Saith the Mayor of Mitchieville:
They kept asking me if she was going to show up. When I was properly Irish drunk, I left, and Kathy had not shown up.
Alas, no. I do so hate leaving the house. I was curled up on the couch with my brand new copy of Scarlet Street
One of the top 10 films of all time. Not a single lousy or boring scene. Do not miss this (mostly forgotten) masterpiece, but don’t waste your evening with a lousy TV broadcast print. Buy your own. You will not regret it. A stunning, thrilling meditation on art, lust, obsession — and doing the dishes (or not).
Anyway, the Mayor continues:
Outside the club, I was made aware of what a racist shithole this country of Canada really is. There, on the south west corner of Delaware avenue, is a pleasant three story apartment building, with an environmentally friendly alley way backing it. I went there to celebrate my Irish heritage and piss onto a tree. Unfortunately, this drew the ire of an N-person, who was sitting on his third floor balcony. I know he was not a sentry for a crack house or whore house or whatever house, because sentries do not sit in silhouette, and besides, N-people are never criminals. Maybe he was guarding against the scourge of white vigilantes, who must be common on that stretch of Bloor, just west of Ossington.
Now, I have seen an N-person urinate in public, on the subway. And, I know of a TTC staff member who has also shared with me his stories of ethnic diversity about the culture of public urination upon underground railways, so common in the tropical islands where N-people who urinate on subways have developed this way of expressing outrage over racism, poverty, and the lingering effects of colonialism in Africa.
And I have a growing list of people who are delighted at the sloshing puddles of cultural urine that celebrates recycling and Earth awareness.
So, I felt excluded and unaccomodated when I attempted to share in this cultural expression. Perhaps I am unaware of the complete ritual of public urination, Island style. I must do more research so that I can share in this common cultural expression, and heal the wounds of racism, poverty, and segregation. It is too bad that I did not let the angry man who lives, er, hangs out on the third floor, know where I can be reached, although I know how to reach him. I would not want him to think that I am untouchable. I care. I may only be a stranger, whose hobbies are expressed in my basement machine shop, experiments in applied Darwinism through chemistry, and Tesla inspired microwave devices. Whoever you are, angry N-person who called me whitey, I celebrate your existance, and do not think that you are a sentry for a crack house.
