Here’s the online thesaurus:

baking, blazing, blistering, boiling, broiling,burning, calescent, close, decalescent, febrile, fevered, feverish, feverous, fiery, flaming, heated, humid, igneous, incandescent, like an oven, on fire, ovenlike, parching, piping, recalescent, red, roasting, scalding, scorching, etc.

I believe they’re all applicable. Except maybe calescent (and its cousins), because it’s supposed to mean “growing warm” and it’s way too obscure besides.

Oh, sorry, I’m talking about this past weekend. And today. Probably tomorrow too. And for a few more days beyond that.

It’s hat. That’s hot said with a mouth that’s too hot and tired to form a proper “o” sound. If you start off hissing like a cat, you’ve got it bang on.

The right uppercut is the heat, the repeated left jab is the humidity. I was down for the count since Saturday morning, hardly able to peel myself off the sofa where my new window fan is paying dividends! I actually fantasized about having this fan last summer, kind of like a heat-induced delirium. So I got one this year. But she struggles. I have a neat little neo-vintage desk fan too, but that one’s been dropped a few times and now makes all sorts of interesting, potentially explosive noises. I keep it on at night. That way, when it happens, I die in my sleep. Groovy.

So, what would cause me to grab the fifth shower of the day and begin contemplating venturing out? Have a listen for yourself:

(If you don’t see anything, you might need Flash installed [my bread and butter; 100% legit, I promise], so click here to install it. Then just reload. )

If you invested in a good set of computer speakers or, failing that, headphones, you should be good. And turn it down a couple of notches;  it’s supposed to be ambient :)

What you’re hearing …

What? You didn’t start it playing? Just hit the little triangle! Jeez, what’re you saving your bytes for a rainy day or something?

…good. Thank you.

What you’re hearing is an unpublicized event that took place in Allan Gardens park, obviously not too far from my place. Judging by the signage, the show was put on by the Carpenters’ Union. They had a couple of politicians show up, and I have no idea what it was for. My best guess would be that it was just a union summer picnic with a talent show tacked on. If you read casually, as I do, you’re probably hearing the results of that talent show now. (You did start the audio, didn’t you?)

The first chunk was a bit of bad (in the Michael Jackson sense) bidness that was the deal breaker for me. Had to go check it out. Looped riddims and live vocals:

Yup. Hurt my pelvis a couple of times. Good stuff.

And then there were some rather fierce Punjabis. Or Pakistanis? I must confess my ignorance here and if anyone can correct me, I’d be much obliged. In any event, they beat up on the stage pretty good:

My elbow still hurts from resting it on that red strip. Thanks, guys!

I was going to leave after that; the following act were some young ladies showing off their choreographed Beyonce moves and, I must say, I didn’t approve. Terrible. No photo for you!

But then, about thirty minutes in (you can fast-forward in the audio player), comes the saving grace. A local Toronto busker named Smokie. Smoky? Yup; he’s that local:

I’m gonna go with Smoky. Again, corrections welcome.

Anyway, he really ripped up the stage; while I was busting a sweat pressing the trigger. Even more impressive, Smoky’s daughters and sons barely broke a sweat either:

Truth be told, aside from the drummer and Smoky, the act was a lot more demure. Well, except for the way those girls slapped those guitars; they should be ashamed of themselves!

So at this point, if you hadn’t pressed play on the audio player, you’ll be missing out on the performance that Smoky and his family put on. It’s a bit quiet, but you’ll get the gist of it. It was … awesome.

Okay, I know he probably sang the same tunes every week busking at Yonge and Dundas. But c’mon, with that much practice, he’s got it down!

Hands-down winner. I’ll see if I can crack a web address out of him next time.

Right. And that’s it. Too hot to do anything else. Back to the flat, plunk down on the sofa, and grow roots.

Now if you’ll excuse me …

Someone had recently asked me what my favourite part of the CNE was.

That’s easy! It’s the danger!

