Urban Vignette #45-A.

Having suffered some memory damage due to a severely dehydrated brain, I just recalled a strange thing that happened on my way to getting hammered with the illustrious Sheena last night. Two guys in a white Cherokee pulled up to the curb beside me as I walked up the street and said "Hey dude. Do you want a home theatre system?" I said "what?". The guy reiterates his generous offer and points to the back of the truck. I said, "uh, no I'm good". Dude tried harder. He says "seriously dude, do you want this home theatre system? We just scored it from work".

WTF? Brilliance seems to know no bounds in the city I love.

Crumpled Beauty

I took the subway today because I have drinking plans after work. Something about the anonymity of that human herring-packed metal tube always gets me thinking. It's crazy that one can be surrounded by so many humans, yet you can't help but feel if you just burst out in tears no one would notice. Sure, a few may momentarily glance over the tops of their Metro tabloid news round-up, but you'd still be crying alone. And once you got off at the next stop, they'd forget you, like that crumpled up tabloid left on a seat for someone else to pick up, peruse and dispose of, once again.

People do this to people. I have come to realize that. Even the most trusted, intimate people in your life crumple you up and leave you on a subway seat. But you know what, there is beauty in it. It's a natural occurrence, like a force of nature: A devastating flood or an earthquake. Everything dies and is reborn, as do friendships and loveships. But there is beauty, always, even if it sometimes is hidden under ash and silt. Even ash and silt can be beautiful- depends on your depth of perspective.

What I have learned -- no, what I am learning, is that the only way to ameliorate your own suffering is to lessen the suffering you cause others. Although I believe suffering is an inescapable part of being human, causing others to suffer is a choice -- an act of will.

I am now searching for beauty even though many of us tend to "give bad names to beautiful things". I am searching for beauty in love; beauty in pain; beauty in nature; beauty in thought and perception; and beauty in expression. And from now on, I will try to choose subway cars filled by other beauty-seekers, so they, too, can see the value of my tabloidy crumpledness.

THUDS Beware

Time again, my smooth-bodied, drooling hamster children for a stream of conscious urban rage rant 'n rail (I'm actually frothing at the mouth as I type- oh wait- I think that's just the latte residue):

I am an experienced, skilled cyclist who obeys traffic laws. That's why today, I'm type-screaming the following announcement from tippy toes on my e-soap box :
I am sick of the fuckwad bike THUDS who run stop signs on Toronto streets: The very streets that have bike lanes to protect the safety of law-abiding cyclists. Why do I call these jackasses THUDS? Because that is the sound created when their carcasses are run over by cars, as they fly through intersections, and are squashed by right turning, law-abiding motorized vehicle drivers.

Please, for the love of god, start peer-pressuring idiots like these into shame. Yell at them. Scream "THUD" every time one of these bastards blows by you at a stop sign. It's the only way to get the message across.

These are the same loud-mouthed fucks who complain all the time that motorists victimize cyclists in the city. In my years riding in the T. Dot it's been evident that cyclists are much more often at fault than drivers. Now get out there and tell them!

Some Girls Are Born Lucky

This morning, I was forced to take the TTC to work, as my sweet hybrid street bike is currently in the shop being tuned up. So, I took the scenic route from St. George station, along the outskirts of Yorkville and down through the eye-candy filled, bountiful U of T campus.

During the Yorkville leg of the fabulous summer walk, as I tapped my faggy urban man purse to the beat of Dashboard Confessional's "Easy As Lovers Go" I had one of those prophetic city moments I've written about in the past. But contrary to the ultra-serious, James Burke-style Connections insight I usually experience, this one was pure fucking hilarity.

A very full-figured, super buxomy, tourist kind of chick, waddled toward me from a hotel exit. She was a vision of Lynch-esque beauty: Jammed into a way-too-small pair of kakhi safari shorts, waist pack awkwardly stretched sideways, with way too much sunscreen on her nose, a crumpled up map clutched in one hand and a donut in the other. I know what you are thinking: Hmm, seen that before K-Dough. Ok, here comes the kicker: To complete the cinematic wardrobe, Ms. Denny's 1992 wore a hot pink, stretched to the max t-shirt with the words "Some Girls Are Born Lucky" emblazoned in silvery lettering across the front of her ginormous (now a real word) boobs.

