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maxresdefaultspank-20145My father grew up in the school of “Spare The Rod And Spoil The Child.”

His father had not spared the rod. My father followed his example. In Native American Culture it is taught that beating a person for doing wrong only pounds the wrongness in. I’m with the Native Americans. Over nearly twenty years one man in Toronto has done everything in his power to bring myself and others harm. If you have followed my posts you know what I am talking about. If you have not, THE GLOBE AND MAIL did an excellent story on it. I will post the link at the end. I don’t want him punished. I do want him to have a change of heart for the better (which, by the way, is the meaning of the word “repent.”).

My Dad put me over his knee on a regular basis. He then pounded my backside religiously. I wanted to put an end to his beatings. I tried everything. Nothing worked. He did not beat me out of meanness of spirit. Nor did his beatings cause me to stop loving him. My Dad was the Black Sheep of an Irish Catholic family. If you’re Irish, you know what that means. I wanted to put an end to my father’s beatings without physically hitting him. I knew that one punch would turn me into everything I hated. I looked for another way.

I was thirteen. Then I found the power of laughter. I found it in Bram Stoker’s DRACULA which I read for the first time that year. I have since read it several times always with profit:


22 September.–It is all over. Arthur has gone back to Ring, and has taken Quincey Morris with him. What a fine fellow is Quincey! I believe in my heart of hearts that he suffered as much about Lucy’s death as any of us, but he bore himself through it like a moral Viking. If America can go on breeding men like that, she will be a power in the world indeed. Van Helsing is lying down, having a rest preparatory to his journey. He goes to Amsterdam tonight, but says he returns tomorrow night, that he only wants to make some arrangements which can only be made personally. He is to stop with me then, if he can. He says he has work to do in London which may take him some time. Poor old fellow! I fear that the strain of the past week has broken down even his iron strength. All the time of the burial he was, I could see, putting some terrible restraint on himself. When it was all over, we were standing beside Arthur, who, poor fellow, was speaking of his part in the operation where his blood had been transfused to his Lucy’s veins. I could see Van Helsing’s face grow white and purple by turns. Arthur was saying that he felt since then as if they two had been really married, and that she was his wife in the sight of God. None of us said a word of the other operations, and none of us ever shall. Arthur and Quincey went away together to the station, and Van Helsing and I came on here. The moment we were alone in the carriage he gave way to a regular fit of hysterics. He has denied to me since that it was hysterics, and insisted that it was only his sense of humor asserting itself under very terrible conditions. He laughed till he cried, and I had to draw down the blinds lest any one should see us and misjudge. And then he cried, till he laughed again, and laughed and cried together, just as a woman does. I tried to be stern with him, as one is to a woman under the circumstances, but it had no effect. Men and women are so different in manifestations of nervous strength or weakness! Then when his face grew grave and stern again I asked him why his mirth, and why at such a time. His reply was in a way characteristic of him, for it was logical and forceful and mysterious. He said,

“Ah, you don’t comprehend, friend John. Do not think that I am not sad, though I laugh. See, I have cried even when the laugh did choke me. But no more think that I am all sorry when I cry, for the laugh he come just the same. Keep it always with you that laughter who knock at your door and say, `May I come in?’ is not true laughter. No! He is a king, and he come when and how he like. He ask no person, he choose no time of suitability. He say, `I am here.’ Behold, in example I grieve my heart out for that so sweet young girl. I give my blood for her, though I am old and worn. I give my time, my skill, my sleep. I let my other sufferers want that she may have all. And yet I can laugh at her very grave, laugh when the clay from the spade of the sexton drop upon her coffin and say `Thud, thud!’ to my heart, till it send back the blood from my cheek. My heart bleed for that poor boy, that dear boy, so of the age of mine own boy had I been so blessed that he live, and with his hair and eyes the same.

