Loss and Abandonment: A G20 retrospective

Greetings from Montreal!

Today is Canada Day or as they call it here in Quebec, Thursday. I am sitting at an Internet cafe, lost in thought, unsure of why I am here and where I will be when I return.

It occurred to me after my third mug of coffee, as sweat beads down my forehead and my heart plays to the rhythm of 2Unlimited's No Limit, that after the G20 stormed our city, I was left disillusioned about my sense of freedom and control. In a sense, we were locked up and shut down with no discourse, voting or any tangible say in the matter. And while many of us have experiences during this crisis, a crisis that saw cops given sweeping power to detain, a huge fence erected in a our downtown core and municipal politicians sideswiped and left out of the matter entirely (like they would have made it better anyway), I would like to share my experience with you.

As many know I am a both a Royal York Hotel bartender and a beer hawker at the Skydome. In other words, I'm a high end booze peddler. Both my jobs can be seen on postcards at any Nicholby's location in downtown Toronto, next to the teddy bear Mountie and maple leaf emblazoned Frisbee disc. Leading up to the G20 both my work places started to get us mentally prepared (IE scared) of the oncoming summit. First, they had us sign a waver giving the summit access to our criminal records and personal information. Then we had to get our pictures taken for badges the size of small dogs that we would have to wear AT ALL TIMES, lest we be mistaken for anarchists, protesters or god forbid, regular civilians. Then the Royal York informed us of the perimeter fence, the access points, the check points, the drug sniffing dogs, the bag x-ray, the metal detectors, the laser grid and although this was never mentioned I believe it,T-1000 cyborgs capable of transforming there appearance due to a liquid metal alloy programed into their genetic makeup.

Meanwhile at the Dome, they had the common sense to just cancel that weekend, knowing that baseball was already annoying enough without being anally frisked at the door. The beer prices had already given our fans that feeling, to literally stick a finger up their asses would prove too much even for a $14 ticket. Of course, life being a series of unfair occurrences leading to suicide or marriage, the weekend that would be cancelled would be the same weekend Roy Halladay would be returning to Toronto to pitch. And of course, this Blogging Bastard would lose a boatload of money and come to Montreal with only enough loot to get him a six pack of Boreal Blonde and a smoke meat sandwich sans pickle (I still don't know how I'm paying for these coffees).

Incidentally, Doc pitched a great game blanking the Toronto Blue Jays over seven solid innings of baseball, an apt metaphor for a city that couldn't hit anything without being sent to an internment camp.

At the same time all this fun stuff was happening, I was involved in a breakup with a long term girlfriend. Now normally this blog is reserved for diatribes, jokes and generalizations, but I think including this bit of personal business will help you understand how I came to be given the unique position of seeing the G20's presence grow.

So I break up with my girlfriend and although amicable, the situation had me living with her for 2 months AFTER the breakup. In order to keep what remaining sanity I had, I began doing the couch tour of Toronto, hopping from friends couch to friends couch, hoping to find one with a softened arm rest suitable for multiple tours of duty. I quickly came to realize that the modern couch is less concerned with personal comfort than it is with looking fab next to the Ikea chesterfield. My head, neck and back aged twenty years, but I remained determined to avoid feeling sorrow at all costs.

Then magic!

A friend was moving and through a bizarre stroke of luck I was able to squat in an empty condominium located in luxurious downtown Toronto! Jacuzzi, balcony, screening room, sauna. All I needed was two hoes and a bottle of Cristal and I was Jay-Z minus the talent. Initially, this set-up was sweet even if I was sleeping on a folded duvet that aged my back and neck an additional 15 years, thus putting my spine at the ripe age of 55, older then my dads. Couple that with my 14 year old penis, and you've got one strange body type. Anywho, I was living the high life and for once I'm not talking about cannabis or a shitty beer made by Miller.

Then the Fence came.

It was deceptively slow moving but gradually, day after day, I would arrive to my "condo" and see changes. First came the construction workers, then came the trucks. And presto chango, I wake up to find I've been literally surrounded by a Guantanamo Bay style security fence. Then came the police. Just a few officers at first, smiling as you walked by. Then came the cruisers. Then motorcycles. By week two, security teams were sweeping the streets in 4 minute intervals. Suddenly, I was being questioned as I came home. "Where you coming from?"
"Do you live in the building? (which technically I didn't)" "What's in the bag?" Soon the smiles went away and you were eyed like someone sneaking a bomb across the boarder. One day I looked down at the down town strip I called home and all I saw was Bosnia. Palestine. Iraq. I saw cops in riot gear. I saw people getting stopped and checked just for walking down the street. Sipping coffee, I could see the shadows of snipers dancing on the rooftops. Notices went up telling residents of the building they would be locked down during the summit. A yuppie couple, having just walked their yipping dog, stood in the elevator with me. I turned to them, after just having my bag checked and said, "how are you liking this security?" They laughed. The man said, "I feel like a monkey at the zoo." Ironically, I had just been to the Zoo and he was wrong. I would never feel as comfortable swinging around in this situation as the Orangutan did in his enclosure. I'd take screaming kids pointing at me over sniper scopes any day of the week. But there was truth in this statement. We were caged.