Those words were instantly captured by my brain, and within a millisecond had effortlessly completed about 4 billion synaptic laps. "Some Girls Are Born Lucky". I deconstructed the phrase, then reconstructed it in zillions of possible combinations. "Some Girls Are Born Lucky".

And then it hit me. In a moment of cynical brilliance, inspired by a heart tainted by years of miserable commuter angst, I murmured to myself, with a petulant grimace: "Sure "Some Girls Are Born Lucky...still, too bad for that unlucky model you had to eat to get the T-shirt".

Ahhhhhh. I slay me.

Shameless Name Dropping and Sex Talk

So, I'm having drinks and dinner last night on College Street with my TV personality-feminist-social activist-lawyer-friend and we are getting a sweet buzz and talking really loudly about the sexualization of teen women, trash culture, mass media, blow jobs and such and I look to the table next to us and who is sitting there talking about orgasms (I think) a lot quieter than we are? Ex-Much VJ and star of sexually-explicit, critics fave film Shortbus, Sook Yin-Lee. How a propos.

Have I mentioned that I love my city?

Sundaze With the Ks

There is really no news worthy of my critique, criticism or mocking obscenity today. It's getting close to X day and all the big mouthed spin dudes are keeping things quiet in hopes that they will be off for as many days as possible during X period.

Like any of you care, here is K-Dough's typical Sunday reality- recounted and itemized:

1. Woke up, read headlines, kissed runny-nosed toddler.
2. Chatted with child, girlfriend-for-life and best friend over earthy espresso and uitsmijter.
3. Drove with best friend to purchase food stuffs: Sustainance assured for coming week.
4. Put sickly child to sweet nappies in womb-like comfy crib with multiple blankies and essential oil wafting from humidifier. Baby spa. Mmmm.
5. Girlfriend-for-life visited fancy South American gay hairdresser to talk about sordid life details of a drag queen and spend exorbidant amounts of cash on great flipped back late 70s Farrah-do. Nice.
6. Wrote a cool roots rock kinda song.
7. Had a glass of Belgium's finest.
8. Traditional Sunday head shaving, followed by steaming hot, extended shower and wanton abuse of girly Aveda bath products to a soundtrack of Galaxie Ambient.
9. Assembled naked, dusty Hypocrismas Tree.
10. Enjoyed more Euro-potent beerful goodness as li'l Kay-Dough decorated tree, broke priceless sentimental heirloom and excitedly freaked out in front of glittery, bulb-straffed needly icon, while repeatedly reciting partial red-nose reindeer lyrics. Sweet.
11. Fired up the stainless steel behemoth BBQ and grilled up some turkey burgers. Covered with hastily whipped-up Morrocan charmoula and old, tangy white cheddar. Mmm.
12. Drank more.
13. Convalesced in festive familial narcossis in front of Finding Nemo with best friend, girlfriend-for-life and child, nestled in warm, cradling sofa arms.

With all the complex thinking, success-seeking, pontificating and immortality chasing, there really is nothing better than that kind of Sunday.

Urban Vignettes #3: Media and Murder

One of those urban vignettes sparked yet another Category 1 electrical synapse storm in the perilous Sea of K-Brain this morning. You may recall, a few years back during the last provincial election in Ontario, that the Tories circulated a now famous release saying something like "Dalton McGuinty is a reptilian kitten-eater". It was one in a million of frivolous, joking party-to-party news releases, but it ended up becoming an issue because the media got a hold of it and decided to make an issue of it.

Yes, the media decided to make an issue of it even though they see these things on a DAILY basis and understand the tenor and purpose of them. Subsequently, despite our reverence for the higher principles of democracy, the sophomoric phrase became the tagline that helped to undermine the Progressive-Conservative campaign.

But today, I read another blurred tagline as I sped past the Chinese Consulate on St. George Street in Toronto. The latest Falun Gong banner that backdropped a few aged protesters read: Communist Regime Kills Falun Gong For Organs.

