Point/Counter Point: Rob Ford, Mayor of Dark City

by guest, Jacob Scheier

 

 

Toronto may very well elect a guy who would make a far better frat house president than a mayor of large multi-cultural city. At this point, I fear we could just decide this election through a chugging contest – since the results would be the same. Rob Ford guzzled the most Blue, ate the most hotdogs, got the most ignorant and angry people to vote him. It might all very well be the same result in the end.

People keep saying to me I can’t believe this guy could be our mayor. Of course, by people I mean people I tend to hang out with, who for all intents and purposes draw the border of Toronto somewhere south of Bloor Street and, not further east then the Beaches and not further west then maybe Lansdowne. As it turns out though, there are actual living, breathing humans living past those borders, who not only consider themselves Torontonians but also have the voting registration to prove it.

For me, I kind of picture places like Etobicoke as equivalent to say what lies beyond Shell Beach in the movie Dark City. If you have never heard of this movie, you might be one of those Torontonians who lives north of Bloor or west of Lansdowne, who in other words resides outside of what I like to call Torontopia. Anyway, Shell Beach is the furthest end (or I suppose one of the furthest ends) of the city in Dark City. Upon getting there though (Spoiler Alert) it is actually just water and sand painted on a wall and beyond that wall is nothing but stars and space, beyond that wall is the abyss and, beyond that wall is Rexdale, as far as I’m concerned.

That is pretty much how it is for me. And for, whether they will admit it or not, for many people I know (the kind of people who are really jazzed – and I say that word ironically because we like to be ironic in Torontopia, especially when we’re hanging out in bars on Ossington – about the new Jarvis bike lane).

Of course I am aware that real people, in real communities live in these places where Rob Ford’s base seems to be. But it’s not part of the Toronto I identify with. It’s another world entirely.

And this is the problem – I am part of the problem, in a sense. Or the problem is since there are two Torontos, there ought to be two different cities with two different mayors – at least two. Those of us who love our downtown, gay pride partying, all night art exhibiting, bike and public transport-friendly-ish city can elect someone who will nourish it (like Joe Pantalone). And those who want a suburban waspy car culture “city” can elect the appropriate mayor for that. Is my characterization of places like Rexdale ‘fair’ ? Probably not. But I don’t give a shit – that’s kinda of the point. I don’t want to be able to give a ‘fair’ description of the place, since that would involve actually going there.

Of course there are people in Rexdale who don’t fit into that waspy culture and people downtown who disdain gay pride and multiculturalism. I am willingly to participate in some kind of refugee program for such people.

Ultimately the solution to avoiding the tyranny of quasi-libertarian suburban-nites is independence for urban Toronto (Torontopia), for Toronto to be a city onto itself (Actually maybe a country onto itself). In the meantime though I am going to vote for Joe, since he is, as far as I can tell, the only candidate who actually wants to protect and nourish the kind of city I want to live in – the kind of city we (though of us within the borders of Torontopia) already live in. I understand the impulse to vote for the Anyone-but-Ford, aka Smitherman. But I can not see the city Smitherman envisions. I can see he’s really wants to be mayor but that’s not something to stand for. He could be mayor of quiet beach town painted on the wall of Dark City for all he seems to care – as long as he has the title of mayor, it seems he would be happy. Might idealists like myself be responsible for Ford winning. Well, that’s one why to look it. When Ralph Nader was accused of costing Gore the election in 2000, he said, being both sincere and ironic, that Gore was the one who had cost him the election.

Ford will win, if he wins, because those living (and I mean more psychologically than geographically) in the abyss beyond Dark City’s Shell Beach – beyond the Beaches, will have voted their values and ideals, while the rest of us could not muster more moral clarity than ‘Ford is bad.’

WARNING

Be careful of the immigrant
behind the counter: make sure
she uses gloves handling your strawberry tart.
The teacher at the newcomer program
may not have taught her
how important it is
to wash.

Make sure she gives you the correct change.
A newcomer, after all:
the coins are unfamiliar to her,
she might miscount or
think you careless.

Be careful of her, especially today
because she’s just learned
that an electrical component
she designed back home
has just entered orbit
in a rocket, miles above you,
and in her excitement,
there is no telling how
she might behave.

