I could say that the summer festival season kicking in has kept me too spent from giddy merrymaking to have the energy to write. But for the most part, as usual, i've managed to deftly avoid getting involved in all the outdoor mayhem that's already got drivers who naively set out for a quick errand run to downtown or the plateau snorting red-hot frustration from both nostrils (and possibly other orifices) because most of the streets they need to get to are closed.
Two weekends ago, it was the Tour de L'ile open-to-all bike marathon that had streets blocked off around the city as tons of not even semi-competent bikers made their way through the city, occasionally, and for no particular reason, gayly falling over or crashing into each other with a sickening crunch of mangled bike frame.
Last weekend saw the return of the Formula 1 parade of understated but alpha males wandering around looking for some possibly amusing way to throw some money at their general mid-life ennui, who are easily recognizeable by their distinctive trappings, which overall, shouts "Middle aged ex-high-school quarterback turned some kinda consultant/weekend golfer":
Besides the properly crimped baseball hat sporting an elite racing related company's logo, which is de rigueur, casual observation over the years has led me to understand that the only other must-have accessories are an unnaturally thin spray-tanned blonde with bangs and a suspiciously robust bosom, and some nature of gleaming convertible sports car to put the blonde in.
So I'm not sure what this guy was thinking:
What he's got goin on is more of a Jazz Festival vibe... with the Tilley hat and the expedition pocketed vest, both of which are standard basics for a jazz-spree-on-the-town outing, because, you know... jazz is all edgy and dangerous, so you never know when you might have to dig into one of those pockets and pull out a Bowie knife... or emergency juice box... or side of smoked meat and a loaf of rye... or a haemmerhoid cushion... or something. Meanwhile, up at the Fringe Festival kickoff on St. Laurent, the Electronic Picnic (which basically means a DJ playing dance music that's all the same beat, so it sounds like one reeaaally reeeally long and rather dull throbbing piece of tedium that is also kind of soothing because you can move to it without much thought or creative effort), drew out the kind of people who like go for a little more, shall we say, "insousiance" in their look:
As well as those who cleave to the standard, artfully nondescript hipster profile: yes, they who love an opportunity to engage in the sacred and unholy trinity of drinking, dancing AND smoking at the same time.
And while the homogeneously fervent individualists shuffle their way through rounds of warm and soapy draft, the League of the Steaming Unmentionables stands by, awaiting their golden offerings: 
By this weekend, what with the ongoing freshets of horn honking soccer fan convoys cruising the streets, the novelty of over the top street action was already becoming kind of stale. I kept forgetting that the St. Laurent street sale was full-on ... I was a bit surprised every time i cheerfully and innocently headed out for breakfast, or to pick up some broccoli and breath mints, or thinking i'll read the paper over a nice iced coffee, only to hit a seething wall of shuffling, sweating humanity busily pawing at mega-packs of tube socks, cast off DVDs from the porn cinema, and all that other cheap and nasty dreck that the merchants seem to pull out of some God-forsaken Pandora's box of cheesy consumerism whenever its time to move booths out onto the sidewalk and crank more incessant and insane-making dance beats at insufferable volume into the street.
On my way to the bus at Jeanne Mance park, I passed through a meager bunch of dorky separatists with that unmistakable gleam of barely suppressed nutjobbery in their piggish little eyes... the older ones podgy and oddly intimidating yet vulnerable in their vigorously hiked white tube socks, all clustering around Gilles Duceppe like panting school girls feeling not quite worthy to touch the hem of his smartly tailored suit-pants (its twice that i've encountered him working his riding, and i must say that he DOES look striking in person, with those oddly piercing lizard-dead eyes of his); the younger ones with the haunting look of realizing that they'd make a horrific mistake in thinking that they were going to the party where all the cool kids were, cause screw politics... its a gorgeous sunny sunday and all the cool kids are off smoking pot on the mountain, as they should.
For indeed, it was a pretty small and sad crowd, and if that's the best that the forces of Quebec nationalism can muster to mark the anniversary of the death of Meech Lake in Canada's largest French city, i'm not too worried about any tactitly sanctioned goon squads of anti-anglo avengers kicking my doors in and demanding that i conjugate the verb etre in passe composee or otherwise be forced to choke down a heaping side order of creton followed by a slice of sugar pie any time soon.
There were so few people i thought the march must be winding down... but no... turns out they were gathering to march to Parc Lafontaine (where, to further celebrate their unique and cherisable culture, the march would likely devolve into an impromptu frenzy of juggling and unicycling) and given that the Gazette was unable to provide a shot of more than one person, i think it must have been more than a bit of a bust. I felt a bit sorry for Duceppe, who probably was longingly wishing he could have stayed home, lingering over a bowl of cafe au lait while idly sticking pins into his Stephen Harper voodoo doll, rather than sweating into his finely tailored suit, wasting his time pressing the flesh with these mangeurs d'hot dog.
So... on the way back on the bus, we passed a pie eating contest on the terrace at Dusty's... given the guys' leaning back postures, slow chewing, and expressions of pained determination, it looked like they were entering the "and will have a vomiter?" phase of the competition.
At this point i was thinking: "ok people... can you all go home so i can have my neighbourhood back now, please?" But no. there's more....
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