As I was walking home today, I spotted this placard being hung by a CUPE striker packing up for the night:

I’ll be honest, this is the first time I’ve been privy to any 416/79 propaganda. But I’m glad I saw it because it gives me an insight into the myopic condition of the enemy. Yeah, anyone who uses the word “comprehend” like this is a jerk.

Referring to the heroic General David Miller as simply “D. Miller” seems pretty derisive. But I suppose that’s to be expected. From a jerk.

What’s tough to swallow, however, is the absence of cause and effect in the 416/79 universe. It’s no secret that the chemicals being sprayed on garbage (the effect), are not terribly healthy. The city actually had to get an injunction against it’s own pesticide bylaws to be able to use them.  And then there’s the reason for their use in the first place (the currently picketing cause).

For the pragmatist in me, chemical warfare is a necessary but regrettable consequence of war that benefits no one. And while I applaud every inch that the city hall infantry gains on the battle field, the argument against prolonging the War is now all the more poignant.

Fresh reinforcements for our battle-weary combatants prove that the War in the city core can continue for some time:

And there you have it; when the going gets tough, Torontonians pick up after themselves. I never had a doubt. It’s just a shame that other local conflicts unrelated to the major War will continue to be eclipsed it.

For example, another city union, local 2003, is clashing with the mammoth Cadillac Fairview corporation. But in this case, the union’s been rotting by the curb since June 16th. I spoke briefly to the nice gentlemen in this photo and they seemed justifiably miffed that the corporation locked them out (that means the suits don’t wanna talk):

And now that I’ve undoubtedly aroused your interest in all things Canadian, I’m pleased as punch to announce that we’re sending our socialist coffee and doughnuts south of the border:

As a gesture to all my southern friends, here’s a little Tim Hortons cross-border dictionary to help you feel at ease with our oft strange lingo:

Timmies (n.): The official Canadian name of Tim Hortons
Tim Horton (pr. n.): A former Maple Leafs player who loved doughnuts and caffeine so much he started his own coffee and bake shop (hence the name, though strangely plural rather than possessive). He died of morbid obesity.
Doughnut (n.): The correct, Canadian spelling of donut. It’s a nut made of dough, not do.
Tim Bit (n.): The doughnut center. Brilliant marketing move by Timmies execs who knew classy Canadians naturally poo-poo the lowly “donut hole”.
Double-double (n.): The popular coffee poured over two creams (measured exactly), and two spoons of sugar. Not stirred (coffee-flavoured sugary goop at the bottom is a genuinely Canadian experience).
Triple-triple (n.): Well, shit, you’re already stuffing your gob with that Boston Cream.
Coffee (n.): A Double-double.
Espresso (n.): What?
Latté (n.): Down that hall and to the left but you might wanna knock first to make sure no one’s in there. Oh, and there’s extra toilet paper on the little table in front in case you need more.

And the most wonderful thing about Tim Hortons is that you can be assured that the Maple glaze doughnuts use 100% authentic Maple sugar. We’d know the difference ;D

Very recently, an alarming number of comments on this ongoing journal have suggested that my reporting may not be as balanced as I’d like it to be. Both comments were in regards to the more upbeat, colourful photos I’ve been accompanying my posts with. In hindsight, I suppose that these may be somewhat misleading. Kinda like this:

This could easily be mistaken as the final portrait of a vanquished foe. But it is, in fact, simply good timing. The canister was still smouldering when this shot was taken and the strikers were probably just on break (big surprise!). Okay, well, it was Sunday afternoon. But still — they’re the bad guys!

I sincerely hope I didn’t lead anyone down the wrong path. The War is still raging. Maybe it’s just that it’s become normal for us who live in it; run-of-the-mill; almost mundane. The stalwart tin soldiers along the sides of streets are all packed to capacity, but the sight has become so commonplace that it doesn’t seem worthwhile to mention anymore.

Not when there are more urgent, immediate needs in the rest of the city. Many shop attendants (at least the ones I’ve talked to), are reporting a severe shortage of sticky fly paper strips. A number stared at me as though they had no idea what I was talking about, like they didn’t understand English. That was probably the case. But no sticky paper for me and I could really use some.

Luckily the War is taking place in the middle of a (thus far) very pleasant summer, and all those fruit flies can go straight to hell as far as I’m concerned. There’s plenty to see and do outside while their minuscule corpses carpet my carpet:

Since I moved here just over a year ago, this popular film location (the house a few doors down), has hosted at least four major productions; the kind that close the street and have edgy, over-caffeinated set managers walking around wringing their bony hands making sure no one walks into their open shoot. Or maybe they’re really just praying for good lighting. Maybe death.

