Tag: Toronto (page 1 of 5)

Computerless in Ottawa

Dear Wendy,

Well, this is a new one on me. As you know, Adrian and I drove to Toronto over the weekend to meet up with you and the rest of the family for little Scott’s baptism. Continue reading

Senior Badasses: Cane to the genitals helps foil robbery

Dear Wendy,

For years now, I’ve been telling my (slightly alarmed) children that when I’m old enough to need a cane, I plan to get one with a big honking spike on the end. Because you just never know.

And last night, I heard a story that confirmed my plan.

It happened this way:

This past Sunday afternoon, an 82-year-old woman was heading into her Toronto apartment building carrying an armload of groceries. Some dude followed her into the building, offering to help her with her bags. He tried to push her into her apartment so he could grab her jewellery and some cash, but she started screaming. As one does.

One of her neighbours, a gentleman named Chin-Hua Chen, sprinted to the rescue. The robber hit and tried to push him out of the way, but a homeless fellow who’d set up housekeeping in the stairwell ran upstairs to help, punching the robber to subdue him.


Back off, sonny-boy. I’m armed for bear.

Then in stormed 71-year-old Jane Harris, armed with her cane, which has a jagged edge so she can navigate Toronto’s icy sidewalks in winter.

Harris wasted no time: using her cane, she jabbed the would-be robber in a sensitive part of his anatomy, immobilizing him so she could call the cops.

I heard Harris interviewed on CBC Radio’s As It Happens last night. She described how the three neighbours held the hapless robber pinned up against a stairwell wall, while she called the cops, telling them to boot it over to the building and arrest the no-goodnik.

And step on it, my good man. We have a miscreant here.


Things you don’t want in your crotch. Want one? Try this link: http://www.elderstore.com/5-prong-ice-grip-cane-attachment.aspx

My favourite bit:

Interviewer: “Where did you hold your cane exactly?”

Harris: “In the man’s genitals.” And then she laughed. It was a long, knowing laugh.

At one point the interviewer asked if Harris had been frightened. She replied, “If anyone comes after me, unless they shoot me, they’re gonna get hurt.”

Jane, you are totally badass. I like your style. And if I ever manage to start my Hell’s Grannies gang, you’re invited.

If you’d like to check out the video, you’ll find it here.

And now, I must head out. I’m off to buy a cane. With a spike.



Sunday Video Extravaganza: Another crack at Toronto’s mayor

Dear Readers,

Bored of Rob Ford, Toronto’s hard-drinkin’, crack-smokin’, gang-bangin’ mayor?  We’re not!

Ever since the crack scandal broke, people have lamented that Chris Farley is no longer around to play the Most Obvious Role Ever. But some clever soul has found a way to correct that:

Ron Burgundy goes public with his support for RoFo, introducing the world to Rob’s election theme song (and yes, he does plan to run again next year. Because Ford Nation!):

We leave the last word, for today at least, to the wonderful Rick Mercer:

Have a great weekend, everyone!

Karen & Wendy

Rob Ford plays out an old, familiar story of addiction, self-destruction

Dear Wendy,

Like most Canadians, I’ve been mesmerized by the ongoing spectacle of Toronto’s mayor Rob Ford and his adventures in the underworld of gangs, drugs, thugs, and booze.


Hey, I get my picture taken with a lot of people #inadrunkenstupor.

Last spring, when Gawker and the Toronto Star reported that Ford had been caught on video smoking crack in a trap house (my drug lingo is expanding daily, thanks to this debacle) with a bunch of gang-bangers, Ford was emphatic in his denials.

Nope, no such tape existed. And nope, he wasn’t addicted to crack, and didn’t smoke it. Absolutely not, no way, no how.

Let’s skim past the intervening months—the revelations about a possible murder linked to the video, the extortion attempts, the various shady characters unearthed by the ongoing media and police investigation, the June police raids that took down a generous chunk of the Etobicoke gang that Ford had been hanging with—and skip to last week, when Toronto Police Chief Bill Blair revealed that the cops had in fact retrieved the damning video (plus another one, contents as yet unknown).