“There, you know now why I love him so. And yet when he say things that touch my husband-heart to the quick, and make my father-heart yearn to him as to no other man, not even you, friend John, for we are more level in experiences than father and son, yet even at such a moment King Laugh he come to me and shout and bellow in my ear,`Here I am! Here I am!’ till the blood come dance back and bring some of the sunshine that he carry with him to my cheek. Oh, friend John, it is a strange world, a sad world, a world full of miseries, and woes, and troubles. And yet when King Laugh come, he make them all dance to the tune he play. Bleeding hearts, and dry bones of the churchyard, and tears that burn as they fall, all dance together to the music that he make with that smileless mouth of him. And believe me, friend John, that he is good to come, and kind. Ah, we men and women are like ropes drawn tight with strain that pull us different ways. Then tears come, and like the rain on the ropes, they brace us up, until perhaps the strain become too great, and we break. But King Laugh he come like the sunshine, and he ease off the strain again, and we bear to go on with our labor, what it may be.”

I did not like to wound him by pretending not to see his idea, but as I did not yet understand the cause of his laughter, I asked him. As he answered me his face grew stern, and he said in quite a different tone,

“Oh, it was the grim irony of it all,this so lovely lady garlanded with flowers, that looked so fair as life, till one by one we wondered if she were truly dead, she laid in that so fine marble house in that lonely churchyard, where rest so many of her kin, laid there with the mother who loved her, and whom she loved, and that sacred bell going “Toll! Toll! Toll!’ so sad and slow, and those holy men, with the white garments of the angel, pretending to read books, and yet all the time their eyes never on the page, and all of us with the bowed head. And all for what? She is dead, so! Is it not?”

“Well, for the life of me, Professor,” I said, “I can’t see anything to laugh at in all that. Why, your expression makes it a harder puzzle than before. But even if the burial service was comic, what about poor Art and his trouble? Why his heart was simply breaking.”

“Just so. Said he not that the transfusion of his blood to her veins had made her truly his bride?”

“Yes, and it was a sweet and comforting idea for him.”

“Quite so. But there was a difficulty, friend John. If so that, then what about the others? Ho, ho! Then this so sweet maid is a polyandrist, and me,with my poor wife dead to me, but alive by Church’s law, though no wits, all gone, even I, who am faithful husband to this now-no-wife, am bigamist.”

“I don’t see where the joke comes in there either!” I said, and I did not feel particularly pleased with him for saying such things. He laid his hand on my arm, and said,

“Friend John, forgive me if I pain. I showed not my feeling to others when it would wound, but only to you, my old friend, whom I can trust. If you could have looked into my heart then when I want to laugh, if you could have done so when the laugh arrived, if you could do so now, when King Laugh have pack up his crown, and all that is to him, for he go far, far away from me, and for a long, long time, maybe you would perhaps pity me the most of all.”

I was touched by the tenderness of his tone, and asked why.

“Because I know!”

And now we are all scattered, and for many a long day loneliness will sit over our roofs with brooding wings. Lucy lies in the tomb of her kin, a lordly death house in a lonely churchyard, away from teeming London, where the air is fresh, and the sun rises over Hampstead Hill, and where wild flowers grow of their own accord.

So I can finish this diary, and God only knows if I shall ever begin another. If I do, or if I even open this again, it will be to deal with different people and different themes, for here at the end, where the romance of my life is told, ere I go back to take up the thread of my life-work, I say sadly and without hope, “FINIS”.

After I read the above I got it into my thirteen year old head that if I started to laugh I would feel no pain. I put my theory to the test. I engineered the biggest beating my poor father ever gave me. When he put me on his knee I began to laugh. The harder my Dad beat the louder I laughed. He beat and beat and beat and beat until, exhausted, he could beat no more.

Throughout I had felt no pain. I did not have a mark on my body.

More importantly my father never touched me again. I had beaten him completely and thoroughly without using my fists.

In a world where most are eager to pick up the sword I am opening a new way.

I am saying to the world you do your worst I will do my best. Whatever you throw at me I can laugh it off.

In the small town in which I grew up there was an old woman some said was a witch.

Every day walking by her house on the way to and from school I trembled. I was eight years old. At eight we don’t know what to believe.

One day instead of walking by her house in fear I decided to knock on her door.

I opened the gate, walked down the path, climbed her front steps and knocked.

She opened her door. She invited me in. She showed me her daughter who had Down’s Syndrome (what people then called Mongolian Idiocy). She told me about her husband who had died in World War Two. After that day we became friends.

After that day some people began to say nasty things about me.

I did not care. I do not care today.