To sum it up, it’s the danger of riding unsafe, potentially deadly rides. Nothing quite as exhilarating. That’s what The Ex has meant to me since I first went there with my folks. I was a little immigrant kid and lots of stuff impressed me back then. These days, that’s a bit more rare, but The Ex has managed to retain that feeling of charm and wonder to it. To me, it’s still still a carnival on a really big scale:

These grounds and all the buildings on them were built specifically for the Canadian National Exhibition, which only takes place once a year. The rest of the time, the grounds are used for the Indy and the various buildings are used for conventions, shows, and other large events. But The Exhibition, that’s this place’s raison d’être.

Like most big gatherings, The Ex started way back in the day when it was an agricultural fair. You came to exhibit your prized cows, corncob pipes, and pumpkins.  Someone would buy up your handsome heifers and you’d walk off with a wad of cash. The roads were mud at that time.

Eventually, agriculture gave way to modernity, and cool fifties’ style buildings were erected; kind of like the buildings in The Jetsons but more tame, more Canadian. And as seems to be the modern trend in downtown architecture these days, old buildings were extended, built onto, with the new buildings becoming a sort of cover for the old. The older building inside was pristinely restored and, being inside, better preserved. Usually, the outside structure involved a lot of glass.

But let’s say you come for other reasons:

The rides! And for me, it’s just more fun on the old ones. I mean, some of them have taken on mythic proportions. Could you imagine The Ex without the Polar Express?

Yup, this guy’s seen some mileage. And it’s a lot of fun without stopping your heart. There’s also the ride that almost always seems to claim a casualty, my absolute favourite, the Starship 4000:

I think it used to be called the Gyrotron, or something like that, but it’s still exactly the same ride. Inside the (fully constructed) saucer are stretchers on wheels sitting against the reclining walls. You rest up against them and as the ship starts to spin, the stretchers are pulled up to the centre with the you stuck to them. One year, I also remember riding a (more common) variation where people stuck to the inside of a drum while the floor dropped out from under them. Same idea but in the saucer you move away from each other as you accelerate. And the DJ sits in the middle blasting out tunes. Sometimes really good tunes.

Invariably, some kid tries to stand up, loses his balance, and goes flying for the corner of the saucer, bashing himself up in all sorts of funny ways. It’s never as serious as it should be, but they always close the ride for a while as a result. I know it’s meant to punish us. I must say, it works.

I just don’t think that kids these days are getting the thrills they need. Roller-coaster wise, I mean. Look at this thing:

Oh, look, a pretty ladybug out for a flight in a field of smiling flowers and swaying grass. Yes, every self-respecting teen is clambering to get onto it. And this is, arguably, the tallest and fastest coaster here. I suppose that tower-drop thing will have to do.

There’s more to The Ex anyway.

To me, the old livestock pavilions are where it’s at. Serene, shaded, and hushed. The animals are chillin’, you’re chillin’. Bit of straw for you, sip of lemonade for me. Ahhh. Pleasant. The weather for The Ex is usually hot and air-con doesn’t agree with me. I’m willing to co-exist with some manure if that’s what it takes.

Wee beasties not to your liking? Well, this year the feds pumped a bunch of cash into The Ex which has been used to get some big names to pay us a visit. Like Bill Clinton. So there’s that. And you know, there’s always a lot of classic Ex food:

Plus, there’s the food building for “real” food. Oh, and the air show at the end; not as boring as it sounds.

You know? There’s a lot to do there. I guess that’s why I like it too; you can be your normal ADD self, or you can be that old fogey watching the ponies, and it all just works as nature intended. The Ex has been around for so long that a good number of the streetcar lines converge there, so it’s easy to get to. And if you take care to note the location of washrooms when you first enter, you’re golden!

Her: “No photos of the artwork, but feel free to take pictures of the architecture. Just make sure no one’s in the photo otherwise you need to get their permission.”

Permission?

