Gabriella Nagy can suck my gonads.

Okay, I admit that as a divorcee, my views are a little skewed here. The attitude that this woman is carrying around is awfully similar to my ex’s, so be warned that there’s a pretty heavy bias here. And some lingering emotion. :) But enough time has now passed for that initial divorce pissed-offedness to have worn off. I’ve had plenty of calm time to consider / discuss motivations, history, my own faults and involvement, etc., and I’ve come to the conclusion that although I have plenty of improving to do, it doesn’t make Gabriella and my ex any less hosebags in their own way.

So here’s the story. Some time in 2007 Rogers Wireless (TV / Internet / mobile provider), decided to switch up its billing system to a one-per-household “global” system (as opposed to one per customer). At least I’m assuming that was it, I’m not a Rogers customer. In any event, they decided to start bundling bills for the same address even when the names weren’t the same. According to Gabriella this was done without her consent or knowledge.

At this point I can kinda see why she’d be suing Rogers. A major-brand car dealership, along with assistance from my ex, did something very similar to me — downright fraud, in fact — so I can sympathize. If it’s true that Rogers did this then they should be reprimanded, fined, and made to update this policy. I really don’t think there was any evil intent on the part of Rogers — it saves trees, saves the company some money, etc. — but they can’t just pull policies like that out of their ass and implement them without thinking about customers.

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The fact that is was cloudy and kinda misty and foggy on Saturday was so apropos.

That little pot rally that happened at Yonge-Dundas Square about a week ago was basically just practice for the main event, the Global Marijuana March and Freedom Festival. The point of the march, as far as I can fathom it, is to demonstrate the futility of existing pot prohibitions. It originally started as a grass roots (haha!) movement but now, well, the word “festival” is appropriate if you ask me. Even if you’re completely against anything marijuana, you must admit that arresting everyone simply wouldn’t be practical. Maybe even possible.

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If you read TCL semi-regularly, you’ll know I don’t indulge in Top 10 lists. Top 5 either. Top Anything, for that matter. I just don’t find them terribly informative, mostly.

But, you know, sometimes you end up wandering aimlessly for a couple of days and don’t really have a good way to tie any of the resulting photos together. So in that spirit, here’s my list of 5 main reasons why I think living in the city, and in Toronto especially, is so durned good. With photos.

#1 – Spring Chickenism

This is definitely tops on my list. Here’s the thing, I’m down to the last notch on my last two remaining belts. A pair of pants that I’d held onto just in case I ever slimmed down now also require a belt. Some of my old pants are like potato sacks. But very comfortable, I’ll say that. In fact, if it wasn’t for a steady diet of junk food and, recently, Cadbury’s Easter Creme Eggs, I’d be forced to go out and buy a whole new wardrobe. Or some heavy-duty suspenders. I figure bad food is a cheaper alternative.

Now don’t get me wrong, I could still use some … toning. But in terms of my overall physical dimensions, I’ve shrunk. This with not caring at all about what I eat.

Are you asking, dear reader, what kind of exercise regimen I’m on? Perhaps what special “supplements” I take?

Nothing special, I just live downtown.

Unfortunately, I can’t locate the link at the moment, but I remember reading an article that compared the fitness of city-dwellers to non-urbanites. The consensus was generally that people in the city were a little healthier, a little slimmer. On average, of course. And, as I can attest, it doesn’t have much to do with our eating habits

It’s mostly to do with the fact that in the city, walking or cycling are much better ways to get around. One-way streets? Who gives a shit? No parking? I so couldn’t care less. Private property? These boots were made for climbin’, and that’s just what they’ll do.

I swear on all that is good that I’ve matched pace with a streetcar, more than once, from the sidewalk. And I wasn’t even going that fast. It’s why parking downtown is always such a pain; because everyone wants to do it and get around the smart way instead.

But as I’m sure I’ve mentioned, I understand the need for a car for the suburbs. I’ve been there, done that. And the sticks too. They had their charm — but I was undeniably chunkier.

#2 – Conveniencism

Everything is just, like, right there. Everything.

Sure, that store might not have it, but did you try those other six? Within walking distance, I mean.

It’s the density that makes it possible. When you cram enough potential customers together — within walking distance, say — it’s easier to sell niche items. There’s stuff I’ve found in dusty little shops around the city I never imagined I’d find. Or find again.

