Oh … my … freakin’ … God.

It’s here. Street View is here.

The loss of productivity in Toronto this morning must’ve been staggering; into the billions I bet. Once you start flying around the city, it’s kinda hard to stop. I know I was on a tour of my neighbourhood for hours.

Addictive, packed to the rafters with photos, and backed by Google; TCL’s so screwed. How the hell am I supposed to compete with that?!

As a minor consolation, it took the Google car a really long time to capture the whole city, so maybe I can produce something more up-to-date. Well, eventually.

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You tried the Street View thing, didn’t you?

See? It’s hard to resist. But until Google figures out how to incorporate street festivals or higher resolution dead musicians, at least there’s some hope.

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I’m also glad that the Google car seems to have avoided alleys and sidewalks. It saved the lives of thousands of pedestrians, but more importantly, it left a small window of opportunity for something unique.

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*sigh*

Why do they always have to pick on the little guy? Just when I thought I was getting the hang of this blogging thing, along come Larry and Sergey and kick me in the painful bits.

What did I ever do to them?!

I was having a chat with a colleague this afternoon about living in the city. He shook his head in rejection of it. He liked the burbs, he said. Didn’t like the hustle and bustle of the grit. I can honestly say that the entire time I’ve lived here I’ve not once been hustled, and bustled only on a handful of occasions.

I think what he was referring to were the sometimes congested sidewalks, and usually congested roads downtown. The driving part can’t be helped much. Owning a car in the city is frivolous, if you ask me. Walking for half an hour to just about anything you need isn’t gonna kill either you or your kids — just look both ways. And the congested sidewalks are entirely avoidable — just walk over to the next parallel street. Or, if you don’t mind getting a bit more risqué, the next parallel alley.

Hang on to your hat, you’re never gonna believe what this place is called…

Graffiti Alley

Yeah, I know. I’m gonna go with Graffalley to try to salvage something from it. Maybe it should be District Graff, since it’s really crawling up each of the adjacent alleys too. And it’s on everything:

Okay, that’s kind of a crummy example. But you just have to turn around and travel backwards in time to see a slightly livelier one:

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Nuit Blanche was one of those rare nights when the “Bohemian” artist set get to … no, are encouraged to get their lazy asses out of bed extra late. Getting there at half past six in the evening is actually arriving early, ten at night is when things are just starting to get going, and two in the morning is about right to avoid the big crowds and still get a good walk in. I chose the third option and managed, with the assistance of my favourite energy drink, to stay up until closing time. I couldn’t think of any other night to do this than Saturday.

The event was both hoote and anny. It’s hard to know where to begin; so many strange things on the street that night.

First, there were the kids on acid who stumbled onto mindblowing, totally fucked up shit … oh man, this is too much man! it’s too much!

I made that part up. The imaginatively named “Rabbit Balloon” at the Eaton Centre only had a few tired-looking security guards around it.  The kids on acid (and E, and K, and all the other letters too), were freaking out on the edge of Grange Park behind a truck blasting out what sounded suspiciously like happy hardcore. I wasn’t partial to it back in my youth, I’m not partial to it today, whatever it’s being called now. Just a bit too spazzed out for me. I like my music a bit mellower these days.

Hmmm. Except not this mellow. This was called “Dirge for Dead Slang” and I guess it was supposed to be some sort of lamentation for outmoded language. It had this monotonous soundtrack playing over loudspeakers that was a tad too loud, so no one could really hear what the ghosts were listing off. Intended?

Just down the street at City Hall, was this:

This had the unfulfilled title “Beautiful Light: 4 LETTER WORD MACHINE”. I stood around for a few patterns; not letters. As I was leaving, some words … French? I thought this was supposed to be the “4-letter word” machine. I can think of a few to try maintenant, and they’re in English. For an English audience. I was imagining they would at least flash “bull” and “shit” in alternating sequences; isn’t that why it’s in front of City Hall?

My next stop was at this performance, the “Dead Philosophers’ Limbo”:

Radios were alternately brought out into the crowd (I kinda wasn’t paying attention to what was being read on them), and then brought into the center and piled onto one of the girls in the middle. Then, in slow-mo, the dancers came back and removed them. The middle girl jerked around a while, now surrounded by the other dancers, each holding a pose. They alternated between each other, taking turns to move in interesting ways.

I didn’t get it…

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Let me take you way back to last Friday. For me it’s way back.

Anyway, former politician John Tory was on CFRB voicing his views on the announcement by Mayor Miller that he wouldn’t be running for office again next year. John and co-host Tarek took a call from a “Sandra from Toronto” who vigorously defended the mayor and his handling of the garbage strike.

“What the mayor did during negotiations is, for the first time, tackled that with two of the unions and said it couldn’t go on.” – Do I sense a spark?

“And I bet, John, if you run for office, you wouldn’t be able to do what he accomplished.” – Oh my! Is it getting warm in here?

