The episode, which was filmed last summer during a break in council’s gravy-hunt, will air sometime in February. In her hour-long installment of the series, we see Stintz getting to dig a fabled expansion subway line for a day, napping in unlikely places, sending a few texts from the driver’s seat of a bus, and even getting to visit the hidden subway stations of Lower Queen and Lower Bay. “It was a lot harder than I thought it would be,” admits Stintz. “These people who forget to ask for a transfer until they’re leaving the bus are hard to believe. Also, a lot of riders don’t seem to know much English yet want to use expired day passes and put their shopping bags on seats. But was really opened my eyes [to the challenges of a TTC employee] was learning why the late-night Yonge bus is referred to as the Vomit Comet. TMI, people!”

The councilor also had contact with a fellow city haller while doing her rounds on the Queen streetcar. “Yeah, the Mayor gave me the finger as he passed my open doors and told me to ‘get the f— out of the way.’ I don’t know where he thought a streetcar could be otherwise but that’s okay—he works hard and plays hard and I know he was on his way to Huntsville and wanted to beat the traffic before the 400 clogged up with ordinary folk. When I told him later that it was me waving to him, he didn’t recall the incident and his spokesperson confirmed that it couldn’t have been him.”

lazy spoofing at work

In an exclusive interview to tbothot today, Toronto Mayor (th)Rob Ford revealed that the (in)famous 911 call(s) placed from his home in the wake of being “assaulted” by CBC Television’s ‘comedy’ program This Hour Has 22 of Everything last fall were in fact the result of pocket dialing and any comments overheard by the emergency dispatcher were in fact of him speaking to his family in a private context.

“Nope, that’s right—I didn’t know the line was open to 911 because I never called them intentionally… if at all, or that’s what they’re saying,” explains his honourable corpulence. “I regularly call my wife and daughter ‘the bitches’ in a friendly, joking way. They’re totally cool with that, yeah. And they call me ‘Mr. Ford’ in return. It’s a funny bit that we do. When I said ‘don’t you know I’m the f’ing Mayor’, that was also not directed at the dispatcher. It’s just something I put at the end of most sentences around the house. We all get a kick out of it because, I am the f’ing Mayor, geddit?”

Well, that settles it. Our public broadcaster should stick to mowing their own lawn, the Mayor needs to lock his BB keys, Chief Bill Blair is a good guy whose account of the 911 tape should stand, and there be no cause for further speculation in this matter.

About the reported 911 call possibly made on Christmas Day from casa Ford by the Mayor’s mother-in-law? “Also pocket-dialing,” says his Fordship. “Absolutely.”

Still got it, haven’t I?

While the rest of the family raided the stores of FAO Schwarz, I waltzed into Bergdorf Goodman’s like a hand to the manner born but was soon betrayed by my wallet and paucity of elite shopping experience. I might be justifiably accused of aiming above my station when one considers that most of my wardrobe has come free with fill-up at Petro-Canada. My lack of proper cultivation became glaringly obvious when I began choking on my TicTacs as the schmata slinger elegantly turned the $695 price tag of the first shirt to my eyeline. Hoping to regain some dignity by continuing this shopping charade for a moment longer before giving myself a plausible out, I instead placed my Wallabees in my mouth with the question of whether the buttons were included in the price. ‘Sir! You forget yourself,’ came the reply as the salesman raised his arm to point my way to the nearest exit.

Spirit dented but unbroken, I marched up and down 5th Avenue with the hordes of other touristy shoppers, in and out of every men’s clothier. The results were less dramatic than my first stop but equally unyielding of success. After a quick rendezvous with the family to compare the number of shopping bags we had gathered, even they abandoned me in disgust, returning to Brooklyn and advising me not to come back without game in my hunter’s satchel. The naked disappointment on the faces of my children told me dad was at risk of losing status as a hero.

I redoubled my efforts away from the scene of my embarassments and before long found a reasonably tony store with a sympathetic salesperson who assured me she had something for me in their Palooka section. If it wasn’t bang on to specs, at least I got close enough to return to the family and dress myself for a party.

The rest of that night, it won’t surprise you, reader, is a blur–but I can assign that blame to the open bar and my pressing need to get the taste of 5th Avenue out of my mouth.

Because no long voyage shouldn’t be celebrated with leisure, Mrs. thehandoftamm concocted a scheme for the family to walk 3 hours along the West side, culminating with the HighLine, which was lovely. Once back in Brooklyn with aching legs, my search for tonic water resembled the earlier search for a hotel in Pennsylvania. What do Americans drink their gin with?

EDIT: Turns out the holiday was Columbus Day weekend, whatever that is. In my defense, it was a native New Yorker who speculated that it was Memorial Day weekend–turns out not everyone views holidays with the same reverence.