So I'm waiting for my streetcar transfer when I suddenly get hungry. So I go and wait in line for a dog, only to find that the vendor is...on a cell phone? Ignoring me? And then MAH GAWD THE STREETCAR IS VISIBLE AT THE END OF THE STREET! Panic ensues. It's streetcar vs. street meat. Johnny Sausage finally gets off of the phone and I hurriedly give him my order. He lazily pokes at a sausage on the grill while I worriedly look down the road at the ever-so-slowly approaching trolley. It's late, it's cold and I have no idea when the next car is coming, so I want this over with. Also, since the car is so close already, I'm realizing I'll have to suck this dog down with Jenna Jameson-like speed. The slowest vendor in hot dog history finally gives me my food, I hurriedly squirted my bun with a kaleidoscope of mustard and ketchup that looks like a USC Trojans logo gone horribly awry and then hauled ass to the stop. Now, I should note that this whole time, I thought I wasn't allowed to eat on the streetcar. Turns out that wasn't true. I had only eaten about a third of the dog when I was getting on the trolley, and was composing my excuse to the driver, but then I just walked on by without him blinking an eye. Huh. How about that. So I could enjoy my food in peace, or at least as much peace as could be mustered while trying to balance holding onto a pole on a crowded streetcar while also eating to eat a messy hot dog. Life is hard.
There's a lingerie shop on Queen Street that has a live model in the window showing off the merchandise (literally -- she is wearing the store's merchandise) at all hours of the day. I wonder how many minutes into their first shift that these models have a Gob-esque realization that they've made a huge mistake. Fifteen minutes? Twenty? I wonder if I could get a job in a Quizno's display window just scarfing down chicken carbonara subs all day long and happily giving the thumbs up to passersby.
My plan to get one of those Jays powder-blue throwbacks might have to be put on hold, since I found what might be an even cooler piece of Blue Jays memorabilia. The Jays Shop in the Sk...Sk..Sk...Roger Centre has a rack of actual game jerseys on sale, but it's solely jerseys of some of the most obscure players in history. Chris Woodward! Julio Mosquera! Bill Risley! Matt DeWitt! And even some names so obscure that I (me!) didn't even recognize them. I love that these kitsch items are so expressly available at the Jays Shop. If a Doug Linton or Simon Pond jersey shows up, I'll be all over that like a bum on a dropped five-dollar bill.
Not to be outdone in the kitsch depatment, there's a pub on Queen Street called Gorilla Monsoon. I love it. I went there the other night solely because it was named after the legendary wrestling announcer. What I loved about Gorilla Monsoon is that back in the 1960's, he wrestled under the gimmick of a wild savage. Then, as an announcer, he called matches in his normal personality --- but he kept his gimmick name. So here's this kindly older gentleman calling matches, except he has an utterly ridiculous name. Imagine if Bob Cole's name was, like, Fire Hydrant Windbreaker. It'd just be weird.
You may notice that since I've moved back to Toronto, there has been most posting. What can I say, the city is my muse. I'm like that guy from the Authority who gets superpowers when he is within an urban area.