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.

I took in an evening of Qubit tonight. It’s a new science quiz show that will probably play on the Discovery Channel and maybe other CTV affiliates soon(ish).

The audience line waiting outside the Masonic Temple studio was  a curious mix of downtown sophistiques who had undoubtedly just come in straight from the Annex, a ragtag group of teenagers for whom adolescence seemed to be going especially painfully, and other assorted people who served mostly as organic wallpaper. There was some drama in the air above us as a flock of pigeons circled a hawk; I think he had encroached on their turf and shit was about to go down.

Unfortunately, they huddled us in and up the stairs to the second floor of the studio before I had a chance to see how it ended. I remembered being here before; with my sister and friends; when the walls were sweating and the Beastie Boys were discussing the importance of the individual freedom to celebrate and enjoy oneself. The Temple staff certainly got the stank out good since then.

The Qubit set was pretty neat; at the center was a very large sheet of of plastic or maybe polarized glass leaning diagonally like a big canopy over the main stage. From below, some kind of projector shone a moving image of a glassy 3D cube (the logo), onto the screen creating a pretty realistic hologram effect. I sat right in front of it and that shit was trippy. On camera, you can’t see the screen at all so the effect is even better.

You’d think they’d use this in some cool way, wouldn’t you? You know, have the contestants duke it out virtually with the dreaded cube in the final round or something. Unfortunately, no, the entire show takes place in front of the hologram screen which, though admittedly cool, seems a bit gimmicky.

Nothing about the show was explained to us except that we should clap — at a moderate level — whenever the contestants hit a “Wildside!”. Whatever that was. The whole thing had a slightly first-day-of-grade-1 tinge to it: we practiced clapping and then the audience host gave out pens and book bags to those who participated in his activities. The female half of the nice couple that sat beside me remarked that he was probably a comedian from Yuk Yuk’s. I think she was right. I didn’t realize they let those people out on the streets!

After a lot of movement, light checks, and swooshy sound effects, they finally brought out the three contestants: two men and a woman. The men were comprised of David, a stout gentleman with a British accent and regular make-up reapplications, and John, what Spud from the Trainspotting movie would have looked like had he not done so much smack. The lady’s name utterly escapes me but I remember her being short and unremarkable, so it’s just as well.

This being the first taping, I don’t think it’s surprising that there were a few glitches. The most outstanding one was when the entire hologram shut down and a singular “Unlicensed” floated above the contestants’ heads. I don’t think they downloaded the entire show off BitTorrent though because everything else in the studio seemed to work well.

The game isn’t based on a dazzling or particularly unique concept: contestants choose a prize amount which represents the difficulty of a question in a category. Think Jeopardy but with a cube instead of a board.  There are a couple of twists such as questions that can be made easier during timed rounds in exchange for penalties, but nothing to write home about. No full-contact anything here, that’s for sure.

Bob McDonald, angelically illuminated by a studio light over his seat at the back of the studio, was quizzed by the audience host (not the show’s host), to pass time during breaks. I’m fairly certain that the comedian completely failed to recognize who he was talking to. You can taste the sweet, tangy irony, can’t you? The studio host of a highly science-focused quiz show talking to the science guy of Toronto, maybe even of Canada, and he doesn’t know who he is. “Are you retired, sir?”, was the question he asked Bob.

I sure do hope Qubit does well and that I can sell my first-show ticket on eBay years from now at a considerable markup. The game could do well if they ratcheted up the volume a bit; have the host smoke some crack before the show; intercut the segments with softcore erotica; a pool filled with gelatin for the two-people round. I still think that 3D projector should be interactive somehow. Who’s to say all these concepts couldn’t be combined in some way?

I decided that I was going to take a stroll down to Dundas Square with my wee little PC, the camera, and sit down at one of those tin little tables on one of those tin little chairs. Aluminum, really. But what’s the difference? When I plunk my ass on them, they both crumple in the same way.

I’d hoped to gawk at the tourists at the Hard Rock across the street and provide a second-by-second reportage of greasy food consumption. I was also looking forward to spotting inattentive parents and in their periphery, infant children as they put their tiny, inquisitive hands in pigeon poo. Then to experience the flavour for the first time in their lives. Magical.