Me: “So, basically, no photos.”

Her: “Sure! Just have to be patient and make sure there are no people in your shot.”

Me: “Okey dokey.”

I don’t know why I bother. I mean, I try to be polite and respectful, but why I don’t I just clamp my butthole shut while I’m at it?

First, they made me check in my bag because it was oversize. K, I can dig it. But I was told I could take it in if I wore it around my waist, as another lady with “exactly the same bag” as mine had done.

The bag is a Lowepro SlingShot, one of those single over-the-shoulder deals that’s more or less a thick, rigid backpack. I couldn’t work out the logistics of wearing it around the waist, especially since it would stick out just as far any which way I maneuvered it. “I’ll carry it”, I offered, lowering the bag into a shy, reclusive position between my legs.

The answer was still no.

“Can I at least take my camera?”, I asked. “Of course!”, replied the smiling guard. He had been almost absurdly friendly the entire time and I don’t think I would’ve thought twice about leaving my bag behind, but then his partner showed up. I don’t think a smile had creased her thin lips in years. Crab-ola!

It was a few minutes later as I was entering into the main gallery of the AGO that I had a second conversation with another (and considerably friendlier), female attendant. That’s the first part of this post. I thought that maybe swapping the denials chronologically would make them seem less harsh.

Nope.

You can understand why I was starting to get a bit miffed, especially since just beyond the attendant, in the main lobby, a woman was chasing a guy in a Sasquatch suit snapping pictures randomly and yelling, “Stop, Sasquatch! Stop!” Strangely, he did, while the girl pushed her way through the crowd that had suddenly formed behind him. As soon as she was through, he lumbered off again past cowering, horrified children. Snappity snap McSnap all the way.

Not to mention the sign I found just around the corner. Visitors were advised that they may have their photos taken at any moment for use in promotional material. Only by actively approaching any guy or girl with a big lens and notifying them of your wishes would you be assured that this wouldn’t happen.

So I broke the rules. But after I had wandered a bit, I realized that, probably, that’s what was necessary in a place like this. Some unfettered appreciation. Do you think the artists would mind?

Like a digital reproduction could ever do it justice! I mean, you can actually commit a heinous crime and totally wreck some major artwork, that’s how close you’re allowed to get to it. And, to keep you interested, each new room is fronted by an outstanding piece from the collection:

Once inside, the pieces are respectfully spaced but I have to say, the signage s-u-c-k-s! They’ll have two paintings side by side, four labels next to each one, and one in between just for good measure. Halfway through the Impressionists, some young girl went to great lengths to embarrass herself to her friend as she described the flowing, smooth style of Gauguin in the painting in front of them. Wrong label. Wrong painting too.

But I shouldn’t be overly critical. There were a number of pieces on display that I didn’t particularly get but that had genuinely excited buzz around them:

Yup, there’s a lot of stuff to see; the Art Gallery is actually quite large. The piece that runs along Dundas is just for show; the building behind it is the actual gallery and it runs upward about five storeys via that crazy spiral staircase in the lobby. And it’s art all the way up; old, new, and stuff that I sat on.

I should probably take a bit of that back. I didn’t mean to imply that the part along Dundas is totally wasted:

The inside is genuinely impressive, but I still think the architect is a hack. I saw a documentary where he demonstrates his creative process: He’ll take a stiff card of cardboard, then crumple it (not too tightly), then flatten (not too much). Then point to it and say, “okay, now you guys build me that.” The team go sprinting out the door while Gehry leans back in his chair and takes a sip of his coffee. Hack-ola!

Ha! Listen to me go on like I paid for the experience or something! No, dear reader, Wednesday evenings are free. I think they probably have special exhibits that are off-limits to all us freeloaders, but since this was my first visit since the reno, it’ll be a while before I get bored.

In the meantime I’m going to work on getting my bag to wear like a fanny pack. I’ll show them!

What to say?