But no umbrella in the face! Just handsome cops with glowing complexions and a boom mic guy who will never be out of a job. Any man with the natural ability to scrub elephant anus will not be unemployed if he doesn’t want to be, that’s just facts:

I wasn’t able to find a single relevant mention for the movie “Copper” so this is either a super hush-hush film (in which case I’m committing treason right now), or it’s going direct to DVD.

Well, it’s been another terrifically real Monday but we got through it. Some, like the gentleman who with a partially severed foot was dragged for five clicks (about three miles) by a train, had it more real than others.  “Ouch!”, indeed, Sergeant Tim Burrows.

I feel it’s only right to ask…

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As the steady stream of sweat rolling down between my ass cheeks will attest, the heat is on.

The tactics being used by the 416/79 commandos have moved into some ugly territory. Their blockades have now extended to private businesses whose only crime was to be in the same trade as the strikers. And then there are the residents of an eastern Toronto neighbourhood who are being sniped at by 416/79 sharpshooters simply for tending to their own neighbourhood. (yeah, strikers, grandma’s doing your job; that’s how indispensable you are)

I disagree with today’s take by The Star’s on Toronto’s five greatest inventions (isn’t Pablum a synonym for blandness?) I believe that our greatest contributions are courage and gutsiness. Well, I guess that’s technically just one, but I stand by it.

On the one hand we’ve got geriatrics fighting back, on the other we’ve got the underground movement taking us to school:

You may recall that the last time I trekked through the jungle, the devastation was awful. Today, with the Allies in control of the area, it’s regained some level of normalcy and is being used as a tactical operation scentre:

Even the bunker across the street now sits empty, no longer needed in this part of town:

It’s been a local effort, but small local efforts like these all over town are how a war is won. Victory composters are springing up all over; garbage detention is being handled within communities; people are rallying together. Brother slinging trash with brother, sister mowing lawn with sister.

I’ll just leave it there; let you dab the tears of pride from your eyes.

A friend tipped me off as to the whereabouts of a trash-free zone. After yesterday’s harrowing adventure I was grateful for a respite from the War.

I made my way to the Indy race track post-haste.

Maybe it was the lack of an umbrella, but this time when I was refused admittance to the track it seemed more gentle. More Canadian. The apologetic security guard actually went out of his way to suggest other less patrolled points of entry. I thanked him, fully intending to take his advice.

Unfortunately, the entire length of the CNE grounds was sealed with a tall, thin, awkward-to-climb fence. As a deterrent, it performed it’s duties admirably. I won’t bore you with the details of my Ninja-like maneuvers, but I managed to end up behind the main grandstand:

And after some deft footwork past a dozy security guard (unionized?), I waltzed onto the main track:

You’ll note a total absence of refuse. No candy wrappers, no cans, not even a butt.

The immaculate street was lined with stacked tires, probably the only thing that would even come close to trash. Even the ubiquitous caution tape that makes its way into every garbage heap was here neatly and purposefully attached to signage:

The drivers would probably just drive straight into the wall if that tape wasn’t there. Safety first!

As I went through the Princess Gates, I realized I had just returned to the real world; the world of War-ravaged streets where the 416/79 squadron tries to have it’s way with the innocent people of Toronto.

But unlike yesterday, today it was easy to be upbeat. Every time I looked up, it was as if the universe was trying to make me smile. Or in the case of glaring erections and innocent Torontonians and their cherries, a laugh:

Or maybe I’m just happy because I’m sleeping in tomorrow. Hard to say.

Dear reader, it’s not been easy trudging through the trenches today.

I was trying to avoid the roadside carnage by keeping the camera lens pointed upward, but I was met with an umbrella in the face when I attempted a snap of a film shoot on Queen Street west. I’m fairly certain it wasn’t raining horizontally wherever I chose to stand. I considered that maybe he was trying to hide his face, but guess what?

That’s the umbrella guy looking straight at us. Obviously not camera shy; probably just fiercely protective of the set; which was actually indoors. In fact, I have no idea why he gave me the facial parasol. Maybe he’s just angry because of the unforgiving rod that’s up his ass.

So to drive home my point, I crossed the street and took the photo. Zoom lens; they just don’t make umbrellas big enough. Plus, when I finally saw the photo, there was really nothing going on behind him. Not like this:

Merry Strikemas!

