Last Friday morning, a familiar voice from Chew Chew’s, my weekly greasy spoon, broke the morning slog; I had won!

Yes!

Every week I left my name and number on the back of that blasted breakfast receipt along with a healthy tip (*wink wink*) and now, finally, it had been drawn. “Yes, R.! I’ll be by to pick up the certificate on Saturday! Wonderful! Thanks so much!” (R.’s the tall, thin guy with a stache, glasses, and porn-star do. He conducts himself like the place is his – which it may be. In a good way, I mean.)

Unfortunately, Saturday was the day of the big power outage in the neighbourhood. You may have read the blow-by-blow in the new Twitter feed thingy I added at the right (what do you think of the name “Tweetness”?) I didn’t think anything nearby would have power so I decided to postpone until the following day.

On Sunday I strolled into Chew Chew’s like a man about to win something. I was thinking a free breakfast, maybe two? It’s a mom and pop joint so I figured it wouldn’t be anything big. But still, nice to win :)

R. handed it to me the moment I walked in. A couple of conditions were stapled to the front:

Okay, that’s fair. The weekends are probably the busiest times, and while they provide free food, they wouldn’t want to get stiffed on the taxes. And a tip is nice.

The part beneath the note simply has Chew Chew’s address and a notice that this ticket expired on August 31, 2008. Again, mom and pop joint; I’m sure it’ll be kosher when it comes to redemption time.

No mention of the actual prize though. I flipped it over:

Wow. I’d just won a coupon. With newly revealed, pre-existing staple holes. A re-used coupon.

My typical bill is around twelve dollars so I’d be saving a buck twenty. I tip considerably more than this. And I can’t imagine the next time I’ll be there on a weekday. *sigh*

I don’t think I’ve ever kept my feelings about the Shwa (an east Toronto burb), a secret. But having gone through this emotional roller-coaster, I totally empathize with them when they got the news today. KISS (yes, the rock band), was supposed to play there after the Shwabians won an online contest involving lots of votes. It was supposed to be one of those we’ll come to your little town if you can all pull together kinds of contests. Clearly Oshawa has a lot of KISS fans.

So can you imagine how elated they must’ve felt when they won?

Ah, good for them. Most of Oshawa revolved around the auto industry, and that went tits up here just like it did everywhere else. They really could’ve used a break like that. So when KISS crapped on their parade, I was genuinely saddened to hear about it. I mean, I might not like to be in the place, but that doesn’t mean I wish it harm.

KISS decided on good old Toronto because, as their spokesman put it, “the size of the production turned out to require a larger venue”. Bummer. They said they’d do something, but didn’t quite say what. Those lines are so far apart, you can read a whole stage play between them: “Ummm … shit … we can’t do the concert there … a … an autograph session? … that’s pretty weak … ummm … something … for me to come up with later”

Hope it’s something good!

While on the subject of reading, I came across a couple of articles, well, a few articles, that caught my attention in the past few days. The first was by the Toronto Star’s David Olive who kinda beats up on bloggers when he says that when the going gets tough, bloggers run to the mainstream media for a paycheque. Well, I don’t know about you, but this blog is something I just like to do. I have a steady day job and TCL is my excuse to get outside, get some fresh(er) air, and some much-needed exercise. It also forces me to keep my eyes open every day and just try to observe. Instead of sitting at my stuffy Toronto Star desk pontificating about all bloggers’ nefarious motives. Besides, my means to world domination are other. After that, who needs money?

Is it possible that some bloggers would be pleased as punch to merge into the mainstream media? I bet you could find a few. Is it possible that sometimes blogs feed the mainstream media? It’s been known to happen.

Nota bene (heh, the only Latin I know – I use it when I try to sound lawyery): I made mention of “The Bridge” (a police flick), way back in May. I suppose that I could have asked a few more questions, but whaddya gonna do? I don’t recall going to reporter academy, I’m just a guy living his life. And I happened to be there first :P

Oh, and you may recall the short interactions I’ve had with Steve Mann, watery musician and cyborg (the links explain all). Well on Sunday, out of the blue, The Star got the exact same idea! Yeah, totally ripped me off.

Anyhow, I didn’t want to argue against the mainstream media. Clearly I’m a news-breaker and some of them are just biters, that’s all. And sometimes I’m just lucky. Sometimes there are as many reasons to blog as there are bloggers. For me, it’s a way to escape the Dilbert strip I otherwise live in. If someone paid me a few bucks to write what I was gonna write about anyway, minus a couple of expletives, I wouldn’t be against it. As long as I wasn’t against it, dig? I fail to see the evil. But hardly suckling at the tit.

