By Simon F.

Within minutes of the opening gun, Taste of the Danforth is full up. Two dollar corn and four dollar souvlaki, buck a bottle for the stuff that comes out of the tap, a sprinkling of calamari and treats like pulled pork and funnel cakes that somehow get on to the menu as if they were local fare… and down the middle of the street the business stands that hope to suck you into a new phone, a razor with nine blades, a juice product that’s been intimate with corn syrup, and for crying out loud the Navy…

It’s a production that’s news because it’s a production. So all the media outlets have parked their giant erections down the centre of the strip (Global: “Ours is the biggest”), wondering where the story is and how to get it , while Torontoist slips through the crowd and dodges bikes arriving at Allen’s in time for a beer and the mayor, who chats with John Maxwell and then goes inside for a pee, emerging only to have his handlers make him throw an arm around a squirming Torontoist for a photo op (no pictures at 11).

And the reporter becomes the story, and the mob mills and munches on.