Not every day has a festival or intriguing political scandal. Some days I just get up, leave the apartment, shake my software developer ass for a few bucks, then straight back home again:

That could get pretty bleak, pretty fast. So, on days like these I try to break up the momentum by taking a detour. Today I marauded through Trinity Square, getting into all the nooks and crannies I’d not previously explored:

I do believe that’s a real water well! Kinda picturesque, don’t you think? But what makes this spot that much neater is that it’s right outside the Eaton Centre. I want to emphasize right outside:

Most people walking through the mall turn out onto Yonge Street instead of taking the opposite doors to the Square. That’s a shame because the church kicks-ass and the little park attached to it is the kind of park where lonely old men come to feed the pigeons and sigh about their bygone days (also kick-ass):

Right at the back of the photo you can make out a gushing mini waterfall. It hits a shallow stream that runs along the side of the building and underneath a wide bridge, both of which form the path to the main church entrance. I guess this is intended to ritually cleanse the spirits of pedestrians as they pass over hallowed ground. Or to ward off vampires.

There’s also a circular labyrinth off to the left side of the Square. Every photo I took of it somehow managed to capture a woman with an unflattering backside trying to find her way to the end. I have a responsibility not to post images like that. It’s just better for everyone.

It doesn’t matter though, because the “maze” is ridiculous; it’s so easy to cheat! It’s a roughly nine meter (thirty foot) diameter circle made of compact, concentric paths. The whole thing is paved but the path part is made of different coloured stone. That’s it! No walls! Nothing! Yup, just walk right to the end, save yourself an awful lot of bother and solve that sucker in record time. My tip to you ;)

The only possible reason I can come up with for the construction of such a dumb “maze” is that it’s some sort of demonic ritual symbol that, if enough people trace its sinister shape toward the dark stars, summons Cthulhu. So then the water’s dumb because there’s no way that that’s going to help. Good luck, Trinity Church!

But as my friend Rob points out, a church will probably hold out until at least winter at which point all the zombies will either slow to a crawl, starve, or freeze to death. Yup, with Cthulhu come zombies; that’s just fact. And with zombies come shotguns. :D

Then for Christmas we could all watch A Christmas Story, as is the custom at Trinity. By this time next summer, we’ll have forgotten all about it. But the maze will still be there … waiting.

And so will I.

Unless there’s a festival or some intiguing political scandal afoot.

I feel I should apologize if TCL is a bit sluggish today; it’s been t-h-i-c-k around here. Temperatures were running in the high thirties (close to a hundred Fahrenheit), and that insidious humidity crept in right along with them. Soupy is not the right word, unless you mean French Canadian split pea soup. Then, yes.

I had somehow managed to forget just how much of a punch this kind of weather delivers. I spent four years living on a proper tropical island and I can say with some authority that Toronto’s summer is not unlike a tropical one. It’s hot, sticky, humid, and relentless. I like the challenge – see how far I can walk before I pass out from dehydration – but Ollie tends to take a more pragmatic approach:

I took the day off today to be a tour guide to my folks and a Czech student they’re showing around. We hit some of the more air-conditioned locations such as the PATH, the lakeshore, and the Toronto Reference Library.

I particularly enjoyed the reactions to the Korean BBQ lunch. If you’ve never been, imagine the hubcap from a small car sticking out from the middle of a restaurant table on which you cook your own prepped food (usually meat). Most places heat it using a gas line that runs up through the centre of the table, but more elegant places use lye beneath the cooking plate – kinda like a fondue setup.

During the lunchtime conversation, the word “exotic” was used more than once. “Good” also. I’d add “inoffensive” as long as you stay away from the kimchi – I’m just not a big fan of fermented cabbage. I mean, I know what I like and it’s allowed my weight to hover above average, so I think I know what I’m talking about here. It’s the same reason I never trust that skinny chefs will ever produce anything really tasty. It simply … can’t be.