(Photo: Chris Young for the Globe & Mail)

And now, the Ford who was all bluster and denial last spring suddenly cannot shut up about it.

He’s used the radio talk show he and his brother host to “apologize” to the good people of Toronto (though he didn’t specify for what). On Tuesday, he admitted that he might have used crack. Oh wait, no, he did. He thinks. Once. In a drunken stupor.

Because of course he did.

It’s an old, familiar pattern, isn’t it? Deny the obvious, pretend you’re the one who’s right and everyone else is “out to get you” or just plain out to lunch. Bully, bluster, and always deny, deny, deny. And then, if you’re forced to apologize, make it sound like it wasn’t your fault.

One one level, as I watch this grotesque story unfold, it’s like I’m watching the story of our own alcoholic family.

“We don’t drink too much.” “We’re totally in control at all times.” “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

We saw the evidence. We watched as our parents embarrassed themselves—and humiliated us—in public, over and over again. It never got better—it was a slow, tortuous path to self-destruction.

And when the evidence got too overwhelming to deny, then came the excuses and the self-pity: we were bad kids. We made them do it. They were working too hard, they needed a break. Who did it hurt if they had a little fun from time to time? It wasn’t their fault. Why were we hounding them?

(Ford’s version: the journalists are persecuting me. The left-wing intellectual elites are persecuting me. The cops are persecuting me. It’s all part of an evil smear campaign. I only want what’s best for this city, so everyone should just shut up and let me do my job. Even if I’m cranked up or hammered a great deal of the time. Whatever—I’m the mayor, so suck it.)

Besides, our parents were fond of reminding us, we had a roof over our heads and food on the table.

Just like the people of Toronto have (allegedly) a mayor who’s saving the city money. (A claim that’s demonstrably untrue, but it’s part of his shtick.)

As kids, we were told we had no right to complain, so we should just shut up and let them get on with running the place the way they saw fit.

And if that happened to involve getting piss-drunk and passing out, well, tough beans. We had no idea how lucky we were.

Just as our parents forfeited all moral authority over us by their actions, Rob Ford has kissed goodbye his authority to credibly lead his city, by revealing himself to be a drunkard, a liar, a guy who routinely consorts with criminals, a man who cannot take responsibility for his own actions to save his soul. What is there to do but laugh?

When we were kids, eventually we realized that our only defense against our parents’ lunacy was to turn them into jokes. You and I started making fun of the horror, because we were powerless to do anything about it. They were our parents, and we were stuck with them.

Similarly, Rob Ford will be mayor until he steps down, or goes to prison.

On Tuesday, after the “drunken stupor” admission, Twitter exploded with the hashtag #inadrunkenstupor.


Because as long as Rob Ford refuses to recuse himself as mayor, there’s not a damn thing anyone can do about it, except mock and deride. And for the time being, it seems he’s determined to stick around. He’s issued some crocodile-tear-laden apologies (“I’m sincerely, sincerely, sincerely sorry”), followed by a declaration that he plans to run for mayor in the next election, and it’ll be “a bloodbath.”



Sure, this is coffee. I need it to shober up, man.

How will all this play out? It’s anyone’s guess, though I can make a few predictions. Ford hasn’t admitted he’s an addict, so he’s unlikely to get help of any kind. His lifestyle choices have already done a number on his brain; pretty soon they’ll start to impair him physically, if they haven’t already.

By choosing the path of denial, rage, blame, and self-pity, our parents doomed themselves to early graves. Booze took them both, and it wasn’t a quick or easy exit.

How many times did Dad call to tell me, “They had to resuscitate your mother again”? Bringing her back from the verge of death over and over, and all it did was convince her that she was immortal. Until that final, months-long binge that turned a 68-year-old woman into an unrecognizable wreck, and then killed her.

And Dad—how many months did he spend in hospital from alcohol-induced accidents, only to kick right back into high gear as soon as he got home?

I don’t wish the same on Ford, but I won’t be at all surprised, in a few years, to hear that he’s finally succumbed to his addictions. He’s survived so far, and maybe that’s deluded him into believing he can do anything, survive anything.