Now, whether the claim is true or not, it sounds like a damn serious accusation to me. And it's not like it was whispered in secret circles or even sent out in an obviously snarky faux-release meant as an inside joke instead of a public statement. Nope. This is a disturbing message written in bold characters on a large banner, which accuses a government with which we enjoy warm diplomatic relations of a dark, horrific Nazi-like crime.

Wouldn't you think that at a time when the federal government's self-proclaimed crusade for human rights issues in China and around the world was an international story that our domestic media might want to take some slight note of such a claim? Nope.

I mean, I know St. George is a little out of the way compared to - oh, 1 Yonge, King or Queen Streets, but hello: If you can build a story that helped topple a provincial government based on something that was meant to be a joke, why not extend that dedicated activism to taking a very serious issue seriously and covering the fucking thing?

Celebrity Sightings

(KP-Toronto) Some genuine Canadian celebrities were fortunate enough recently to catch glimpses of K-Dough and his intensely private daughter and wife in and around town. Rumour has it that just yesterday, Peter Mansbridge passed the three while shopping for sundries at the shi shi Forest Hill Loblaws on a lovely mid-town mid-afteroon. K-Dough's wife was heard to whisper "Geez- by the light of day, Mansbridge looks like his own father".

Only days before, while weekday brunching at Grapefruit Moon, a popular Annex eatery, radio/TV personality Dini Petty was overheard making sweet remarks to K-Dough's daughter Kay-Dough. Wrapped in her favourite embroidered jean jacket, Hello Kitty pom pom touque and Amsterdam knit scarf, the precocious child was delighted to hear Petty utter the prophetic phrase: "Wow, she's going to be the next cool chick of the future".

Ahh, the T-Dot is a glorious town, isn't it?

The Needs of Strangers

Today was different. This morning, I walked to the subway, along a street torn apart to make way for a new streetcar right-of-way that has been hotly contested over the past few years. Amidst the smashed concrete slabs, coffee-slurping orange-vested dusty throngs of city workers and whining machinery, I had one of those recurring movie-like vignettes.

In a historically vibrant moment, a lone, scarred streetpost popped out of the secenery and commanded my attention. The post had one leaflet left on it- they are regularly removed by city workers. The leaflet stood out as a bold, lone survivor amidst the skeletal staple graveyard of wasted efforts. The headline on the small piece of paper said "BRING THE TROOPS HOME NOW" and beckoned people to attend a "Pan-Canadian Day of Action" on Oct., 28 to call for Canada's withdrawal from Afghanistan. I know I've written about this subject a hell of a lot in recent months, but it was at that moment that it truly hit me: We are at war. Granted, that statement means nothing unless measured by the yardstick of one's experience in life.

I'm 38 years old. In the 80s, my youth was intellectually tormented by angst about the coming nuclear holocaust that we would all surely be experiencing. Mine was a generation that was acutely aware of the concepts of M.A.D. and the circles I travelled in read social philosophy and pondered regularly questions of global security relating to the Soviet and US spheres of influence over some modern jazz and hash.

But we, as Canada was, were always bystanders to the cynical, destructive games that the evil superpowers played around the world. The comfort of our armchair position and the warmth and wisdom with which we regarded all cultures and civilizations was a badge we wore with pride. How naive we were - or maybe just too high?

One of the guys I was impressed with back then was this incredibly erudite and sensitive son of an exiled Russian noble named Michael Ignatieff. I don't know- maybe it was my fondness for Solzhenitzyn or my own Slavic descent that made me identify with Ignatieff. I remember a treatise that he wrote called "The Needs of Strangers". In others' words , that book talked about "a wide-spread failure on the part of humanity to provide the passionate sense of community "in which our need for belonging can be met." The implications of this kind of compassionate thinking were not lost on us. Russians could love Americans and the world could be safe from extinction one day. Hey, if Woodrow Wilson- an American- had thought so at some point, then why shouldn't we be optimistic?

Looking at that anti-war pamphlet now and the black marker scrawling on the plastic cover of the Toronto Star box below it, which read "Fuck Ignatieff", really hammered home two things that I had not consciously connected before this morning. One is that the country I love has lost its way and found itself in the middle of a game of spheres of influence being perpetrated by higher powers. Second, is that possibly - just possibly- Michael Ignatieff, that sensitive philosopher who believed in compassion, could be the only man able to pull us back on track.