Instead, the entire square was being hogged up by this:

That illegible blue banner says “Luminato 2009“.

I wasn’t yet living in Toronto at this time last year and spent most of the festival in rush-hour traffic. But I have to say, now that the sun is shining more brightly, I’m extremely glad I don’t follow the Toronto social scene too much because if I tried to, I’d be DEAD. JUST DEAD.

Luminato itself has quite a few moving parts, and the city is already packed to the rafters with stuff to do. If I’m sitting on a patio somewhere sipping a beer and snapping candid photos, that’s quite enough excitement for me, thank you!

It’s fairly certain that pedestrians will be tripping over Luminato-related events on almost every corner and, if they miss those, something else will be happening two feet further. There may not be that frenzied, singular density that Nuit Blanche has, but I’m expecting to not be able to find any tin seats or tin tables for me to sit at any time soon.

The pavement hurts my bum so.

Have you read about the GO Transit employee who threw scalding hot coffee into the face man who cut in front of her getting on the train? Like most of us, she was the victim of urban insolence and had a desire to exact swift retribution. I myself have been the victim of many a line-cutting, and had so vehemently wished I had been wearing a steel-toed boot so that I may wedge it up the offending ass crack. One, swift, clean motion, and I’d bum rush that show, boyeeeee!

And then, counting to ten, I find my special happy place and ask: What would the practical gentleman do?

This is, after all, undesired behaviour that does deserve to be dealt with. While I feel that mild destruction of property is justified when a life has been threatened, in this case we must temper our response. He / she is simply in the state of being a jerk and thus requiring an equal but opposite rejerktion.

The field of study here is broad and varied, but allow me to at least get the ball rolling:

The Bait and Jerk

Simple to do and requiring nothing more than a swift foot, simply tap on the offending party’s shoulder while moving around and in front of them. The nimbler the dance, the greater the effect — you have time to straighten up and posture like you’ve been there a while. Dare you look back and start a conversation to complain about the lines at GO stations? I’ll leave that one up to you.

The Jerk and Switch

A good talking to can sometimes be persuasive, but so often it descends into all sorts of pejorative expressions. There is a wonderful technique I learned, involving minimal conversation, that can be used to let the offending party know just how much of a dullard they are. Incidentally, you can also use it to get you out of having to pay for dinner.

For this you get an unwilling participant to help you out; security are good because they usually don’t have the power to arrest you afterward. But really, anyone can be co-opted. It’s also useful to use someone a bit further away so that they can’t easily hear you. That’s important.

Timing is also important.

First, signal the co-opted friend (perhaps soon to be enemy). Wave at them, get their attention. Once you have them, hold up your hand  to signal them to wait a moment. This gesture is very authoritative. Now turn around and get the attention of the offending party. Be direct: it’s urgent, but only because someone is desperately trying to get their attention back there. Point the co-opter out in the crowd.

Now utter the magic words, “that woman / man there needs to talk to you. Says they have something of yours?” Include a shrug because you’re not sure if you heard it right. Right?

If the confusion that results lasts for a few moments at the right time of day, you can stack a few people in line between you and the offending party before they manage to return. Now you have witnesses!

The Jerk Chicken

Just scream at the top of your lungs. Belt it out; let all the beauty of the universe out in a long, bellowing roar. Screech like you’re having a steak knife driven dramatically through your heart. Ladies will have an advantage over the gentlemen here, I’m afraid. Sorry fellas, we can’t win ’em all.

Now that everyone is frozen stiff with terror and shock, simply step in front of the offending party whilst assuring everyone that it’s simply a misunderstanding. Non-violent resolution to a conflict, see? All sorted, the gentleman / lady simply made a mistake.

And when security start to question you, simply ask if violence was the right answer in that situation. And should you be wasting security’s time with such matters? I mean, wasn’t that solution the most appropriate for the situation?

Hot coffee is, after all, for enjoying and not wasting on someone’s face.

For the past three weeks my breakfast plans had to be put on hold because I had no tea. This was simply due to the fact that I had neglected to follow my own advice to write my shopping list while sober. Delicious, chocolate-covered snack foods always made it on there somehow, but not tea.

