Toronto, incense, gay sex with lube, and other things

that don't totally blow

Brandon Ferguson, Opinions Editor

 

In hindsight, Offawa is one of the best cities ’ve ever
been to, even if the pool I’m sampling from is some-

what wee.

The last night in town was spent with one of my
very best buddies—a brother in arms—as we cov-
ered more ground in one night than the student
union jamboree covered policy in a week. Dancing to
the solid covers of the Joe August Band at Darcy
McGee’s, we worked the crowd into an Irish frenzy
fuelled by scotch on the rocks, stout ales by the pint,
and with Jagermeister painting our faces.

After the lip smacking and butt grabbing, we
bailed (sorry Inder) to go hijack an empty club. With
only two cougars and one Yuri as their patrons, we
quickly (and rather easily) rounded the troops up and
took advantage of the empty dance floor and gener-
ous Jamaican DJs. We bounced from Billy Idol, to
trip on trance, to tango with David Bowie, to slide
into a Parliament Funk boog-a-loo. We might have
even two-stepped. But that was four hours and three
bombers away from Toronto, the mecca of blech,
where milk is sold by the bag, homes are built like
fortresses, and liquor stores close by five on Sundays.

Of course, like how all acts of violence are sub-
ject to conscience, all thoughts of bias are the object
of perspective. It wasn’t until the third hazy day of
my lazy visit that I first made an important distinc-
tion: Oakville is not Toronto. Maybe I was so pre-
pared to hate Toronto that I forgot where Toronto
actually was (my only other TO experience saw me
end up in handcuffs on a wharf, so, it’s possible, but_
maybe I was angry and wrong about Toronto from
the get-go).

Early in the afternoon of last Monday, I hopped
a $25 cab to Kipling Station to begin my first real
subway experience. Though my suburban friend’s
suburban wife warned me to be wary of thugs (read:
black people), I found more subway artists than
assassins. A pleasantly bumpy and clangy ride later,
and this gopher was ready to pop up from the shad-
ows and hop out onto Bathurst and Bloor.

I was met by the hard din of construction, the
hollow ding of trolleys, and the hot damn of Honest
Ed’s five billion watts of dollar store sensory insani-
ty. If Las Vegas is for wealthy and unfaithful lovers,
then Honest Ed’s is for penny-pinching masturba-
tors. As someone with loud opinions but no taste,

Honest Ed’s was the ultimate place to do an about-
face on the vainest of cities, this pathetic capital of
outer space.

After Honest Ed’s retinal blaze, it was Piya’s
Boutique that next caught my gaze as her incense
laced my nose along Bloor Street and traced the rest
of my way. Granted, many of the stores along the
street looked like gum stuck to the sole of Toronto’s
shoe—Lee’s Palace looked like commercialized dirt; a
rock concert’s pet rock—but throughout my travels
down Bloor, Queen Street, College, and even Yonge
Street, I was amazed at the balance between fashion
and function, aimless drifting and cement junction,
touch and taste, inelegance and grace. Every street
was Commercial Drive meets Robson Street.

This hurts me, because Toronto fucking sucks.
This is a lot like discovering a G-spot in my ass—I’m
sorry, Toronto and Chad, but I’m just physically and
emotionally incapable of loving you. Days spent eat-
ing at Hero Burger (fat burgers, so tight) and Sweet
Lui’s (best Tom Yum, good spice); afternoons shop-
ping at Honest Ed’s and Kensington Market;
evenings drinking at Dunn Right In (the seediest
place you'll ever find a philosopher’s stool) or at the
Cadillac Lounge (the cheesiest place you’ll ever find a
beer garden’s 20-foot tribute to pink Cadillacs);
nights spent at speakeasies like the ambient Green
Room—the whole TO experience left me amazed
and changed.

Toronto, you can come over anytime. Chad, keep
your damn junk in your own damn trunk.

However, despite my sudden fondness for 'T-dot’s
downtown G-spot, and after having the first full 24
Vancouver hours under my belt, reticence has set in.
I love Toronto for all of its commercial exports and
consumer sports. I love Toronto for its blinky lights
and kinky sights. I love Toronto because I paid it
damn good money.

Toronto’s not a short car away from countless
mountains from which to catch a sunset. Toronto’s
not a bus ride away from a saltwater beach where the
tide’s roar tickles the fire’s crackle. Toronto’s not a
walk away from a wooded alcove near a (somehow)
glacial stream, where squirrels scamper without skin
diseases, where I can stretch out with a good book
and feel pampered and at total ease.

Toronto’s a lot of great things—and I’m now for-
ever grateful to her and would be happy to see her
again—but she’s not Vancouver.

Plus, the Leafs suck.

 

 

Right Hook continued from pg 7

can only be brought up as scaremongering tactics.

The alternate to this strategy of hollow denials and races
to the mushy middle would be for the Conservatives to
become more self-confident and unapologetic in their posi-
tions. This doesn’t mean acting like a screaming right-wing
lunatic, but neither does it mean going out of your way to
deny holding the positions that everyone knows you obvi-
ously have.

On the issue of private healthcare, for example, most
Canadians only understand the proposed two-tier system as
some sort of evil thing that will kill them. The
Conservatives are officially not in favor of two-tier health-
care, but everyone knows they support it on the inside. So
why not at least stand up for it when it comes under attack?
A two-tier system, by definition, will keep public healthcare
intact while allowing for an independently-run, fee-based
system for seniors who are willing to pay for surgery but not
willing to wait over a year for it. It’s a pretty straight forward
argument, and not one that smart Conservatives like Harper
should have a problem making.

On gay marriage, similarly, rather than simply “giving up
the fight” as the press advocates, and pretending to have
never opposed the practice in the first place, Conservatives
should not be afraid to point out that, even at its supposed
peak of popularity, same-sex marriage could barely manage
to break a 1 percent margin of majority approval. Similarly,
even among those Canadians who did approve, a large
chunk of them were nevertheless firm in their convictions
that homosexual marriage should never assume fully equal
legal status to the heterosexual kind. Despite the cries of
social libertarians, opposing gay marriage was always a fairly
mainstream position, not some sort of radical fringe stance
to be ashamed of.

Lastly, the Iraq war.

Canadians may be too squeamish to deal with the
thought of their soldiers getting shot in the Middle East,
and that’s acceptable. What’s not acceptable, however, is for
the Conservatives to distance themselves from a conflict
that, despite some obvious pitfalls, has achieved a great deal
of successes. Canadians are supposed to be a people who
believe in ideals of spreading peace, democracy, and human
rights around the world. Let the Liberals explain why they
thought Iraqis were better off without elections, a charter of
rights, freedom of speech, or a free press. If anything,
Conservatives should have it easy on this issue-as war-back-
ers, they can claim credit for all the good things that have
come to Iraq, but since Harper wasn’t our commander-in-
chief during the conflict, he can’t be blamed for any casual-
ties.

In the end, most Canadian voters are basically moderate;
but so too are most voters basically non-ideological. Voters
cast ballots for ideas and rhetoric that make logical sense.
Despite Mr. Martin’s best attempts, throwing around scary
words like neoconservative in an attempt to fear monger
only goes so far. If an idea works, it’s a good policy—no
matter what you call it.

But hey, I’m just a newspaper columnist. What do I
know?