Hyper-Caffeinated Gentrification

On a lighter note kids, today's lesson is about the corporate insanity currently occurring in my neighbourhood. While we have long suspected that our little corner of mid-town Toronto would eventually become gentrified, because our property values have skyrocketed in the past 5 years, we never imagined that the opening of a Starbucks last year would cause the landslide of coffee inSIPidness that we are now experiencing.

Starbucks opened it's little opiate den of fat-laden liquid shit just a while ago, across the street from an existing privately-owned coffee/bakery, called World Class Bakers (click HERE for a review). Within a year or so, Second Cup opened an outlet two doors down from World Class (see map above). At this point things were getting weird. While we have longed for better looking and managed businesses in the area since we moved there 8 years ago, this wasn't exactly what we had imagined. Our amenity list included such convenient walking distance attractions as great restaurants, dry cleaning, medical offices and liquor stores. Now, in addition to Pain Perdu- an awesome upscale French patisserie with cheap, great espresso - we had our choice of 3 java junkie dealers within a 3 second jaunt of each other. Crazy right? Wait- it gets crazier.

The other night, a restaurateur insider in the local BIA told me that a new Tim Horton's is moving in on the opposite corner from Second Cup. WTF? Now, that intersection is poised to become a toxic black tar mess of drooling hyper-caffeinated, 40 year old yoga mat toting hipster fucks. What is Tim's thinking? Seriously?

A few years ago, our neighbourhood gained continental notoriety for being the first urban hood to successfully win court challenges against the McDonald's empire, stopping them from putting in a drive-thru. For a while, McDonald's became the hated target for the venom of 30-something anti-corporate protesters, who ostensibly wanted to maintain the hood's integrity. But, now it seems, when it comes to overpriced caffeine products, and lard-laden ass-bloating treats posing as food, my increasingly shi shi neighbours are heaving their arms in the air and tearfully welcoming the advent of the coffee kings like the French being liberated by the Allies in '45. I mean c'mon people, these coffee cons are really just McDonald's for adults- aren't they?

My weekend message: Support your local, privately-owned businesses. Ma 'n Pa rules! Take the boots to the corporate coffee thieves that are stealing your souls - before it's too late!

5 Years of Repair

At this time 5 years ago, I was rushing around in a panic preparing to propose to my girlfriend for life (what I called my current wife at the time). We had a flight booked for September 26th, which would whisk us away us to my favourite old haunt - the calming, inspirational and aura-drenched city of Amsterdam. As the day approached, I withstood waves of anxiety and excitement intermittently and carried on my day to day business with my feet barely touching the ground. I even bought a ring.

Then came that Tuesday morning. By the time I got to work at around 8:55 am, everyone was gathered around the nerve centre of my office at the time- the TV. Over the course of the next few hours, I stood with the others wide-mouthed as buildings fell, thousands died and the Pentagon was attacked. We were there, if only as impotent spectators. All planes headed to America were diverted- many of which were rerouted to Canadian airports. My colleagues and I scanned the azure skies as we smoked cigarettes and imagined planes dropping from out of the the blue all over our city, because clearly North America was under attack. Who knew how many would-be assassins were now going to take out whomever they could since their US targets were now unreachable?

Needless to say, I spent the next two weeks before our flight to Amsterdam in constant anxiety. Many people we knew were cancelling their flight plans. Musing with my friends about the philosophical similarities between getting married and going down in a fiery wreck did little to ease my heavy mind. However, despite our trepidation, in a small act of bravery, we got on that plane two weeks after 9-11. This all happened notwithstanding the fact that our carrier- Air Transat had experienced a complete loss of engine power and crash-landed one of their planes on a similar trans-Atlantic flight just before 9-11. Talk about stress: The emotional rollercoaster of getting engaged; mass panic about the possibility of further suicide attacks using commercial airliners; and flying a carrier that had experienced a recent extremely serious mid-air mishap. The sheer weight of what had transpired back in North America hung over our European trip on a daily basis. Though the actual proposition - with the aid of a great dinner, several strong Belgian brews in Brussels and a beautiful woman and partner- was picturesque.

