Monday, July 25, 2005


Scene: Crack Alley, Sunday evening, after heavy rainfall. Two blocks from the John Labatt Centre, Downtown London.

Two young white males in "IQ shirts" (you know, the ones all the young voters of low expectations wear around here, the ones with two digits on the front and back) are packing a pipe with marihuana in a dingy alley near the John Labatt Centre. Imagining themselves to be unobserved, they discuss life and philosophy in Gundon. One has his hand conspicuously down his pants.

"The .45 has the bigger barrel, fuckin this is a different one..."

"Fuck it, I'm not afraid to shoot somebody, I don't fuckin care."

This brave talk continues, powered by wasted oxygen and marihuana smoke, until the superintendent of a building bordering on Crack Alley tells them to go away, calling from out of her window.

"Where the fuck is that coming from... Oh, sorry," says one.

Hand still down the pants, self-esteem intact, they move up Crack Alley towards the John Labatt Centre, to continue their psychedelic journey of mutual self-discovery and empowerment.