I will not be a coward. I would not be one at eight. I won’t be one today at seventy.

For a long time I did not believe in God mainly because those who say they do I found to be people I did not care to know.

Then, in 1970 on a bus trip out to Hollywood at the invitation of a friend I took only one book so that I would be forced to read it. On that trip I read it cover to cover five times through. By the time I reached Los Angeles I knew it by heart.

That one book was a uniquely powerful translation of THE NEW TESTAMENT. I did not know that then. I found that out years later when I tore it up in front of a Bible idolator when I said to him, “We must not worship this book!” When I got a new copy I saw how far below the mark conventional translations fall.

I did not read it to find faith or God. I read it to find out for myself what it actually says.

When I found out what it actually says I found myself falling in love with it.

My first night in Hollywood a fellow who thought himself God gave me a sandwich. After I had eaten it he told me he had put an elephant knock-out pill in it. He said, “In a few moments you won’t be able to move.”

I decided that if I was not going to be able to move I was going someplace where I would not mind not moving. I put my trust in these words from the end of THE GOSPEL OF MARK, “If they give you anything deadly to eat or drink it will not harm you if you trust in my name.”

I got up and walked until I could walk no more. Then I sat down on a park bench in a park while what I had been given passed through me. It was a most interesting night. I am glad for it. That night I discovered for the first time the power in the name of Jesus of Nazareth.

We forget amidst the pageantry of the Christmas Season that from the very start the hope that was brought in the birth of Jesus was and is directed not at those who assume that God loves them but at those who are despised by those who assume that God loves them.

Read this from Luke 2 King James Version (KJV)

And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be taxed.

(And this taxing was first made when Cyrenius was governor of Syria.)

And all went to be taxed, every one into his own city.

And Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judaea, unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem; (because he was of the house and lineage of David:)

To be taxed with Mary his espoused wife, being great with child.

And so it was, that, while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered.

And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.

And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.

And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.

10 And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.

11 For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.

12 And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.

13 And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying,

14 Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.

15 And it came to pass, as the angels were gone away from them into heaven, the shepherds said one to another, Let us now go even unto Bethlehem, and see this thing which is come to pass, which the Lord hath made known unto us.

16 And they came with haste, and found Mary, and Joseph, and the babe lying in a manger.

17 And when they had seen it, they made known abroad the saying which was told them concerning this child.

18 And all they that heard it wondered at those things which were told them by the shepherds.

19 But Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart.

20 And the shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all the things that they had heard and seen, as it was told unto them.

G. B. Caird in his superb Pelican New Testament Commentary to Luke points out, “His first worshipers,  the shepherds, despised by the orthodox because their occupation made them neglectful of religious observance, are the forerunners of the multitude of humble folk who were to throng to him in his public ministry.”

Yes, they were. Yes, they are.

More importantly not once did Jesus say to such, “Repent or you will burn in Hell.”

Those words were reserved for the Orthodox then. They are reserved for the Orthodox now.

Quite a few get their tit in a wringer because Christmas is not the real day Jesus was born. They tell us Christmas is a Pagan Holiday the false church continues to celebrate in the name of Jesus.

It is true that December 25th marked the birth not of Jesus but of Mithra. So what? Many a Christian building was built over the ruins of pagan temples. Did not Jesus say, “I will be raised up. All things will be made one in me.” ?

December 25 is as good as any other day to celebrate the birth of one who changed the world for the better.

It is good to mark the end of the year when darkness is at its most profound with the birth of the one who was  to bring light into the world.

The hardest part of his message is also the part most often ignored. He said, “Love your enemies.”

That finally is the only way we can heal this troubled world.

Our demands for justice only create more injustice.

Those who think they are doing the will of God by persuading children to wear explosive vests so they can bring harm to the enemy are not doing God’s will.

As Berthold Brecht said, “They who see the enemy ARE the enemy.”

I learned that we don’t forgive others for their sake. We forgive them for our sake. Our forgiveness robs them of the power to wound us.

“CHRISTIANS ARE PERSECUTED AROUND THE WORLD” reads the banner to this piece: .

We have a remarkable document called THE SHROUD OF TURIN. An authorized replica of it hangs in my home.