Strangely, no one would have stopped me if I had chosen to desecrate this unique war memorial. The “snow” looked a lot more convincing if you were approaching it from down the street. Even more strangely, the stuff piled up against the sides of buildings was real snow (cold and making a big puddle).

Umbrella guy’s motives and the reasoning behind using real snow in the middle of July caused me greatly disorienting confusion. I think this is what veterans describe as shell shock. I stumbled about for a while until the gentle pitter pat of rain on my forehead snapped me back to reality.

My mission to ignore trash was succeeding (mostly), but not as I had imagined.

I suddenly found myself in front of what used to be a convenience store, now lined with young people and a quick banner job around the front advertising the new Harry Potter movie. Everyone was there to meet Tom Felton. The fans seemed to be as old and uncomfortable as the actors in the film (what’re they, like, 30 now?).

Then, remembering my own boyhood love for thumbing through curried library books, I chided myself for being too harsh; I’m sure these gangly teens have a fond childhood connection to their Wiccan mistress. But I don’t remember them guzzling Red Bull at Hogwarts — or was that in one of the newer novels (newer than the first ten pages of the first one)?

A picture as confused as I was.

The rain was now coming down harder and, as I don’t much care for Potter and his kind, I decided to move. By the time I got to city hall, the sun had broken through the clouds and was shining down on a very orderly and polite Iranian election demonstration.

I spoke to one of the gentlemen holding a placard and we swapped war stories. I assured him that he had my support and he in turn wished me luck on the rest of my journey.

The encounter left me calm and peaceful. I strolled home slowly in the bright sunshine feeling lucky to be alive. Things could have gone so much worse; that umbrella could’ve gone right in my eye; all sorts of bad stuff.

Maybe it was General Miller’s inspirational, uplifting words running through my mind that got me through it:

“Get your donut-eatin’ asses back to work in the next five minutes or I will personally come down there and kick them out of the picket line myself you sonsabitches!”

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

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

Our provincial government has forsaken us.

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

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

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

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

Respect mah authoritae!

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

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

Hope they clean up after themselves when they leave.

Better fashionably late than never: Happy belated Independence Day to my American friends!

I’m sorry, it’s just that my head has been elsewhere lately.

While I was waiting for my regular lunchtime installment at It’s a Wrap the other day (King and Atlantic, highly recommended!), the guy grilling the wrap started into some small talk. Naturally we got to talking about the War and I asked him how the strike was affecting him. He lamented that he was paying upwards of two-hundred dollars every week to have his trash hauled away, and then he started in on his idea about the true origins of the strike. I listened thoughtfully; you don’t argue with a man armed with a spatula, cooking oil, and a conspiracy theory. You just don’t.

He believed, quite firmly, that General Miller allowed (perhaps even instigated) the War in order to save the city some money. The battle would also go on for some time, continued spatula guy, until General Miller was satisfied with the cash he raked in.

“Think about it!”, ended spatula guy, pointing his silver flipper at the spot on my forehead where the bullet would enter if I didn’t.

So I did.

But it seems a little far-fetched.

I think that the brass at city hall have their noses too deep in the conflict to see creative ways out. Curmudgeonly prodigy Bill Carroll had the interesting notion of firing ten random people a day until the union caved. The scene painted, in my mind, had a casual Bill strolling out into a crowd of strikers and calmly calling out the names of the people who were getting axed that day. He’d then roll up the list, cool as a cucumber, and strolling a few feet into the crowd — casually like he was window shopping for strip bars, proceed to have the shit kicked out of him by anyone standing nearby. What an ironic daydream.

Bill has since changed his tune. He says it’s for legal reasons but I think he and I shared the same vision. I wonder if the crowd was naked in his too.

There must be better ways. Take this guy, for example:

He’s about to stick something to that pole, I just know it.

I’m pretty sure his company’s not renting pole space from the city and it has to pay for removal. If it were illegal to poster like this (and presumably it is), why not have the removal guys collect fines instead? Every poster carries a phone number, website address, physical address, etc.  Finding the culprits would be supremely easy; you could bring a picnic basket and plan a day trip around it!

There’s a derelict store on Queen Street that demonstrates how rich and profitable this could be. Just look how far those layers go … it’s a gold mine! (clickable too)

With the fine money collected from all of these posters, the city could afford temporary private trash patrol service that could give everyone a reprieve from the War. And why not charge per poster? Stick it to ‘em!

