This weekend Awyee traveled up to Toronto, Canadia for some northern love and a quick taste of Canuck culture.
I’ve never seen a season so raped. Summer temperatures of 85, 90 degrees in New York were hot swapped for a cool and moist 50 degree stale fog. My first few thoughts led me to think Toronto was a refrigerator, and I was it’s b*ch. It wasn’t long before the old ball and chain tried excusing the weather as an unusual cold front. Whether she was telling the truth or not, one thing was remaining fact–Ygritte shot Jon Snow in the back with an arrow. You can’t trust Wildlings.. I’d have to lend trust for my own survival.
Cross walks–have blinding yellow lights. Restaurants–bring the credit card machine to you, at the table. Bottled tomato/vodka beverages. Blade Runner predicted so much. So much change, yet it felt comfortably logical. A society so swoon with socialized medicine was still capitalistic in so many ways, I almost fell on my ass. FOB’s selling bubble tea and sh*tty tourist tee’s. Indie record shops selling overpriced old technology. Buildings as tall as New York’s, filled with bankers, lawyers–co co….corporations. I bet they even earn a…profit. I thought I was in a warped paradise, until I saw the truly sacrilege–the LCBO and Beer store. How can society function on such a literal bottleneck. All things seemed like they worked perfectly, apart from the weather systems. But a hyper-regulated government owned monopoly on alcohol sales seemed asinine. Is this Sweden? Ontario has an addiction–and it’s treating its citizens like assh*les by owning liquor sales. I wish I could have rode an eagle of freedom over this arctic paradise, but the LCBO seemed undeterred. The downfall began.
I soon realized every product has both English and French labeling. The undead Quebecois, although hundreds of miles away, forced their bullsh*t dog-French onto every bottle of ketchup and mustard in Toronto. I barely heard a lick of French being spoken–it seemed those labels stood to remind me of the outlandish batsh*t demands of Quebec students. This was a Degrassi vacation slowly turning into a derailed train. I thought we escaped their reach with freedom fries. Now I can’t dip them without seeing silent vowels. What a nightmare.
Friday night we hit up the hottest strip in all of T-town, Ossington Ave. Imagine LES/Williamburg meets REI winter apparel, pour some maple syrup and sprinkle some moose droppings–that’s Ossington. What a place. Our first and only stop was this really under-the-radar-but-really-all-over-the-radar-because-of-it’s-bullsh*t-hipster-ego wood cabin divebar. Most of the babes had bleached hair, dark eye makeup and thick red lipstick. If you played GTA 3 or 4 growing up–the streetwalking wheurs would give you an idea. Definitely a good look, don’t get me wrong. If the wildlings play hard, let them play, but I’ll be damned if I catch Hep C off the glass you just sh*ttilly washed. We caught up with the old matchmaker, Yang, and heard his new stories of the old frontier. Yang’s former years in America offered him a taste of the wild west, but I wouldn’t be so sure what he got himself into here in Toronto. Three nights of successively pleasurable and hedonistic acts a World of Warcrafter would only dream of. Friday night a little chicken parmesan, Saturday, a some fried chicken. Maybe Sunday he had some lo mein–either way, Toronto had the variety only hungry king and conquer. Yang toured the globe with merely his tongue, craftily tasting and savouring the subtle nuances of each ethnicity’s nether-regions. We parted ways with our brethren and wished him well.
On Saturday, the weather shifted into a clear and cool fall day–prime time to play with puppies. My girl’s family just acquired a new Ganaraskin pup, Rupert, only 3 months old. That morning her friend brought over her new pup Snowy, a white Shiba Inu. From the moment they locked eyes it was battle. Watching these two dawgs unleash unbound fury on one another was the equivalent of a bloodthirsty orgasm. An hour went by and nothing slowed down. Rupert, the slow and stumbly lil’ fk wouldnt back down–he played the grappling game, using his low center of gravity and goofy butt to launch his juggular attacks. Snowy was playing the aerial game–jumping and humping all over lil Rupert as if he was Maverick in Top Gun. I actually heard him bark, “Goose is dead b*tch, you’re next.” And with that the fighting continued for hours. We brought them out to the local school’s park and let the boys run. The entire time Baxter, the original family Ganaraskin, was freed from the puppy parade, given real breathing room….O_O That wasn’t even about Canada, it could have happened anywhere. I guess it’s nice to know puppies exist in Canada, although one might think they could die from the first frost.
After the pups grew tired, we toured Kensington market and some other hip neighborhood. I found a few potential souvenirs, but then I realized I have no CAD and all the items were unoriginal pieces of sh*t. It’s a good walk, but nothing found was worthy of my hard earned ‘Merican bucks. After a while pop shops began to blur and we left for Oakville, a town full of mansions and snobby upscale stepford wives. I’m joking, it’s a beautiful suburb that many would classify as a richer outlying borough. America’s 1950’s dream was recreated tit for tat, large homes, kid’s playing, main street with boutique stores. Oakville put my sh*tty Long Island town to shame and took the Levit-style homes, burned them down (or didn’t have them to begin with). Every so often you’d pass a stupid-big mansion, with a story of who inhabits it. It does make it more comfortable to know these ballers had an identity to the neighborhood. During my Oakville residency we 1. walked Baxter along the Lakeside, 2. had coffee with old friends of Ygritte, 3. had spicy sausage streetfood, and 4. windowshopped. If this wasn’t the suburban wonderland my mother grew up idolizing, shoot me in the face. I felt like I was in candyland. I could comfortably reside and spend my years in this caucasian paradise. There are civilized wildlings. Canada had hope. It had growth. I found my Canadian home.
Then I saw a lifesize statue of a Moose and a pack of wolves. F*k that. Canada is death waiting to happen. WE OUT.