Luckily, the chefs along the Taste of the Danforth route yesterday were, for the most part, not svelte. There were plenty of beefy characters serving up beefy skewers. And chicken. And pork.

The short stretch of Danforth Avenue essentially had all its Greek and Mediterranean shops (and every other shop in between), spill their food onto the street for sampling. At most places you got a meaty skewer for $3 and for $5 you got the skewer on a gyro with veggies and tzatziki.

The idea behind Taste is pretty simple; stuff your face the entire way, and then do it again on the way back:

It’s a flawed concept; it’s just not possible. I got through two skewers, one gyro, and one cob of corn before I threw in the towel. I didn’t even have room for baklava, and I don’t remember the last time this has happened.

Maybe I’m just getting old. I mean, with the liquor stops along the way being off-limits due to the heat, I felt like that didn’t leave much else for the adults. Okay, that’s not entirely true; there’s plenty of music to get down and dance a Greek-ish jig to:

The gentleman waving the flags is Mr.Canada, as emblazoned on his custom-made maple leaf suit. Unfortunately, I didn’t get to ask him anything as he kept scooping up ladies out of the audience and entertaining them with his flag dance:

It had a semaphoric quality about it; stiffly elegant and clearly sending out all sorts of unintended signals. Guess you can’t blame the guy, it was just as hot during Taste as it is today and the fact that he made any sort of effort should be applauded. The fact that he wore that suit on that day … well, maybe he should see someone about that. I mean, I wasn’t dressed very sensibly myself, and I was a puddle (I layered, just too much!).

Next year I’ll take a note from the Danforth’s regulars and keep it simple, classic, and timeless:

How long has it been since I’ve had the pleasure of your company at The Guide? Far too long, my friend; far too long. Thank you for joining me!

Of course, the effrontery of The War would have been ample fodder for the practical gentleman, but as you may recall, I was required to relinquish my post for the War effort.

Happily, those days are now behind me and we may once again walk down the instructive path of the refined, practical gentleman together. So it is with great pleasure that I present today’s topic, the Sudden Stop.

Undoubtedly, we all find ourselves in one specific type of situation from time to time. Please allow me to illustrate.

Picture yourself walking up Yonge Street:

The crowd ahead is occupying almost the entire sidewalk. The whole bulk, with you in tow, is moving … slowly … but moving. You’d like to pass, but with every cabby trying to mow you down the moment you set foot on the road, there’s no choice but to be patient. So you are.

*whistling an idle tune*

And then it speeds up! Great! You’re moving at a good clip, everybody’s hopping … now you’re moving!

BAM!

Three or four people suddenly stop dead, all on queue – psychically linked somehow – right in front of you.

Have you been drinking a bit? Maybe you’ve been dipping into the baggie a little? Tired and cranky? All of the previous? Now that’s a full-on flesh on flesh pile-up with bits of you touching all the unsavoury bits of him and … oh my God, does he not shower?! *KHAK* (that’s onomatopoeia for gross)

Or perhaps you’re on the ball – Concentration McGee – and you can feel it in your bones; these people are all going to come to the realization that they’ve already passed Abercrombie and Fitch and, seemingly all sharing the same delayed brain, stop at the exact same moment. With your cat-like reflexes you — *ptang!* (bullet ricochet) —  stop on a dime. In fact, you’re so quick, you actually have time to mull over the possibility of bowling into them anyway, just for fun.

One must now ask that ever-present question: what’s the practical gentleman to do?

A great deal of literature deals with the subject of the Sudden Stop, but allow me to at least get the ball rolling:

The Sprung Gherkin

This simple effect is sure to be a crowd pleaser.

Simply make physical contact with the offending party as described in the primary collision scenario above. Though this will be unpleasant, the reward will be well worth it.

Now simply drop to the ground, holding your crotch tightly, grimacing in excruciating “pain”. Deliver the following dialogue: “Awwwrrr! I think the stitches fell out! Oh my God this feels like … awwwwrrr!” (It’s best to rehearse this ahead of time.)

