he never made it as a puppet

The "sidewalk pants" as they appear in Ghost World, the movie. I tried to locate the actual panel where they appear in the comic book so that I could post that, but either I suck or the Internet does. (No betting.)

Anyway, all that is just preamble. I've recently been inundated with photos from Paul "I Never Met a Lou Barlow Song I Didn't Like" Q., all of them featuring wayward items he came across in Hamilton, Ontario. I'll be showcasing them periodically, and if they don't inspire y'all to do some street-scouring of your own, then this is not a world that I understand. Below is a fossilized sock, the last in a long line of lost-sock photos from Mr. Paul, and the first ever featured on this site. Hamilton is a gold mine for these babies.

Says Paul: "I wouldn't be sad if I never saw a lone, dirty, lost sock again in my life." I wouldn't get my hopes up -- the chances of that are about as slim as Scooby Doo and the gang apprehending a ghost who isn't a disgruntled villain in clever bedsheet costume.

News: This Friday, I attended the wedding of my good friend and emergent musician Matthew de Zoete (that's right, click on his name to view his admittedly still-growing website), again from Hamilton, whose CD release party I also recently attended. Hats off to the talented Matthew and his talented bride, Joanne! May The Kinks play loud and long in your new country home.

Oh, and --

I love Toronto. (That is, I love it as I love a Rothko painting -- I'm glad it's there, but it has yet to exert any emotional power over me. Hamilton, on the other hand -- Hamilton is van Gogh.)

somebody else's sweater

Found lying under my absent roommate's bed. I had to pull it out to find out what it was, and recognized it as belonging to my friend Jeff, who must have left it after his and Mike's T.O. visit several weeks ago.

Kinda looks like No Heart, doesn't it? Jeff, if you're reading, please acknowledge.

black tuesday

Merry Valentine's Day, folks. To celebrate, I'm treating you to the sight of a pair of pink "bloomers" that Paul (not scarf hero Paul of several posts back, but my next-desk neighbour and Real Swell Guy Paul) directed me to yesterday. He discovered them lying against a streetcar island on Spadina in the pre-sunlight morning, where -- what luck! -- they still reclined when I popped out to photograph them in the fading afternoon.

From my sidewalk vantage point:














And now, the much-vaunted close-up, for which, like a true photojournalist, I had to brave a phalanx of approaching cars to snap (I warn you, Dad, this gets risqué):

Look closely enough, and you'll see not only gravel pooling in the folds of the fabric, but also the word "Hanes" printed naïvely on the band. It's just that the underwear had no idea that this curbside would be their eventual destination, y'know?

Gotta make a lunch.

the hobbled among us

The two photographs featured in this entry are not of lost objects per se, but rather of crippled ones. The first was taken by Peter, who works where I work. Peter is a merry fellow who graciously accepts the music I foist upon him, gives me chocolate from time to time, and is wholly responsible for the presence of Pink Floyd, T. Rex, and Frank Zappa on my work computer. The progress of the "Peter shrine" on and around my desk has sort of halted mid-construction, but is alarming enough even in its current unfinished state. If you ever meet Peter on the street -- well, you should be so lucky as to meet Peter on the street.

He took this in the environs of Union Station:

The hydrant's useless arms and faceless humiliation I find particularly lamentable.

This next one is of a bicycle hitched to a post on Delaware Street, rendered stationary by vicious tire thieves or nefarious tire bandits -- it's anyone's guess.

Also, last night I watched the first bit of Jean Renoir's Boudu Saved From Drowning (stopped it about a half-hour in when M. Svadjian, who had seen it already, couldn't keep his eyes open any longer). This morning, as if reminding me to finish watching it, I saw a man who looked exactly like Boudu, just down my street! What a morning that was!

who wears short shorts?

These underwear were photographed on Bloor Street, several addresses west of my apartment, and mere steps from P. Cheung's Coin Laundry: a find only slightly more enigmatic than a knock-knock joke.

The below was taken at Rotman's Hat Shop on Spadina by my friend Stephanie, and features me with alleged Toronto dignitary Don Francks, father of Freddie from A Different World and, as Google later informed us, the voice of Dr. Claw from Inspector Gadget:

Dr. Claw! I thought. Such an encounter suggested that my presence on this earth could be no fluke (so what if my fortune cookie had no fortune in it when I cracked it open?). Just like the table shuddering and crashing to its knees right in front of me at the Cut n' Paste Zine Fest that afternoon -- the first accident in twelve years, an organizer yelled out -- made me feel important somehow. But, ah! fickle Google: apparently Mr. Francks just did additional voices on scattered episodes of Gadget, and is in fact probably better known for his work on La Femme Nikita. Go go gadget misconception.

rescue mission

Last Tuesday, I went to the Horseshoe Tavern to hang out with my friend Paul, who had travelled to Toronto and was chained to a merchandise table for one of the performing bands. Here is Paul, below. (N.B. Neither Paul nor I have any connection whatever to The Midway State, though he, I, and a concert-goer who approached the table all agreed that there was something fundamentally off-putting about the singer's hair. Said this concert-goer, who endeared himself to me immediately: "They're like the Moffatts, but with Strokes hair." No luck finding online photos of The Midway State. Sorry.)

Somewhere in the middle of one of the sets, Paul pointed out what seemed to be a sweater on the floor. Here is the what-seemed-to-be-a-sweater, on the floor:

Look at these people's legs! Do they even care? But because Paul is kind, and not merely an observer, he dove into the crowd and snatched the article from a certain and impending demise, placing it on a ledge near us. It turned out, upon closer inspection, to be a scarf.

Paul took the scarf home and washed it (I believe). It has since found a happy purpose, and can be found gracing the neck of Paul's scarf-loving and lovely girlfriend Kate. It may be shift work, but it is fulfilling work nonetheless.

february commences

Back again. Several things of note:

• Canada has a new federal government. I have the same MP I had a week and a half ago. The Arctic will be this brave nation's once again.
• Winter is officially Not Going to Happen. At least in Toronto. At least it seems that way. (Perhaps I should stop using words like "officially" so willy-nilly.) At least I can still wear socks with bare legs.
• Grandaddy have broken up. Jason Lytle's not sad, so I won't be either, but I have to declare that Jed the Humanoid (Jeddy 3 to familiars) is one of my best-loved figures from the narratives of modern music. If he hadn't sputtered out long ago, I'd pen a eulogy.
• Tomorrow is Groundhog Day, and I still haven't watched that movie.
• The Fall are great.

As for lost things, take a gander below.

This is a pair of black satin underpants I found behind my apartment when my brother dropped me off one Sunday afternoon. As is my policy (thankfully), I partook in no compositional rearranging.

This is an apron (I think) that has been living outside my front door for some time. It's been in this position for ages. It freezes this way whenever the temperature drops, and it endures rain and tires and indifference.