The exact sequence of events yesterday at the Bickford Centre are still a bit hazy.

Some time in the late morning a gunman, or gunmen, stormed the adult ESL school and took the principal hostage. The school went into “lockdown” although none of the articles I read about the incident explained what “lockdown” means. Let’s assume that it involves locking the doors, keeping everyone huddled in the corner, and asking them to pray to whatever heathen gods they pray to.

This next part is what’s not quite clear to me. The Star seems to insinuate that the police showed up only after everything was over and only after calling the school to warn them that a threat was present. Presumably the Emergency Task Force took up positions outside the building, aimed their semi-automatics, and did their tactical entry thing.

Some time elapsed; a pregnant woman was carried out on a stretcher moaning; worried friends, relatives, and neighbours stood behind the police cordon nervously awaiting news. The atmosphere was thick with tension. And thickness (read on).

About an hour later it was all over. No shots had been fired and no one had been hurt. And that’s because it was just a drill.

Well, it was a drill according to the school’s administration; they just didn’t tell anyone about it. They said that they wanted to see how people would respond in a real-world emergency situation and so they didn’t provide anyone with advance notice. The real-world part seems reasonable but some of the other stuff…not so much.

For example, didn’t anyone in the school’s administration think to call the police just to let them know what was going on? Apparently this happens (minus the ETF), twice a year so it’s not like they haven’t done this before. It also happened at a school where, at the very least, I would expect someone to exercise a modicum of critical thinking. I mean, I’m not qualified to be a teacher or anything,  but the equation that led to this incident seems fairly straightforward:

Secret simulated hostage crisis + People with cell phones = High probability of serious police involvement

I’d use the word “embarrassing” but that requires the ability to be cognizant of the embarrassing circumstances; that seems not to be the case here. This is a school being run by people who are in charge of teaching newcomers to the Canada how to communicate (oh dear!). Furthermore, if the Star story is right and the cops called only after it was all over, I think we can agree that the ball was dropped by someone somewhere. Calling the potential victims of a crime after that crime has been perpetrated is pretty ball-less if you ask me. Lotta boobs though; especially the school administration.

Last night at around ten o’clock I switched to CFMT (OMNI) to try to fill in a commercial break on the other channel with the Simpsons. I find the colours pleasantly distracting.

Unfortunately, they were also on an ad break, but one that made me want to stay and watch further.

It was composed of these strange little mini commercials that ran for only about ten seconds and featured relatively obscure products.

The first was for Perspirex, an industrial-strength antiperspirant,  “Available at Shoppers Drug Mart“. It features an attractively nondescript young lady in a green top out on a date with…? She reaches for a flirty lock of her hair through which to run her fingers when she spots a big ole’ pitter soaking her shirt. Smile of delight one instant, dropped jaw of disbelief the next.

Bam! Perspirex gets rid of that wetness and smell. Lady’s happy and she’s now letting the whole room get a good gander at her moisture-free underarms. Available at Shoppers Drug Mart.

Yep. If that sounded a bit awkward, imagine what the commercial was like.

Next one: “As a model, I can’t be seen with embarrassing bumps on my bikini line.” Swimsuit model at a photo shoot, at times strangely aware of the TV audience watching her. Shot of smooth crotch in frilly lingerie.

Bikini Zone Cream: Stop Bikini Area Irritation Fast

…more sundry crotch shots, all with nary an imperfection.

Like I said, these commercials are really short. There isn’t even enough time to write complete sentences to describe them.

Sudden cut to three ladies’ legs on a sidewalk, one wearing galoshes and the two flanking her in strappy heels. Seems the poor girl’s hiding her feet in them big old boots ‘cuz she has an issue with dry, cracked feet. Well, dontcha know that Flexitol Heel Balm will fix that right up!

Now our girl’s just disembarked from a city bus and she’s in heels, smiling and pointing to her attractive new foot, as we are all wont to do.

Well, now wasn’t that something?

They were clearly targeting the ladies. Every commerciallette featured women exclusively. One of the products, the bump creme, seemed particularly unsuitable for most men. I guess, also, the “bikini” part of the product seemed somewhat feminine.

Okay, so they want women to use these products; women who must have fairly extreme sweat problems, itchy crotches, and abrasive, possibly bleeding feet.

The ads are just too similar, short, and tightly cut. What should have been three ads became one perturbing ad targeting a clientele with some disturbing medical conditions. Alone, each symptom is trivial, but together…forget about dinner and lingerie modeling; get your ass to a doctor, pronto!

Or maybe I shouldn’t think that deeply into it.

Wait. Isn’t that what they did at the ad agency that created this TV spot?

Available at Shoppers Drug Mart.

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.

Well, folks, I’m sad to say that Toronto City Life is closing it’s doors for good.

The pressures of the workaday world have gotten to me and I have to shutter up the site.

I’d like to thank all those of you who read TCL regularly. Maybe we’ll do this again sometime.

 
 
 
…is what I would have written if I were getting ready to call it a day.

But I’m not.

In fact, between now and the Queen’s birthday on Monday (the old girl’s turning 190 years old!), I’ll be doing some renovations around here. Toronto City Life will be getting a face lift to make it more blog-like. It’ll remove the need to produce a cover image for every post which was proving to be a real bitch to do every day, and hopefully it’ll make things a little more inviting. No more grossly misleading front-page excerpts either!

This will also give me the opportunity to do some much-needed work on the Blogs section. The content on the blog itself shouldn’t change much but to help with the new format I’m going to try enforcing a six-paragraph-or-less rule. I had set this out for myself a while ago but clearly I’ve failed miserably in this up until now. I’ll keep trying.

