My diving into the deep waters of the interweb today fished out an odd little Toronto blog in which the author prescribes dumping garbage into store parking lots because, I guess, the businesses owe us for something or other. He also believes that the 416/79 legion are “setting the bar” for society and that their tactical strike should be supported.

So I ranted. For a long time.

Later on, I started to wonder if he was playing the contrarian just to bait me. I mean, is it even possible that the 416/79 have any supporters left?

Take that, CUPE!

They must know that they’re taking a bit of a beating right now. People are refusing to put up with their style of guerilla warfare:

As my own small contribution to the struggle, I was recently mulling around the tactic of generating income for the city, to be used for private waste disposal, from unsolicited city posters. I realized soon after that there was a fatal flaw in the plan; if the removal guys are collecting fines, who’s removing the posters?

Today I received an answer:

They remove themselves!

Can victory really be that far off? For the final push, General Miller must mobilize all troops, especially those in public relations. Because right now, both sides are being described as exceedingly bratty kids, the kind that make you want to go in there and just clip ‘em both behind the ears a few times. They can’t even sit in the same room together!

Maybe they need to see the real situation on the ground; see which way the pendulum is swinging. Some districts are not coping as well as others, but there are increasingly more oases of so-clean-you-can-eat-off-it serenity:

Dear reader, I hope you trust that all of my accounts are true as far as I know them to be. I have been witness to this war from the very first day, and the simple reality is that most of Toronto doesn’t suck as badly as the 416/79 would like it to. In fact, most of it doesn’t suck at all.

I’m going to look up that blog again to insinuate inserting my digital boot up his binary ass for trying to suckify the city. Especially when blending is such a clear and easy answer.

That’s what I’d like to know!

Well, I guess by the title you’ve already guessed that the offensive is still in full swing. I really do wish I had something more to report but the War has either moved into ultra-secret territory, or both sides are sitting on their thumbs. Something I read stated that this could potentially lead to a large increase in the rat/mouse population. According to the exterminator that was being interviewed.

But I think the implications go much deeper than a few extra rodents. Garbage on the streets has now become commonplace, so much so that many people don’t think twice about just tossing stuff to the ground. Even I find myself struggling to find that line that separates garbage from, umm, not garbage:

Ah, blessed gaudy stars, rusty segues into my next encounter, another television shoot somewhere on Victoria Street. Here I was cautiously approached by two police officers who asked if it wouldn’t be a better idea if I asked before taking a photo. I explained to them that I really just wanted a quick snap of the “ambiance”, and verified that this was considered a public location and was I within my rights?. “Yes”, said the Asian officer, ”but it would be nice.” And then, he asked if he would like me to have him ask the crew on my behalf. No trouble. “That’s quite alright, officer”, I replied, and moved on:

A few steps up the street, the other officer (right) caught up with me. “Don’t worry”, he assured me, “I’m not following you. Just on an unrelated errand. Nothing to do with you and I don’t want you to feel alarmed.”

I reassured him that I was as cool as a cucumber and that it hadn’t even crossed my mind. And it’s true.

So had I come across as that much of a dick? Skittish, maybe? An over-informed citizen with a hard-on for litigation?

Now, to pull a final segue out of my pants, I think it’s safe to say that we are all a little curious to know if the guy clocked at 140 kilometers an hour (87 miles), on the 401 this morning, while awash in portable DVD pr0n, had both hands on the wheel.  Ha ha! The wacky things people do behind the wheel. Precious.

Ah, weekends; two days to remind you of how good life could be.

It’s not that I think Mondays are bad, per se. They’ve simply been relegated to being the first days to shatter happiness and joy, to be the harbingers of pain and sorrow. And so on.

The gosh-durn WordPress update never seems to go smoothly (it’s always one plugin after another, isn’t it?) and, well, the weekend was so interesting, I almost forgot that the War still lurked just around the corner — with a bat and a belief I owed it some money.

Sadly, our own local detention center has now moved off-court onto (I believe) wood-chip-covered earth:

Can you believe that it’s been almost a month now?

But luckily there’s a curious twist at this point, otherwise I’d just be regurgitating the same old war stories again. That’s gross.

If you look at the photo again, right at the back on the left are two guys in DayGlo-yellow shirts. They’re actually taking trash from people’s cars and hauling it in here themselves. Somehow, the 416/79 cavalry have managed to miss my little enclave; these guys were actually helping people get their trash in. Most excellent service too, if I may say. I’ll definitely have to ask more questions tomorrow.

But you know that even if they were strikers, which they were not (?!), it wouldn’t stop some kind of festival from happening. With genuine regret, I managed to completely miss the Festival of India parade, but at least managed to fill my crowd quota for the day with the big balls of Just for Laughs:

All the comics must’ve been on their smoke breaks because everyone there was definitely not funny. Well, there was this one funny part where a gymnast flew dangerously off course, and oh-so-close to the audience:

The look on his face as he lifted himself off the canvas was a masterpiece of raw human emotion; disbelief, horror, embarrassment, relief, self-doubt, and anger; the kind of face you make when you’re in the privy trying, grimly, to eject a particularly unrealistic log. OH, C’MON! WE’VE ALL BEEN THERE!

Anyway, it was funny.

Funnier than cleaning my sofa when I got back to my place:

Eureka, leave a comment and I’ll contact you about where you can send the royalty cheques. What? You didn’t think it’d be just one, did you? Just like foxes, you are.

Now, dear reader, before you berate me for the frequency of my house-keeping, I would like to point out that this is a week’s worth of collected Ollie hair and open-window city exposure.

Plus, we’re in the middle of a war! A dusty, dusty war.