I ordered something off the web one day. I could’ve had it in my possession in half an hour had I bothered to do a Google search of nearby stores. The ones with websites, obviously.

There are still a few exotic items I haven’t found. Nothing I need, but still. For example, Green Oil, a Taiwanese product intended to be used similarly to Tiger Balm, but it’s liquid and comes in little glass bottles. It’s minty going on and leaves you smelling really nice for the whole day. I can’t even find a website for the damn thing. But then again, there are probably a gazillion local Chinese apothecaries I haven’t checked yet.

It’d be nice to be able to go later in the day, though. I’m watching TV right now. Oh, it’s open 24 hours? On account of it’s economically feasible for them to do so? Great! Back to TV…

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Just wanted to break the monotony for a moment (no, really, this is gonna be nice and short), to share something I found over breakfast in Saturday’s Star:

Note the little blurb about the GO Transit fare hike being proposed. Haha! Well, never let it be said that the Star doesn’t exercise editorial authority! When you compare the tizzy about the TTC fare hike (just Google TTC fare hike), against this, ya kinda get a sense that the paper’s asserting a little bias. But I’m pretty sure I’ve said something to this to someone or other — everything a paper produces is editorial, down to the order of sentences in an article.

The paragraph is next to the deaths announcements for Gods sake! It’s why I give equal measure to the Saturday funnies.

By the way, the Star’s free for the next two weeks (during the Olympics). If someone tries to charge you for one, jab them in the eye with something and call them something irretrievably horrible. Then run!

Do people even know what the word racism means anymore? I’m not suggesting racism doesn’t exist, and I’ve experienced my fair share of bigotry (on the receiving end too), but the term has become so distorted that at times it’s almost meaningless.

From Taxi News:

[Addai] said racialization is defined in the Human Rights Code as, in addition to physical features, characteristics of people that are commonly racialized, including: accent or manner of speech, name, clothing and grooming, diet, beliefs and practices, leisure preferences, places of origin and citizenship.

“In one way or another, I would say that segments of this Code apply to everyone in this room,” he stated.

Point in case: consider the recent Star article about taxi licensing in Toronto. It begins with a rather miffed-looking Asafo Addai claiming that City Hall imposes a racist policy through two-tier licensing for cabbies. He’s so miffed, in fact, that he’s taking it before the Human Rights Tribunal, accusing the city of systemic discrimination against minorities and newcomers. The words racism and racialism are tossed around like so much wilted salad.

What’s got Asafo in a huff is the “Ambassador” license that the city issues to all new cabbies. These require the driver to solely own and operate their vehicle, unlike the older “standard” license that allows cars to be rented out and ownership to be transferred. Obviously this severely limits the driver’s ability to make extra income and, with the cost of buying existing standard plates running in the quarter-million range (yup, $250,000), it’s usually not an option.  Sure, I can understand why he’d be upset about this, and I’d definitely support changing it. And Asafo’s claim that this is, “inhibiting a group of people from ascending”, is absolutely correct if you ask me.

But what group of people? Is Asafo suggesting that only black folk drive cabs? Or just immigrants? Or people with argyle socks and dollar-store slacks? I can tell you with absolute certainty that that’s not true.

As a teenager I tried to join the police force but because of affirmative action, got the hand in the face, being told unapologetically it was because I was white. In hindsight it’s better I didn’t become a copper, and even though I didn’t like it, I ultimately understood the reasoning behind the hiring practices. But I know what it feels like to be denied something for no other reason than being a certain colour.

That’s really my whole issue with people bandying around the term “racism”. When individuals like Asafo play the race card, they’re actually doing a great disservice to real complaints of bigotry, injustice, and disparity. In fact, Asafo is the one making (or trying to make), a distinction based on race (or ethnicity, or income, or source of slacks, etc.); everyone else in the same boat as him are just people — white, black, and every other colour that can fit into the driver’s seat of a cab. Between Asafo and me, I’d say I came a lot closer to blatant systemic racism. (And I wouldn’t really call that racism.)

