Garbage, alcohol, heat, Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett

Garbage strike

The strike of Toronto public workers started last week, but it stench intensifies daily, and it’ll only get worse. Among the other services, garbage collection in the town is disrupted. With temperatures around 30, it really stinks. There was a similar strike 7 years ago, when garbage piled up chest-high around every trash can in the town, household trash was being dumped in parks and other pre-assigned locations and a foul aroma permeated the air. On that instance, after 16 days the province issued a back-to-work legislation and the air was clear again.

It seems that this time everybody is better prepared to make life for Torontonians even more miserable: the striking picket lines are strung across the entrance to the dedicated dump sites making it all but impossible to dump your trash. City inspectors are out in numbers, fining people who left their garbage bags outside the dumping area, since they were prevented to enter it. Toronto Mayor and Ontario’s Premier are not yet ready to issue the back-to-work order. Add it all up and the only ones screwed from both sides are the residents.

Oh, and a reason for strike? The worker’s union is renewing the contract with the city and insists on keeping a peculiar perk: the workers are allowed 18 sick days a year, which, if not used, can be cashed or banked to be cashed at the time of retirement. Makes me want to re-consider my career.

LCBO strike

Unrelated to the garbage strike, provincial liquor store worker’s union was supposed to go on strike on Wednesday. (In Ontario all the liquor stores are operated by the provincial board, LCBO.) On Tuesday there was a stampede in the LCBO stores. People may put up with the piles of garbage, but no one was willing to go dry. LCBO sold more alcohol than during Christmas and shelves were left empty. Then, as it usually happens, the union reached an agreement with the province and alcohol kept flowing freely.

16k on +31 C

Wednesday was really hot and felt even hotter with humidity. My 16k run almost turned into a walk. I started eagerly as always and in about 10 minutes exhausted all the energy. Remaining 1hr 10min I don’t remember. All I know is – I was hot, my legs weighed a ton each, sweating did nothing to cool me off and my brain switched off somewhere along the way. I made it home and regained consciousness in the shower.

In Memory: Michael Jackson, Farrah Fawcett

Michael Jackson died on Thursday, so did Farrah Fawcett whom I don't remember except for some old photographs from the time when she was hot and I was too young to notice.

I photographed Jackson in 1994 and wrote a little story about it.

Sadly, passing of Farrah, who fought rectal cancer and even allowed a documentary crew to film her last battle, was completely overshadowed by the death of the whitest black musician in history. She picked the wrong day to die.

As for Michael, he will be remembered as one of the most talented musicians of 20th century, likely shoulder-to-shoulder with the King Elvis, whose daughter he married and, lucky for her, divorced. Maybe with time we’ll be able to forget his oddities: plastic surgeries to make him whiter than the whites and turned a handsome black face into a grotesque, child molestation charges, dangling of his own son over the balcony in Europe, and many, many more.

Memories of Jacko: Chasing Michael Jackson in Budapest

By Zoran Bozicevic, National Post
Posted: June 27, 2009


Now that the king is dead, we search through memories of his reign. Most will remember his videos, music and dancing. The lucky ones will have memories of seeing him performing or meeting him in person. My encounter with the King of Pop has all the suspense and drama of a thriller— the genre, not the song. There were people in uniforms real and fake, hysterical fans, new bride, even a car chase for good measure. All that set up in the beautiful historical downtown Budapest, Hungary, during the three days of hot summer in 1994.

Michael arrived to Hungarian capital to film the “History” video for his new album. He had his new bride in tow, Lisa Marie Presley, the daughter of another king. I was sent to Budapest to photograph Michael, with no access to his inner circle—not a great prospect for success. So I woke before dawn and set the camp in front of the luxurious Hotel Kempinski, annoyed to find throngs of fans have already taken the best spots. Somewhere through the morning someone pointed to one of the balconies with the curtains drawn shut over the window, and proclaimed it to be Michael’s room. Every move of the curtain, which for all I knew could have been caused by the maid, stirred the screaming crowd. Hands were thrust upward, some clutching cameras, others reaching toward the unreachable. Voices called Michael’s name, the chant started and continued in waves, dying down only to pick up again with the next move of the curtain.

I never found out if that was really the right balcony.