We flew into New York City four months later. There we visited a dear Japanese friend, who worked close to the towers, who we had called numerous times on the day of the attacks to make sure she was safe. Obviously, she was. I recall the profoundly eerie calm we experienced walking slowly towards ground zero, as hawkers sold pictures and T-shirts bearing the fiery images of burning skyscrapers on the streets of lower Manhattan- just mere blocks from that gaping grave in the ground. Testimonials, prayers and pictures of loved ones plastered the long wall that lined the street from the church to where the towers once stood. As I watched from the side of the road, staring at workers still clearing tons of rubble, there were no politics, religion or hate on my mind. I felt like crying but I couldn't. It just seemed too insignificant to do so at that moment, while I stared something greater than I could comprehend in its ugly, anonymous face.

For months following, every time I emerged from the subway in the morning I half-expected the CN Tower, which unfailingly looms over Toronto's trees and buildings, to be cut in half or simply to not be there. Or at my desk, every time I heard sirens, there was that spector in my head saying "could this be our turn". These things still happen every so often. One might think that the survivors in New York, or anyone touched by the event around the world may forever be sentenced to fear and painful memories of the dark past. While my memories may not be as painful by degree as those of others, I believe one thing is certain: human souls repair themselves. If not completely here and now, then in a next life.

Zanta Strikes Again

I don't know how I have successfully avoided writing about this super mega-nutcase before, but I've finally caved. For those of you who live in or frequent downtown Toronto, Zanta requires no introduction. For those who don't, you'll need a little background, which you can get HERE or at his personal web site HERE. In short, Zanta is a shirtless (even in the winter) santa hat wearing alien with ripped abs, who yells unintelligible greetings at tour buses, chats with pedestrians and does countless push ups on the streets of the T-Dot. Zanta is frivolity personified.

Last year, City TV/Much Music station staff became obsessed with trying to keep him out of their street shots (artists and directors tend to get moody and jealous if they aren't always the focus of the lens). Zanta liked fame and sought it during every moment of his waking life, but the guy just got too pervasive. City TV, the station that professes to be the media outlet of the common people refused to help Zanta promote himself. I mean really- what were they getting out of it (read: City/Much has become a pompous, vain corporate entity like any other). So, they went to the police and then the courts to get rid of him.

But Zanta would not be discouraged. He moved to fresh climes. Since his legal banishment from the cool kids' kingdom south of College Street, Zanta has frequented the intersection of College and Yonge. On many occassions, I've seen him accosting awkward, puzzled citizens from just outside the windows of Baroli Cafe, my espresso haunt. Zanta endures and can't be contained by injunctions or restraining orders. Zanta is like the wind and moves where nature compels him. Zanta is Zen in motion. In fact, from now on, I will always think of him as Zenta.

In the picture above, taken this week, Zanta has once again captured our hearts and imagination. And once again, he has really pissed someone off. This time in Yorkville, the spiritual mecca of the snooty and idle rich. Zanta is again doing his best work- stealing the spotlight from those who hog it, and giving to the less fortunate- himself. All hail Zanta.

By the way, what the fuck is that washed up has-been Michael Keaton doing at the film festival anyway? He should be grateful someone took a picture of him at all. If weren't for Zanta's cameo, I doubt anyone would have.

If you are so inclined, HERE is an online flash version of a documentary on Zanta's bizarre life.

Subway Vignettes

Yesterday, for reasons too bland and complex to detail here, I was forced to ride the red rocket. Of course, there had to be delays on the one day I decided to do so. As I stood propped against a door, head full of iPod-spewing 80s metal to drown out the blabbering mediocrity, I witnessed the daily urban absurdities, playing out like scenes in a silent retarded movie. Well, it was more like watching a bizarre hockey game where the players carried purses and laptop bags with Judas Priest blasting on the stereo and no audible commentary.

My observations are as follows:

Why do so many women carry their lunches or knitting projects to work in pristinely preserved shopping bags from expensive retail stores? Do they really realize how pathetic it makes them look? It's like walking around with an empty caviar tin strapped to your head.

Why do pot-bellied middle-aged business men think they are invisible as they stand in front of school girls and strain to stare down their tops, desperately searching for any semblance of a trace of areola? 100s are watching you Dirty Harry.

