Toronto, this morning. On the verge. That nip is about to be burned off by the raging ball of fire in the sky. I wish every day was sunshine.
As a publication of notable timeliness, patrolling the fringe of a remnant zeitgeist, polishing the cultural touchstones that bind us like the Force or staring at red carpet photos of Lupita Nyong’o, we have arranged through our solicitors (quite unrelated to the attorney who does zero work pro bono) for a rendez-vous (French for hooking up behind an installation at the MOMA) with Toronto’s notorious cyclist champion, Seymour Dunkin, who appeared in these pages nigh one year ago, if it was indeed nigh. It was likely nigh. Also, we don’t know what nigh means.
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On a group chat in a downtown Toronto office, a younger colleague (there is, at this point, no other kind, I am the elder Yoda pointing my cane randomly at overgrown vegetation, exhorting, “Control, control, you must learn control” but the fact is they already have more control than I ever will), the padawan, in reference to the feeling of dislocation known to anyone imparting their consciousness into the digital sphere, typed into the totally unsecure group chat, “Am I in the Matrix?” to which I gleefully typed back, “You think that’s air you’re breathing?” And that is where the group chat stopped because I embarrassed everyone with my abundance of zeal and relative nerdiness from overexposure to the red pill/blue pill movie. It is never cool to share everything on your mind (see under: Next Play), even as Gen X wariness is giving way to Oh My God time is fucking disappearing so just do it already (Nike swoops in).
Next Play (hearts) a cultural touchstone and Keanu’s bewildered excellent adventure down the green binary rabbit hole is as beguiling as it is ubiquitous.
Keanu. Beguiling and ubiquitous. Just look where we all wound up. Here, outside The Matrix, looking in from the desert of the real.
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The weather outside’s delightful here in Parkdale, Toronto’s last chance for the working class, still fighting some fnew lux condo planned for King St and who the fuck is building condos when half of these mini-Trump low rollers are going into receivership in the perfect storm of unaffordability and overabundance. Stagflation, Gen X’s first economic word, is casting an Independence Day shadow and no one cares in Parkdale where they already got a whole bunch of nothing to lose.
On this sunny, sunny day, the last of us holdouts will pump our tires and launch onto the dangerous streetcar-tracked roads.
SEYMOUR DUKIN: THE NEXT PLAY INTERVIEW PT. 2
This conversation took place at Larry’s Place, over bubbling drips and hunks of salted-chocolate-chip banana bread.
The interviewer notes that Seymour Dunkin leaves his bike unlocked outside the window.
NP: Aren’t you afraid someone will steal it?
SD: They can try. (Stuffs a hunk of salted-chocolate-chip banana bread into himself).
NP: You must be stoked, now that bike season is back.
SD: I don’t do seasons. I ride 365.
NP: That takes some moxie. You don’t worry about black ice?
SD: Black ice worries about me. Uncertainty is a natural spiritual location. Embrace it.
Can I eat the rest of this?
NP: Um..
SD: Thanks, bro.
NP: You enjoy that. Our expense budget is limitless up to $10. And you don’t have to call me ‘bro’.
SD: Haha! Fuckin A, bro. We all got our pronouns.
NP: May we ask yours?
SD: “Awesome”.
NP: Your t-shirt says ‘Price Carbon’, in nice lettering.
SD: One of my girlfriends make t-shirts, excellently. (pauses, reflects). Actually, two of my girlfriends make t-shirts. Weird.
NP: You have more than two?
SD: Bro, I own a dozen times a dozen t-shirts.
NP: That’s not… so this one says ‘Price Carbon’.
SD: That’s my issue. (pours coffee down into himself, energizing the spectacular machine that is his corporal being).
NP: The removal of the carbon tax was a popular gesture with every living Canadian…
SD: I don’t exactly ride with the herd, bro.
NP: How then to price carbon?
SD: The usual. I will go to Alberta, befriend their men and lie with their women.
NP: Ambitious policy initiative.
SD: And when I have their confidence, I will tell them that polluting the air is a fixed fucking cost you either pay with your wallet or your kids’ lungs.
NP: Then what?
SD: Then we drink beer and watch the Oilers win the Stanley Cup.
NP: Aren’t you from Toronto?
SD: Aren’t you from Montréal?
NP: Touché. The other policy of removal is right here where we live, where the fitness-reluctant Premier of Smogtario wants to tear up the Bloor bike lanes.
SD: Not my Premier.
NP: He probably reads this, we’re kind of a big deal around here. Anything you want to say to him directly?
SD: Get your spongy, greedy hands that never worked a day in their life off my fucking city, bitch.
NP: Don’t feel like you have to hold back.
SD: Haha! You’re alright, bro. Seriously though (he leans in) if he drives his farcical Escalade anywhere near me I will swoop the bike directly into it, somersault onto the hood and smash this fist through his fucking windshield. Just to do it. You gotta have fun in this life.
NP: Seymour, how old are you?
SD: Put it like this: I saw Nirvana at Foufounes Éléctriques.
NP: That’s incredible (to name check the early reality TV show in the 80s when everything bad happened). You have a youthful countenance.
SD: What’s countenance?
NP: I don’t actually know.
SD: Dude, I had a great time in the 80s. I think your view of the decade is lazy and myopic.
NP: I stand by the record. Seymour… can I call you Seymour? Actually, can I ask is that your real name?
SD: Yeah, I’m from the Parkdale Dunkins.
NP: And the name Seymour is in your family?
SD: My Mom wanted it. She says Seymour Dunkin works on so many levels.
NP: She sounds like an interesting lady.
SD: She is one of a kind. Can I give her a Mother’s Day shoutout?
NP: That’s why we’re here. That and the salted-chocolate-chip banana bread.
SD: Yo Mom! Happy Mother’s Day! Hope you had fun on the camel!
NP: Say what?
SD: Long story. I ride a bike. She rides a camel.
NP: What will you get her for Mother’s Day? Flowers? Brunch? A brunch of flowers?
SD: Please, bro. Hey everyone, get your Moms a cool bike helmet.
NP: Yours is certainly impressive. What with Born to Kill over the Peace sign.
SD: Something about the duality of man. That’s how I ride.
NP: How’s that?
SD: Full. Metal. Jacket.
NP: Seymour, or shall I say, ‘Awesome’, thanks for taking this time from your busy schedule.
SP: You have no idea. Between the riding and the girlfriends…
NP: Will you ever settle, Seymour?
SD: Oh, I only ride the one bike, bro. Peace.
…
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Larry’s Folly is now flooded with sunlight. Toronto’s six days of spring is underway. In Montréal, the clothes come off at 12 degrees Celsius. In Parkdale, Toronto’s home of the Dunkins and the best fucking banana bread on Earth and therefore in the known universe, the attire is perceptibly more sensible. You might still want a windbreaker for pedalling across town to your craft beer destination. Or locate your inner Seymour, get the muscle shirt on, and show off those guns, bro.
GEAR SHIFT
· Would be a great name for a bike clothing store.
· The G&M uncovers the shocking secret of Gen X women.
They’re all dating Seymour!
· That Dad Rock you are listening to is still changing lives.
· Despite accusations of being "sadistic", That’s Incredible was a huge success and influenced many entertainers.
· How was your May the fourth?
· Support Cycle Toronto.