However, it wasn't long before a dark van with tinted windows backed into the hotel entrance. There was a huge commotion and Michael – in red shirt and the trademark black hat – ran from the hotel and dove into the back of the van. With the screech of tires, the vehicle raced off. By the time the reporter and I reached our car, the van was nowhere in sight. Strategically placed observers, however, paged us the route of the van and soon we were on its tail. We were by no means the only car following. Fans and media created an impressive convoy trailing the van. Strangely, after the initial burst of speed, the van drove almost leisurely, taking us on a tour of Budapest and away from the hotel. An hour or so later, the van stopped in a suburb causing a mad tangle of cars breaking around it, doors swinging open, people running, pushing, shoving each other, cameras ready, screams rising as the rear doors of the van opened.

And Michael came out.

Or rather, an oversized, fattened version of him. Only his face bore a resemblance to Michael Jackson. While we chased the look-alike, real Michael took his wife shopping undisturbed by the cameras, as we found out later.

The next day found me perched on the hill overlooking a square where an army of extras in uniform waited for the king to lead it through the filming of the scene. The king was there too, albeit in a white air-conditioned van to keep cool against the hot August sun. When finally the scene required his presence, a huge black bodyguard would open a big purple umbrella to shade his highness. All I could see through my insanely long tele-lens were the boots walking to the square and disappearing in the army of men. As they were marching away from me, I never got a clear look at Michael. Then the umbrella re-appeared to take him back to the van, covered from the sun and onlookers. And on it went in that manner for the rest of the afternoon.

Of course, I tried to get the spot closer to the scene, only to be told by the cops that Mr. Jackson booked the area for the whole day. No cameras were allowed in the perimeter. That’s how I ended up atop the hill with no real chance for a picture. What seemed to be a quick paparazzi-like job slowly turned into a nightmare.

The lucky break came that evening. After several hours long wait amongst the hundreds of fans, the accredited media was herded an area hospital’s yard where Jackson, holding Lisa Marie’s hand, whispered his statement to a man who repeated it aloud to us. Michael was watching his voice, we were told. I finally had my picture, although that wasn’t really a break, because everyone else had it too. And, I never got to hear Michael Jackson speak.

From someone whose life consisted of music, this silent whisper came as a surprise.

Chasing Jacko in Budapest

I had an article published, although not in print but online. Here it is:

Chasing Michael in Budapest

Now that the king is dead, we search through memories of his reign. Most will remember his videos, music and dancing. The lucky ones will have memories of seeing him performing or meeting him in person. My encounter with the King of Pop has all the suspense and drama of a thriller— the genre, not the song. There were people in uniforms real and fake, hysterical fans, new bride, even a car chase for good measure. All that set up in the beautiful historical downtown Budapest, Hungary, during the three days of hot summer in 1994.

Michael arrived to Hungarian capital to film the “History” video for his new album. He had his new bride in tow, Lisa Marie Presley, the daughter of another king. I was sent to Budapest to photograph Michael, with no access to his inner circle—not a great prospect for success. So I woke before dawn and set the camp in front of the luxurious Hotel Kempinski, annoyed to find throngs of fans have already taken the best spots. Somewhere through the morning someone pointed to one of the balconies with the curtains drawn shut over the window, and proclaimed it to be Michael’s room. Every move of the curtain, which for all I knew could have been caused by the maid, stirred the screaming crowd. Hands were thrust upward, some clutching cameras, others reaching toward the unreachable. Voices called Michael’s name, the chant started and continued in waves, dying down only to pick up again with the next move of the curtain.

I never found out if that was really the right balcony.

It wasn't long before a dark van with tinted windows backed into the hotel entrance. There was a huge commotion and Michael – in red shirt and the trademark black hat – ran from the hotel and dove into the back of the van. With the screech of tires, the vehicle raced off. By the time the reporter and I reached our car, the van was nowhere in sight. Strategically placed observers, however, paged us the route of the van and soon we were on its tail. We were by no means the only car following. Fans and media created an impressive convoy trailing the van. Strangely, after the initial burst of speed, the van drove almost leisurely, taking us on a tour of Budapest and away from the hotel. An hour or so later, the van stopped in a suburb causing a mad tangle of cars breaking around it, doors swinging open, people running, pushing, shoving each other, cameras ready, screams rising as the rear doors of the van opened.