Ooh! Laundry’s done! Very good news. Star, I give you permission to break it. You know I love you, you big lug. *playful punch on chin* Mail the cheque(s), I trust ya ;)

So, let’s have a look at what we have here, shall we?

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First of all, ignore the percentages shown above. The -41% thing would suggest that, perhaps, they’re not entirely accurate.

So, out of 42 votes cast the highest percentage (21%), believed that Mondays should be illegal. A further 14% cast a disparaging glance at the rest of the week too — something about shooting the weekdays while we’re at it? Crazy gun-nutty Americans :) Most shocking, however, are the serious allegations of impropriety on the part of Mondays, with a whopping 17% of you (that’s nearly 1 in 5), reporting that Mondays have made unwanted sexual advances toward you. Only one vote was cast for the whole poll not making any sense, and I cast that one, so we can safely assume everyone understood the question. Except me.

But who cares? Isn’t that shocking?! I sure do hope the local media pick up this story.

My own experience with Monday is one of pain. I woke up today in some discomfort, having finally attended Dream in the Park.

The discomfort portion of the story, I’m ashamed to report, is one-hundred percent me.

They do recommend bringing a blanket, jacket, and bug repellant. I did not. To complicate matters further, I had biked to High Park, pushing it up that final bitch of a road like a real man:

Then walking the remaining half of the hill like a real tired man.

By the time I got to the top I had worked up a good, healthy sweat. As I may have mentioned before, the seating for Dream is literally on the ground. The stage is simply a wooden platform and the audience sits in an amphitheatre cut out of the hillside in front of it. Luckily, I did have something between me and the moist earth, but I hadn’t planned on the chill wind that swept down into the valley that night. If the play hadn’t been so engrossing, I would’ve picked up and left. But those assholes were so damn good that I ended up with a sore back!

Okay, so it’s Shakespeare. Yeah, it put me to sleep in high school too. English; borringest subject ever. The Tempest; *sticking finger down throat*. But people actually brought their kids to this!

I don’t want to sound like someone’s paying me to say this because, alas, I remain sponsorless, but this is really a show to see. With the Pay-What-You-Can pricing, it’s always affordable. You’re encouraged to bring snacks and anything you want to make yourself comfortable. And I can assure you that whatever your equivalent of the suggested $20  donation is, the feature-length show will be well worth it.

The beauty of this production is that it’s been taken back to its roots. No, not rag-adorned, unwashed, Elizabethan showmen; I’m talking about the people for whom Shakespeare wrote his works for. Unfortunately, the language isn’t quite as up-to-date as it once may have been, but the actors make up for this through their modern intonation, great acting, and physical improvisation. They really bring out the comedic, entertaining nature of the play. And even though they’re all speaking at a fair clip, the whole story is completely intelligible. It’s almost like you’re a filth-covered Shakespearean commoner out for a night on the mud.

I had never actually read The Tempest. I knew the gist of it; banished wizard-Duke Prospero, big storm, deserted island, yadda yadda; but never the nitty gritty. I’m fairly certain that the glaring Gilligan’s Island overtones present throughout the Dream version are not part of the original story, but it did help to set the context.

Prospero was replaced with Prospera (Karen Robinson), and Ariel (Audrey Dwyer) did a couple of Lion-King-inspired musical sequences, presumably to give the show a softer touch. Nothing over the top, mind you; old Willy’s work is still kept pretty much intact. Just enough to break up the slow parts. Worked for me.

The music and sound effects worked with the trees, bees, and birds around them rather than trying to fight it out. The crickets started to sound like cicadas after a while. You kind of got the feeling you were actually on Prospera’s island:

Yeah, I really liked it. A modernized classic that was genuinely entertaining. Can’t say any of that about any movie I’ve paid to see lately.

Okay, time for me to get back to the heating pad. Mondays …

The early bird gets the buck seventy-five deal :D

For cheapskates, spendthrifts, and watchapennies, today was the day to visit The Ex. Today was my day!

