I started telling stories in front of audiences a few years ago. The first one was for a talent show at the Centre for Social Innovation. I was a wreck, but I think it went okay. People laughed where they were supposed to laugh, silent where they were supposed to be silent.

A lot has changed since then. I was privileged to find some other like-minded people and together we started Stories We Don’t Tell, a show with deeply personal stories that take place in different apartments and houses in Toronto. That was three years ago and at the time, I dived right into the vibrant storytelling scene in the city.

Dived in a bit too soon.

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I received this phone message last week: "Hello, someone called me from this number saying I won a contest. I see that this is not you, but they are using your phone number. I just wanted to make you aware of this. They said to come to this address in order to claim my prize: 888 Yonge Street."

This sounds relatively innocuous, right? Actually, sounds kind of nice that this person took the time to let me know of a potential scam operating under my number. I mean, they could be calling all sorts of people and giving out my number - does this make me an accomplice? Can you be an accomplice in a crime you had no idea was happening? Would my unwillful ignorance standup in court?

Whatever.

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When I walk into an airport, I am a different person. I don't mean in a metaphorical or existential sense, I mean technically. My official name on my passport is Jeffrey Paul Dore and so when I am checking in, going through security or customs, I must remember to answer to Jeffrey. With all our technological advancements, computers are still not able to parse out names. When booking tickets, you usually have to include both your names and for some reason, every time, my name spits out as jeffreypaul Dore. Checking in beforehand online or through the machines at the airport are deemed unusable by me. The machines can't determine that my name is not jeffreypaul and reject me each time.

So, we certainly don't have to worry about machines taking over Terminator 2 style anytime soon. One of the last times I traveled south of the border, upon checking in to a real actual person, she said, "Oh, good luck with making that flight." I mean, okay, if I wasn't going to make it that's on me, but I certainly didn't need to additional anxiety.

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Queen Street in downtown Toronto is probably my favorite strip of city. I walk it almost everyday to get to my office. I'll sometimes go out of my way to just walk down Queen Street. There's always something going down and interesting people hanging around at all hours of the day and night. And you never know what could happen. I've seen Spider-Man skateboarding down the street, bumped into artists from Berlin, people shouting at no one and all manner of music, both pouring out of bars or from some random person singing a cappella.

I was walking to my office in the early afternoon and approaching Queen Street West and Augusta Avenue. Almost at the intersection, a man passed me. Normal-looking guy, probably mid-30s, dressed somewhat 'preppy', as the kids might say. As he walked by me, he made eye contact but did not stop walking. He made a motion that usually symbolizes don't go in there. He lifted his hand, palm open and furiously moved it perpendicular across his neck.

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