I bought it from Barrie Schwortz at THE SHROUD OF TURIN site. The person spreading rumors about me is also posting flyers stating the Shroud is a fake. On his flyer he quotes from Barrie’s site to prove his lie. Writes Barrie (who was raised as an Orthodox Polish Jew), “STERA, Inc. is registered non-profit organization here in the U.S.  We are not designated as a religious organization but rather as an educational public charity. Our by-laws do not permit us to affiliate with any specific religious or political group. We are non-sectarian when it comes to religion and I have spoken to nearly every major Christian denomination that exists. I have also spoken to Messianic Jews and Ahmadiyya Muslims and even to atheist groups. That being said, I have also publicly stated that I personally have come to believe that the Shroud is the burial cloth of the historic Jesus.


“That conclusion is based on my 38 years of direct involvement in scientific Shroud research, including our in-depth direct scientific examination of the cloth in 1978, and with access to all of the science, published and unpublished. Remember that STURP’s sole purpose was to determine how the image on the Shroud was formed. We were NOT trying to prove that is Jesus on the Shroud nor were we trying to prove the Resurrection. We were a scientific research team formed to study the image and not a theological group. Our team consisted of Christians, Jews, agnostics and atheists.


“The quote is not accurate and does not describe our organization correctly.”

Rumors are easy to spread. Undoing the damage done by lies is not so easy. Worse than the liar and the rumor monger are those who by their silence empower the liar and the rumor monger.

That, however, is not my point at this moment.

Those of us who have studied the witness of the Shroud know in more fullness than others the persecution endured by the man whose image the Shroud bears. Nothing we can suffer comes close to what he suffered.

It is an honor and a privilege to be persecuted. Our call in Christ is not to escape suffering. It is to pick up our cross. It is to march up Calvary’s hill.

It is, finally, to laugh at the worst the world can do. This I have been doing since I was thirteen.

From Edward Keenan in The Toronto Star:

“Earlier this month, the now 70-year-old Hartt announced that the Cineforum is dead. The reason? Toronto’s government issued him a notice that they consider him in violation of zoning regulations, as they say he’s running a “public art gallery” in his home. Hartt insists he is not running a public art gallery, and has never run one. Instead, “The Cineforum, indeed the whole house, is itself a work of art, a living, breathing work of art,” Hartt says.

“That it is. One afternoon this week, Hartt met me on the front steps of his rented Victorian house on Bathurst St. south of College, filming my approach on a handheld 3D camera. Inside his living room/dining room, decorated with monster masks and movie posters and filled with rolling office chairs, he hands me a pair of glasses and shows me on the big screen what I look like in three dimensions, while giving me a bit of history on the development of the technology and some discussion of the meaning of the name of God in the Old Testament.

“Then he screens a 2004 Jane Jacobs documentary, stopping it frequently to talk about his study of her ideas — observations that frequently digress into disquisitions on civic governance, the I Ching, Christianity, Judaism, film and animation history, Ancient Greece, pedagogy, his own biography, the past and future of newspapers, and many other topics. He’s self-taught, as Jacobs was, and he’s skeptical about the value of classroom education.

“Onscreen, Jacobs is heaping scorn on the classroom-educated urban planners she encountered when she started writing. They wanted a city that is “neat, clean, orderly; quick to understand,” she says. But cities and urban economies don’t work that way, and can’t. They are complex ecosystems, she says, webs of messy, disorderly interactions.

“’It’s such a simple and obvious conclusion, it’s amazing anybody would object to it,’ Hartt says.

 “This point is not unrelated to Hartt’s current troubles. His Cineforum is a tribute to the virtues of the unplanned, the uncorporate, the uncertified, the unregulated. What a treasure to live in a place where a character like Hartt can make a place for his passions and his art and where anyone can go and share them.

“Cities, Jacobs says onscreen, need to fight everything that keeps people from “developing their own work.” A city economy, like the weather, “is making itself up as it goes along.”

“Yet city regulators cannot figure out how to leave Hartt alone to develop his work. Standards officers asked him to apply for a zoning review to categorize his place as a public art gallery, a process that requires all kinds of fees and architectural drawings to complete. “I would ask that you check-in with the Planning Dept. and/or an individual familiar with municipal law prior to using the property in any manner other than a residential dwelling,” property standards officer Elliot deBarros wrote in notifying him that he and his landlord were being cited for a bylaw violation.