I think you may recall last Thursday when they were still setting up? Well, today was opening day:

There was just so much to do and see that a narrative of any kind would be foolhardy. I just kind of ricocheted back and forth along the CNE grounds until I was eventually spit out through the Prince’s Gates. Everything was there; the food, the rides … everything except the horses! *earnest disappointment* I had my lemonade all ready, and the horse pavilion certainly smelled like horses. But no horses. Equine-free. :(

Anyway, here’s some other fun stuff. I guess:

I guess that’s why it’s cheapy day today. When you pay the regular fifteen dollar cover, you get horses. For sixty more you get Bill Clinton. I guess that’s fair; horses gotta eat too. Bill though, he’s milking it. Oh don’t get me wrong, I’d be doing exactly the same if I were in his shoes. Just saying s’all.

Well, tomorrow will no doubt be similar to today. It will involve a children’s birthday party. The kids I like. We communicate on a common level. It’s the stamina that kills me. They’re as fresh on their fiftieth “helicopter ride” as they are on their first. I put that into quotes because I want you to hold whatever vision of that that pops up in your imagination. Okay, now make it just a bit too dangerous; throw the kid up just a bit too high; spin them upside down for just a bit too long; include a ceiling fan, and why not the kitchen sink?

Kids love it.

Mostly I hate having to explain to the parents. Again.

I mean well. And the kids are always ecstatic just before the tears. Bah. They’re old enough to start going to amusement parks anyway.

Hoowee!

That was a humdinger of a storm. It started at about seven o’clock; the moment I was stepping off the streetcar, in fact. For about an hour, the skies were black and rain ripped through the city.

Environment Canada’s weather forecast for this evening was “chance of thunderstorms”, so at least I brought an umbrella. But that just let me avoid most of the rain. When the downpour blew horizontally over Bay Street, the umbrella was actually seeping through and the wind was strong enough to pick up those drops on the other side and toss them at me randomly. Why fight it? The run to the other side of the street was, what, maybe four meters (about thirteen feet). Close the umbrella and dash!

I zoomed under the overhand of First Canadian Place – dripping. I estimate that I was out there maybe, umm, three seconds. Tops. Another second and I might as well have strolled home because I wouldn’t have gotten any wetter.

The air conditioning at FCP was really unpleasant, but it was  the only option that didn’t involve the butt end of a tornado, and that would get me back to my place – AND THE WIDE OPEN WINDOWS! – was the PATH. Of all the times I’d walked it, I don’t ever remember seeing water coming through the ceiling:

This is underground, beneath a Bay Street bank building. I bet the cost of the whole thing won’t be pretty. Whatever it is that hit the city, it got bashed pretty hard. Whoever was outside got wet in one way or another; umbrellas, galoshes, rain hats; we were all at the mercy of the elements:

I don’t have underwater gear for the camera so this is, unfortunately, the best I could do. By seven thirty, the water was coming down more vertically so I opened up the still-leaking umbrella and marched it on home. Took a shower, and here I am.

Wasn’t that exciting?

I’m going to cut this post a little short today because the whole ordeal tuckered me out.

Plus I’m working my programmer mojo on a side project. For the glory of TCL and her gracious readership, of course! ;)

Do you believe in signs? I mean, warnings of the future? Hints? Stuff like that?

I must admit, I do sometimes peek into the horoscope section of whatever I’m reading just to see what they have to say about my chances for the next day. I never actually follow up to see if there was any shred of accuracy to it afterward, mind you. I just like to be reassured.

I also like to look at the things around me as portents of things to come. Today, for example, I took another route home to try to get some inspiration for this post.  And inspired portents I did indeed find:

O — kay. The experience was even creepier because in the back there was a tent with a hunk of cardboard stuck in the front, presumably for privacy. And the whole tent shook rhythmically.  Yeah, don’t come a knockin’ rhythmically.

I guess it’s possible something else was going on in the tent. Some kinda art thing. Hehe … yeah, “art“. :D

Papier-mâché items like this (sometimes just limbs), littered the space which also seemed to double as an entrance to some flats in the back. I think. The tent was as wide as the alley so that ended that detour.

Anyway, the sculpture seemed a bit disturbing to me. Kinda like death with an empty name card. As in, anyone’s up for grabs. And then a man’s ass emerged from the tent. Eee!

I hauled.

A few blocks later I looked up and … ?!

Could be some sort of Portuguese decoration? Or maybe … ummm … I need help. Wait a minute! I’m in possession of a semi-functional brain!

Me: “Hey pal, could I trouble you a moment?”

Brain: “The heat … I was gonna go take a nap. Is it important?”