And Michael came out.

Or rather, an oversized, fattened version of him. Only his face bore a resemblance to Michael Jackson. While we chased the look-alike, real Michael took his wife shopping undisturbed by the cameras, as we found out later.

The next day found me perched on the hill overlooking a square where an army of extras in uniform waited for the king to lead it through the filming of the scene. The king was there too, albeit in a white air-conditioned van to keep cool against the hot August sun. When finally the scene required his presence, a huge black bodyguard would open a big purple umbrella to shade his highness. All I could see through my insanely long tele-lens were the boots walking to the square and disappearing in the army of men. As they were marching away from me, I never got a clear look at Michael. Then the umbrella re-appeared to take him back to the van, covered from the sun and onlookers. And on it went in that manner for the rest of the afternoon.

Of course, I tried to get the spot closer to the scene, only to be told by the cops that Mr. Jackson booked the area for the whole day. No cameras were allowed in the perimeter. That’s how I ended up atop the hill with no real chance for a picture. What seemed to be a quick paparazzi-like job slowly turned into a nightmare.

The lucky break came that evening. After several hours long wait amongst the hundreds of fans, the accredited media was herded to an area hospital’s yard where Jackson, holding Lisa Marie’s hand, whispered his statement to a man who repeated it aloud to us. Michael was watching his voice, we were told. I finally had my picture, although that wasn’t really a break, because everyone else had it too. And, I never got to hear Michael Jackson speak.

From someone whose life consisted of music, this whispered silence came as a surprise.

Iran, Obama, Chairs and iPhones

16 K in pouring rain

We had a very wet week. Wednesday was rainy throughout, including the evening hours when I usually go for run. So I did my 16 km in pissing rain, came home soaked through, but happy for being the only person on the sidewalk. Even the dreaded dog-walkers stayed inside.
However, when I woke up on Saturday and saw the same weather promising to keep me wet again, I just turned in bed and postponed the training for Sunday, which turned to be a beautiful sunny day for a 26 km.


Obama the Fly-Swatter!

New US prez swatted a fly during an interview. How many times any of us did the same at home? That's hardly worth the news, were it not for PETA, People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals, protesting loudly in the media against the presidential cruelty toward an insect!!! Give me a break! We need a serious filter to muzzle people who abuse their right to free speech! I know it's a great opportunity for PETA to crawl into the spotlight for something else other than posing naked models pretending to be endangered animals, but this is a bit too much, no? What happened to that basic wisdom: "If you have nothing to say, keep quiet!"


Iran's protests

A week after elections in Iran, in which victory was awarded to the hard line president Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, passed in massive popular protests against allegedly rigged results. The religious leader of the country, Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, declared his support for Ahmadinejad, but the people are revolting and the protests still go on. It's at the same time encouraging and frightening to see masses of young people marching against the tear gas and bullets of the regime's militia. One particular blog entry and video of a young girl dying after being shot at the protests shocked me to the core, check it at this web site.


Chairs and iPhones

We did some more shopping last week. Well, new iPhone came to Canadian stores and since we were up to renew our mobile phones, we got one for each, then spent the weekend poking on the new toys, moving our digital lives into new homes. Other than the purchases that fit in the pocket, Maggie spotted the chairs that go well with our new sofa. Since this has been a month of big purchases, and the world's recession is looming, Maggie waited until she came home to convince me to buy the chairs. When I finally capitulated, she phoned the store to put the hold on the chairs, since it was the last pair. When we came to pick them up next morning, we were told that Maggie's phone call came just as another couple was trying to put the hold on the chairs. We were lucky!


