Those among us who were hoping for a swift end to the War had our spirits crushed today as Ontario Premier Dalton McGuinty announced that he would not be getting his hands dirty.

During the 2002 conflict, the provincial government legislated and end to the assault and brought in an arbitrator to lay down the conditions of the peace pact. This time around, with cooler temperatures making the trash less goopy, there is no call for immediate action.

Our provincial government has forsaken us.

Chritie Pits is already at the breaking point. Residents are fending off mutant rats (those that survive the poison are necessarily mutants), and hell-spawn mosquitoes (ditto re: the poison, but much more satanic). With an area the size of two football fields and about 3 meters (10 feet) deep, government forces evacuating, and hot weather moving in, that’s sad news for the folks of the Pits (apropos, no?). Like your kitten getting hit by a car during your birthday party kind of sad. A birthday party no one came to kind of sad.

Even though I’m convinced that trash is no longer the evil force driving this conflict, I don’t think anyone would want this near their home:

The Toronto Star’s baffling story on a San Fransisco travel advisory was another shot to Toronto’s groin. And the city itself  is making matters worse by preventing citizens from proactively trying to defend against the onslaught. Permits for these actions are nice but wouldn’t it be tough to get them when the permit office is on strike?

Guerrilla vigilantism is clearly the only answer. I’m ready to do my part.

Respect mah authoritae!

As the sun sets on another miserable day in our blighted metropolis, and I struggle to fit just one more bag into my building’s garbage shed, I see one faint sign that pierces the bleakness. A yellow sign.

Somehow, despite the trash and slowly blooming odour traipsing in from just down the street, the brave men and women of the entertainment industry march on resolutely, producing questionable (but improving!) content. God bless ’em; they’re tryin’

Hope they clean up after themselves when they leave.

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 416/79 phalanx showed its face today. Faces, actually. Two of them were on break while the third did an enviably blasé job:

That’s what we’re up against, and despite appearances, the danger is real.

If side-saddle got up a fast enough speed, she could probably bowl me over. Yes, it’s a she. A she with a thirst for battle.

After taking the photo, I back-stepped down the street gingerly as she didn’t seem appreciative of having a portrait done.

A block away I stopped to listen to an amateur musician. Extremely good, and clearly not part of any union:

I hate making these obvious juxtapositions, but it’s important that everyone understand what the War is really about. It’s becoming clear that trash is simply being wielded as a rancid weapon; the 416/79 unit are pulling the strings.

When you think about it, it makes perfect sense. There hasn’t been a single report of trash attacking anyone. It’s just a pawn in the subversive game that the 416/79 corps is playing.

But on the ground, for the urban Torontonian caught in the middle of this conflict, it doesn’t really matter. All the anguish and bitterness ends up festering on their front lawns either way.

Back on the street and now blocks away, children played in an empty urban wasteland, devoid of vegetation and life, but still somehow brimming with hope:

With the sun, it’s not so wasteland-y.

I find these pictures very comforting; that even in the middle of such a terrible conflict, the city  still manages to get by somehow. The children still manage to be children, buskers still dot the streets, people still live their lives as best they can.

Clearly the 416/79 offensive is losing ground. Their hierarchy of two managers for every striker is probably hurting them. The only way they’d be able to make any headway now would be to take a good long look in the mirror and pick at some of those blemishes. Until they’re able to do that, all we can do is carry defiance in our eyes. (a pint in the hand is good too)

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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.

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!

Happy aborted Canada day, everyone!

I know used this photo already, but it still expresses my feelings in the best possible way: Canada gets a thums-up, I get naked. It’s what this great country’s all aboot, eh?

They marched in solidarity; all marched in peace; many marched with stately grace; some marched with erections.

Pride two-oh-nine. Despite the overcast, it was a blast. People of all sorts showed up, from the surprisingly foreign to the surprisingly naked:

Wow! Bet you didn’t expect that with your Sunday croissant! But it wasn’t all fun and free-swingin’ frolic. General Miller scurried through the crowd seeking out insurgents and taking them out with his bare hands:

The man in the middle of the group conducting himself surreptitiously is Adam Vaughan. He’s not been too popular with the electorate lately; maybe that’s why he’s hanging out with my girl. Too bad being awesome doesn’t rub off as easily as body glitter.

I imagined the boisterous procession would be a wonderful morale booster and I think the crowd supported that idea. Everyone screamed as loudly as they could at every opportunity, trampling trash underfoot to demonstrate their spirit of solidarity and resoluteness. The throng was composed of every age, every colour, every race, every gender, and many in between:

(this is Olive Mee)

As you may recall, I had eagerly anticipated the military portion of the parade. Keeping in mind that the two Canadian tanks we have are off fighting the War, I was pleasantly surprised to see almost the entire remaining fighting force winding its way down Yonge street:

As the parade wound down and out onto Gerrard (yeah, it’s that kind of street), the crowd dispersed in every direction creating that hilarious people-wedged-in-the-doorway moment. On a much bigger scale. It wasn’t funny being part of it though. The trash underfoot was making all sorts of ridiculous noises and everybody wanted to stop in the middle of the sidewalk to make a phone call. The only people to escape the crush were the people hanging off the sides of buildings:

How’s that for not liking trash? They don’t even want to be on the same level as it!