In any event, this’ll make my life a little easier and, with any luck, make your experience here a little more cheerful. Suicide should no longer be the first thing on your mind after reading my stuff!

Enjoy Vickie’s b-day with ample fireworks and alcohol and I’ll see you again on Tuesday. Unless you live outside of the commonwealth. Who feels silly for wanting independence now, huh?

Walking. Is there anything better?

I’m fairly certain I’ve mentioned this before but walking around the city is the cat’s puss.

Not only do you not have to hunt down and maim ever-scarcer parking (the fight with the rival in front of the spot is the maim part), but you don’t even have to find a pole to strap your bike to. You wanna go there, you just go!

Also, it allows you to meet up with fellow walking enthusiasts like the pleasant young Brazilian ladies I played tour guide to today. No matter what angle you looked at that walking from, it looked really good. (I must apologize, I’ve been extremely negligent in my duty to carry a camera. I will try to rectify the situation post-haste.)

I probably shouldn’t go any farther with that, I blush easily. But I will say that my zeal for walking has been greatly rejuvenated. The tourists are sometimes just as, if not more, interesting than the natives. And they’re just walking around like it’s nobody’s business. Awesome!

In a way, we kind of owe much of this to map makers. Especially those who produce maps for tourists. Most of the visitors are on foot while the maps are focused on streets. Great if you’re in a car, but not very informational for someone who can travel a much wider area on foot.

A while ago I was toying with the idea of how a walking map might be different from a driving map. What kind of data should be on there that already isn’t and would also be useful to pedestrians?

Well, for one, I thought, why not mark all areas that are accessible to pedestrians? Lots that can be walked through; breaks between buildings that are not roads (pedestrian alleys); paths through buildings that are generally open to the public (why go around when you can go through?); that kind of stuff.

Here’s an example where the green overlay demonstrates all pedestrian accessible areas.

That covers a lot more ground than a car, even though this map is actually missing a lot of detail; areas indoors and under/over the ground that you could also use to get around, for starters.

Meh. It’s Thursday.

I saw an example walking map in Spacing Wire a while ago but grading sidewalks as “pleasant” or “unpleasant” struck me as genuinely useless. I personally found some of their “unpleasant” sections extremely enjoyable. You’d think for a magazine dedicated to thinking about such stuff, they would’ve had a few good ideas.

Now, as regards the tourist population of the city, I’m not suggesting that we would ever export such maps; what I’m thinking is that we use the guides domestically to give the appearance of being extremely knowledgeable about the city. Breaking the ice could be as simple as, “Hey! Can I show you around in that alley back there!”

The more I walk through downtown Toronto, the more I’m convinced that the city is really going downhill.

Let me explain using of an illustration. For this you need to think B-I-G.

First envision a fat person, I mean really big; the kind of extended circumference for which the words “morbidly obese” barely scratch the surface; the kind of rotund that results in, basically, a giant ball with tiny projections that were once the appendages.

This person would have fashioned for them a sturdy steel girdle that would encircle their girth and provide a hard outter support for the gelatinous mass underneath.

Now take this person, somehow, to a place on Yonge street just south of Highway 401; some spot on the road with a good decline. This last part is crucial because it is this hill that would impart the required momentum to our gargantuan friend.

With the girdle supporting the ball’s innards (the person would be on their side), all it should need is a good strong push and…see you in the lake!

The momentum gained on the first hill, coupled with the sheer weight of our subject, should be enough to overcome the minor dimples and valleys along Yonge street and land him or her in the sparkling waters of the lake.

This is due to the simple fact that Toronto literally moves downward as it moves south. As you travel in this direction along most of the major city streets, you can see the foundations of buildings growing taller in order to keep the structures level. And it isn’t slight either; most buildings will have an extra three or four feet added to them at their southern end.

As long as our massive abomination continues to roll in a straight line, there should always be more downward hill further along to speed his or her progress.

I suppose this experiment could also work with a giant steel ball or a heavy car. I suppose.

Whether it’s corpulence or giant balls of steel, in Toronto all will roll down as they roll south. When you go downtown, you will really be going down to town. And if you wish to travel down south, you will also be generally correct (it’s a little south-east, really).

Besides this natural wayfinding feature, the city also has a grid layout that can either be hindrance or a real time saver.

Because of the unsightly bulge in the southern end of the city core, a number of the roads that run close to the waterfront have to either veer north or simply end. King and Queen streets, for example, run roughly parallel until they join together at Roncesvalles in the west. As they separate in the eastbound direction, the move further apart and new streets like Adelaide and Richmond rump up the increasing space between them.

So if you’re travelling west and south through the city, don’t bother with the south part. Most streets go south-west already.

I remember working at an ill-fated coffee shop in the base of the Toronto Reference Library many years ago. A gentleman came in and purchased a small cup of coffee, took a sip, instantly ingratiated himself with me by complaining about how weak Canadian coffee was, and then asked directions to the nearest Canadian Tire.

I told him it was just north of us.

“What is it with this north south crap with you Canadians? You all carry a compass or something?”, he half-joked.

“Never eat shredded wheat, biatch!”, I replied.

Well, biatch wasn’t a word at that time; but I wish I’d said that!

(…for those of you who recognized Kirby from the front cover — when I used front covers, you may enjoy this greeting card: http://gaygamer.net/images/kirby.jpg — DO NOT ask how I ended up on that site.)

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!