What's with the fucking home boy, with full hoodie pulled down over suspiciously peering eyes, slumped as far down as possible in the corner wearing a parka in the middle of the summer? Yo.

Why does everyone in the vincinity look so uncomfortable as the empty water botte rolls from one end of the car to the other. It's like a passive-agressive game of hot potatoe. When the train stops, whoever ends up with that horrid bottle at their feet looks terrified and either immediately boots it away from them or timidly sits there pretending to ignore it, screaming inside for the train to move again. What kind of horrible disease can you contract from an empty plastic bottle that grazes your shoe!!! How many emergency room visits are precipitated by such dire collisions every year? I want the stats!

Anyway, needless to say, I biked in today.

Happy weekend, you big soggy sack of pervs.

38 Years of Hard Core Rebellion

When I was a kid I was one crazy mofo. I did anything on a dare. I drank excessively, swallowed handfuls of illicit drugs, partook in large quantities of promiscuous sex and was completely disrespectful of any kind of authority or convention. I lived fast and loud and said F-U to anyone who had a problem with it.

This morning something hit me. I was getting dressed and realized the extent of my rebellion these days is sadly illustrated by the following anecdote: I recently bought 7 pairs of socks - each pair embroidered with the name of the day of the week on them. But I'm no plastic follower. No way. Not only do I not wear them on the proper corresponding day, but I never wear a matching set. So, today kids, for my feet at least, it's fuckin' Wednesday AND Saturday. Yeah baby, screw the system! Down with the man! Rock hard- ride free!

Happy weekend freaks.

K

Human Rights in Slow Motion

Yesterday, on the way to work, I had one of those epiphanic moments. I don't know if this happens to you, but sometimes my mind zooms in on an urban vignette somewhere in the city, like a tight cinematic close-up. Often, the profound thoughts this sparks are lost in the subsequent hurricane of daily tasks. But sometimes, I remember.

Every day, I bike past the Chinese consulate in Toronto. And every day, some elderly Falun Gong practitioner stands in front of the cold gates, performing Tai Chi-like poses, in quiet, passive protest against China's brutal persecution of their group. In reality, these geriatric, turtle-like exercisers pose no threat to anyone. But the communist government in China is afraid of any kind of organized movement and thus (allegedly) kills, maims and tortures them.

Yesterday. the remarkable vision of that little old woman slowly stretching her muscles, bones and tendons, in a free country -- in plain view of her enemies -- with the somehow anachronistic white buds of iPod headphones sticking out from under her rain hat was not lost on me. A history of palpable violence and stern defiance lurked behind the seeming peacefulness of her wrinkled face. That little woman represented the best that Canada has to offer the world; the judicious power of a commitment to maintain human rights.

WARNING: GO Derailment

All GO Train service from Union Station has been suspended for rush hour and the rest of the night because of a derailment. Our precious city will soon be overtaken by wandering zombie suburbanites scavenging for fast food and video rental stores.

We need to organize. We need to get emergency carpools together to usher these lost sprawlers out of our secret kingdom for the weekend. If you see a displaced wanderer, do not approach them. If they offer you alcohol, decline. And for the love of god, if you do accept the alcohol do not mate with the suburban-dweller!

Oh my god, gotta run. That Canadian Tire couple has broken through security at my building... They have dangerous looking lawn tools and look pissed! Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh...

Mucho Caliente!!!

In keeping with my penchant for omni-cultural harmony and hot Spanish T&A (tequila and the Andes, you horned-up sex doggies!), I have to plug Telelatino's Salsa on St. Clair street festival which kicks off tonight. In 2005, the event's inaugural year, more than 200,000 people descended upon the couple of blocks that I am proud to call my hood.

There is something for everybody at this street party. There are several awesome latin bands playing on different street corners, as well as on the main stage, cultural vendors and a kids' play and stage area.

Most importantly though, there is plenty of booze, food and hot latino/latina eye candy. What more could you ask for in a cultural event? Come one, come all. Ride the red rocket or bring your red rocket. But whatever you do, haul that sweet ass of yours uptown to St. Clair and experience a little of what I get to love and covet everyday!

For info and directions check the link out HERE. Have a great weekend kiddies- I know I will!

Soccer Balled!