“…putting out the most ridiculous comments about a man who’s probably the most brilliant politician, municipally, anywhere in the country who leads all the other mayors across Canada and was chosen by those mayors to speak on their behalf.” – Woaw, Sandra! Put it back in your pants!

Okay, maybe I’m misreading it, but that’s a whole lotta man-stand-behindin’ for an anonymous “Sandra”. And she didn’t sound like a typical CFRB caller. She was conspicuously comfortable with publicly gobbing off. At least I remember it that way; I was half awake when I heard the replay the following week. The one part that stuck with me, though, was this:

“And good luck to you, John, because you’re a three-time loser and I don’t see you being successful in the future.”

Come on, “Sandra”, why don’t you tell us how you really feel?

Okay, but that’s just the beginning. You see, “Sandra” apparently has a pretty recognizable voice. Tarek asked her, “”Sandra, do you work for the city?”, to which she replied:

“I don’t work for the city, but I’m telling you the truth.”

*ding*

Tarek was having none of it. He was pretty sure that that had been Sandra Bussin, city councillor for the fru-fru Beaches neighbourhood.

So CFRB did a little interview campaign the following day asking various councillors if the voice on the tape sounded familiar. Most responded by saying that it sounded an awful lot like Sandra Bussin. They’d know because she’s also the Speaker for city council.

It’s the Speaker’s job to establish decorum – basically to set and mediate the tone of meetings. A Speaker should also be (or at least appear to be), impartial so that all sides get to have an equal say during debates. So if this had, in fact, been the Speaker that had called in and been both belligerent and clearly in love with Mayor Miller (i.e. not impartial), that would be pretty serious.

It’s essentially breaking the first two rules of being a city council Speaker. Kind of like a cop murdering an innocent civilian and then committing an armed robbery while on the job. Well, maybe not that serious, but still it demonstrates that there’s an incapability there to carry out the primary duties of the job.

On Wednesday of this week, we discovered that – lo and behold – it was Sandra Bussin that had called in to the show. She fessed up and sent a letter of apology to CFRB in which she did the proper politicianly thing and fudged the facts:

“In hindsight, I realize that some of my comments were intemperate and that I should have clarified my identity.”

“Intemperate”, is that what you call just a wee bit of bitch these days? And I’m going to go ahead and suggest that not having an identity and denying an identity are two different things.

But, I suppose if I were doing something forbidden, I might want to hide my identity too.

“It was a very emotional day for me as result of Mayor Miller’s announcement. I called your program on the spur of the moment upset over remarks that were being made about the Mayor.”

Take a page from David Letterman, honesty will set you free, Sandra!

I found myself out west today. I don’t want to be too obvious about it … just in case a certain someone reads this blog … so maybe I should just say I was reviewing my qualifications with two gentlemen for the purposes of negotiating a regular exchange of services for money. AND IT’S NOT SEXUAL!!

I had to travel to the outskirts of Toronto and just a little bit beyond. International airliners were landing next door.

The trip was a bit too long for my liking but at least it gave me the opportunity to loiter in some of the subway stations on the west Bloor-Danforth line. Most of them are the same drab tile tinted a few mild shades … don’t wanna excite the passengers! Not all stations are like that, mind you. Old Mill is a bit more interesting (big!):

The problem with these open platforms is the winter. When it’s cold, it’s cold. Sometimes the tracks freeze, during storms the snow piles up on the edges and the platform ices up, and the shape of the structure seems to actually accelerate the wind as it passes through. And the ticket collector smiling all smug and warm from inside his little booth with his electric heater doesn’t help matters. Then the storm takes the power out. HA HA. Oh. Except now the trains aren’t running.

But at least the view’s nice. Some stations, like Spadina, are entirely enclosed but still connected to the outside; in this case, it’s because it’s a  loop for streetcars:

I imagine that at one time it was probably a pretty grand station. I remember it having two long motorized walkways that connected the north-south and east-west lines. It was so worth it to go one more station past St. George to Spadina to switch lines, even if at St. George the subways are just a flight of stairs away. Unfortunately, the Spadina people-movers are gone and the station’s in pretty rough shape besides. Why would I visit now? To walk down that big hallway? At least have a courtesy vehicle of some sort. Serving mildly alcoholic beverages and perhaps pretzels.

What makes Spadina especially bad is the fact that just a couple of stops down, the Museum stop is decked out to the nines:

They have nubile young women here that bathe and anoint your weary feet as you sit in wait for the next train. Libations flow from faucets in the columns. And if a train doesn’t come regularly every two minutes, they publicly execute the conductor responsible.