The other problem with Mr. Addai’s assertion is the fact that Toronto currently only issues one type of taxi licence, not two. The Ambassador program started in the late nineties specifically to address the problem of inequality — the other type of license was discontinued at that point (still exists, just not being issued). It doesn’t matter what colour your skin is, how much money you have, or even how nice your smile is, the Ambassador license is the only one you can get. No one’s picking on Asafo because of his race, his place of birth, his age, his weight, etc. — he’s getting the shaft just like all his cabbie brethren and sistren. Just because most of them happen to be immigrants doesn’t make it racism.

And saying that racialism is some random mix of attributes that varies from person to person — that’s just dumb.

By the way, did you know that Toronto has a monthly newspaper dedicated to the local taxi industry? Neither did I, until I found a copy in the disheveled racks at Metro Hall. That’s where I discovered that silly excerpt at the top of this post. It doesn’t seem like the most upbeat publication around town, but then again, being a cabbie doesn’t sound terribly glamorous either.

Oh, right, I’d stuck the gloves and hat under my desk at work in a clever fashion. Too clever.  Now I was walking home with a fortunately planned hoodie pulled over my head and a scarf that managed to protect my delicate features, but still not one of the brightest Tuesdays on record.

And I don’t know about you but when I pull stunts like that, I end up staring longingly into the warm interiors of passing cars. Crossing the road also provides me with an opportunity to hang a forlorn expression on my face for the benefit of the people behind the glass. Usually it’s just frozen that way so it’s not as if I’m doing it on purpose, but still indicative of my feelings.

On winter evenings like this, I remember my golden automotive era behind the wheel of a candy-apple-red Volkswagen Golf. It was a standard with copious electrical problems, balding tires, and an increasing number of bumps and dings as a result of those balding tires. But that moment when the heater kicked in (after I’d been struggling for half an hour to squeeze through a half-open trunk because the doors were frozen shut), that was something truly sweet.

In one bumpy incident, both my VW and the car in front glided into the middle of an intersection on some slick on the road. Not being able to stop either (so maybe the tires weren’t involved), the lady behind the wheel was very understanding after we’d made contact. We were already moving pretty slowly when we lost control; I don’t believe I even scratched her bumper. Afterward, we both admitted to being lucky not to have been t-boned by oncoming traffic, and we parted ways with smiles and a “have a great day”.

In another dingy incident, I slid very slowly through a sharp turn on a rural road in north Pickering. When I say very slowly, I mean that I had time to try the hand brake – to no avail, pump the foot brake — in futility, steer in a few different directions — to no effect, make sure my seatbelt was secured — for naught, turn off the spontaneous wipers (among the cornucopia of electrical problems) — with no success, and even utter a gentle “oh crap” (also pointless), before coming to rest on a ditch post. I managed to crush the bumper but, again, drove away with just another piece of character. Soon-to-rust character.

Guess there was that one time I wrecked the front axle on a curb; I remember sliding into that one too, on a wet road. The tires were turned left, the car kept going forward. *thump* *wobble wobble* I didn’t even end up on the curb, just bent the the whole rod thing down there all up. Not as chortley then as it sounds now.

Besides that, I’ve gotten one speeding ticket (fifteen over), and one for driving with an expired plate sticker. In both cases, the issuing officers suggested that I should fight the injustices in court ( “judge’ll probably throw it out” – translation: “I won’t show for court.” ) So I don’t feel like they saw my infractions as terribly terrible.

I’m not a perfect driver, but that’s my whole history over the years. Sure, traffic sucked all sorts of gonads, but at least I had warmth. No radio – that literally fell apart one day as I hit the ON button – but having an hour and a half with a good conversationalist was a good way to pass the time. Sometimes I’d also give people a ride.

The reason I bring all of this up (except for that last part, that’s just a rosy sentimentality), is because I need a moral mound from which to fire my judgmental salvos.

People, you need to get a grip. (Not you, dear reader, I know you’re a careful driver.)

I mean, that 83-year-old who ran down the mom with her baby surviving only by some miracle, that old woman shouldn’t have been on the road. Have you seen how old people cross the road?! WITHOUT A VEHICLE?! NOW IMAGINE THEM IN A VEHICLE!!

Never mind 83, I’ve been in a car with someone twenty years younger as she steered her wide vehicle aloft over an alarmingly tall concrete divider between the arrivals / departures lanes at the airport. Have you ever been in a fat luxury automobile as it takes flight? It’s quite an experience.

