Even on a day when the temperature eventually touches the nicer end of twenty degrees Celsius (sixty-eight  Fahrenheit), it’s still possible to dress inappropriately. For example, dressing in nothing more than green-white-yellow boxers (don’t care what you say, those are not shorts), and miniscule t-shirt turned out to be a poor decision by the young man shivering on the subway.

There was a wee nip in the morning and, without exception, everyone else was dressed so as to retain some body heat. He was, as I could gather from the small logo on the sleeve of his t-shirt, a cadet of some sort. Sure, you gotta be a bit tougher for that kind of thing, but I hope that some wisdom intercedes before he’s given a firearm. He looked absolutely frigid, huddled in a small, pale mass on the subway bench next to a svelte woman twice his size.

He was, basically, really tiny and really cold.

The only other reason I could see for someone being so wholly under-dressed would be if they had just returned from vacation. You’ve seen them: doe-eyed sadness, brown and suddenly stripped of the sun by a bitter northerly wind raking their naked skin as they step through the terminal exit. Genuinely amusing; but I can appreciate the more relaxed attitude. Unless they were returning from one of those Conquest vacations. In that case, the blazing inferno of their concentrated displeasure would probably sear a hole in the side of the plane.

Imagine going south with your family after pinching pennies for a year only to discover that the company you had booked with went tits-up while you were sipping Pina Coladas. That, in and of itself, wouldn’t be the real pisser though. What would light your fire would be the fact that you might have had to pay for the remainder of your vacation, and your trip home, out of pocket. Or else.

So, where did the money go? I mean, last time I booked a vacation I had to pay for the full thing before I was given the flight tickets, and it sure as hell wasn’t cheap. In other words, I had already paid for my vacation. So imagine my surprise if I ended up in Cancun only to find out that, in fact, no I hadn’t. Except I had. Meaning, somebody stole my money. If it was a matter of bad credit between businesses then trying to shake down the customers to try to get it back is a theft on both fronts. Is it any more complicated than that?

The moment my feet hit Canadian soil, I would be exceedingly and most exceptionally pissed. Until then, I’d be high-tailin’ it through the jungle like a greased monkey. I’d probably discover later that I’d hurt myself real bad during my coca-fueled flight, but I would make it to a road. There I would swap English lessons and charm for rides, putting increasingly happy miles between the hotel and me. Thus, riding a crest of elation, I would find myself not north as I had expected, but south — in Brazil. Fiery Brazil.

So…I hope that the tourists who got the royal shaft from Conquest will be doing that when they get home because, frankly, I haven’t heard a single critical note on Conquest pipe put of any of the local media. Where are the kick-ass take-downs? Where are the public photos of Conquest execs hanging their heads in shame for absconding with their customers’ money?

That’s right, I’m asking for poo to be flung.

“Customers who have booked a Conquest vacation will likely get the money back.” – *sob*

“Oasis [resort] staff told the 200-odd guests who booked through Conquest they must pay the $1,078-per-person bill – or police would come to the airport the day of their scheduled departure and force them to clear their tab.” – Ouch.

“Conquest Vacations regrets the inconvenience caused to the passengers due to cessation of its operations” – !

“Canadians clashed with Mexican hotel security guards Thursday when a group of 28 people staying at the Golden Parnassus resort tried to leave the premises after disputing their bill, according to one of the travellers.” – Image, gone.

“At home, Conquest’s sudden demise is raising questions about the travel-industry watchdog’s role in preventing such inconveniences.” – You know, that is inconvenient.

“As a gesture of goodwill, we are offering travellers who are rebooking their vacations with Sunquest over the next 10 days $100 off the lowest current Sunquest rates — with proof of their Conquest Vacations purchase” – Turning frowns upside-down.

“In business since 1972, Conquest served destinations in Canada, the United States, the Caribbean, Mexico and Europe.” – Good to know. Good to know.

“Beaver had recently planned a trip to the Dominican with her boyfriend.” – I’m so so sorry. I just couldn’t stop myself. It was automatic – like clicking in a dream.

The new Netbook I purchased yesterday has been inaugurally dropped, shaken like a wailing toddler by a coworker, and still appears to be running. I can’t adequately express the excited shivers I feel running up my spine as I write this in the thick of it: on the streetcar! Must be why they call it the Eee PC.

