Aw fuck. More 6-degrees-of-separation randoms are reading this blog. Too much goddamned pressure. Starting to feel self-conscious. *Blush*Blush*Blush*
So G20 has come and gone. Not much was accomplished. Apparently, this is one for the history books. I guess it's one of those things that my kids will ask me, 'Mom, where were you during the G20 riots?'
At least I have a cool answer. I hope, I hope my kids think I'm supa-fly. And I hope against hope that my kids use groovy vocabulary, like, supa-fly.
Irish wants to only show her kids VHS and records. Told her she's gonna fuck them up somethin mighty. Also, made the point that her kids would miss out on Donnie Darko and Smashing Pumpkins. Gave her cause for pause.
Love my new phone. Qwerty keyboard makes texting a breeze. I can now devote my time on being witty and hilarious, instead of yelling "why are you such a piece of shit!" at my phone. I feel like I'm finally the person I was meant to me.
My phone is also teaching me how to spell! It won't let me write it, if I spell it wrong. Passive-aggressive much?
Facebook's friend suggestions have gone too far. Last night Facebook suggested I add a former one night stand as a friend. Ya... no.
Although, I always did wonder what his last name was. I guess Facebook made me a little less slutty last night. Amazingly, we had 5 mutual friends. Including 2007's summer fling. Goddamnit Scarborough. Why does everyone have to be so interconnected?
In related news, I do not know New Plot Point's last name. This is how I get myself into trouble. He bought new pillows, which is both a practical, and romantic gesture.
So just thinking here that I should fill up my gas tank, before gas is HST-ed.
Not EVEN going to comment on the HST, other than to say.... I am for-realsies-seriously considering voting Conservative in the next Provincial election. Also, new goal of becoming Canada's Next Top Journalist, simply so I can meet Dalton Mcguinty. No worries, I won't do/say anything inappropriate. Just wanna give him my evil glare #36. That one is reserved for idiot politicians (so, the majority of them.) and fuckwits in general (to steal from my journalistic idol, Bridget Jones.)
Anywho, onwards to the Petroleum Emporium! (Notice I break out my Sunday-best vocabulary when I know I'm being read?)
~~~and now I'm in a completely new state of mind... on a existential plane of existence... Music. A necessity. ~~~
At long last. I will recount my G20.. shenanigans. It all began on Friday.
I worked all afternoon to night. Got home 9:45. Hair, did. Makeup, done. Steamed my outfit, changed. Pizza bagel, ate. Camera, charged. Teeny tiny purple purse, packed. Heels. Short-shorts. Black tank. Hot necklace.
Lemonade, 3 gulps.
Add whisky.
Shake.
Taste.
More whisky.
Oh shit.
Too much whisky.
Shake.
Taste.
Fuck.
Yes, too much whisky.
Wish I had ice.
Scarborough Station, 10:15. Subway. 4 gay dudes speaking Spanish. 3 in pink polos. Does the other dude feel left out?
Drink.
Shit, that woman is looking at me funny. I'm drinking the equivalent of 3 poor-man's whisky sours on the train. And I'm dressed like a slut.
Drink.
Off at Bloor/Yonge.
Drink.
One cop.
Two Cop.
Hide drink. Wait for the train. With 6 coppers. Waaaay to tipsy for this.
Ditch the empty bottle. There's whisky molecules on it. Find recycling receptacle. Beside a lady-cop.
Get off at Wellesly. Walk. Realise I'm walking the wrong way. Walk back. Then realize I'm walking a wronger way. Walk back.
Curse you whisky. Find the club. Nervously have my bag checked. Find my friends. Irish shows. We drink on the patio. Then go dancing. Gay guy grinded up on me. Which I found more unsettling than a straight guy. Gay dudes are waaaaay more touchy. Ran into random coworker out birthday celebrating. Talked to loads of randoms. Got a free shot of Jägermeister.
Walked through Ryerson. Ate a wicked hot dog (no euphemisms.) Waited for the streetcar for like 5 minutes, then hailed a cab. Went to the park with Irish.
In bed, 5:30. Up at 9. To move the car for neighbour. Back to bed.
11:30. Urg. Irish, get up. We gotta get a move-on if we're gonna make this protest.
Wash the slut off, and don our protestin' clothes.
Pit stop at Timmys (BLT for breakfast...? Delightful!)
