THE OCCUPY TORONTO is somewhat of a lowlife transit commission, cheap smokes at a hasty store. The oversized black girl drags me along frosted Church Street, which is by now assembling furry coated office girls tripping towards their lawfirms and business machines. She knows where to find some cheap smokes for the camp, it’s the future, just so you know. This is about the only consistent sense I can drain from her dazed babble, it’s been another exhausting night down in the the bowels of the T.O. Her voice is hoarse and fading, she must have been one of the screeching creatures, inevitably drawn towards the fire by the morning.
Said that she wanted to buy some groceries for the camp kitchen, but her money is somewhere, if 65 dollars for a tenpack were ok, she’s asking me now. I get her a single pack.
As the streetcar arrives, it’s time to politely detach from this mission. Her white noise kind of lament has grown to a steady sobbing, I’m spotting her another two bucks for the streetcar fare, no clue what to make of all this raucous confusion. I’m still way too wealthy for these streetkids, they have a smell for the quick lube, who knows what she had in mind for that obscure place where that bill of fifty was supposed to be.
Now that I let go, on the flipside of another night out in the brisk perimeter, munching the sweetest PBJ bagel, wide awake and more alive than ever, filled to the brim with the most lubricant existence, aren’t these just the most charming details?
By the end of this teaching, I kept the fire like a true skipper, do easy with the elders, pulled a guy’s foot out of the flames, as Red Stone Man was dozing off. But he’s a born dreamer, serious information, keeping his personal sacred fire. He was dreaming of a checque to come to him and it came.
WE ALL DO KNOW a lot more than we know. That’s what the naïve young mother said, mixed up with a great deal of esoteric mumbo jumbo. She had come down from Scarborough, knowing that there was no bus back. It’s what they refer to as a ghetto in Toronto, which is hard to believe. Especially after coming out of the D, thoroughly reframed. To be very honest though, I am kind of relieved for the moment. The sight of a stray dog still sends a shot of adrenaline to my nervous system, immediately scanning the situation for packs of famished hounds that might run me down the forlorn streets.
Not that I have encountered any or have come anywhere close to being mugged off my bike. Detroit has been cuddling me like a fluffy wee puppy. However, the superqueer weirdness of the urban wildlife can cause some complex digestion issues.
This radical diet of ceaseless sirens and conspiracy theories in Detroit has been getting to me. You start believing them when they’re being fired at you at all crazy times of the day. Eventually you start losing faith that this front page system has ever worked or could be fixed at all. And even up here, in a world that seemingly is not all drenched in doom and gloom, oppression and corporate cannibalism, peace of mind only comes at the price of ignorance and/or intoxication. Might not be a bad idea to wake the fuck up though.
Canada is on the eve of passing an incredibly dangerous and expensive corporate terror legislation under the name of Omnibus Crime Bill. In its core, this bill will create a private prison industry and promote the construction of ridiculous mega-jails. Short: make money off the state by detaining people for as long as possible. If there are not enough criminals, why not adjust the laws accordingly and raise minimum sentences. Make Canada safer, that usually pulls the trigger. A country, which hardly knows any crime. In the meantime, the mayor is very serious about creating new jobs and reminding his sheeple to work off their Audis and lake-side condominiums.
We have heard it so many times before, but it won’t go out of fashion. People “just doing their jobs” have been contributing to the most devastating crimes in human history. Next thing you’ll read on your flatrate crackphone is that corporate is sending in the 4G Robocop to either protect or otherwise get your ass.
WHICH TAKES ME BACK to Detroit on a minute flashback, still worked up to draw a gist from this disruptive settlement. Maybe it is the Paris of the Midwest, the renaissance city of a sweet water future. That’s what all the Michigan school kids are made to believe. The greatest fresh water reserves on the planet, light years away from tidal waves or freewheeling hurricanes and permanent bushfires. Wholefoods won’t open up in Midtown just for the tax breaks and Ernst & Young most probably has some information on the ground of which they have opened up a big new office building.
Maybe the Brokedown Chief is right and the claims are completely staked by the end of 2012. By then he will have opened up, filling bellies with Corktown’s sweetest potato hash straight from the soulkitchen. Maybe the future is indeed in the delighted hands of the whizkid from Maine, who had been hoping for so long to be coming to this city. Maybe it is in the rabbit hands of Little Ryan and all the other DIY makers & shakers, creating their own power happiness completely off the grid. Or even Derek and his brawling gold miners. Maybe they will rent out all these $1000 and up condos in the Broderick Tower and bring the gentrification that old Detroiters seriously wish for. Yes, indeed, maybe.
AS OF TODAY – the very most I can speak about – the Chief can’t even bring up three single bucks to buy a jar of hummus and his business partner isn’t taking the phone when the Chief’s calling from his own number. He’s gotta use my phone for stealth maneuvers. For the time being, the Christian nut bar is losing it all when speaking in tongues to her daughter, trying to exorcise a flu out of the frightened child.
In my time, there is a huge gap even between downtown and the so called bustling hipster midtown. Not even to mention the full state that’s sprawled out between Motown and the white trash fence at 8 Mile. As of now, Handsome Tim rather watches weird movies instead of mingling in predominantly black blues bars. But all I really know is about the tiny future. The dollhouse future of smoking, clowning, bicycling, sincerity or wood fires and solar panels. The rest is just a snapshot, contemporary as fuck, even of which I don’t have the faintest idea.
So – after all – don’t listen to a word I say. The D is an equally imaginary and delusional place as Black Rock City. No doubt, it was dedicated to the Sun King himself, Louis XIV. Go and see with your own eyes and make sure you stay at the hostel. The manager is a little fruity and hasty but actually a real deal sweetheart.
Watch Robocop, Cycles of the Mental Machine and the Street Fighting Man, or learn to pick random Motown songs from the jukebox. They’re always good, every single one of them. Pick up Jack Kerouac’s On The Road from your bookshelf, the first line is dedicated to a girl from Grosse Pointe. And don’t neglect your rich friends from there or from Birmingham. The Halloween Baby makes some sterling Wiener Schnitzel and should stop worrying about Sugartits, who is a true crackmaster on the boulder.
Go Fowling with the Crack Puppy and put it all on the deck, I don’t know anybody who doesn’t love toy factories and talking dolls. You can put him on speed-dial on your crackphone. The number is 1-800-EAT-SHIT.