So it was a happy day today when I finally remembered to pick up a box at the local Metro. As I stood in line at the checkout I ran through the great conversation I would have with the cashier: “I see you bagged that tea quite expertly. Would you consider yourself a professional teabagger?”

Two things put a major damper on that:

First, the lady ringing in my box of Wagon Wheels and no-name English Breakfast Blend had a pretty rudimentary grasp of the language and it probably wouldn’t have made the splash I was looking for. It was intended for her benefit, after all; I already know how witty I am.

Second, she preempted me abruptly with, “For five cents each, would you like to buy bag, sir?”

That shrunk my enthusiasm down to embarrassing cold-water scrotum size, and it was all thanks to that new plastic bag bylaw that came into effect today. Retailers must now sell their bags to customers at a minimum of five cents a piece and at this time next year, no retailer will be able to carry bags that are non-biodegradable.

Right.

The Indian woman with the unlikely name of Linda stood there behind the counter blinking at me, waiting for a response. “I guess I’ll take one,” I replied, “but make sure to put the tea in professionally.” — DAMN IT! The whole paying-for-a-bag affair set me off kilter. In my displacement, I couldn’t quite put my finger on why this bothered me.

It’s not the concept of paying for bags that bothers me. The intent is to put less into landfills while still giving the option to people if they want them. I think that this is as far as the planning for this project went at city hall. Had they not been so eager to get out and hoist a few, they may have noticed a few byflaws in their bylaw (damn that’s witty!):

• The money for each bag is collected and kept by the retailer to do with as they please. The bylaw recommends that this surplus money be put into community initiatives and such like. I’m sure you’ve already reached the same conclusion I have: yeah, right.
• The five cent charge is the minimum. Retailers may charge as much as they want. Locals may be apt to punch the greedy store owner in the face, but tourists…
• The Blue Box program recently started accepting plastic bags, presumably for the purposes of recycling. If this is not the case…ummm…why are we recycling again?
• My plastic bags, the same ones I use to take excessive, non-biodegradable, non-recyclable packaging to the garbage bin in, don’t really seem like the worst offenders in the grand scheme of things. Could we charge industry for packing all those unnecessary layers in there? Maybe some compensation to the Ontario Health Plan for the benefit of all those who experience injury and suffering sustained while trying to open some of those horrible plastic packages!

Consider this:

Plastic bags can be very useful and I feel it’s fair to say that no one likes to see them flapping from trees. A nickel is not a terrible price to pay for a bag that you can reuse a few times if you are so inclined. Some of the detractors of the bylaw are trying to convince people that cloth bags are cesspools of bacteria and fungi. True, if you’re keen on keeping your bag in that warm, special, moist place. So hang it up on something for a couple of days. Not really a very good argument.

Besides, plastic bags aren’t the biggest problem. I don’t mind an initiative to reduce them as long as there’s an equal share of the responsibility on the manufacturing end. Our sacks are important and everyone must lend a helping hand to support them.

I know, that was terrible. I’m still traumatized from that cashier lady.

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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!

It’s been a soggy couple of days in the city. When it wasn’t outright raining, a maritime mist kept everything slick, and the fog that followed ensured it stayed that way. I was starting to feel a bit under the clouds as I sat on the Dundas West streetcar, wondering what the heck I was going to write about today. See how much I care about you?

I was flipping around the idea of mentioning some of the outrageously asinine conversations I’ve been overhearing lately on the same route, but that was quickly dismissed when I spotted this thing:

A giant demi-sperm stuck to a wall; brilliant! At first I thought it might be an installation that spilled across the street from the AGO, but a mere two photos later, a goggle-headed face appeared from behind the glare in the window beckoning me in.

This actually happened some time back in March. I kept putting off writing about it until I completely forgot. Until today, that is.

I was schlepping groceries from Chinatown on my way home when I spotted the worm (called Nessie). Steve Mann’s get-up initially startled me, mostly because he looked like an extra from a Mad Max movie. But those dreamy eyes…

Without a second thought, I lept up those steps with bags, camera ‘n all, and parked myself in the middle of the space.