Toronto, the city that never sleeps. No, wait, I’m confusing that with another city. The city of Lesbos. Or is that an archipelago?

This is the second too-long day of a second too-short night. This time it was the tail end of the Copper film for which they were shooting night scenes. Late night scenes.

In contrast to last night’s festivities, the crew were as quiet as very polite mice. Their lighting, however, was quite loud:

Right into the bedroom window. Clean, straight line. Living room too. And that’s pretty much my entire place.

At around 2 a.m., they packed up their trucks, pointed their New York license plates south, and quietly rolled out. Not only had they crept out with a whisper, but they’d also left my neighbourhood cleaner than it was before. Aside from two strips of gaffer’s tape marking out an “L” on the sidewalk, the place was impeccable.

They were still sweeping the left-over bits of trash  from the location house this morning. The front lawn looked well-trodden but the house looked better than it had. They made it out to look like a real hussy, didn’t they?

I guess cops have to fight crime somewhere; might as well be in a nearby crack house. Or maybe it’s an abstract film where the cops stare and occasionally shout at a pear sitting on a blue plate for exactly forty-one minutes (with a midget dancing backwards in the background); those curtains are for the really-fuck-the-audience’s-mind effect. Does David Lynch still make movies?

Either way, I guess that’s fairly realistic, because danger really can lurk behind any shadowy corner:

One mistake and it’s all over. Your windshield. With open windows, your sleeve. Kid in the back gets banana peel in the schnoz. And who gets the half-drunk bubble tea cup in the frontal area? Maybe you, maybe me. And no one deserves that. It’s just not something you’d wish on your fellow human beings.

I think it’s a sign of desperation; a cry for help. Children are now being employed to produce impassioned pleas for an end to the savagery. I’m sure Walter Cronkite would have approved, and with a respectful doff of the cap, we thank him.

So under slightly more gray skies we find ourselves at the end of the week. As the tide of war waxes and wanes like a poorly thought-out metaphor (or simile?), more casualties are inevitable:

I guess it never gets easier.

It probably shouldn’t.

Well, maybe with a good night’s sleep it could.

It was a hard slog today.

Every surface scrubbed, every possible source of food triple wrapped; still the fruit fly population seems to have doubled overnight. Their strategy appears to involve coating all my traps with the bodies of their dead, allowing the few that survive to fly kamikaze into the first available orifice:

Someone thought that printing house flies on the paper was a good idea. Momentarily fool you into thinking it’s more effective than it actually is, maybe?

The return of the 4 a.m. import glee club across the street compounded the struggle, making today very long and generally painful. Dragging my ass through the garbage battlefield in my dozy state would have been dangerous, so I chose instead to do a desk-bound reconnaissance of this conflict’s past through the Toronto Archives.

As always, I was left in awe of what people of the past were able to cope with; how much they were able to do with the simple mud streets and steamy horse shit they were given. The garbage collectors pulled the garbage carts around by themselves like real men. There would always be a partner to help position the pole (barely visible in the photo) from behind.

In the fifties, garbage collectors relaxed a bit as they were now relegated to merely tossing their cans in the rear. The white garbage trucks were probably a bad call, but at least the initial collectors on duty could be assured of looking fabulous while in them. Of course after repeated use, the back sides would become quite filthy.

Ah, those were the gay ol’ days. But that changed almost as soon as the union barged in, plopped on the couch, and cracked a beer. In no time flat, the city was employing five supervisors to one garbage collector.

And pretty soon the messy business we’re dealing with now took form in the appointment of two additional government clerks to ensure proper work apportioning. Everyone was fully qualified for one specific duty and also given special training to cease to comprehend English when a task was in danger of falling outside that duty, or on break time.

It’s not really so hard to understand how we got here, is it? If history teaches anything, it’s that modern-day garbage collectors are not expressing their flair nearly enough. No wonder they’re so pissy!

And there’s your golden nugget of knowledge for today. Tomorrow, if I get to sleep before dawn, maybe something else.

What kind of filthy surprise did the War hold today?

Okay, so you’ve seen plenty of trash heaps on TCL, so what? Well, this particular detention centre has been of special interest to me because it’s in my neighbourhood. Also, it doesn’t really seem to be growing. That’s very unusual considering the closing of other centres that have already reached capacity.

Even though I’m happy that my street seems to be so thrifty with refuse, I’m genuinely perturbed as to how this pile has managed to stay pretty much unchanged while others have grown beyond their limit.

And what about this dangerous pesticide that is so harmful to our nearby fauna?

So lifelike! These herds of grazing bunny things at Metro Hall are proof positive that everything’s a-ok. And it turns out that concerns over the chemicals’ effects on local flora were also greatly exaggerated:

The 416/79 brigade and our troops are still at it, tossing peace treaties back and forth like a live grenade. Neither side seems to like what the other is offering and there is no indication that an end is in sight. But on the streets where the battle is fiercest, I see things steadily improving; much, I’m sure, to the dismay of the enemy. The front-line troops that, not so long ago, had taken so much abuse now seem to be coping with ease:

If anything, the War has simply become tedious. The province hasn’t seen the need to send in the arbitration commandos and I’ve even managed to find a reliable fly paper supplier. At this point, the fruit flies’ best bet is to grab only essentials, pack up the old station wagon, and drive straight out of my kitchen for that open window as fast as they can. Picketers, take note.

One day, long after this is all over, I wonder what the 416/79 garrison will tell their kids when they ask why Canada Day was canceled in 2009. Old uncle Jim will sit there, tears welling up in his eyes, replying only with a frail, choking apology.

Hilarious.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I feel it’s only right to ask…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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