I stopped because he wasn't moving...and because I had nothing better to do

Today I tried to help a man who was sleeping in the street.

This does not make me a hero. I am not writing about this to brag.

In fact, I am ashamed to admit that the only reason I took notice and stopped to do something about it was because I had time to do so. Nowhere to go, nothing pressing to take care of. I helped him because I had nothing better to do.

I had the afternoon off and was reveling in my free time. When I walked by the shirtless man prone on the sidewalk on Yonge Street south of Bloor, I thought it would be a good deed to bring him a bottle of water and some chocolate to help him through whatever he was trying to sleep off.

When I returned with provisions, he was still lying there in half-fetal position, taking up half the sidewalk. I wondered how long he'd been motionless in that busy corridor while everyone walked around him.

I bent down and tried to call him awake. He didn't move. I asked if he was all right. No response. I gave him a little poke and shook him. He was breathing, thank God. He didn't smell particularly off--no urine or vomit or even alcohol. But his clothes were ragged, and his bare torso was covered in scrapes, sores and bruises. On his back was a big indigo tattoo that said Mom. On his arm, Madison. Portraits of smiling faces circled his back, sides and chest. They were quite skillfully done.

"Crack," a man in a suit above me said. He was in his late-forties, a stout guy who looked like he'd seen a lot of the city, with nice but worn black dress shoes, thick-framed glasses and a yellow tie.

I stared up at him, confused by his comment. "He hasn't moved in a really long time. I stopped because I was concerned."

He was with two female companions, who waited for him up ahead. Frowning, he pulled out a cell phone and dialed 911. Some people slowed, stopped to watch a moment before walking on. I continued to try coaxing the man to wakefulness, but he didn't bat an eye. Dead to the world, but still breathing.

Yellow Tie was on hold. "It's probably drugs or booze," he said. "He's probably just sleeping it off."

I had decided that was probably the case, but I hadn't stopped because he was "just another drunk." The man was lying on the ground in the middle of Yonge Street and no one was stopping to check on him. No one. If it had been me lying on the ground like that, how long would it have taken people to stop and check on me? How many people would have assumed "drunk druggie" and moved on?

"How did you know it was crack?" I asked. I was looking for track marks or some outward evidence of substance abuse. I don't really know how crack works.

He opened his mouth, blinked, hesitated before saying, "I've dealt with a lot of Native peoples on reservations." But I think we both had the same thought then: we had no idea what had left this man senseless, sleeping on the bare concrete beneath the fetid, oily exhaust of the nearby faux Asian noodle house.

"He's drunk," a young man smilingly told us as he walked by. As if he were informing us that people in this city just lie on sidewalks wherever they please. As though he were being helpful and informative. As though he were telling us the bus wasn't running, but hey, that's public transit for you.

The man with the tattoos was still lying in the street.

"He's probably just sleeping it off." A young woman with a slice of gourmet pizza stopped next to us. "I know this guy. His friends are just around the corner."

"I stopped because he wasn't moving." This had become my mantra.

"Maybe I should call them over." She sighed. "Joe. Hey, Joe, buddy, wake up."

As Yellow Tie continue talking with 911 operators, I chatted with the young woman. I found out she worked at a drop-in refuge centre just around the corner. "Jane" was familiar with the man and his friends. Soon after, a fire truck arrived and three hard-faced firemen came out with first-aid supplies. They questioned Jane and Yellow Tie while they tried to shake Joe awake.

"Make sure to wash your hands really thoroughly," Yellow Tie told me sternly. "I mean it. You don't know what these guys have. Hep C, that kind of thing. Remember." He disappeared after that.

I watched the firemen as they got Joe to move a little. They kept pushing down on a spot on his jaw just below his ear, trying to get him to open his eyes. If he didn't wake up, or couldn't walk away on his own, they would have to take him to the hospital, and they did not seem keen on that. Neither did Jane, whose gourmet pizza slice was now sitting on the ground. I imagine the hospital was the last place Joe wanted to be...apart from the slammer. That possibility hung over all of us.

I started worrying that I'd cause Joe--and everyone else--more harm than good by stopping to see if he was alive. I didn't want him to go to jail--he was just sleeping off whatever was in his system. And the firefighters looked...well, like this was just another day. I worried there could be "real" emergencies elsewhere in the city these firefighters could be attending to. One man sleeping on the street wasn't an emergency. And Jane could have been enjoying her pizza in the park. I told her I felt bad.

"No, you did right." The assertion somehow fell flat. Of course I did right--but I didn't do what other people might have done. I didn't ignore him. If I had, we all would have been allowed to keep moving on with our lives. Joe could have kept sleeping. Maybe that was what would have been best.

Now I was worried he would wake up, but wouldn't be able to walk away.

"You know this guy?" one firefighter asked me.

"I stopped because he wasn't moving."

"I know him." Jane filled them in on his background. He hung out with some guys at the refuge centre and he'd had "a rough night." They asked if drugs or alcohol had been involved. She hesitated. "I don't know for sure. At all. But there was probably crack."

They all nodded, as if this was what they suspected. I still wasn't sure how they could tell.