That’s Steve at the back there.

As you can see, the stuff inside is even more interesting than the halved spermatozoa stuck to the outside. The bathtub is actually being fitted to become a musical instrument called a Hydraulophone. Instead of blowing air through the pipes as you would with a standard instrument, this one uses water which vibrates various pipes, each of which is tuned to a produce a different frequency. In this case, the instrumentalist sits inside the tub, which is often done up for public appearances to look like a real bathing scene. Except here the lady sings and plays the tub. I know, I’m blushing too.

It’s an exact science and Professor Mann’s the man in the field. He does the Hydraulophone thing professionally, between stints as a teacher and a cyborg, I guess. I can barely hold down a job and a blog, so I have to respect the guy. He’s also got a permanent Hydraulphone exhibit in front of the Science Centre. I accidentally dropped one of Oliver’s  poops while disposing of them behind the building; it’s probably still there. Just doesn’t really compare somehow.

At least I managed to go the whole post without making any off-colour references about music being made by inserting fingers into wet holes. See how much I care about you?

When I read about the baby potbellied pig that was found on the highway today, it made me want to become a vegetarian.

I mean, what if that were my own potbellied pig out there?

Okay, so pig is the wrong word; let’s say gourmand. — Would I be able to eat him?

Look, have no illusions here; I’m fairly certain that Oliver would be feasting on my bloated corpse the moment I breathed my last. He might do so sadly, with a tear in his eye, but still manage to splatter bits of my entrails all over the kitchen floor. He is, after all, a meat eater. A very messy one. He’s just built that way.

So are we…kind of. We can do quite well on a non-meat diet and people have been proving that for quite some time. Let’s face it: meat eaters, of which I am one, really have no good excuse except maybe to say that it’s tasty.

I can’t rightly say don’t eat meat, just maybe not so much. And even less baby animals; that just doesn’t seem right, does it? While we’re at it, why not choose meat from an animal that has had a decent life? Of course you pay more for that, and that’s because it really should be a premium: Eat it less and savour it more. Veggies are, pound for pound, dirt cheap anyway, even if you buy organic which simply means your food’s been exposed to less crap. Save money, potentially more healthy, and happier creatures. I fail to see the downside.

Those who will tell you free-run, organic whatever tastes better are, for the most part, sadly deluded. The non-organic fruit tastes as good as the organic, the free-run don’t run on the butter better than the no-free-run — now three times fast.

There is this one milk that, to me, seems less gamey and more creamy than other local brands, but aside from that I wouldn’t recommend buying these things for improved flavour. Some, like fruit, will actually go bad quicker than the non-organic versions, but that’s probably because bacteria aren’t repelled by it.

Ultimately, it seems like it’s not a bad thing to be a bit more mindful of where our food comes from, even if just for ourselves. Making food more precious makes it taste better somehow, despite what I’ve just stated in the previous paragraph. It’s the difference between a single orange and a crate-full. You’ll never eat the whole crate before they rot so you can, nay must, be wasteful. You could fling armfulls at people for fun and still have a glass of freshly squeezed. A single orange, though, would be peeled so much more carefully, coquettishly even. And long after the orange was gone, the rending peel would remind your of the golden days of yesteryear, when you still had your orange.

I was going to start this paragraph with “But I digest…“, but after some reflection I came to the conclusion that I can’t stomach that kind of humour. I’ll just end by reminding you of that orange. Remember that orange? How it looked up at you with those sad, teary eyes? Remember?!

Breasts, bikes, and beer; the triumvirate of alliterative seduction is now complete!

At around this time last year, the Rickard’s beer company (one of a number Molson‘s subsidiaries), introduced a white wheat beer that I had absolutely no interest in. It’s not that I don’t enjoy beer but my interest in it wanes, much like my interest in full-time employment. Currently, it’s waxing.

Usually I imbibe my alcoholic beverages with deep political convictions; a pint of Guinness with a sipping shot of B52, for example. Rickard’s White, though, doesn’t really make a statement other than “I taste good” — which it does.

