The Shirtless Jogger

One day, the Shirtless Jogger will be immortalized on a stamp.

While out for a run on Canada Day, Joe Killoran came across Toronto Mayor Rob Ford (fresh from an apparently combative two month stint in rehab) and his entourage stomping about Toronto looking for votes. Killoran, who looks a little bit like Zeus or one of those Spartans in the movie 300, began, in an admirably articulate state of rage, to scream at Ford. “Yes,” we collectively said, “these are my words manifest in the pleasing form of a man!” The Ford brothers, normally masters of physical intimidation and the death stare, shrivelled up in Killoran’s presence.

Killoran, stripped to the waist, looked like the truth. Radiating a masculine power that seemed fueled by the archetypes of the 1970’s, Killoran was our single-combat hero. He was what we wanted to see in the mirror, saying what we wanted to say. In short, he was the ideal proxy, and Rob Ford, the actual proxy of Toronto, was it’s pale and receding antithesis.

The irony is that Rob Ford’s narrative positions the Mayor as Toronto’s Everyman. He’s just a regular Joe, a guy who likes helping out the common folk, hates the high-minded, mocking elites and struggles with the same sort of demons that we all do at the end of hard-working day. Ambushed so vividly by an actual regular Joe, the myth was laid bare. Ford, the man who stakes his brand on his ability to connect, his ability to be real, man, was a paper tiger, a bully stripped raw by the confrontation that stood unblinking before him.

It was an entirely awesome and revealing moment, so naturally it’s been co-opted and ruined. Inspired by Killoran, a handful of protestors who look like some agitated soccer dads yelling at the ref from the sidelines, have taken to calling themselves The Shirtless Horde.

One of them, after unconvincingly shouting, “I’m not intimidated by you!” at Rob Ford’s sobriety coach, was actually kicked by him, in the shin, I think. It’s exactly the sort of thing you remember taking place at recess, and as much as I might want to imagine myself the Shirtless Jogger, I do not want to imagine myself a member of The Shirtless Horde.

Even worse than showing us what we really look, The Shirtless Horde has the distinction of reinstalling the Ford myth. Surrounded by their limp chants, Ford puffs up– like he’s just eaten some spinach– and once again projects the confidence of a man who believes the script that he’s just here to bring some sense and fiscal restraint to a downtown that’s spun wildly, indulgently out of control, and this, this will be an exhausting way for us to spend the rest of our summer, so Shirtless Horde, please stop, your work is done.