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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Already 4 hours into the parade and no sign of stopping:

I highly recommend grabbing a coffee or a Red Stripe before you continue. The photos go on as long as the parade did.

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Just like a divorce, it’s not over until the final piece of paper is signed and delivered. Today, that’s what they did at City Hall.

With that, the Toronto garbage is strike is now officially over.

Naturally, some found it hard to let go:

This gentleman assured me most seriously that mere moments earlier, there had been a large crowd on this very spot supporting this early-morning protest. I must say, that’s exactly what’s needed these days; a sense of humour. Good guy.

But despite the comedic relief provided by these folks, it was a pretty tense day at City Hall. Everyone stood up to talk, two guys left in a huff, someone else threw crayons and teased the two kids leaving. Bad scene. How did my girl hold up in the vote? Naturally, she cast the wise choice.

And today, for the first time in forty days, birds are being flipped from truck windows again:

So, that’s it for another five years, or whenever this agreement expires.

Are you bored to tears with this strike already? Me too. Let’s get back to summer!

Just like being at the beach, huh? A sophisticated beach! That had been paved over. With no water. And big buildings. Also traffic and the occasional deciduous tree. Surf’s up!

Woaw! The zipper for the giant pants of the bank behind it. In fact, the entire financial district is filled with giant testes. (In the “they’ve got some balls!” sense. Not in the complimentary sense.)

Okay, enough of that for one day. Crotches can only take us so far and besides, we don’t want to get sunburned on the first real day of sunshine.

Speaking of getting burned, a story emerged a couple of days ago that the website of Toronto Hydro, my electricity provider, was hacked. Hydro claims that all that was stolen were the personal contact info and last bill amounts of some of their customers. We were advised that we may be receiving a letter if our personal information was accessed.

Since that moment, I’ve been walking around like a kid on December 22nd. I crossed my fingers each day as I opened my mailbox only to find that, no, I would not be the lucky recipient of the Toronto Hydro letter. Not that day :(

But guess what … today I got one! :D

Isn’t that exciting?They say it’s just a precautionary letter, but I know it’s meant just for me.

Now some twitchy teenager with a brick in his underwear knows where I live and how much juice my lair requires. Kid, if you’re reading this, you’re welcome to the info. In fact, feel free to apply some credit to my account next time you’re in there.

Interestingly, in the letter dated July 23rd, Hydro says that they don’t how the hacker(s) got a hold of the information. Meaning that they didn’t know they’d been hacked. So how did they know the information had been accessed?

I know, I don’t seem terribly concerned, but I’ve had fraud at least once on every card I’ve ever owned. And I would love to see someone try to take out a mortgage on my credit. Haha!

Ahh. That’s the best way to start a weekend; with a laugh.

Do you remember yesterday with those street-borne communiqués around the city?

This time we have a website and a comfortable patch of grass. I would applaud this effort, I really would. But I actually started to read the web page:

“We want to re-examine public space and to create work which explores our relationship with the space we inhabit. We wish to de-center and disrupt the accepted n…”

*snore*

*snore*

Wuzzuh?!

*wipe drool*

I don’t know what that site meant but I’ve reprimanded my netbook for showing it to me. I’m sorely tempted to put my programming skills to use in creating a tedious content filter of some sort. When it would detect a web page that fell below the customizable tedium level, the browser would warn you with a gentle weeping sound lest you waste a moment of your valuable life. Also, a shudder if your hardware is equipped for it.

Meh. I’d rather be outside anyway. It’s hard to be bored, especially with Caribana just around the corner. And the rampant crime that goes with it:

That’ll go up to twenty bucks on the weekend. Bumbaclot!

Lamport Stadium is where the Caribana judging takes place, and if memory serves, they have about one-hundred million-billion floats and get-ups to evaluate. It’s a lot, whatever the precise number is.

When it comes to parade costumes, people go certifiably insane. They seal themselves up in darkened workshops for months on end, devoid of any human contact. There, they toil away, metamorphosing wire, fabric, and sequins into wings, antennae, and gaudy headdresses.

Finally, after many months and a third refinancing of the house, they emerge.

As a beautiful, gargantuan butterfly!

I’m sure it’s much more impressive than it looks. From what I remember of past parades, the costumes are enormous. That thing he’s pulling out of the truck is probably meant to be worn on the eyebrow. The rest of the costume usually arrives by helicopter.

I suppose I can understand why they’d want these creations protected behind fences this weekend, but I’m not sure if they’re legally allowed to call it Caribana unless everyone, including spectators, are jumping around. Seems like a fence would dampen that enthusiasm.

When I walked along Lakeshore Boulevard (the parade route) today, it felt a bit like I was in a penitentiary exercise yard. With the natural barrier of Lake Ontario on one side, and the gun-turret-like projections of the Direct Energy Centre on the other, winin’ and/or grinin’ just seems out of place.

Guess we’ll just have to see.

After five weeks off the job and finally managing to walk away with the bank, you’d think the unions would be eager to get back to work, wouldn’t you? I would too. But we’d both be wrong. Now they’re fussing over how they should return to work.

Have you ever done that thing where you rub the palm of your hand into your forehead in an agitated, twisting motion? Yeah.

Do you wanna know what I think happened? I think that City Hall saw Caribana looming and figured it couldn’t afford to lose it. Perhaps because of money. Perhaps reputation. Perhaps both. The negotiators blinked and, as a result, Miller has offered our collective anuses up for all sorts of wanton abuse. I can’t believe I used to call him General.

Oh well, at least it’ll be settled soon and we can all get back to doing whatever it is we do. Which is actually pretty much the same thing we’ve been doing all this time. How exciting.

Sarcasm, you say? Moi?! The impropriety!

Just hit the streets if you require evidence of various, excitingly subversive a-goings-ons:

Now who feels like an impudent little monkey?

Unfortunately, these people are so underground, I have no idea who they are or what this is all about. It’s clear they’re fucking with the post office, I  just can’t fathom why. Until they make themselves known, I guess we’ll just have to call them the Jacket Mailers Collective, or JaMaCo for short.

I know, right? That would make a good song. JaMaCo, down in Key Largo, blah blah blah blah, on the go, etc. Already half written! Unfortunately, JaMaCo is going to need a kick-ass stage show because someone already beat them to the headlines:

Pleasehelpusmrsnixon.com, a domain whose brilliance is bested only by torontocitylife.com

The nifty people behind this campaign are targeting one Janet Nixon, wife of Gordon Nixon, president and CEO of the Royal Bank of Canada. RBC is one of the few remaining bank conglomerates in Canada and I believe Gordon can have people legally “disappeared”. He’s that powerful. The bank invested in a, let’s say, controversial project called the tar sands. It’s a messy way to get oil out of tar-covered sand patches.

The group has been trying to stop the project’s source of funding, which is RBC, but Gordon doesn’t much care for their company. What to do?

Of course; talk to the guy’s wife!

The website features a fireside chat addressing, in a casual and friendly manner, Mrs. Nixon, asking for her assistance in helping her husband see some reason. “Thank you, Janet. Thank you very much.”

So nice.

In keeping with the sentiment, I’m so glad you could join me and share a moment of your time. That’s right, I’m pointing directly at you. Thank you.

Now, unfortunately, I have other duties to attend to, so I’ll have to bid you adieu. I’m sure you understand that I would never eschew you for something if it wasn’t critically important.