White ale, if you’re not familiar with it, is an unfiltered beer (hence the cloudiness), that has orange peel and coriander added to it to produce a slightly citrusy flavour. Unlike lager, ale is fermented more quickly and at room temperature (lager’s kept cold).

I’ve poured all sorts of fermented crap down my gullet and this drink is truly inoffensive. The slice of orange (sometimes lemon), shown in the photo is how it’s served at various pubs around Toronto. Friday afternoon’s tart and bitter post-work bitch-outs at Shoeless Joe’s just wouldn’t be possible without it.

I’m hardly a scholar of beer and it’s fair to say that the term “enthusiast” wouldn’t apply to me, but I can recommend this one. It’s the gateway drug of the legal alcohol world.

If I could leave just one parting note to our American neighbours, I would point out that Canadian beer tends to contain a man-level of alcohol (5.5%+), so take your time. And for the rest of you who may be wondering why this entry is uncharactersitically short, you will find your answer at the bottom of my pint glass.

Cheers!

I wasn’t intending on writing about bicycles in Toronto quite so soon again, but then the mayor said this:

“NOW THEREFORE, I, Mayor David Miller, on behalf of Toronto City Council, do hereby proclaim May 25 – June 25, 2009 as ‘Bike Month‘ and encourage everyone to get outside and ride!” — here’s the PDF.

Guess that’s Life for ya — in the City of Toronto, no less. Unfortunately Bill Carroll wasn’t on hand this morning to appraise the situation; perhaps he’s at home fearing for his life. Us bikers can be a pretty aggressive bunch, it’s true.

Yes, I biked today. My highly affordable and questionably-constructed Freespirit Aluminum Concept 6061 (that’s the name … can you find the web site? … ‘cuz I can’t), made the ride quite exciting. Aside from the single occasion I had to explain, in passing and quite loudly, why a truck didn’t need to block not only my lane but also the lane of traffic next to me just to make a left turn, it was a pretty smooth ride. The pavement needed some work in sections and I could see someone getting a surprise facial makeover if they weren’t careful, but for the most part the ride was without incident. Cars were unexpectedly cautious; perhaps it was the gentle swaying motion or the empty liquor bottle I was dangling loosely from my left hand, but everyone seemed to give me a pretty wide berth.

The biggest annoyances on the road today were actually the other cyclists. I’ll be honest, I don’t really care how stupid they’re being in front of cars or trucks because, let’s face it, that’s Darwin’s theory being played out in perfect harmony with the universe. It’s nature’s way of preserving a base level of intelligence in the general population, don’t you think? If the need to show their brains pubicly is really that profound, what goddam right do I have to stop them? But when they start pulling that shit in front of other cyclists or pedestrians, it’s a bit different.

It was mostly the inattention that got me: making a turn and simply not looking anywhere but forward; cutting out in front of cars on red lights; pulling out across the middle of the lane or the sidewalk and just sitting there; sometimes it’s just an unnecessary inconvenience and sometimes it’s just plain dangerous. Perhaps the topic of a future Guide to Urban Insolence for drivers?

Speaking of dangerous biking, this month is being kicked off with a close-quarters free-for-all race called the Criterium which, if the photographs speak true, promises some good old-fashioned road-tanned hides. The starting-line scrimmage should be wipeout central — *THE* place to be! I’m so excited that I’ve taken to wearing Depends all the time now.

Unfortunately, not everything will be this festive. The month-long celebration allows you to pack the pounds you’ve lost back on with a variety of pancake breakfasts and a bike tour of Dufflet stores. I think the Dufflet slogan should be: “Does this in any way taste like you want to know how many calories it has?” They have very very tasty cakes. Very tasty. For a reason.

There are a bunch of workshops and a couple of parades where people from all walks of life get to exclaim “I love to ride!”, which if you interpret it sexually as I do most things, is quite funny. I’m not sure what’s going on with the Leslie Street Spit other than some people bitching about the cormorants, but it’s going to be a popular destination with at least two tours of the area and another just across the water on Ward’s island. There are also a variety of group events such as the “Tuesday Ravine Ride”, “Wednesday Night Ride”, “Fast and Furious Friday Night Ride”, and the popular “Weekend rides” which are also open to enjoyably sexual connotations.

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