Got there at 1. It's raining. Wandered around Queen's Park. Just taking it all in. Speeches are being made. Chill hippy music's playing. Different languages are being spoken, and chanted. Everyone is here. Children. Elderly. All races, religions, creeds, languages. Different classes, ideologies.
We begin our walk. The peaceful protest.
The rain stops. I even take off my sweater.
Listen to the chants. "Hey hey, ho ho, Steven Harper's got to go!"
"Whose streets? Our streets? Whose town? Our Town!"
"Protesting is not a crime! Police officers on overtime!"
"Expropriate the banks!"
"We. Will not. Shut the fuck up!"
"This is what. Democracy looks like!"
"This is what. A police state looks like!"
"Shame!!" Is yelled when we pass by cops. Some protesters meet the cops face to face. And by "cop" I mean "cop in shorts with a bicycle."
But behind the girly cops, is the other extreme. 25+ cops. Standing stiff. At the ready. Full riot gear. Helmets. Muzzle (tear gas) or rubber bullet guns. I can't tell which. And every other with a shield and baton.
We walked by Steve's Music. All the employees were outside the store gawking. Some waved. Some smiled. Some flashed peace signs. Cool kids with mohawks and fauxhawks and piercings. Later, this would be the site of not one, but two burning police cars.
We walked on. Got caught in some union flags. Chanted behind well-dressed Indian men (one was wearing a suit!) Walked on. Got to the front. With the feminists. The women led the parade. Carrying a ginormous coat hanger. Pro maternal health. Coat hanger.
Giggle. Gross.
Got back to Queens Park, unscathed. 3 pm.
Meanwhile... At Queen and Spadina... A black block anarchist lights a flare.
The park slowly filled. Music was playing. Weed was smoking. Everyone was chill. Chill hippies.
3:15 Dude comes up to us. May or may not have handed us the world's longest joint, and bid us a, "happy G20."
May or may not have found a quiet corner in Queens park, laid our sweaters on the ground. It was like the sixties. Hippies chilled out on weed, after a peaceful protest.
Meanwhile... back at the ranch... Shop windows are smashed. Queen Street.
It starts to rain. I open the umbrella. We enjoy the hippy music, the protest music, the union songs of coal miners.
12 cops, only meters away. We begin to get paranoid. The sewer. The perfect hiding place. Which would, ironically, hide anarchists, later that night.
Sid Ryan made an impassioned speech. Riled us up. I wanted to yell "Fuck the government. Fuck the po-lice." I was restrained. We journeyed home.
Meanwhile... back at the ranch... 3:45... Cop cars. Burning. King and Bay.
So we got to Queens Park Station. Barricaded closed. No worries. Walked the next. Barricaded. Began our journey north on Yonge.
Little did we know. Pandemonium was erupting. Bay and King. Queen's Park. Spadina and Queen. All in all, 4 cop cars would be burned. Multiple shop windows smashed. Graffiti declaring ideologies. Arrests would be made. As well as conflicting reports about tear gas and rubber bullets. All under the threat of the sound cannon.
And the coppers would keep their cool. Some would even say that they kept a soft hand. But as we journeyed north, we were ignorant. Not to mention, in an alternate state of mind. We joked as we walked past the "Police Museum and Discovery Centre." Sounds like something lame my Dad would make us do on a summer vacation.
Incidentally, the Museum and Discovery Centre is so much more than a museum AND discovery centre. It is also police headquarters. Which, later, would be a place of violence.
We continued north. Good preparation for the end of the world, I decided. The subways are closed. We walk north. Exodus. I am Legend. We walk north. None walk south.
Then we see the cops. Stopping everyone walking south.
Finally, we get to Bloor/Yonge. We ask the cops if we can go in. We're escorted down a narrow path, surrounded in a blue cage. This is what a police state looks like.
Inside the station, an announcement.
This is what a police state sounds like: "There will be no service on the University line, south of Bloor. There will be no service from St. George to Union and Bloor to Union. This is due to a police directive."
By the time we arrive at Scarborough Station, grab our samosas and beef patties, we've heard stirrings. Of violence on the streets. So we sit in her car, for over an hour, listening live on the radio. Like the good 'ol days.
I was glued to the TV all night. CTV, CP24, CBC. And not to mention Twitter.
And FYI I have the BEST twitter feed for when the shit's goin' DOWN in Toronto. Constant, and almost instant updates. Better than the live coverage on CP24.
Well. This is long enough all ready. More later. And if I wasn't being monitored by the government before this post, I certainly am now. Damn SEO.
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