Finally, Joe stirred and sat up. I was relieved. He didn't say anything--he was still pretty discombobulated--but he managed to bump fists with Jane and with me after I gave him his drinks and chocolate.

I left after that. I didn't want to be another gawker.

And I wanted to wash my hands.

Later, I tried calling Jane at the refuge, but it was closed in the evening. I wanted to know if Joe was all right, and if she had managed to eat her pizza. It couldn't have been very appetizing after all that. I might even had had one delivered to the place to make up for the one left on the sidewalk. Joe could have a slice, too.

And then I realized I sympathized more with the working girl whose lunch was ruined than the man lying on the ground.

I have passed hundreds of men and women sleeping in the street, and many of them in much worse states than Joe. Men lying in their own vomit in the dead of winter, who've defecated in their clothes, who reek of piss and booze and utter despair. And except for the occasional care package at Christmas handed to the cute old man begging outside the dollar store, I have always avoided these derelicts, crossed the street if I had to. Because I have things to do and places to be; because it's none of my business what people do with their lives; because it's stupid for a woman on her own to approach a homeless person she doesn't recognize as harmless.

And I know that despite how I feel when I realize someone needs help--magnanimous, righteous, compassionate--another part of me believes these men and women on the street deserve exactly what they get. That they're passed out in their own filth because they've chosen that life, that if they really wanted help, they'd get it, get a job, get off the street.

And I don't think it's a stretch to say that many of us think the same thing now and again.

Today, I stopped because I saw a man lying on the street and I had time to think about that and ask whether he should be there. He was Native, yes. He was shirtless, yes. But I had no idea why he was there. And I knew I was being racist by assuming it was drugs or alcohol that had him in such a stupor.

Maybe I stopped to prove I wasn't racist. Maybe I stopped because I wanted to feel like I'd done a good deed. I am probably selfish and self-centred enough to delude myself into thinking I was better than all those people who didn't stop.

But I'd like to think I stopped because sleeping like the dead in the middle of a busy sidewalk isn't normal, and--here's where I get on a hypocritical soapbox--we shouldn't accept it as normal.

What if he had been Asian? Black? White? Female? Clean? Fully clothed? In a business suit? Pregnant? Lying in his own vomit? Covered in blood? At what point would you have stopped to check and see if he/she was breathing and asked if he/she needed help?

Homelessness, addiction, abuse and racism is reality. So is selfishness and pride and indifference.

But it doesn't have to be business as usual.

*The names have all been changed to protect the people involved.

Fan Expo 2010

I spent a long time trying to decide whether or not to go to Fan Expo this year, but after a long deliberation--and an announcement that said Tahmoh Penikett was making an appearance--I decided to get tickets for John and I for Friday, the least busy day of the con.

Boy, was I ever wrong about that. There was a two-hour lineup stretching around the block of the Metro Toronto Convention Centre. I had to stay because Publishers Weekly asked me to be a cub reporter and do a write-up of the event. (Link to come soon, I hope!)

On top of that, I made this video of the queue. Enjoy!

Thugs Need Hugs

I asked John why the douchebags who are smashing things up during the G20 because they're supposedly anti-capitalist or some such don't go out and do this every night if they feel so strongly about their cause.

"Because they're opportunists," he said.

It got me thinking about the whys of violence, of such rampant and reckless destruction without any real gain. Who are these vigilantes who have decided to commit such heedless acts of thuggery?

It's easy to dismiss them as "losers" who "don't have jobs" and "illiterate, sewer-trekking scum." But there's something else driving their black, soulless, misdirected anger.

After watching an episode of Glee, I realized what that something was. In one of my favorite rip-him-a-new-one moments, Kurt's dad says:

"You live a few years you start seeing the hate in people’s hearts, even the best people."

These people are infected with hate. They have a disease of the heart and mind that causes them to lash out in terrible ways and justify their actions with some flimsy excuse. They only come out at these moments when everyone can see them because they don't really believe in their cause enough to put in the energy or effort into fighting for what they believe in. If they did, they would do so clandestinely, with long-term plans and goals. They'd have systems and structure and funds and means, and they'd have the fervent belief that what they are doing is for the greater good. In other words, they'd be terrorists.

But all these window-smashing, car-burning lunks are are misguided thugs.

They're out there with their masks and their bats and their anger because they are crying out for help. They want to be seen. They want people to see how angry they are, and they want people to stop them, or else look at them and notice they are there. Their pain is invisible to us, so they do anything they can to grab our attention. It's the equivalent of screaming, "Mom! Look at me, Mom! Moooom! You're not looking! MOOOOOMMM!!!"

These people deserve our pity, not our scorn; they need treatment and rehabilitation, not jails.

In other words, thugs need hugs.

Who knows what drove them to this point in their life? Bad upbringing? Abuse? Hard times? Hate is easy, and is easily fed. It consumes one utterly, and spreads like a disease.

So, if ever you are faced with confronting a thug, fight them the way a Care Bear would. Show them love and understanding, use words, and give them a hug. It's likely they haven't ever had one.

Below is a helpful demonstration of how to face off against a thug threatening your car or local business.*

*My many rewatchings of this movie as a child have finally taught me something valuable!

