My Sunday Morning

— A woman came through the turnstiles at Bay-Bloor a few minutes ago who— look, I know my fashion sense can be a bit retro, but this was either a time-traveller or someone deliberately cosplaying a person from the early 1950s— her outfit, hairstyle and makeup were all note-perfect. 

—While I was typing the above, a white guy started yelling racial epithets at another guy, who, understandably upset, eventually threw a wadded-up bit of paper at him, then came dashing back up the stairs from the subway platform with the racist guy giving chase. Some people were in Racist Guy’s path and I tried to get in his way too as it was the most useful action I could think of on the spur of the moment, but he push past us. At least one bystander followed him, as did I, but he was out of sight by the time I got to the underground mall. However I noticed the Black guy leaving through one of the doors up to Bloor Street. He must have ducked into a doorway and doubled back, so at least he was able to give his harasser the slip.

— Later, at the Canadian Tire: I know this store must sell that model of garbage can that stands outside the employee break room, because I can see the brand-name label still on the side. But I can’t see any like it on the shelves.
 

—Still later, leaving the Eaton’s Centre, lugging my new garbage can: one of the couple walking ahead of me still has a SALE tag on the jacket she’s wearing, or is that style no longer confined to hats?

I’ve Never Listened to Skrillex

From the name, and from the way people talk, I imagine a sound like enormously-amplified cicadas.

I don’t particularly want to be disabused of this notion.