Or maybe it’s just the caffeine. There’s not really much going on; streetcar’s a bit off schedule. Hum.

Actually, I got this funny little conpooter because my gargantuan laptop; well, she’s about to die. She can’t boot sometimes and that horrible, horrible clicking sound coming from somewhere in that portly package, that usually signals imminent death. *sob*

I could almost survive without the teevee (which is one of Bertha’s — that’s the computer — functions), but not having TCL, that would have been too much. So I bit the pillow and shelled out a few hundred for this little wonder of a gizmo. If only my fingers weren’t so big-boned. The keyboard’s in the lowest order  of  comfortable typing surfaces, but it should do until I scrape enough money together to purchase a beefier machine. Or at least something that’ll let me play Tomb Raider comfortably.

For $350 bucks I got a 1.9 gigahertz processor, a gigabyte of RAM, a 160 gigabyte hard drive, and the soothing knowledge that when Bertha finally kicks it, I’ll at least have something to fall back on. If those specs don’t mean anything to you, trust me, it’s a good price.

My shopping prowess aside, such good deals can be had commonly in a little section of College Street between Bathurst and Spadina that I’ve taken to calling Computer Alley. It’s not really an alley, but doesn’t it make it sound somehow more intriguing?

On this short strip you will find an unusually high density of computer stores, many of them operating directly beside each other, and many staffed by Indian, Sri Lankan, or Pakistani men, which always implies good bargains (you know it’s true). Sometimes the price cuts are so deep, it’s a hemorrhagic wonderland of bargains. Even if you only have twenty bucks burning a hole in your pocket, you’ll find a nifty gadget to spend it on. For the gentlemen, besides computer hardware there are plenty of wierd and useless digital devices that will help to demonstrate the superior size of your penis to the ladies. Ladies, some of these things are *sooooo* cute. There; all bases covered.

The really great thing about strolling down Computer Alley is the number of licensed establishments interjected between these hardware shops; liquor, money, and digital hardware is a fun afternoon for everyone, especially the kids. You might even spot me there inebriatedly trying to squeeze some bargains out of the hapless shopkeeps. Then again, with no photo of me, that may prove to be somewhat challenging. How about this? I’ll be the guy schlepping the Asus around.

Despite the love, hate, or ambivalence you may feel for the TTC, you have to admit that it manages a pretty big spread over a pretty wide area. Occasionally, the quality of service is going to slip. Sometimes, though, eager young TTC staff take their duties seriously and perform them with a smile and a tip of the hat. It’s a nice change from the cocky smirk and sputum in the eye one usually gets.

For example, my morning commute on the 504 King West was handled by a dapper fellow donning the full Transit Commission regalia. His headwear was not unlike a full police constable hat (did you know they made these?), his uniform was Picardesquely neat and authoritative, and the mirror shades and Gestapo gloves he gesticulated wildly with were the final word on professionalism.

Here’s a wholly inadequate picture that I took:

If you look real close, you can make out the edges of the hat.

Like I said, wholly inadequate. But that doesn’t matter because I didn’t want to single out one specific driver, though you’ll always be in my heart, streetcar number 4187 operator.

What the situation reminded me of were some of the old photos from the Toronto Archives I’d been browsing recently while stealthily dodging work; pseudo-nostalgic images of a gentler time in the TTC’s history when men were men and ulcers were the size of a baby’s head.

Here are some of the tippity-tops from my short list:

On the way home to murder the cheating wife at a Wellesley bus stop, 1957:

Distracted-lesbian guided tour at King subway station, 1957:

Tommy Holmes, TTC conductor and chronic masturbator, 1930s:

Little Oliver Twist with his mum and their parole officer, 1926:

Holy shit it’s sinking!, 1927:

Hahahahahaha, 1928:

On the way to the re-education camp, 1928:

Here I am plunking down $2.75 a trip and the streetcar doesn’t even mow down pedestrians with a cow-catcher anymore. The TTC used to be the better way, now it’s just the adequate way. At least the operator of the  4187 car is making an effort to rekindle the glory days.

Them’s the times, I guess.

Crack, ganja, crystal meth, heroin, PCP; I understand why people smoke this stuff. Cigarettes; totally beyond me.

You don’t have to try ’em to know, most drugs will mess you up in one way or another, more or less. Seems like you get good bang for your buck most of the time. Cigarettes do what…give you a head rush for a couple of minutes? Seems like an awful cheap buzz to me.