Ok, now that I've expunged all that sensitive, feel-good World Cup crap from my brain it's back to the painfully bizarre. As you know, every joyous event has an underbelly of absurdity, and I'm about to tell y'all about it, yo. This one is fo' the fellas in da howse today.

You all know that classic male-targetted cartoon/slap stick comedy scenario: Coyote falls from cliff, lands with legs straddling fence? Or cowboy jumps from top of saloon and lands backwards nut-first on the horsey? Well, this actually happened the other day - Italy's V-Day- amidst the craziness on St. Clair.

On Sunday, as we waded through the mess of insane Italy fans on the sidewalk, a group of 15 year old boys went screaming past us, flags rippling. The straggler- a skinny olive-skinned lad with hair gelled to the max and wearing big baggy soccer shorts was running to catch up to his friends and whizzed by my arm -- almost on the edge of the curb. See the picture above?

In the flash of a second, about 4 feet in front of us, his head disappeared and his ass went straight up in the air - stopped dead at the sack by an unseen bike post!!! Instinctively, all 4 guys present in our group immediately clutched our tender packages in mimed sympathy and grunted out loud. Then we stood there gawking in beer-inspired smirking amazement, as Nads the Impaler peter-tottered on the top end of that bike post for what seemed to be about 20 seconds. Poor kid.

We saw him about 10 minutes later. He had caught up to his paisannos, and was huddled in a ball in a bank kiosk as his buddies howled. In the end though, I'm confident that he was comforted by the swollen pride he felt at Italy's cup win. At the very least, he had gained himself a nice big souvenir set of Azzurri balls.

The View from Little Italy

It may be trite, but there is absolutely no option for me today but to write about Italy's World Cup win. You see, I live in Toronto's St. Clair West neighbourhood - the quintessential Little Italy. Yesterday, we had some Italian friends over from the burbs - Woodbridge, which is basically Little Italy north- to watch the game. Also, our neighbour CJ- who has deep roots in France- was there. My WASPy wife, me the Ukie, my rapidly-growing almost-2-year-old daughter and our friend Elana- an American-Canadian Jewish-Greek (long story) all ate prosciutto and Camembert, drank Dutch beer and broke bread while taking in the final showdown. After the winning goal, we ran out to the porch to hear the tidal wave of roars originating on the Corso Italia pour down St. Clair, through the neighbourhoods of Italians, Jamaicans, South Americans, Portuguese and everyone else under the sun. In minutes, the entire area erupted into a deafening din which sustained itself well into the night from that moment on.

We had to get out there, so we waded through the swarming masses of ecstatic Tri-Colore adorned revellers -- many of whom were likely not Italian either. The pure joy emanating from these hundreds of thousands was contagious. And the event was as conspicuous for its festivity as it it was for what didn't happen. There was no violence. No lawlessness. No injury.

But the day didn't end for us there. We then subwayed ourselves down to Queen's Park, because despite the celebrations in our hood, we couldn't miss checking out one of our favourite summer cultural festivals, AfroFest. Within minutes, we were enveloped by thousands who came to experience African music, food and culture. After a while we were drawn back to the happy insanity that continued to grow in our absence only a few stops away.

Even though I'm not Italian, I felt immense pride in my heart yesterday. I even felt sentimental. Some might ask "Why would you care? You're just a mange cake". To those I would say this: What happened in this city yesterday exemplified the best that Toronto has to offer. The beer buzz, the people and the warm blanket of an inclusive community all made me realize I would not want to be living anywhere else on this globe. It also made me think how happy I am to know that my daughter will have the rich, unique and priceless advantage of growing up in the most omni-cultural city on the face of the earth.

Viva Italia! Vive le Canada!

"Public" Transit?

TTC workers are once again holding the entire City of Toronto hostage. Nice. Now this is the reason I savour riding my bike to and from work almost every day. My solution for avoiding situations like this in the future? Crush the union and their whining, unorganized executive by declaring public transit an essential service. Now I know you sickle-hugging lefty espresso-sippers will be cringing behind your copy of Hegel's Phenomonology of Spirit at the thought, but how else do we protect this city from chaos and shut down?

You tell me, you big pink bunch of smarty pantses...