There was one theory floating around (not sure where I heard it), that Toronto was just getting what it deserved. That the trash strike is just karmic retribution for being a bunch of jerks. Shibaten might disagree, and he eats karma for breakfast:

I continue to believe General Miller’s doing the best he can, but he needs to stick his head out the door once in a while. Get some fresh air, new ideas, fresh perspectives. Smoke a bowl. Watch the clouds.

Now, on the verge of day 16, we’re breaking into uncharted territory (the 2002 strike ended after 16 days). This struggle needs needs a refreshing breath mint.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Is it fair to say that we were all concerned about Chinatown? According to the survey, those who know what a CUPE is show grave concern for the place, while only one person is definitely evil.

Well, is seems that at least one of the fears has been realized. A rather stanky waft of eggy air meanders along Dundas near Spadina among open bins, but it’s possible that the smell may have been there before the War:

You have to hand it to the resourceful shopkeepers around Spadina for ingeniously mixing trash in with the merchandise. Not only do they profit from it, but tourists take the trash with them out of the city:

The tiny little five-dollar treasure soon becomes the little Buddha with the toxic peeling golden skin and (upon closer inspection) horribly disfigured plastic face. He probably shouldn’t appear to be leering lustily at you, of that I’m fairly sure.

Despite this, these things must be selling like hotcakes (with real Canadian Maple syrup), because the stores lining Spadina are packed with this stuff:

There’s actually a store owner in there somewhere. Almost Zen-like. Almost.

The people of Chinatown certainly are resilient, but it remains to be seen how much longer trash will be tolerated in this neighbourhood; how many more good trash bins must be lost before the people declare enough.

I sure hope they aren’t depending on some fiberglass moose for luck:

Moose have never been particularly lucky around piles of trash. Usually ends up with the moose spilling something on his new white shirt. And that’s doubly aggravating because of the amount of time it took him to just get that thing out of the package. Then those awful little pins; for an animal with hooves … and the buttons!

Yeah, no moose. Bad scene.

So trash exports it is for the foreseeable future. The brave people of Chinatown march on.

The War rages on, Being Erica still makes no sense, yadda yadda.

I recognize that it’s been pretty monotonous around here lately, hasn’t it? It’s not like the combative strike by the 416/79 has paralyzed the city! Let’s see what else is happening around town.

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And I’m back! Through the wonder of digital technology, I was able to perform the kind of modern miracle of science grandpa would have voided his bowels over: turn a hyphen into three hours.

I’d intended to head down to Ontario Place for the fireworks but in this day of have-nots, it seemed rather indulgent. That was just fine though because on my way I ran into a few interesting places like the Jazz Festival. Not so much a festival as an extended concert for really relaxed people:

I managed to sneak my slight frame behind one of the tent flaps to watch Brandi Disterheft pouring out a gentle “In my solitude”. Dave Brubeck was around somewhere too, just not where I was. In hindsight, I would have loved to cut a rug with Medeski Martin & Wood, but I won’t let regret rule my life. The if-onlys are the things that kill you: if only I’d heard of the festival sooner; if only I’d read the entertainment section more; if only I’d practiced safe sex and worn those damn shin guards. If only.

I wandered away from the square and bumped into my old buddy Steve Mann, hydraulophone guy and seemingly retired cyborg:

Steve is a hero; the only man who can get women all wet by touching his worm in public. I know it’s blue, but it’s better than the green one (yep, still down there – eww!)

Anyhow,  that subject is probably best left to sit in the sun and gather flies. Just as well because I was getting a bit weary of listening to Steve explain (for the third time) the inner workings of the instrument to two people (Mr. Whitey ensemble at the right + guest) who had asked the same question (verbatim) three times. No! The water doesn’t activate electronic actuators! What is wrong with you two?! He just told you it doesn’t! God!

I could actually taste the bitterness subside as I headed back home. I stopped at a lonely a la cart guy in front of Metro Hall to buy a lukewarm veggie samosa. At two bucks it was a greasy good deal, but not really much personality. That was a bit further uptown in front of Metropolitan where I found a bunch of chess players slapping clocks and talking trash:

One of them had a fist raised to the other, growling for “revenge!”. Perhaps jokingly, but I knew that full-contact Aussie rules chess was imminent. I got out of there fast, past overstuffed garbage bins and noticeable roadside litter, as fast as my little legs could carry me. What a night!

Maybe not in that exact order but … what a night!