G20 as explained by animals -OR- Why I Never Became a Journalist

It's true I have a bachelor of journalism degree from Ryerson University. It is also true that I did not want to become a hardcore journalist.

While I was mildly curious about what was going on downtown this weekend, I was also not willing to risk life or limb to actually find out. I've read enough Twitter and Facebook updates, though, to get a sense of the malaise of Torontonians, the sadness and anger and rage coursing through residents and protesters alike.

So to cut through the bitterness on both sides, I present you the G20 protests as I believed they happened, reenacted by cute animals. (No animals were harmed in the making of these pictures. Sadly, I can't say the same for the people involved on either side of the protests.)

1. The perceived problem among some anarchists and anti-capitalist protesters:

2 a) and b): The natural conflict between haves and have nots:

3. How to protest:

4. Why things sometimes get out of hand...

5 a) thru c). Results of provocation:

6. What residents of hosting cities of G20 are all thinking:

All photos are from Cuteoverload.com.

WHO'S YOUR MOMMA? WHO'S YOUR MOMMA???

MOTHER FUCKING NATURE, THAT'S WHO.

Welcome to my nightmare: Tornados in the GTA. The sky coming down for a little stroll in your neighborhood. The sky wears big boots.

It's nice to know that all over this city, this province, this country, THE WORLD, the reaction to tornadoes and doom weather is the same, no matter what language you speak or where you hail from:

"HOLY FUCK! OMIGOD! HOLY SHIT! THAT'S A TORNADO!"

Yeah. Yeah, it is. Now y'all know why I have reoccurring nightmares about them.

5 seconds of fame!

Look, Ma! I'm on TV!

Click on the video at the right hand side under Videos: Michael Dick reports: Subway running, power being restored in Toronto's west end (Runs: 1:53)

That's me at 0:26! Tee hee!

I'm happy to say the blackout did not hit me at home, but I had to walk to St. George Station from Christie in the -20-odd temps that morning. Not as bad as my colleague, who spent four hours being diverted all over the place because of misinformation. But damn, it was cold.

I have a dream...of a TTC that works

Pretty much everyone and their dog has something to say about the TTC strike. Torontonians are mad. Some were stranded after a night of partying, others stuck for the weekend in whatever remote place they live in the city, plans canceled because there's no way to get to where they need to go. Some resent the broken promise of a 48-hour notice; others are just plain resentful.

Now, I've had my moments of pure anger at public transit, of course, but I consider myself pretty levelheaded about it. I mean, let me put it this way: I need their services, and as long as they continue to provide that service, however flawed, at a lower economic and environmental cost than owning a car, then it is a service I will continue using because I really don't have any other choice.

Yes, I'm already aware of the facts on both sides of the support/hate arguments. I understand the anger and frustration of riders who pay higher and higher fares for what appears to be turning into slower and less comfortable service. But I also have an inkling, as someone who has worked with the public, of the shit drivers, ticket collectors and other workers probably have to deal with on a regular basis.

Admittedly, they don't do the same kind of work that other workers like police, firefighters, EMT workers, teachers, librarians and other unionized workers do, but let's face it, unless you've worked for the TTC yourself, you can't fully understand what they have to put up with regularly. And that only gets the snowball of resentment and frustration rolling down the hill towards violence a lot faster.

Guys, anger doesn't solve anything. And neither will boycotting what is an essential service in a large metropolitan city like Toronto.

Let's respect unions for what they do: they exist so that the workers are not abused by the agencies that employ them. They are there to (hopefully) represent the wider interests of the people in the union. But that doesn't mean every single driver is an asshole. It doesn't mean that the kid behind the ticket collection booth voted to turn down the contract because he thought he deserved more money. Yesterday, sixty-five percent of TTC workers voted to strike: that means 1 in 3 voted not to.

We don't need angry people stomping around exacerbating the situation by spitting on anyone in a maroon uniform. We don't need more frustrated riders on the commute muttering and yelling and developing what I can only term "bus rage." We don't need bus drivers fearing for their lives and safety and jeopardizing service overall. And we certainly don't need more drivers on the road making the overall situation even worse.

We need public transit. Moreover, we need better public transit. And we need to start opening up honest, useful communication between the riders who use public transit and the people who run it so that we can actually solve what is amounting to a crisis in our growing city. What will service be like in five years? Ten? Will we ever get more subway lines? What will a project like this cost?

The only way to open up the floor to discussion is to actually open it up.

Think the ticket collector is useless? Then write a letter asking why we don't replace them with machines or an automated fare system.

Think the platforms are overcrowded? Then write a letter asking for expansion.

Think your train is too slow? Then write a letter asking why we haven't dug more subway tunnels.

We need answers, not anger. And the only way we can get an explanation is if we ask for it. No spin, no PR. It's time to put all the differences aside and simply ask a forward moving question: Why can't we have better public transit in Canada's largest city?

My friends, let's move forward and ask hard questions. Let's work to meet the needs of the people without bringing in prejudices and resentment and accusations and finger-pointing.

We need public transit, and they need us. It's time we worked together.