Arise.

You now have the option of hobbling your way through a parted crowd with understandable urgency, or accepting some cab money from the offending parties to shoot off to see your “doctor”.

The Burgled Trouser

Although this scenario may be put to good use by anyone if properly played, ladies will have an advantage over the gentlemen here, I’m afraid. Sorry fellas, we can’t win ‘em all.

As with the Gherkin effect, this will require you to make physical contact with the offending party. In this instance, however, care must be used to choose the male offending party. Preferably one with a girlfriend :)

As with the previous effect, place your hands over your crotch (ladies, you can be significantly more creative), leap back and yell, “Get your damn hand off me you sick [favourite expletive]!”

If the offending party tries to get a word in, remind him in detail of the full scrotal inspection he just gave you (again, ladies, go nuts).

I’m afraid this doesn’t accomplish much but it sure will make you feel good. And what if the girlfriend already suspected he was gay (or pervert)? Ahh. Didn’t your afternoon just get a little sunnier?

The Snafu’d Tourist

It’s good to be reminded that among pedestrian groups there will usually be some tourists. They couldn’t be more prominent: cameras, assorted Toronto paraphernalia, maps, sensible shoes:

With them, be gentle, for they know not what they do. Try to avoid colliding, if possible. If you do bump into each other, it is incumbent on you to be courteous but practical.

Remind them that coming to a sudden stop in the middle of a busy sidewalk, even just to quickly check their map, is not only dangerous but illegal: “Oh man, you guys lucked out. Last week I stopped on the sidewalk for, like, half a second, and the cop was already writing me the ticket. Yeah! They ticket you for stopping. A hundred and twenty bucks, can you believe it? Man, City Hall. What a bunch of hosebags! Can’t believe that law even passed. But hey, listen, you seem like nice folks so I’ll let you in on a little secret.” Lean in close and whisper, “They can’t ticket you for standing in a parking lot.”

With a nod, wink, and a friendly “shoo-shoo”, wave them goodbye and wish them green lights the entire way.

Keep moving! That’s it!

Now you’ve done everyone a service. Doesn’t that feel wonderful?

I find it very rewarding to be able to share with you these practical examples of how to deal with modern urban insolence. It is gratifying to know that not all of the techniques at the practical gentleman’s disposal are rough, but it is equally comforting to know that they are nonetheless at hand. So to speak.

Thank you once again for your attention and most kind patronage. Until next time!

Here’s how I think it goes down:

1. “Hello? … How can I help you, Larry? … Oh my God! Is carbon monoxide dangerous?! OH MY GOD!! WHAT DO I DO?”
2. “Right, so I’ll get the gas out by breaking a nearby window? With the heaviest object I can find? OKAY!”
3. *grunt of exertion* “C’mon, Ollie. You’re saving my life, buddy. Don’t be so selfish.”
4. “LARRY?! OH MY GOD, LARRY!! HE’S GOT MY EYEBALL!! LARRY?! WHAT DO I DO, LARRY?!”

Now that I’ve set the context, imagine this actually happening, minus the cat, but plus the breaking of the window.

Or someone calls you at the fast food joint you’re working at, tells you that you need to activate the chemical sprinkler system immediately, and then strip down and wait outside because the chemicals spraying you are highly toxic.

I know, right? My first inclination would be to do exactly as they say.

Seriously, if Tariq Malik is the guy behind PrankNET, he’s someone I’m going to be watching very closely. He (from Windsor), his Toronto accomplice, and few other members have been prank calling people in the US and getting them to perform what I’ve describe above. And more. Many of the pranks result in damages, some of them quite severe.

I hadn’t actually heard of PrankNET until The Smoking Gun ran an expose that was picked up by local news. As soon as I read the story, I had to have a listen for myself!