At work, I met a security guard, some rent-a-cop given a $15 an hour job, who was only too happy to go over the security details with me and my coworkers.

Rent-a-cop: Oh this place is going to be shut down pretty tight.

Luis: Looks like it.

Rent-a-cop: Oh yeah.

Luis: When are they going to start putting us through the metal detectors?

Rent-a-cop: Not sure. Soon. Around the same time as the sniffing dogs get brought in.

Luis: Sniffing dogs?

Rent-a-Cop: yeah. where you guys going?

Luis: Get some dinner. The cafeteria food sucks.

Rent-a-cop: Enjoy it. Soon you won't be able to leave the premise.

Luis: why?

Rent-a-cop: Well think about it. You say you're going for a smoke, then you step outside and someone passes you materials, then you step back in, we recognize you, we wave you in, then BAM! Bomb goes off.

All I could think of was that we were encased in a fence, surrounded by police. Who was passing this bomb? I decided right there and then I wouldn't be working during the summit.

Luis: Will you be using the x-ray machine?

Rent-A-Cop: Naw. I wish. They're training the security team now. They don't respect me and my authority though.

Luis: Really? How so?

Rent-A-Cop: Well, they're all teenagers right? They're hiring teens so they can pay them $10 an hour instead of experienced security like myself. They're always on their cell phones. And I tell them to stop but then an hour later they're back on them, checking their Facebooks.

And this was the vaunted G20 security team. A bunch of hired teens working for peanuts while they searched the bags of employees who had given over twenty years of service. The rent-a-cop would later reveal that he wished for a scooter like Paul Blart Mall Cop and actually fondly compared himself to him. At lease he's close to achieving his dream.

I sat outside the Royal York talking to a beautiful co-worker and as we sat there, people driving up York Street where being told by a smug cop to turn around. Rather then put up a sign they let people drive all the way up the street to be told angrily to turn around, as if they had made some kind of stupid mistake. Even the construction workers, busy fencing us off would chime in, "HEY, DON'T COME HERE!" You could tell they were reveling in there new found power. It was sad to see so many men get consumed with this authority they were given, loving every minute of having control of others. We sat and watched this all while young kids drunkenly stumbled past the security fence, fresh off seeing Justin Bieber performing at the Much Music Video awards. I wondered if they would be doing security at the Hotel that weekend.

And then came the US Marine choppers. I was up in my friends penthouse when we heard a buzzing, as if some large insect from a Godzilla movie was flying through the buildings. And there was. Two twin bladed Marine choppers, straight out of Apocalypse Now, flew right by the building and landed at the Steamwhistle Brewery next door. We were transfixed, I had never seen an aircraft fly so precisely through the city buildings, like something out of a video game. I was rolling a joint at the time, so you can imagine the fear I was experiencing. "What are they doing?" my friend asked. They took off and were immediately followed by a regular chopper with the US presidents insignia adorned on the side. It touched down, and a man with a metal briefcase exited it, handed the briefcase and re boarded. This strange exercise happened a number of times and we realized, it was a dress rehearsal of Obama's arrival. I finished my joint,went up to my nearly empty condo, packed my bags and escaped, never to return. I would rather be locked up with an ex-girlfriend then with the US military.

And so the rest is history. Our media, woefully inadequate and muzzled, denounced "anarchists" for there violence, insisting they were drawing attention from the "peaceful" protesters, the few gatherings of teens singing camp songs at Trinity Bellwoods light years away from the actual action. Those with any balls to use their god given right to dissent in the downtown core, were met with brutality, intimidation and many were illegally detained. One friend sent me an account of his experience in the detention center. He wasn't even protesting, he was just trying to get home. Police arrested the ENTIRE STREET and placed them in a make shift holding facility where 40 men were locked in a room, given one port-o-potty with no door, no access to legal counselling, and placed there for 22 hours. The only food they were given was a Kraft singles slice and two Dixie cups of water. Of course this never made the news. Only the burning police car and masked deviants got the coverage, thus placing the blame on the people for the state of Toronto. And how did that car get burned anyway? I couldn't take a piss without being asked for a urine sample lest it contain radioactive elements, so how exactly did the people get access to a police car? You ask me, its all an elaborate piece of theatre, a way to pull favor to the side of the authorities. All in all, we lost a lot that weekend, and I have yet to fully recover.

So Happy Canada Day!

I'm here in Quebec where Canada is an ongoing joke, and for the first time in my life, I'm not sure I disagree. If people want to shut down our cities undemocratically, then they will. If the world wants to put us in fences, they can. And if you are a barely political, fuck up artist like myself, God only knows what to make of it all.

I just want to be loved.

Please come again when my next blog will be about farts, water pistols and avoiding cover charges at clubs! Now excuse me while I weep.

"Reality is like a fine wine. It will not appeal to children."

That Blogging Bastard