 

 

 

©2003 Rocco de Giacomo

On Turning 37

Yes, I am that old. I’m terrible at math, so it took me a minute to do the calculations, but yes, I’m turning thirty-seven in a few days. As a university buddy commented on Facebook, “18 years old, was 18 years ago”. Wait a sec….holy cow, I’m even older than THAT. Man, I am TERRIBLE at math (you wonder how I am the one who does the bills in our house).

I am always forgetting how old I am – and I think it’s because I hang around younger people who haven’t realized that I really don’t understand what the hell they are talking about, and that what I’m really thinking when they are going on and on about the environment and apartheid and baby seals is: get a job, hippie. My wife is their age, and I’ve come to realize that it’s often better to let her do the talking now. I usually have to defer to her when it comes to the new lingo. Apparently it’s no longer cool to say get jiggy with it or to even break dance, for that matter. Yep, all about irony these days…

My forgetfulness could have something to do with not children of my own. Not that I have anything against having kids; my wife and I are planning on having an ankle-biter or two in the near future. (It’s only a matter of time. I’m Italian, she is Chinese; can you ask for a more potent combo?) It’s just that watching friends survive for months at a time on power naps and car-crying, I am often witness to the mental and physical effects of pushing the limits of one’s mind and body. As one father of two pointed out to me the other day: There’s a bottom to this. You can only get so tired. To which I promptly responded: Dude! We went to this awesome Karaoke Bar last night and stayed up to watch the sun rise! It was awesome! Why didn’t you come? Thus learning that when you are around the newly-parented, never ever mention any place more exotic than Walmart.

(Speaking of which, profile pictures have been budding baby faces for some time now. It’s as if all of my high school and college friends have grown really really cute second heads, or they have chosen careers in ransoming children)

As you plainly see, for the most part, parenthood to me has remained abstract, viewed from a safe distance. My exposure to it has been kept strictly to the showroom level. When a child misbehaves in my company, he/she is taken to another room by one of the parents (this fills me with an extraordinary sense of importance, which is why I like visiting my friends in the burbs. I always leave feeling like Caesar)

At 37, I can’t say whether a childfree status is the average these days, or if it is evidence of MPPS, otherwise known as Male Peter Pan Syndrome, where the subject demonstrates a reluctance to sacrifice some of the benefits and freedoms of having no kids: going to bed and sleeping in late on weekends; going to bars and nightclubs; taking off at a moment’s notice on long road trips; watching racy movies at home; wearing only underwear around the house etc.

Then again, I am a cantankerous, straight-laced curmudgeon – as my wife calls me – and it’s not like I actually DO many of those things anyways. I’ve always hated nightclubs, or any place you have to line up for an hour to get into, then spend the rest of the night screaming across a miniature table. In fact I’ve never liked any place that plays live music, even. Well, why should I have to wait until the band takes a break before I can talk to my friends? The band should just play their music at a reasonable level, for god’s sake. Really, just give me a nice, quiet pub where I can bitch about the current state of affairs. Or better yet, give me a quiet porch or balcony where I can drink wine, smoke, and bitch about the clothing – or the lack thereof – of the youth these days. (And that’s what I usually do. When my regular drinking friends aren’t available, there’s nothing I like better than to attend parties of my wife’s light-drinking friends, where I pick a nice little corner, drink too much red wine, hold fascinating conversations with myself and eventually fall asleep) Hmmm…given this new information, it could very well be that I suffer from GOMS, or Grumpy Old Man Syndrome. Thinking about it, I AM very protective of my front lawn, I’m always losing and forgetting things, and I have a tendency to pull my pants up above my belly button.

Really though, at 37, it’s most likely that I am stuck somewhere between Adbusters and Old Miser’s Monthly: while I am dreadfully mistrustful of private enterprise and deregulation I think that everyone under thirty years old should be in the military or in prison, or until they realise that most people don’t want to share a doobie on the floor of a hippie commune in the Okanogan Valley. I’m at this place where a number of opposing fronts – rosy idealism Vs. grim reality, the delight of personal freedom Vs. the fulfillment that comes with responsibility – are colliding, and I can’t quite tell what the forecast will bring. What I do know is that, though there is always the temptation to glorify the past – college and high school days – nothing is a remotely interesting as what is happening now and what lies ahead.