If you’re happy, does it matter if it isn’t “real”.
What is real. Does it overlook being happy?
The best movie i ever did see as a sci-fi, dystopia, fantasy junkie is “Brazil” which, like most great stories have absolutely nothing to do with its own title. It is trippy, gruesome, funny and highly esoteric.
I feel it a bit cheeky of me to not write about the first time i’ve been to Toronto because honestly, it opens a whole Pandora’s Box of why do i even have to bother about writing or why would i want you to know what i did, or maybe the classic if it’s a good story then perhaps just get on with it.- Those things are easier said than done and that is why i write as often as a blue moon shines, stories just seem to be more interesting while marinating in my head and i experience frequent bouts of lucid detachment from reality like Sam Lowry who may or may not be you in a different timeline and right now he is not me. And i have to start from the very beginning…
Last March i went on a continental flight from Toronto- Hongkong aboard Air Canada, with an impeccably groomed French flight steward who is more than willing to fulfill my every desire while cruising at 37,000 ft above the Atlantic because somehow i ended up seated on the Business class section along with beautiful people donning crisp suits and coiffured hair ready to march in a boardroom while shouting, “I have the majority stake in this company now and i’m buying you all out!” in Cantonese.
You define a good flight by negatives: you didn’t get hijacked, you didn’t crash, you didn’t throw up, you weren’t late, you weren’t nauseated by the food. So you are grateful.
– Paul Theroux
I could also add how no one snored, no one let out a massive Southern Burp- (i made up that term for Farting, please use it as often as you like) no one had a wailing baby- business magnates don’t do babies, just heirs, i didn’t get food poisoning- no matter how fancy the Salmon Carpaccio was, i got to see
awesome B- movies, i didn’t get to do any blogposts and i also didn’t get to do a very awkward and thoroughly embarrassing self portrait shot, but you would much rather look at a Hippie Ben Affleck anyway.
There’s this farcical notion that when you’ve seen one city, you’ve seen them all and whining that there’s no culture in the urban jungle or how if it isn’t New York, then it’s just a laughable imitation of a consumerist’s mecca. That is bollocks. Baloney, hogwash, pickled peaches and pork rinds. Toronto is awesome even if their Subway system smells like pee because they have Vapor Central.
If Huxley’s World State Citizens indulge in Soma Holidays, and Winston Smith finds reprise in the Love of Big Brother. The world weary souls of Toronto seek the soulful embrace of The Simpson re-runs, fluffy couches that reminds you of the one you own in your basement apartment and that glazed look on the eyes of that dude that your best friend just introduced you to mere hours ago. You remember being startled by the sun when the curtains were pulled back, there’s that feeling of liquid dread over your head like cold water slowly running down your face making your hands clammy and your lips dry but everytime you look at Victoria and you remember her name, “Mezzabotta” you giggle and she giggles and you look away laughing but you sneak a glance at her again and you both can’t stop laughing. You have no evidence of this place existing, it probably didn’t happen the way you think it did but it was real. Mezzabotta was funny then.
And all in a glazed vignette we ended up in the Toronto Subway station and this, as a movie trope we ask you, the audience on what do we do now. I’m supposed to achieve epicness while in a foreign city free to do anything and take every foreign substance known and not yet known to man. If this was the Hangover, we’d fade to black and wake up inside an amusing story.