And about that thing with the doctor who was caught speeding en route to a bona fide emergency, I think the solution’s a simple one. Okay, I think there’s good cause for a doctor to be able to speed when necessary (burden of proof being on Doc Drift) – here is one such example. But if the doctor is to speed then he should adhere to current etiquette and stick a flashing doohickey on the top of his car. He should also take the same driver training as cops do. Basically, he should be operating an identifiable emergency vehicle and be trained to do so. I guess he could use his own Benz so long as the thing was loud and bright and obnoxious.

But for everyone else, slowing down’s the ticket. That and keeping the old folks off the road. For practicality, I’d suggest some sort of herding vehicle to convey their beastly frames from hither to dither. Then farther.

My driving days are are in a shoebox somewhere in the back of my closet. My current credit won’t get me anything enclosed to ride in and I’m not sure if I’d want to anyway. The walking scene is hip. And if I’m involved in any sort of mishap, I instantly become a litigious money hole. Everyone wins!

Wikkidi wikkidi wikkidi wack.

I’ma be blunt, if I may. Ashley and Madison are assholes. Nope, no link, and this is the only time I use their wretched name – from now on it’s AM, with spit on it. There, I’ve said it, it’s out in the open. The way it should be.

You know what this company does? They are a service that promotes marital infidelity. Cheating. No, not a dating service that happens to have a lot of married people, they exist specifically to help people cheat. Their slogan is “Life is short. Have an affair.”

And they’re assholes.

My idea of a relationship is pretty free-wheeling. Gay? Fine by me. Bi? A-okay. Swinger? Keep on swingin’! Miscellaneous? Please use my contact form. But an affair, that’s just simple lying. It’s deceptive, cowardly, and a big middle finger to the one you’re with. If you wanna fuck around, have the balls to say it. It won’t get easier with time, and you’re wasting the rest of your life if that’s what you really want. Maybe it’s just time to saddle up and ride off into the sunset, you know? ;)

And AM, they’re the assholes helping people to be cowardly liars. It don’ git no plainer ‘n that.

Okay, but I really wouldn’t give a shit about them except that lately they’ve been pushing the TTC to decal two of their streetcars with AM ads (the whole things – a full wrap), even getting cocky enough to begin offering discounted fares to anyone taking their streetcars — before the ad was even approved. The Commission wasn’t too sure about it (as well they shouldn’t), and turned it over to a committee who finally gave it the thumbs down. *applause*

Unfortunately, AM decided to kick back with threat of court saying that this is impinging on their freedom of speech. Cockswaddle. An affair is grounds for divorce – in the eyes of the law, it’s wrong. Therefore, to condone an affair (directly) is to condone something that the law states is wrong. Hence, if the TTC were to allow this, they would be challenging this rather embedded legal precedent. What, for getting to whore out two streetcars? Bitch, puh-leeze!

I’d slap AM’s ass to the curb faster than you can say Q.E.D. Where do they get off, pushing the Commission around? You know, I’m not always a fan of transit, and even though there’s a tonne wrong with it, I’d rather it showed some integrity and backbone rather than put it’s ass in the air and grease up. Once again, *applause*.

Joe Mihevc, second in command to the TTC chairman — who is ideally the most impartial and level-headed person in the room — responded to AM’s threat with “We’re ready to defend our right to determine what ads go onto our brand as the TTC.” Oh yeah – I almost forgot; the TTC is a business and they have a brand image to protect. Ding ding … and in this corner … the TTC’s gonna kick your ass!

Wow, our little Red Rocket’s balls grew two sizes today! I can’t tell you how proud I am.

And as regards lying, well, I do it all the time. Lots of different ways and, sometimes, quite enjoy it. But generally not at someone’s expense, and especially not at my own. Words of wisdom, biatch!

PEACE!!

I’m out.