To Kill a Mockingbird" by Harper Lee (Audiobook, read by Sissy Spacek)
Well written, beautifully read, a bit slow but worth it. 4/5

Cedar tree and books update

I finished 4 books in the last few weeks, but I don't want to wear myself down writing about them in length, nor I want to wear the reader of this blog down. Let's keep it down to 10 words max:

"The Kindly Ones" by Jonathan Littell
Terribly long, well researched historical facts, awful storyline, unconvincing characters. 1/5 (my rating: one out of five)

"Your Heart Belongs to Me" by Dean Koontz
Thriller, poorly written, shallow characters, blessedly short, not great. 2/5

"Medicus" by Ruth Downie
Crime in Roman times, funny, smooth, though historically unconvincing. 3/5

"The White Tiger" by Aravind Adiga
Occasionally funny confession of a murderer amidst Indian dirt and corruption. 2/5


Cedar in the garden

With the literature out of the way, I can concentrate on the garden. Well, all I do is relate the news from the garden, because it's an uncontested domain of Maggie's. I go near only when I'm asked to help carry a particularly heavy plant, or a tree, and I'm quickly dismissed as soon as the tree is on the right spot. That may have something to do with my constant grumbling about gardening and Maggie's obvious joy of being soiled (literally) up to her elbows. As of last weekend, our garden is richer for a cedar tree, which caused a chain replacement of other shrubs and bushes. Maggie arranges her greenery almost like a furniture in the house, with a step back to survey the whole area, then elaborate rearrangements, un-planting and re-planting. If nothing else, plants from our garden can't complain of being stuck at always the same spot. Maggie makes sure they moved about a bit. But, for what it's worth, we do have the best looking garden on the street, as admitted by the neighbours.


Maggie on the run

Since few weeks ago, Maggie joins me on my daily runs. She doesn't run, though, but hops on her bicycle and follows me. I am grateful for the water bottle she carries. On Saturday we did 22 km eliciting smiles along the way from people who find it funny to see a sweaty runner followed by a cool biker.

Sofa, Barbecue, Quebec City Marathon

Sofa

Somewhere mid-May an acquaintance from the Balkans visited Toronto and I tried to organize myself to meet him and pick up some fresh gossip. Like many of my friends overseas, Sinisha (that's his name) is on Facebook and that's how we made contact and first arrangements. However, unlike my other friends, Sinisha wanted to communicate exclusively through Facebook and sms, which he used sparingly because of the roaming charges. When we finally agreed to meet on a Saturday morning in downtown, he messaged me that his colleague is in hospital and he can't make it. Of course, the message arrived when we were already in downtown, so Maggie and I, lacking other things to do, went to browse the stores. To prove that a bad situation can still turn into something good, in the Canadian Tire store--the most unlikely place for furniture--we found a sofa of our dreams with the price better than anywhere else. Few days later, after a frantic tour through other furniture outlets, we were convinced that the price of "our" sofa is unbeatable and ordered it. It arrived last Saturday and promptly became my favorite place for reading. It is so comfy that I left Maggie yesterday slouched on it with a book and found her snoring 5 minutes later.

BBQ

As we waited for sofa to be delivered, we promised each other not to buy anything else until we pay off the credit card. It's recession time, after all, so we are being conscious spenders. That resolution went down the drain when we ran into a cheap barbecue of the backyard variety. It was love at first sight--the moment I laid my hand on it a picture popped in my mind of myself in a Hawaii shirt (which I don't have) and a straw hat (which I also don't have), gripping the long bbq tweezers (that I have) in the right hand and a can of Alexander Keith's Pale Ale (that I'll buy) in the other. On the bbq was a true meat-ikebana: steaks, pork cutlets, Spanish chorizo sausages, Maggie's fantastic tandoori chicken and (a compromise for Maggie's sake) an assortment of vegetables. So, who could resist such a powerful psychic image? My mouth water ever now when I recall it. Of course, I spent the day assembling the bbq, which came in way too many pieces, but is now in a single piece and in frequent use.

Quebec City Marathon

I'm in the third week of the training for the Quebec City marathon which will commence the last Sunday in August. After qualifying in Mississauga marathon for the two big races next year, I decided to take this one for pleasure, now that I don't need to chase time. It should be fun--the route goes along the St. Lawrence river, across the bridge, and ends up in the Old Town.

Weekly Updates

I heard an interview for NYT with Danielle Steel, an author of many best-seller books. In the interview she admits to finally succumbing to the pressures of the modern era by starting a blog which she updates once a week. What a noble concept! I decided to adopt it and try to aim for a regular weekly updates rather than sporadic spur-of-the-moment ones I exercised on this blog until now.