They came after him before, in 2010, until then-mayor Rob Ford intervened. Now, they have once again decided he’s a problem.

“It’s not just this, of course. In this city, signs posted in the park tell you a permit is required to play Frisbee. In this city, immigrant kids trying to throw a skating party near Jane and Finch have to cancel because they don’t have two million bucks in insurance.

“Maybe it’s a miracle Hartt’s been able to continue this long.

“Fighting to save his work, he says, is fighting to “seize the moment to turn Toronto into a Jane Jacobs city.”

“Hart says Cineforum is dead. But he’ll continue giving presentations this summer at the house — posters he put up toward the end of the week just gave the address at 463 Bathurst, without mentioning a name. And he says he’ll continue to fight to save his work of art, his home. He tells me he invites people to come see the Shroud of Turin replica he has in his hall, elaborating on what it shows as a 3D rendering of the post-crucifixion body of Jesus.

“What he is doing here, Hartt says, inviting people into his home, is testifying to his beliefs, practicing his faith. In response to that line of argument, deBarros, from property standards, wrote that use of his home as a place of worship “in whole or in part” is “a violation of the city’s Zoning By-Law.”

“’Are you saying that under the city bylaws I am not allowed to practice my faith in my home?’ Hartt wrote back.”

God does not chose those of whom this world approves to be his messengers. Nor does God choose those who can well afford to pay this world’s fees.

God has always chosen those the powerful of this world despise. God has no love for the rich who pay unbelievers to turn on their stoves and house lights on the Sabbath so they can say, “It was not I but an unbeliever who did this.” The unbeliever was the hand. The so-called “believer” is the spirit that directs the hand. Nor does God love those who once having given their word employ another to break it.

41God does love those who are broken by those who make a mockery of his love by seeking legalistic ways to limit the infinite.

Luke 10:25-37New International Version (NIV)

The Parable of the Good Samaritan

25 On one occasion an expert in the law stood up to test Jesus. “Teacher,” he asked, “what must I do to inherit eternal life?”

26 “What is written in the Law?” he replied. “How do you read it?”

27 He answered, “‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind’[a]; and, ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’[b]

28 “You have answered correctly,” Jesus replied. “Do this and you will live.”

29 But he wanted to justify himself, so he asked Jesus, “And who is my neighbor?”

30 In reply Jesus said: “A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, when he was attacked by robbers. They stripped him of his clothes, beat him and went away, leaving him half dead. 31 A priest happened to be going down the same road, and when he saw the man, he passed by on the other side. 32 So too, a Levite, when he came to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side. 33 But a Samaritan, as he traveled, came where the man was; and when he saw him, he took pity on him. 34 He went to him and bandaged his wounds, pouring on oil and wine. Then he put the man on his own donkey, brought him to an inn and took care of him. 35 The next day he took out two denarii[c] and gave them to the innkeeper. ‘Look after him,’ he said, ‘and when I return, I will reimburse you for any extra expense you may have.’

36 “Which of these three do you think was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of robbers?”

37 The expert in the law replied, “The one who had mercy on him.”

Jesus told him, “Go and do likewise.”

The lawyer like all lawyers wants a precise definition. He asks, “Who is my neighbor?”

It is forgotten and/or not known that to the priest and the Levite the Samaritan was a man whom the hand of God reaching into the mire could not raise to the depths of degradation.

So I have found in life. Help comes when it comes not from those who see themselves saved. It comes and always comes from those who the ones who see themselves saved despise.

The word “church” means “community.” “Where do you want your church built?” Jesus was asked. He replied in the words that David heard, that Solomon heard, “The heavens are the throne. The earth is the footstool. How can you build a house bug enough for God?” Adds Jesus,  “Where two or more of you are gathered in my name there is the church.”

At Judgement THE LORD will not say, “You believed in The Trinity. Go to Hell.” He will say, “You saw me homeless, naked, in prison, sick, a stranger and you passed me by. Go to Hell.”

My crime in Toronto? I welcome strangers into my home.

