Tuesday, August 31, 2004

Fodors Toronto:"Blue Balls on a Budget"

I must have a trusting face.

Or an intelligent face.

It could be that I have a lonley face.

At any rate, my face was the most inviting one down at Pier 6 this afternoon when a wayward American traveller, perhaps a little stoned, approached me in his tie-dyed shirt to ask:

A- "Buddy! Buddy! Where's the ferry to the nude beach?"
B- "One block east of here, at the York Quay."
A- "Thanks! Buddy, is there a lot of nude chicks out there?"
B- "Not really."
A- "I heard that there was nude chicks with big guns out there, on the nude beach."
B- "Uh. . .Sometimes there might be. I think, uh, generally it's just dudes on that beach."
A- ". . .dudes?"
B- "Yeah."
A- "Should I go?"
B- "Uh. . .I. . .uh. . .I don't know. I don't think that there will be many 'chicks with big guns' out there today. It's kinda cold."
A- "I just got today to burn. Should I go?"
B- ". . .uh. . .I don't think that it's what you're looking for."
A- "No? (pause) You're sure that there's no chicks out there? Just dudes?"
B- "I think that if it's chicks you want, you should go down Yonge St. to the peelers."
A- "Is that expensive? I heard that the ferry to the beach on the island is only, like, six bucks, and I'm kinda short on dough right now."
B- "Ah-ha. Well. I'd save your six bucks and look at the moon from the docks here."

I left him wondering what course of action to take.
But I couldn't help feeling like I wasn't much help to my fellow man in his moment of need.

Tuesday, August 24, 2004

Lead by example.

Unlike rain on your wedding day, or a black fly in your Chardonnay, I did notice something whiz past me on the Danforth two nights back that was ironic.
And it wasn't ten thousand spoons when all I needed was a knife.

Helming the Heart of Darkness in the dense traffic that floats down the Danforth can be relaxing--you know, take in the sights and sounds of Little Greektown while sipping an espresso, letting the 'Best of Guns and Roses' on the compact disc player entertain pedestrians and stir rabid jealously in those that wish they were me.

This particular night would have been nicer had a guy driving a Ford Focus covered in decals asking: Have A Traffic Ticket? Speeding Ticket? Don't Want To Lose Points? WE CAN HELP!! not blasted past me, driving down the centre of the avenue (which is to say, at the risk of putting too fine a point on it, directly down the solid line safely bisecting eastbound traffic from westbound traffic) and weaved between oncoming and outgoing traffic until he disappeared into the horizon of twinkling red brake lights.

I suppose, if one was to believe the claims made on his automobile, he was immune to conventional traffic laws--he was, dare I say it, in a class which is . . . Above the Law. A class where there is only one other student: Steven Segal.

Monday, August 23, 2004

I'm with Dummer!

It is good to get out of the city every now and then.

Having grown up in the country, far far far from the city, I was used to people, places, and things being a bit backwards and silly. I mean, we didn't know how stupid, unsophisticated, and occasionally, inadvertently, funny we were, because the people from the city never came and pointed it out to us.

Like my Korean boss putting "Scoop Ice Ream" up on the sign because he was missing the 'C' and thought people would get the point anyway. You know, get the gist of it.

I have lived in the city for one year and eleven months TO THE DAY today, and while driving through the Kawartha Lakes region last week I saw a sign on the roadside indicating which way to drive if one wanted to reach the office of "The Dummer News".
There is a town named Dummer.
They have a paper which they called "The Dummer News".

I wonder if there is a Dummer Elementary School? Or a Dummer Library? Or a Dummer Town Council which decides on Dummer Bylaws?

I laughed for ten kilometers.

Eat Shitz and Die!

Recently, while plying my brand of Pilsner in a local LCBO, an elderly woman came in with her trusted friend and companion, a Shitzund (a Shitzu and a Daschund crossed--a Shitz-wiener if you will) dolled-up in the 11th Century French Rococo style.

A woman with her dog is not in itself an extraordinary sight in Toronto, a city where people love to take their dogs everywhere; even the way she was striking her four-legged friend with her foot was not, unfortunately, an uncommon spectacle. It was the ridiculous abuse she was hurling at the confused, yet well-ribboned, bitch that drew my eye. Abuse hurled in German!

Knowing that wiener Dogs were stoned in the streets of London during World War I and World War II due to their Germanic heritage, I thought it unpatriotic for this German septuagenarian to be assaulting a mongrel of Aryan lineage. The only thing I could think of, was that she was trying to kick the Shitz out of the dog.

As she passed, I remarked:

B- "What a beautiful dog! She's a Shitzu and Daschund cross, isn't she?"
A- "Yes. She's beautiful and I wish she would die."
B- "I see."

The maligned pooch looked up at me from beneath her ridiculous, north-pointing ponytail, her little cross-eyes conveying a certain tired sadness in her soul that only the meek possess. I felt for her and wondered if the Germans would ever change their wicked ways.

I dreampt that a bulldog with a big stick took it to the Kaiser later that night, and felt a bit better.