Me: “Totally! Look at that. That’s the second thing that’s reminded me of death today. That one especially because it’s obvious. Is this a warning about death? Our death?”

Brain: “Haha! No. That’s probably someone’s ‘art‘. I mean, look at it! Maybe some viral ad for something, but do you think they nailed this here just for us?”

Me: “Hmmm. Yeah, you have a point.”

Brain: “I mean, the odds of you even seeing this are astronomical. Don’t read too much into it.”

Me: “Thanks, buddy!”

Brain: “No probs.”

And then, across the street from the AGO:

Brain: “Wow. Now this surprised even me.”

Me: “Me too!”

I suppose I could look at it through the Tarot Death card interpretation. It could mean the passing away of a personal epoch, or sometimes parts of oneself. Often this is accompanied with a more positive reading, like this process will give birth to new parts of you that you didn’t know existed. Exciting! Cancerous!

That throws some healthy ambiguity on the fire. So I guess there’s still plenty of room for a reasonable explanation. I just hope that one day I find the people who put these things on the poles; they’ll be the ones with the explanation. That tent guy, well, I’m not going near him again, so we’ll chalk that up to “art” and look no further.

Dear guy who fell at the AMC theatre,

Hahaha! *wipe tear* Oh man, you made my morning today. Thank you.

So I take it you fell off the side of one of the escalators in the enclosed photograph, correct?

Look, I don’t think actions such as these should be punishable by death, so I hope you get better. But seriously? Trying to ride the handrail? Here?

I’ve done my fair share regrettable things while inebriated. That was it, right? You were drunk? I get it. I’m always a little more invincible than I really am; I don’t think as well as I should; that’s what alcohol does. But I’ve never once thought that a two or three storey, head-first plunge onto a slab of concrete would be the thing to do. And I don’t know how you could’ve overlooked the height. You probably don’t remember, so have a look at the photograph again. Besides the great visibility, you probably got a good sense of the layout on your way up, no?

Well, listen. If you’re reading this, that’s good news! Stick with the physio and you should regain almost full control over the drooly side of your face. I know your situation sucks, but to be honest, I’m glad it wasn’t me. Then again, at 27, that wasn’t me. When you can dictate or write again, please send me a reply to describe your thought process at the time. I would be most interested.

With ancticipation,
Patrick

—

Dear Ms. Mohamud,

Okay, so let me see if I’ve got the story straight.

You went to Kenya to visit a relative. Had a good couple of weeks; nice place.

So then you went to leave and the people at the Kenyan airport said you didn’t look like your passport. Something about your lips being different? I had a look for myself, as you can see in the enclosed photo, and the passport photo probably bears the greatest resemblance to you out of all your identification.

So if I have it correct so far, they held you in detention (basically jail) while they contacted Canadian officials to verify your passport. Apparently all of the other government-issued identification cards you surrendered (among other things), were also supposed to have been forged or stolen, or something like that. I bet you were thinking the Canadian government would sort it all out for you, huh? After all, you are clearly who you say you are.

If were in your shoes, I would have shat a house when I learned that Canada then cancelled my passport as a verified fake. Are you as curious as I am to know how they came up with that? A government-backed inquiry wouldn’t be a bad idea. I mean, it will take a decade, but might as well start that mossy stone rolling, no?

Okay, so no documents. Honestly, asking to be fingerprinted was really smart. I don’t remember the feds taking my fingerprints when I came to Canada as a kid, but I guess they do. It would seem obvious that as an immigrant, they’d have your prints on file too.

But they didn’t.

Now, I completely understand why they would destroy your prints after doing a background check since, apparently, that’s all they’re supposed to be used for. Sensible, but obviously not of much help to you.

What I don’t get is why they kept you dangling for two weeks refusing to take them, then waiting two more while dithering whether or not to do so, then finally doing so, then two more weeks while they checked back home, and only then discovering that they don’t keep them on file.

Three months of Canada Border Services sitting on their thumbs. I can see how mistakes could be made, but this … how did you not freak out?

I know you haven’t decided whether or not to sue the government, but I want you to know you’ll have my full support if you do. The rolling of heads also gets my vote.

Sincerely,
Patrick

—

Dear busker at Dundas Station,

Thanks for letting me take your picture. Your music was like a Siren song. A jazzy Siren song. Minus the Siren. I don’t know how you managed to permeate the whole station, but it was just magical.

I hope you come back again soon.

With admiration,
Patrick

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.