toronto is a place whose subtlety escapes you, unless you happen to live there.  It's all out in the open, a city of cities; a place where life proclaims itself as a series of living brick boxes, mostly of monstrous size. Traffic patrols the checkerboard square grid, defined on the south by one of the largest and most polluted bodies of water in the world. 

They say that "graffiti ruins walls", that it is vandalism of outrageous proportion.  How about messing up the largest fresh-water bodies in the world, so much so that most of the fish have cancer and people don't dare to swim there.  What kind of vandalism is that, my dear Watson?  And have the vandals been dealt with?

We'll talk about the "blind eyes of justice" at length later in this chapter.  Until then, enjoy your cappuchino; it's later than you think.  Toronto is an exciting place to visit, although, who in Left-Brain would want to live there?

We let the restaurants, the jazzy little bistros and the ethni-cultural mosaic dazzle us, until the loud music and square monoliths drive us back to where we crawled out of.  Namely, from under a rock in Stanley Park.

Okay: now on to better things.

Fantino's "History Unleashes Genius" is a humble caricature study on the all-too-common red brick drawingboard - this time on the side of a cool little uptown joint: Wendi's Deli-Café.

Click on the little brick below for SEZ1 PANORAMIX VIEW-POINT!

We all find out what's cool. Some have the word, "cool" written on their foreheads.  Some have "cool" tattooed on their genitals. We're all cool in a way we can't imagine, not in the way we think.

This stylish little piece was placed surrepticiously in the doorway of some kind of store on Queen St.  A tail of cats, women, cat-women, and feline sensibilities.

It's all part of the Queen Scene; remember it first, forget it later.  It's a thing of old age or pre-occupation with nubile young wood-nymphs: nothing worth it's weight in salt sticks in your cerebrum for longer than 2 seconds.

We leave you now for a Larger Pair of Sandals.   "My Hovercraft is Full of eels," you explain candidly to the waitress in the Hungarian Bistro.  She winks knowingly: all you swarthy Greek men are alike.  You can pretend to be a graffiti photographer, but all you really are is a PIMP.  Hustle your empty time elsewhere.  The clamoring streets of Toronto will live on without you.  No one really cares, no one ever did.