But whatever. Just, please, try to keep it downwind when you’re near a group. It just seems like a courteous thing to do, you know?

I was set to thinking down this path by events that took place in the second installment (here’s the first)  in what I’m now calling the The Practical Gentleman’s Guide to Urban Insolence. I think it has a nice ring to it. The practical aspect comes from the truly useful actionable advice I can offer when confronted with unpleasantness; such as the gentleman who managed to blanket a group of people with his Malboro so entirely, he hardly seemed to notice the harsh glances he was getting from downwind. Mostly, I think, people were upset because he abandoned his spot even further downwind for this prime location, seemingly for no other reason than he enjoyed the view.

I suppose he has as much right to smoke as I do to not and, you know, there’s that entire “well if not on the sidewalk, then where?” thing. Yeah, just take it down there where it don’t bother so many people.

Common — as in, for most people — Courtesy — as in, it’s a nice thing to do.

This would not be the practical gentleman’s guide if there weren’t some advice on dealing with the more societally obtuse subjects for whom courtesy is neither common nor a word in the vocabulary.

I’m certain this may have been suggested before (on a smaller scale), but I was thinking that as a planned group demonstration, this could be quite effective.

First would come the day-before meals. They would have to be planned very carefully to be as friendly to the bacteria in the lower intestine as possible; foods like cabbage, onions, brussels sprouts, cauliflower, broccoli, and beans. There are other alternatives that will work better for others, but it’d be hard to go wrong either way. It’s the effort that counts!

The next day, spotting the offending target, the group would all line up upwind and face all gluteous maximii at said target. At the mark, all would release the most rancorous, malodorous, belching fart they could muster, and send it on its way with a kiss. The breeze would do all the work, delivering the malevolent chemical message to the receiving party.

Job well done! High-fives all around!

Then run.

Today I’m pleased as punch to present the traveling variety show that sets up camp across the street from my apartment at this time of year. Give ’em a chance; if the cheerful yolp in the first clip doesn’t brighten your day, very little will!
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I’m taking the day off to eat chocolate and think bibley thoughts.

Happy death and resurrection of our lord and saviour weekend, everybody!

The streets are a wonderful place for spotting memorable people.

The guy across from me on the streetcar this morning had the face, bristle, and thick-rimmed glasses of Elvis Costello, the fashion sense of Paul Giamatti, and the hair of Sideshow Bob. I walked through the entrance to my building with the spitting image of a female manservant Hecubus. We both passed the building’s property manager who bears more than passing resemblance to Dr. Evil.

Shouldn’t people like this be on camera? Some people don’t think so.

In an article today, The Star published a publicity piece for a group (led by Ryan Ringer) calling themselves Methinks Presents, which if you ask me, is a total misnomer.

What they intend to do is to swarm the Google Street View car that has recently been making the rounds in Toronto in order to bring attention to the “creepy nature” of Google’s project. As part of the event, they’ll probably be taking pictures in a public location.  In the process, they’ll probably be capturing the numerous random faces of people who just happen to be passing by and won’t have any say in  (or even knowledge of), being photographed. Not to mention the number of random webcams, camera phones,  and “security” and traffic cameras that cling to every available nook and cranny downtown. It’s a safe bet that everything will find its way onto Flickr, YouTube, blogs, etc.

To argue that Google is invading our privacy from the inside of a car, from a public road, means that it shouldn’t be legal for anyone to take photographs from anywhere, of anything, for any reason. Or is it just Google because they’re “evil”? Maybe Methink’s protest is intended to be somehow artistically ironic? Somehow, methinks not.

My shitter being equated to the middle of my street throws the notion of “reasonable expectation of privacy” out the window. Everything would be considered private (if the street would, what wouldn’t be?). Recorded images of any kind would have to be illegal, probably forcing the government to ban the use of cameras. While at it, why not extend the same courtesy to audio recordings? That would really suck for quite a few people.

I suppose one alternative would be to ask permission whenever you took a picture; permission of anyone in the shot (or blur them out); permission from the owners of any properties in the frame (or blur them out); permission from owners whose pets appear in photographs (or blur them out). God help you if an identifiable airplane or bus happens to pass into your shot.

Sounds silly, doesn’t it?