And yeah, he’ll probably survive a while longer. And then, unless he gets help, he’ll succumb.

But not before he’s inflicted a boatload of damage on his family, his friends, and the city he claims to love. Because when you’re an addict, that’s just how you roll.



Awesome Advice Central: The Toronto mayoral edition

Dear Awesome Advice Whatcha-macallits:

Sooooo…I don’t want to brag, but I’m kind of famous, and I wouldn’t say I have a problem, but a lot of other no-good lying b@stards are saying I do. Specifically, all the media maggots that follow me everywhere and harass me constantly.

Oh, and my chief of staff.

And a bunch of other idiots who USED to work for me, if you get my drift.

The local commie pinko newspaper started it all right after I got elected. They just couldn’t stand seeing a regular guy like me succeed—well, okay, so I’m a millionaire, but I drink Tim Horton’s coffee, so that counts, right?

Right from the get-go, the maggots were spreading vicious rumours—that I drink too much, that my family is full of drug addicts and dealers, that I got some kind of “substance abuse problem.” 

Just because I like to chill with a beer or six after work now and then, and sometimes I get a little happy. I mean, come ON…a mayor—I mean, we Totally Anonymous Famous People gotta right to relax now and then, right? Like we’re not human or something?

And then, a couple of months ago that same maggot-filled rag somehow found out about totally invented a video of me, supposedly smoking crack with a bunch of lowlife immigrants in a sketchy part of town. Which just happens to be around the corner from my house, but whatever.


Hey, I get my picture taken with a lot of people. I’m supposed to keep track of them all?

I told them straight up, it wasn’t me, no one saw me, they can’t prove it. But they’re relentless, like I say. Always with the questions—what do I have to say about it, do I have any comment, when am I going to get help…it just never ends.

The only person who really stands up for me is my big brother. He’s a real stand-up guy, get it? Eh? Stand-up? Stands up? Heh heh heh. I crack me up sometimes.

Oh wait. Dougie told me never to use that word. Sorry, bro!

So yeah. Big bro took care of the whole video thing, because he has what you might call “connections.” You know, he just happens to know the right people. Like I say, he’s a great guy.

Plus, he tells me I don’t have any kind of a problem, and who am I gonna trust? A bunch of commie maggot journalists, or my own brother?

But now I have ANOTHER video problem.

No, not the crack-smoking one…this time, there’s, like a TON of these videos out there. See, I have to make public appearances, mingle with the little people now and then, make ‘em feel like I’m one of them. And I was kinda stressed out after a hard day at the office, so like I say, I took the edge off with a beer or two or maybe five before I hit the street.

That’s when the trouble started. Because I guess I was a little…happier than I thought. And I kind of forgot that those damn smartphone thingies have video cameras in them. Which you’d think I would remember after the whole crack-smoking video thing, but I’m a busy man.

So sue me, it slipped my mind.

As you can see, I’m not at my best here:

Or here:

Or, um, here:

But you gotta know, I make one tiny little error in judgment, get a little too relaxed maybe, and the press is all over it like a dirty shirt. In fact, even the guys I thought were my friends have turned on me.

Anyways, so the maggots are back at it, calling me for “comments”—like what am I gonna say? Don’t they ever get hammered and go out on the town now and then? Don’t they ever invite perfect strangers to party with them? Don’t they ever offer to share their blow…I mean, don’t they ever say “I need to blow my nose” in public? What kind of tight-assed limp-wristed pansies are they, anyways?

So actually, yeah. It’s not me with the problem, it’s them. They need to loosen up, am I right? I’m just a simple guy, a man of the people who just happens to be a millionaire, and my real problem isn’t any damn “substance abuse” thing, it’s those journalists and pinkos who won’t get out of my face and let me get on with my work.

Whaddaya say?

Totally anonymous dude you probably never heard of
, so don’t even ask.

Dear Mr. Ford:

After careful consideration, we can find only two words to address your problem. Here they are:

Get help. Seriously.

Oh, wait. That’s three. Ah well, so much for keeping promises.

But hey, we’re not running Canada’s largest city, are we?

Yours truly,
Awesome Advice Central

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