“According to Elizabeth Glibbery, the Toronto and East York Manager of the Municipal Licensing & Standards Division, it operates as a place of public assembly, for which the building is not zoned.”[Reg Hartt is] inviting in people who may not be known to him,” Glibbery told us, when asked how a group of people gathered at the Cineforum differs from a group of friends gathered to watch a DVD at any other apartment in the Toronto.”

Sodom and Gomorrah were destroyed because they did not welcome strangers.

The crime is not that I am welcoming strangers into my home but that, it seems, no one else in this city is.

The crime is that in Toronto it is illegal to welcome the stranger into our homes.

In ancient times people said, “Always welcome the stranger. He could be one of the Gods in disguise.”

It used to be said, “Always welcome the stranger. He could be Christ in disguise.”

We live in a time of immense poverty. The darkness is at its darkest yet. It is getting darker.

Read DARK AGE AHEAD the last book by my friend Jane Jacobs.

Everything I am saying here she states fuller there.

Most are afraid of the darkness. I long ago learned to laugh at it.

The City Of Toronto tells me I can not invite strangers into my home.

Don’t be a stranger. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.

As for my poor father…well, if he had not beaten me I would not have learned the power of laughter.

When they come to beat you start to laugh. When they beat you harder because you refuse to cry laugh louder. Tell them, “Don’t spare the rod.”

THE SHROUD OF TURIN bears silent witness that the worst this world can do is not to be feared.

To a world which when it starts it New Year in a few days learns to do good to those that do it evil, to love those by whom it is wronged, to forgive that we, ourselves, may be forgiven. That, not getting trinkets, is a Christmas gift worth the giving.

Mrs. John Mills. my home room teacher in my last year at Chipman Regional High School in New Brunswick, was a person who tolerated no looseness in the classroom. Her subject was English. As part of our course each student was called to speak extemporaneously (off the cuff) to the class. When my turn came I saw a word coming which, if used, carried the penalty of a visit to the principal’s office where the strap would be firmly applied.

I looked in vain for another word. Finally I accepted the penalty. To my surprise nothing happened. The next say another student who hated me used the word I had used. He was a rich man’s son. He had the attitude many of the sons of the rich too often have (but, thankfully, not all). She sent him straight to the office where he got the strap.

I was furious. I went to her after class. I said, “I used that word yesterday. Nothing happened. He uses it today. He gets the strap. What is going on here? Are you trying to make me look like teacher’s pet?”

She replied, “I watched you choosing. I watched you accepting the responsibility of your choice. You were right. It was the right word. He was just walking through the door you opened.”

In that moment I understood the difference between liberty and license.

This year the world marked the 100th birthday of Jane Jacobs. People celebrated it largely in ways that meant nothing to her.

“Our mother loved you,” her son Jim has repeatedly told me when we meet.

Laura Lind in EYE Weekly wrote, “Reg Hartt’s Cineforum is everything Jane Jacobs wrote about.”

If I did not stand up alone if needs be against the City of Toronto I would be turning my back on everything Jane Jacobs stood for.

Am I upset the city has done and is doing its worst to me?

Of course not. That more than anything else makes my Cineforum EVERYTHING Jane Jacobs wrote about.

You should, everyone around the world who professes to love her ideas should be standing with me.

If you are not then I know what her words would be to you. They would be simple and direct. In fact, only two words are needed. She would say, “For shame.” Not loudly. Softly.

Since, however, I know that beating only pounds the badness in let those of you who choose silence know that silence is complicity.

For you are among those she stood up against all her life.

Those who know know that it is not a matter of choice for there is but one choice. That choice is not nor ever was silence.

–Reg Hartt 12/24/2016.hqdefault

P.S. If any of you reading this are foolish enough get in touch to help my buy this house and thus get my landlord (who has been a terrific support) out from under the heel of the City Of Toronto.




One of the many thousands of posters being put up around Toronto in an attempt to discredit Reg Hartt. Is the city behind this? They are doing nothing to stop it. Compare what the flyer states with the comment from Barrie Schwortz of STERA.

One of the many thousands of posters being put up around Toronto in an attempt to discredit Reg Hartt. Is the city behind this? They are doing nothing to stop it. Compare what the flyer states with the comment from Barrie Schwortz of STERA.




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