Not only does Methink’s plan sound horribly illegal (“hey, let’s go swarm a car because we don’t like what it’s doing”), but they’re pushing an idea that is contrary to the public good. Mine especially. I bought a brand-spanking new camera not too long ago and I don’t want to be  ambushed by Methink’s grouptards for taking a picture of the Eaton Centre.

I don’t think most people would be bothered  if they saw themselves walking down the street in a Street View scene, unless maybe they were caught doing something questionable. In that case, may I suggest maybe not doing that in public?

Oh, and when the Google car does approach, I think there’s a much better way to deal with one’s public image. Do a quick straighten-up, put on a giant shit-eatin’ grin, and give a crazy big thumbs-up as the car passes. The virtual tourist will find Toronto to have very inetersting people. Isn’t that much more productive?

Are you reading this with coffee? No? Well, do you wanna get one? I can wait…

I think it’s good to immerse yourself in a subject much, as it happens, like good coffee in hot water. It provides a much richer froth of experience and warm sensory delectation. Mmmm, I know you can taste it.

Now let me tell you why Second Cup is UH-SO-MUCH (said with gusto!), better than Starbucks. First, let’s take a detour to the basics: the bean. It starts as the green seed of a red cherry. The cherry part is stripped or sometimes left to dry off, the husk around the two beans in the center (sometimes one) is dried off along with the beans themselves, then they’re bagged, stored, and shipped. Basically: strip, dry, husk, bag, and deliver.

Up until this point, with the exception of coming from different equatorial regions around the world, most beans are pretty much the same. Green, there’s not much flavour. When slow roasted, though, some kinda magical alchemical reaction takes place in the bean and it starts to slowly release all sorts of flavourful oils onto its surface as it browns.

The lightest roast is green-brown. You probably wouldn’t want to drink it; probably something like boiled cabbage and two-day-old underwear. When brown, the next step up, the bean is nicely toasted throughout, but there’s no oil on the surface. The next roast up is medium. Here you can easily see oily spotting on the bean. Finally, with a dark roast, the bean is visibly blackened and very oily all over. If you’ve ever bought a French or Italian roast, that’s the guy.

So, the next time you step into a Starbucks, don’t forget that you’ve just wasted however long it took you to read that. If you skipped it, good for you. It’s pretty much irrelevant because everything at Starbucks is cinder. That’s the American style of producing “strong” coffee; burn the bean to hell and back and throw in milk and sugar like it went out of style two seasons ago.

But I don’t want to be too critical. Good blackened beans are good for a proper frothy espresso or espresso-based drinks.
Which I barely ever have.
End of story.

Second Cup, on the other hand, runs the whole gamut of browns. If you visit their bean counter, they usually have a display mounted front and center where they show off what I described above. There’s usually not much guess work between a light roast and a medium roast; just look at the differences in oil on the surface. I’ve been told their default dark roast is a bit sub-par but, at more than one location, they’ve made special cups from freshly ground bagged beans from the bean counter. Never hurts to ask because that’s how you might hit on that one awesome bean.

Not only that but the majority of their stuff is excellent; fair-trade-before-fair-trade ones like my fave of faves, La Minita Tarrazu, a coffee that has never disappointed. Mellow and just so laid back. That coffee doesn’t have a care in the world.

Summatran/Indonesian blends are also very accessible; their sun curing process creates a coffee that in some seasons tastes like cocoa. When done in a french press, it creates a really rich brew with some of the very fine particles of coffee suspended in the liquid. This thick hot suspension and it’s aroma of nuts and chocolate all get plunged into a sweetened steamed-milk bath. Like I said, accessible.

At Starbucks, the choices are basically: black, pitch, inner-anus, and very very dark. Even with caramel, I don’t like them odds.

Buy proud Canadian coffee instead! Raise that morning cup ‘o northen glory high and pronounce with pride:

It’s a little shameful to admit, but when I first heard of “bum fights”, my mind immediately sprung to a well-lit bedroom, two attractive young ladies looking at each other over their shoulders with lustful disdain, ready to have at each other with their voluptuous heinies. It sounded absolutely delightful.

It may have been the general aversion to such a word as “bum” by the company I kept during my formative years, but other than being used to describe:

 
…well, you’re not supposed to call people of no fixed address that. That is the only foul version of that word.

