Strike! Scratch a Liberal, Find a Fascist

With the deadline less than 12 hours away, there is a good chance Toronto's transit workers will strike in the early hours of Monday morning, leaving a half-million people to find alternate ways to get to work and school.

I can't say that my friends' list has been flooded with howls of outrage, but a few people are very miffed.

- "TTC strike... sucks ass. i really don't think they should be allowed to strike, because a-they're an essential service. b- they're partially funded by our tax dollars. c-they JUST fucking raised the prices.

"... them striking is akin to a 3 year old throwing a temper tantrum. eventually they'll get what they want, just because everyone is sick of dealing with them. they need to find some kind of better tactic to deal with their issues, rather than finding one that alienates the entire city..."

- "I don't live in a nice area, and I work far far away, so I am left FUCKED ... I am stuck either walking an hour and a half at around midnight through the seedy Lansdowne and Bloor area, or I stay at home and not work and not write my exams and not pay my rent this month, or I am to ride my bike through the heavily trafficked streets of Toronto...

"And for what? So that the transit unions can raise their average pay of $25 per hour and get rid of the penalties for being late or early to stops?"

It's not the half-truths that strike me (though I note the current top wage is under $25.00 per hour, and that the TTC makes this city vastly more liveable and so should be "partially funded by our taxes dollars" (a lot more than it is, in my opinion) or that the fact the TTC management just raised prices, not the union - but all that is beside my point), so much as it is the this evidence that principle sometimes means so little to people, when they are personally inconvenienced.

The TTC is an important service - indeed, it is arguably an essential service over the long run; taking a half-million cars off our roads is a Good Thing, for All of Us - but it is not an essential service in the way that ambulances or doctors and nurses are essential.

In a capitalist society, the only power workers have is the ability to withdraw their labour. Without the right to strike, employees would be at the mercy of their employers - in terms of wages, in terms of job security, in terms - essentially - of their very lives. In a capitalist society, the right to strike makes the difference between freedom and (de facto) slavery.

And for those I've heard describe driving a bus or streetcar as a "cushy" job, give me a break. Fighting traffic, dealing with drunks and crazies all day long is not cushy. It is hard, stressful work that requires constant attention both the road and to the passengers one is ferrying about the city. TTC drivers are reasonably well-paid, I suppose, but 50K a year is not going to make anyone in Toronto rich.

All right, fire away ...

Climax, Anti-Climactic

What was, until yesterday, my room has a corner piled high with bags of clothes and boxes of books that are not mine. A hulking, dangerous-looking stereo broods upon the floor like some below the window, subwoofers atop the speakers like futuristic rocket-launchers - I am almost afraid to approach the bass-throbbing beast.

It's official. Laura lives here now, and will until at least the end of June (barring one or the other of us having a surprise psychotic breakdown), at which point we will decide whether things are working such that we wish to continue the arrangement. I, of course, hope to hell that we do.

We made the move yesterday. Sck5000 kindly provided us use of his vehicle and we managed to shift everything in 2 trips. Laura's step-mum said hardly a word to me, for which I was thankful; telling your kid to get out with virtually no notice or reasonable explanation with only 2 months or so left of school is not something that leaves me impressed. Just before we left with the second load, while Laura was saying her goodbyes, she offered Jane (the wicked step-mother) a hug and was rebuffed by crossed arms and a curt, "I'd rather not."

Thanks, Jane - yer a fucking peach (or "beetch", but that's a story for another day. Well, why another day? It's my journal, I'll digress if I want to. Sometime last week, Laura and I took a walk up Roncesvalles, hunting for deli stuff at a late hour. We wandered into one of the many Polish delicatessens on that street and I took my position by the cheese counter. Two staff members gossiped by the till at the far end of the store. After perhaps a minute or two one of them looked up. "Yes?" she asked, without moving. "I'd like some service," I said, and she - slowly, as if resenting the imposition of an actual customer in her establishment - began to move towards us. And I suddenly snapped; I don't pay money to be treated like an asshole. "Never mind," I said, "we'll take our business elsewhere." I walked fast to the door and out; Laura followed more slowly and had the dubious pleasure of hearing the woman, in a heavy Polish accent, mutter "Beetch!" at my back. Anyway).

And so, here we are. We're sharing the bedroom, but it is also doubling as her office; we're sharing my office (whence lives the computer), but I am the dominant partner in that small space.

Will it work? I hope so. I even, in my optimistic moments, think so.

It's a strange way to end my life-long bachelor-hood, suddenly and without anything other than some beers with Laura and SCK5000 as ritual celebration of the new places in which we both find ourselves. But perhaps appropriate - we are the couple that could not remember the precise date of our first anniversary.