some fresh cottontail, they have that too. The guy’ll cleave you off a sample with his impressive hunting knife. No, blade. And he doesn’t seem to have a good grasp on reality, so it’s an experience.

On Sundays they sell antiques.

But I tend to relax into my weekends so I’ve not yet been able to hit the north market’s opening hours. In fact, by the time I get there, the place is usually packing up for the week. A couple of people are usually stuck inside with unsold product. I … cannot recommend purchasing any of it. It’s unsold for a reason. You see, all the sleepless geriatrics have picked through every mound by a quarter past five in the morning. By noon, you’re lucky if you get a bug-eaten twig that the label claims is basil while granny cackles over her gold at home. Bitch.

Luckily, the south market is more accustomed to my ilk:

And it’s all still local produce. Even in winter, greenhouses churn out fresh herbs and other potable plants and deliver here daily. It’s a great place to pick up a big bushel of basil for that comfortably fattening pesto. Without even any bugs on it!

Then there’s this place:

That guy made me buy a ridiculously expensive amount of Parmigiano Reggiano; he just kept slicing off sliver after sliver until I had to submit. YES, GODDAM IT! IT’S DELICIOUS! GIMME A HUNK, YOU BASTARD!

But then you sprinkle ample amounts of that over the fresh basil pesto, peppered with pine nuts, and tossed with minutes-old, hand-made pasta … and bastard is forgiven.

You can even come right at the end of the day and scour the “wundolla! wundolla! wundolla!” tables for bargains. At a buck a pop, it’s almost a crime not to pick up a radish or dozen. However, if you insist on paying full retail, the product is good right up until they start kicking people out:

There are also interesting things in the downstairs I haven’t seen anywhere else. Exotic flours for all those PBS cooking shows that call for them (I can have hobbies!), interesting seeds and grains, and a whole store dedicated just to honey. The Tasmanian Leatherwood is like candy, flowers, sunshine, and children’s laughter all dancing across my tongue. It’s really good.

Plus, there are plenty of places to stuff your gob with prepared food if fondling Rambutans isn’t your scene. And if the husband / wife isn’t spending enough time in the kitchen, there are ways to send subtle hints.

Just avoid the place on Saturdays because a) it’s packed with people and b) I’m one of those people and we don’t need one more body in the crowd to jam their shopping basket into my calf, thanks.

That’s it, it’s officially the last day of summer.

The sun’s hanging lower in the sky, the CNE is shuttering up for another year, and the kids are going back to school tomorrow. That’s the end of the summer, no matter what the calendar says.

As part of that last effort to get kids to forget their miseries, the Ex has the annual closing-weekend air show.

The announcers always go into excruciating technical detail like maybe we’re looking to pick up a couple of the aircraft after the show. Fires a hundred rounds a second, you say? I may be interested, keep talking.

Then, while waiting for the planes to fly into the show, the announcers go into all the crazy certifications and programs you’d have to go through before you’re even allowed to approach one of these things. For who’s benefit is that? The three-year-old standing next to me who should realistically start thinking about university now if he wants to be a pilot?

Then, the Top Gun music kicks in:

The show’s not entirely ironic. There were plenty of jet fighters on hand going down the real danger zone highway:

This happened to be the air show’s 60th anniversary, so the Blue Angels flew up from the US and with a salute:

This is the second time I’ve attended the show and I’ve really enjoyed it both times. The planes fly close enough to knock toupees off and the little prop ones do some really crazy stuff. Like climbing up into the sky, then cutting the engine, starting a crazy wobbly spin around every possible axis of rotation while plummeting back toward the water, and mere moments before impact, straightening out, re-starting the engine, and pulling up. Just insane.

I didn’t get to chill with the horses in the horse pavilion this year. That’s a regret. But the holiday weekend tradition I like to call “the flu” probably needed a bit of sunshine, so it was good to get out. And, all in all, it’s been a pretty happening summer. Maybe too happening; next year I’d like to see some of those things I missed this time around. I figure it’ll probably take four to five years to properly see most of the concurrent festivals, parades, and events that happen around the city every year. And with all the random news, changes, and just interesting stuff around … good frickin’ luck with that timeline!

I’m going to have to learn to pace myself.

The Toronto International Film Festival is stupid. I mean, good for them that they have so many movies but if someone actually wanted to watch them all, it would be physically impossible. Even if you managed to travel backward in time a couple of times. And then, just to really make it impossible, they throw in a bunch of well-known people who fart around town attracting onlookers and photographers.

Anyhow, there it is. Guess I’ll just have to deal with it. Medication, maybe.

I don’t think I could ever tell you more about the festival than the actual website, but one of the things that does seem to be lacking is a useful celebrity list. The Toronto Star has a very complete list but much of the time I couldn’t put name to face.  I’m usually not great with names, more of a faces guy. Do you suffer from the same affliction? You may find this somewhat useful:

http://www.torontocitylife.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/09/TIFF-celeb-list.jpg

That took more than a few pee breaks, but — it’s complete! Or at least as complete as it’ll get. Some of the names were either a bit too obscure or their web presence wasn’t very strong. By that I mean that if I had to click more than once to find out who it was, it just wasn’t worth it. I don’t get paid by the click, you know!

I figured it could be used as an “Oh shit, is that who I think it is?” list.

Yep. Now you know it’s someone famous. You just don’t know who.

And who cares?! Take a picture, take one more … nnnnnn Run! Push everyone aside – grandma can go straight to hell — leap over hoods of cars – here’s my indicator, buddy!! — figure it all out later.

Get p-a-i-d!

Slick.

Well, maybe not so much for me. I know that the moment I’d go to run, I’d slip on something and come straight down on my chin and camera and all. One big flubby smash, digitally stored in a multitude of devices and angles, many of which would be capable of playing it all out in slo-mo. And the blood. Lots of it. People would panic, some guy in front of me would faint. I’d be a mess, bawling from the awfulness of it all. The celebrity now long gone having been whisked into a waiting car even as I was still coming down. Probably the scream. And the photographers — pissed. I’d just cost them the day’s wage.

So, yeah, I hope to be there.

After the last few days, I kinda felt like I needed to escape to a calmer space for a bit. To some place filled with the smell of the nutrient-rich poop of thousands of microscopic organisms healthily digesting vegetal material. Good, healthy soil kinda place. With plants stuck in it. So, since I hadn’t been to Allan Gardens in a while, I thought I’d give it another go.

As usual, the place was transcendent:

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