Extra, Extra: Rob Ford's Bench Presses, Rob Ford and WorldPride, and Prize-Winning Poets




Extra, Extra: Rob Ford’s Bench Presses, Rob Ford and WorldPride, and Prize-Winning Poets

Every weekday’s end, we collect just about everything you ought to care about or ought not to miss.

  • Mayor Rob Ford will be taking part in WorldPride, or at least in a WorldPride video. He inspired the tagline for the video above—”Toronto: the only thing we hide in the closet is our mayor.”
  • Rob Ford was not intoxicated on Easter Monday when he took an unidentified woman back to his office at City Hall and was captured on security footage stumbling and falling in the City Hall parking garage. Not one bit. “He had muscle spasms in his legs but that is about as far as I saw,” said his brother and campaign manager Doug. ““He was bench pressing a lot of weight, and it was ripping up his legs and [he was] just trying to stretch his legs out to get the spasms away. He could barely even walk because they were so sore.” Say no more. We are convinced, do not believe Doug is lying and/or an enabler, and agree with him that the main point here is that what is “staggering” is that the media so twists everything, and not that his brother was innocently staggering around City Hall because he’d done too many bench presses.
  • “Eccentric veteran councillor” Giorgio Mammoliti is facing questions after “Re-Elect Giorgio Mammoliti” signs popped up at Arrow Road and Deerhide Crescent. Such things should not yet be popping up anywhere yet, because according to City bylaws, campaign signs can’t be put out until October 2. “I mean, what more to say?” said challenger Nick Di Nizio. “He’s constantly screwing up.”
  • Toronto-born poet Anne Carson was not expecting to win the $65,000 Griffin Poetry Prize last night. She doesn’t “really like the book” (Red Doc>), and she thought “it wouldn’t be fair” to receive the honour, because she’d been honoured with it before. We have renewed faith that a major poetry prize might be in our future, because while we’re not convinced we could write a book that could inspire the same response Red Doc> got from the Griffin judges (“Words are rescued, morphed and slapped awake. Speech hurtles from vulgar to sublime. Everything accelerates except when a break is introduced disguised as riff, list or song and the mead is served in golden cups”), we are confident we could produce some poetry we wouldn’t really like.

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