Panhandling is done for many different reasons so I try to judge each book by it’s cover. If the person looks really destitute, I won’t miss a quarter. But there are others who make it a bit harder to part with my nickels.

This morning, for example, I passed a fellow under the subway tracks who I recognized as an area local. Aside from not being able to figure out if people were dropping imaginary money into his cup, or if he was taking sips of imaginary coffee, or if both were real and he was just drinking change, I couldn’t help but notice his clothes.

His shoes were sparklingly new, as were his bright white slacks and a gorgeous scarf tossed carelessly around his neck. Yes, he had an ensemble. Meanwhile, I was walking by in deep need of new shoes and a winter jacket that finally allows me to use the word threadbare. It’s a good word. Lotsa uses.

No, my money wasn’t going into that coffee.

As I stepped on the escalator to the platform, the word “bum” floated through my consciousness and I caught myself feeling a bit embarrassed. But then, with majestic bravado, the manly part of my brain walked on over, swooped that little lady off her feet and told her everything would be alright. After all, he really was trying to “bum” money off me. If the need were great, it would be “begging”, “panhandling”, or “soliciting”. If the need doesn’t seem that great, it’s “bumming”, and the person performing that action is a “bum”.

If we take some of the generalized pejorative connotations out of the word, it sounds a bit more reasonable. In fact, I’m in favour of adding a little weight on the cheeky side of the definition because I believe those kinds of “bum fights” would make the world a better place.

Though down, be not thee out.

I’m sure you’ve experienced this too; walking down the street just thinking your own devious thoughts when, all of a sudden, synchronicity jumps out from around the corner, grabbing your wallet and sprinting into a nearby entrance in one clean, continuous, and startling motion.

That was my morning commute;  a drab, water-logged grey smear with occasional pelts of icy snow.

I thought a little old-school tunage would be appropriate, so I plugged in my Zune and managed to run through about three songs in the Trip-Hop list before rounding the building to the 540 King streetcar stop. There, Tricky’s croaking “hell is around the corner” cut into a chill Massive Attack groove, the words foreshadowing the presence of something dark and evil just a few feet away.

Let’s call her L.

I’ve known her professionally for a number of years. Our paths have managed to cross on more than one occasion, and each of those times I was reminded of why I wasn’t keen on seeing her again. To sum it up succinctly, she doesn’t get fired well.

It’s not the kind of not getting fired well you’re probably thinking of. There are no angry expressions, violence, or bridge-burning words; just a psychotic grin accompanied by a wholly unsettling and removed calmness.

Allow me to paint the picture for you. On each occasion, settings aside, the situation is the same: At the time of the incident, she has either spent the previous six months or so producing something she was never asked to produce or, sometimes, nothing at all. There’s usually not great shock when the head of HR approaches her to “have a chat.” After this she returns to work at her desk, broad grin adorning her wide face, giving everyone the impression that she’d just received a raise.

On the contrary, she’d just been let go. Only she’s not letting go.

Management circles her desk and and explains slowly that she’s no longer an employee. She nods, eyes focused, clear, and clearly failing to take in reality, kind of like a serial murderer trying to figure out why the skin suit she fashioned isn’t giving her the power of its’ victims. Then she turns her head back to the monitor and resumes working.

At this point security usually intervene, physically escorting her from the premises. She flashes that magic smile at everyone as she leaves, perhaps still unaware of her situation, or perhaps deciding how best to decapitate all of her favourite ex-colleagues. That, in a scary nutshell, is L and her unceasing smile (trust me, it’s not incredible positivity).

As I swung around the corner this morning, that smile cut through the crowd like a bloodied knife. She looked straight at me with a horrible focus and a curt little Asian head-nod that indicated I was now very possibly the next unsolved murder of the year. Evading conversation seemed like a quick way to a sliced carotid, so I waved and said hello.

Despite my lack of interaction with her in the past, she knew my name, my age, where I’d lived and worked over the past few years, the name of my cat, and other creepy factoids meticulously gathered from the few sentences I spoke in front of her (not to her, as she explained).

My own memories  stopped at the companies where she claimed we had worked together (until they came flooding back later in a long-repressed deluge).

“What’s your name again?” I asked.

“Oh, you don’t remember?” she replied with an even deeper and more unsettling grin.

I glanced nervously at my watch while shaking my head no. Twenty minutes to my destination; God, please let me live through this!