True patriots.

At the end of the day I was filled with renewed pride (so that’s why they call it that!), renewed hope, and renewed vision. And the streets are neater today than they were yesterday! Well done. Well done.

I even got a little naked.

The pictorial War on Trash was eclipsed today by other news: the death of Michael Jackson. Details on his death are still somewhat sketchy but I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that he was smothered by an imploded face.

Unfortunately, the news machine has managed to omit some of the truly important details while focusing on the less relevant.

For example, Michael Levine (Jackson’s former manager), is quoted as saying, “It seemed to me that his internal essence was at war with the norms of the world.” Uh-huh. If by “internal essence” he meant penis, and by “norms of the world” he meant adults. The explanations for Michael’s behaviour were as clunky as that analogy. I grew up with his music just like all the other teary-eyed mourners out there, but he’s still a kiddy diddler. That kinda spoils it for me.

Come to think of it, we’ve really been under-served by our the media during this conflict. The strike survival guides that have been prepared for civilians leave a lot to be desired. Here are some samples citing how to deal with trash:

“Hold onto it”

There are no words to express how disappointed I am that this should be suggestion number one on this list. My imagination actually hurts now.

In the CFRB version (which links to a dry, generic Blogger blog), we find this incriminating gem hidden at the bottom:

“Get out of town”

I believe that’s called DEFECTION DURING WARTIME! … and is considered high treason.

Jerk.

And that was all I could find. Pretty sad, huh?

Here’s some advice from my close and personal friend, Generalissimo Pragmatico:

1. Sauces flush.
2. It’s not your garbage if it’s your neighbour’s.
3. Raccoons’ll eat anything. (but away from your place –- shifty fuckers learn fast)
4. Most perishables can eventually be puréed. See 1.

We won’t win this war if General Miller’s propaganda office isn’t making an effort. It’s a war of image as much as it is a war of trash; filthy, dirty trash [spit disgustedly].

We have to win.

Some time in the red-eye hours of this morning, the commander in chief (left) made the heroic decision to dig in his heels and prepare for a lengthy siege.

The first step was to set up detention centres for asylum seekers; the city has no doubt that we’ll be seeing many defectors from the other side. I was skeptical but hardly had they opened the gates than the first truckload was brought in.

Despite looking exactly like the deathly piles of trash we’ve been witness to, this lively group made a conscious decision to abandon their ranks:

Of course, this skill for mimicry makes them that much more dangerous. I remain skeptical.

General Miller is offering an olive branch; let’s see what happens. But just in case:

The building in the back is the Moss Park Armoury; no coincidence. I don’t mean to say that I’m a fan of herding bags into steel cages with guns pointed at them, but I’m also a pragmatist. I hope for the best but know that this is all likely necessary.

The short distance to my flat is unnerving, but I suppose nowhere in this town is safe. Even the front lawn is  a short distance from becoming a pedestrian parade of obscenities:

That’s what war does to people; make them write using words like “pedestrian” and “obscenities”. And “parade”. What a price.

Actually kinda sounds like Pride. Words too. I expect to see a few military men there. Certainly uniforms of some kind. And it’ll be one of the few areas that’ll be trash-free thanks to a private security firm. Gaydar towers scanning continuously on all frequencies, water bottle and condom distribution duty; some among them will make the ultimate sacrifice and go commando*.

These are the unsung heroes of the war. Maybe I’ll have the honour of telling their tales one day.

* I had a spin-off with G-String Joe and COBRA but it just started getting out of hand. Sorry.

It was jungle warfare today.

My unit scurried through the bush thick with heat and humidity. [funny va-jay-jay-joke here]. The trees were abuzz with tension and frenzy. Birds were playing dangerous walk under if you dare games, clinging to wires and branches, and aiming. Always aiming.

Then, happening so suddenly I didn’t even notice, I was hit from a wire-bound sniper!

It took me a few steps and the sudden feeling of warm, watery goop running down my arm to realize what had happened. Not thinking, not feeling, just acting, I quickly staunched the wound with a napkin. Only when I was satisfied that it had absorbed all that it could did I lift the corners of the makeshift bandage.

Clear. Good news! It was only a flesh wound! No … wait … bird poo is supposed to be opaque. Maybe that bird wasn’t healthy. Hmmm.

No. No time for regret. No time for tears. Have to keep moving on. War doesn’t stop to be grumpy.

The unit resumed it’s march. Just a little farther down the trail, we encountered a booby trap:

Cunning, but easily defused. A sure sign we were getting closer.

The insects shrieked around us as we pushed through the soupy air. The noise of the nearing conflict was beginning to grow. Or maybe it was the nearby cabs. It was just really loud and hot.

On a nearby ridge, we found scattered propaganda and spent artillery shells:

According to our source, we would soon be where we needed to go.

As we descended down the embankment, we found it. Right in the middle of the jungle, a pile unlike any I’d seen yet:

And then, even farther down where the skeletal trees met the dead earth, more carnage:

When they failed me, someone nearby had chiseled out my words for me:

You may now weep.