I must say, the pranksters did sound awfully convincing, sometimes teaming up to sound even more official. But there was always a point where, if I were in the same situation, I’d have to say, “Woaw now. Hold on just a second.” Being told to break a labeled safety seal on a hotel sprinkler system would be one. Another would be trying to bash a hole in my hotel window as per telephone instruction, after sealing the door against the poisonous gas in the hallway, then having someone in the hallway tell me to stop hitting the window (or maybe they were standing outside the hotel and I opened the window to talk to them), then coming back and repeating all this three or four more times.

Sometimes people complied and successfully destroyed property on the first try. Sometimes they really had to work for it.

Just a word of advice from personal experience; if you’re ever in a similar situation you may be tempted to just wreck the whole place, but hold on! You have an alternative: “What? You want me to break out the window with a chair? Sure, let me just call you right back. *click* *dial* Hello, front desk? Did you just ask me to break out my window with a chair? No? Can you call the police please? Thanks ever so much.”

It’s obvious Tariq and William Marquis (the Torontonian), are at least guilty of impersonation (of police/fire officials), but it makes me wonder if they’ll be held responsible for all the damage that people did simply because some stranger on the end of a phone told them to. How far does personal responsibility extend? What is the measure of “better” in “they should’ve known better”?

(Don’t worry, Ollie’s just fine. My eyeball will heal too.)

In the early days of TCL (late 2008 — that site was just awful), I was focusing my efforts unscrupulously advertising on the popular blogTO site. At that time, they were looking for people to write for them and I got it in my head that I could split my time between that and this blog. Hey, I was younger and naiver.

As part of the application, they wanted me to present a number of topics I’d be willing to cover for them. I recall pitching a multi-part expose on local cannabis shops, something about Steve Mann, and the imminent Union Station Revitalization project. I say imminent because, at the time, I had this notion that City Hall operated quickly and that the project would be underway by summer. Like I said, naiver. (I know, “more naive”, but “naiver” is more correct.)

Luckily, I quickly wised up and this little outside endeavour came to a splattering halt. Then I forgot about it.

Today I got an official Toronto Council tweet that a vote had been taken on the project and that it was almost unanimously approved. Hang on, I thought, hadn’t they done that last year? Well, no, they approved the commissioning of a report.

I guess.

Because today’s vote was to “adopt” a part of that report. Is that Councilese for, “Thanks, just leave it in the cylindrical filing bin on your way out”?

So, let’s see what they “adopted”:

“Approve the Head Lessee named in Confiden…”

*yawn* I can already feel sweet sweet slumber caressing my eyelids. From the sentence or so that I managed, I think they voted to let the head business guy do his job. Or something. No mention of ground-breaking or anything.

You’d think they’d have a little urgency about it. I mean, Union Station is the transportation hub of Toronto:

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Phew!

What a weekend. As you’ve probably already guessed by the previous posts, I spent much of Saturday at Caribana ingesting all sorts of solar radiation, and much of Sunday recovering from heat stroke and examining the contents of my stomach. Today, I feel like a new man:

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Okay, I’ll admit it. I was wrong.

Those tall fences along the Caribana parade route were a good idea. Unfortunately (for the people in the parade), the fencing only ran down one side of the road, and only for half the distance. That left three-quarters of the roughly one kilometer route (a little over half a mile), open and easily accessible. Once people started climbing the barriers and walking along it, the procession slowed to a crawl.

Despite the crush of people, almost everyone was wearing a grin and either dancing or chowing down on the food that lined the route. It was pretty hard not to have a good time; my rump also shook rhythmically. The sound systems didn’t hurt either; to say that they mashed up the placed would be a bit of an understatement. I still have a collapsed lung!

Awesome.

Today is Simcoe Day and I’ve yet to set foot outside so I’ll let the photos take over from here on in. Don’t worry, this isn’t one of those Wordless Weekday things, just capping off the holiday with bit of a break.

Enjoy!

(And be patient; the post takes a while to load)

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