Did you ever see Purple Rain? You know, the one with Prince — or the more endearing TAFKAP, as he’s now known? I didn’t either. Well, kind of … I vaguely remember a scene in which Prince was on stage, dolefully strumming out some sort of thin-moustached melodrama, and in the foreground were a couple of people talking about him, and to dissuade the one from approaching Prince the other said, ”He’s in one of his moods again.” Maybe I’m thinking of the Princess Bride. That was a good movie :)

Anyhow, I believe I’m in one of those moods today. It was one of those lurching days in which clarity decides to rear its ugly head – a light was cast on a vexing situation that’s been festering on my mind for a few months and – to be blunt – both shocked and pissed me right off. I probably shouldn’t go into detail because I have a feeling I’ll be wielding the business end of legal prosecution pretty soon; I can think of no other word than fraud, or something very close to it. Certainly some very odd dealings that I just can’t explain. You know? Stuff just doesn’t add up, like 1 and 1 is supposed to equal FF in hexadecimal. Yeah, that’s not even the same numbering system.

There are lots of fiddly little details that, hopefully, I’ll be able to share once it’s all done with. I think they’d make good reading if you have a few minutes on the shitter (get a netbook—best investment ever ;)). However, droning on about some vague misdoing is boring my tits off and I know the details, so let’s let’er rest a while there.

Besides, some things don’t need to be discussed because they kinda stare you in the face, you know?

Take the story about a young mother who was murdered in her car while tending to her two-year-old daughter. Yep, no way to put a frilly ribbon on that story; shot right in front of her little girl. The story is tragic no matter how you spin it; that kid’s just been handed a life sentence. Who’d argue with that?

But just beneath the surface there are things that aren’t quite right.

To begin with, Detective Sergeant Pauline Gray is quoted as saying, “I think the careful thing is not to look for a reason, because as far as I’m concerned, there is no reason.”

Did I read that right? The careful thing is not to investigate the motive because there isn’t one? Okay, well, for an officer to be making extrajudicial pronouncements at a press conference probably isn’t a great idea, but it also shows that the good Detective has been compromised. Clearly am emotional basket case. Hey, can’t blame her, but don’t we owe the mother and kid a proper, thorough, and unbiased investigation? The careful thing to do is to look for a reason, because as far as I’m concerned, there’s always a reason. I believe that’s the difference between first and second-degree murder — planning requires a purpose, or a reason, as they call it out west.

I also subscribe to Occam’s Razor which bluntly states that the simplest and most direct explanation is usually the correct one. Don’t over-complicate shit, I believe, is the original expression. If she had a jilted ex-husband, my odds are on him. But there’s another possibility; please allow me to connect a few dots…

She’s from Columbia where her parents still live. Upon moving to Toronto, she started a successful container shipping company. Initially she was sending a container or two a year (was that enough to live on?), but recently business had picked up to the sum of one or two per month. To and from South American countries. Do we need the white connecting lines here?

Okay, that’s just rampant coke-fuelled speculation, but any investigator worth their salt should be knee-deep in blow by now. To dismiss some possibilities because they may harm the reputation of the deceased person does them a disservice. And the little girl too. Even if some dark details are revealed, who knows what the circumstances were around those details?

If you’re a keener and read the story, you’ll note that I took most of the drug runner scenario from the Star piece. Almost verbatim, except that I took out a bunch of expletives. I still don’t know why The Star swears so much, it’s really off-putting. But the facts remain about the same. Possibly manufactured for my benefit. However, I still stand by my argument that a thorough and unbiased lookseeinto is the way to go.

It’s the same with the McCormack case. That’s the former police chief’s son (and also a cop), accused of pulling money from club and bar owners in exchange for favours. Hehe, no, not sexual ones. Although, you know, I shouldn’t judge … who knows? Definitely the accusation of money exchanging hands for services of some sort (no, no jokes about hand services, that’d be crude and never proven in a court of law). Impropriety on the one side, corruption on the other, but either way it was looking meaty.

I guess we’ll never know for sure how meaty because the case was thrown out of court for taking too long. If proceedings extend for five years, I believe, the court is obliged to remove them from before its just gaze. “And don’t let the door hit you on the way outtay”, in Latin.

Wow, my head’s really gone over to the lawyer side of the force. Maybe I’ve been spending my time in that headspace for too long and now I just zero in on any little litigious thing I see. I probably just need a good sleep – I mean, who knows, maybe I’ll dream up an out of court settlement. Or maybe cast a dark habeas corpus upon them from my slumber — the sleeping subconscious mind has mysterious powers, possibly even occult. I guess that path will be determined by my mood. Prince or Princess Bride?

but I said so.

I’m talking, of course, about the Union Station Revitalization project that’s been floating around City Hall since at least last year. There were all sorts of crazy projections floating around about how long it would take to complete the thing, but most of them seemed awfully unrealistic. With no real information or experience of any kind in these matters, I came up with an arbitrary start date of 2011 with completion set for some nebulous time after that. Now, with the project winding its way through the last dusky corridors of City Hall, I’m a little troubled that the number I pulled out of my ass is probably closer to reality than anything the experts were paid exorbitantly for.

Part of the problem is that, along with my far-flung dates, I also had visions of a Hindenburg-like execution that, on top of stretching the project out to a future when the apes have taken over, includes cost overruns that are certain to result in another new tax.

The Star article that finally broke ground on reality mentioned that the construction company that will be doing most of the work will try to be accommodating and will try to “make the hoardings (crowd barriers) as attractive as possible”. I hadn’t been to Union Station for a while so I popped by again to see these attractive new hoardings for myself.

So, okay, this is pretty subjective, but I’m not feeling any aesthetic love here. I only bother to mention it because it seems to be an indicator of what is stated versus what is reality, something that, not being realized on this initial small scale, will probably translate to larger misses when the project really gets going. In other words, if this is Vanbot’s version of attractive, their other definitions/time lines/estimates are also likely to be a bit off.

I would be pleased as punch to be proven wrong on this. But really, should we care about temporary barriers? Isn’t what will ultimately be underneath be more important? I’d like to say yes, but if these things will be hanging around for a minimum of 5 years, I don’t think that the word temporary really applies; they will effectively be Union Station for the next half-decade.

The Star article also mentions that part of the move to a new Union Station is to try to make it more of a destination. Two problems with that:

• Do we really need another place to spend money we don’t have? Having restaurants near to the Rogers Centre makes sense, but how many people are eager to run for the train laden with impulse purchases?
• The GO concourse is already a destination! People arrive at the station to wait for trains and buses, maybe buy a coffee and a bagel. If not, they’re on their way to work or on their way back home. Chances are that if they’d wanted to do something elsewhere — to shop, for example — they would’ve done so on their way to the station; there’s plenty of opportunity.

Finally, and this is really more me wondering out loud, what types of new retail they could introduce that they don’t already have? Morning caffeine, newspapers, and a bite to eat are all well-represented. There’s currently a liquor store for carry-on entertainment, a bar for the less patient, and a dry cleaner for those on the vomitous tail end of either one. I can’t imagine what could be missing.

You may want to savour these images, it’s unlikely that the station will look like this much longer. Even if, as I suspect, they don’t start work for another couple of years, upkeep on something that is scheduled to be demolished isn’t likely to be a priority. It’s exactly the same reason I have for not cleaning my flat. And I don’t even sell anything (legal) from there!

Bill Carroll implored me not to rush to judgement about the Toronto Humane Society scandal as I was throwing my clothes on this morning. I silently promised I would, but I have to be honest, my happy side disappears pretty readily when I hear about people abusing animals. It’s like beating up on kids or midgets; I don’t need to explain why that’s wrong. And I’m pretty sure most people would agree with me.

The scandal centers mostly around allegations of abuse and mistreatment of the animals in the King Street shelter:

You know, all the sad-eyed kitties and puppies that make me wanna punch whoever hurts them in the friggin’ face!! How does that feel, huh?! HUH?!

*breathe deep*

*exhale slowly*

…

Everything’s good! :D

So yeah, I really don’t approve of that kind of behaviour. But Bill brought up a good point, many of these animals are brought to the shelter in this state. Of course some of them will look abused, that’s why they’re here. And yes, sadly, some of them die or have to be put down because their injuries are too serious. The shelter makes no secret of this:

However, three things have come together that make me look at the situation with a whole lotta suspicion.

First is my own, albeit single, interaction with the Humane Society in Durham. The facilities were nice, the animals healthy and clean, so nothing bothered me on that end. But the staff, I dunno, didn’t really seem to care a whole lot about animals. And I thought it was odd that they seemed to be dissuading me from taking home a cat: “that one’s not very friendly, that one’s very sick, she’s blind and tends to break stuff, he’s had the most vile diarrhea for months…” In some cases, the conditions for adopting a pet seemed a bit steep: no going outside, no interactions with other animals going outside, no other animals altogether, no flats, no rural homes, no children, no balconies, and a few other things.

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