It’s a shame they couldn’t use some of that slave labour to fix up Spadina. I mean, if they want to try a passenger carrying service for that hallway, I’d be willing to hop on someone’s back, but I’d rather have the motorized walkway. It was always so much fun to stand there and watch people walking beside the walkway like suckers. You knew you were special then. Now, you’re lucky if they spit on you before they drive that screwdriver into your eyeball. I just wanted a transfer!

The subway could use a whole lotta facelift, is all I’m saying. I know I’ve said it before, but now I have to try to imagine spending three hours out of every day in there, and it’s not terribly appealing. So if there’s no alternative, the two gentlemen may have to discuss someone else’s qualifications.

Okay, whoever’s responsible for the weather needs to just stop and look at what they’re doing, because this isn’t right. To begin with, you’ve got the evening rolling in earlier and earlier.

Actually, that part’s normal. But the cold … where did that come from? Suddenly everyone’s got a coat on and the inappropriately tiny-clothed are dashing for their lives down the street, frantically clutching at their frigid bodies, screaming as they scramble for the nearest entrance. And now they’re stuck in a coffee shop for the night.

Despite my multifaceted enjoyment of underdressed ladies, however, I must profess that they probably had a good reason for being so today. I had on an undershirt, button-down shirt, and fall jacket, and still my armpit hair stood on end from the cold. I simply don’t think anyone expected the wind and the temperature drop. I’m sure that come spring, this kind of weather will be a pleasant preview of the summer to come, but right now it has a pretty mean looking winter breathing down its neck.

I don’t consider myself slight. Slender, I am not. But I didn’t think that the scarves, parkas, mitts, and toques I experienced tonight were too much.

There it is, harsh reality disguised as a smiling silhouette: we’ve totally skipped autumn and gone right to winter! The weather people claim it’s normal and that past years have been freakishly warm. I would beg to differ. But I can’t because my fingers are starting to go numb. The landlord hasn’t turned on the heat yet so I’m warming myself by the glow of the computer. Too bad light doesn’t keep you warm. Damn eco-friendly bastard!

Someone recently noted that TCL seemed to be written by a “young man just a bit on the frustrated side” and that I needed to find “something that excites you, something you can be passionate about and, write about it.”

Frustrated? FRUSTRATED?! OF COURSE I’M FRUSTRATED!!

You’d be frustrated too if you had a day job like mine. But what keeps me going is the thought that maybe, one day, Toronto City Life could be more than just a little blog. *sniff*

Why?

What’s not to love? The walking dissolves the fiery disappointment of the day into a manageable lump of smouldering coal for the evening. So that’s good. And I like what the pictures do. They let me look at the places I’ve been in their moment, seeing everything I couldn’t possibly see at the instant I was there.

So that’s good. And you know, there are so many people downtown that inevitably you always bump into someone interesting. Sometimes they’re people you’ve seen before and feel you’ve kinda glimpsed a bit of who they are. Take this lady, for example:

Note, she’s not panhandling. In fact, I don’t remember ever seeing her panhandle. She’s always been stone-cold sober and more alert than me most of the times I’ve seen her. She’s strong, lugging around all sorts of stuff all day. Lucid and entirely there. And although I’m sure she lives on the streets, she takes care of herself. Now she’s got a story! Always something interesting. So that’s good.

And you know, when you need a breather, it’s nice to get closer to the lake and just enjoy the breeze and the views.

Ahhh, the blissful Gardiner. The only problem with all of this is that it sometimes leads to late nights. Late nights with full bladders require entrance to some strange places. But so far even these have proven to be gold:

Note the garbage bags on the dock belonged to a gentleman who, I believe, would be residing there that evening. He also appeared quite sober and built himself a cardboard shelter behind the cage. Unfortunately, he didn’t understand the requirements of long exposures, and so he’s not pictured. But again, interesting. So that’s good.

As one final piece of evidence, I give you … Chinatown:

I dunno. It sounded poignant, but I’m not sure where I was going with it. Maybe that I’m no artist, so pictures like this simply couldn’t exist in any other medium. Except maybe as stick figures. I can draw that guy with the fingers and teeth biting the horizontal line pretty well. I even add a little hair twirl for effect, sometimes eyebrows! However, I can’t get much more complex than that; the oranges would lead to tears and broken pencils.

But photos just need me to stand there and annoy Chinese people with my camera. I mean, I could try to draw something but my intention is to express enthusiasm, nor horror.

So you see, TCL is both an attempt to share some of my interest in this town, and a fairly thorough lack of skill to present it. And it’s written by a bitter, disappointed guy. I’m not an alcoholic yet, but I’m willing to try. The spiral’s just begun!

So that’s a good thing.

Ah, fall. A time when a young man’s fancy turns to thoughts of … wait, I’ve done that already. I guess I’m still in shock at how quickly the temperature’s fallen. I’m walking around with pointy nipples for God’s sake!

It’s also been an unusually traumatic week, what with Bill Carroll switching time slots and all. You can smell change in the air. And musty autumn leaves. And urine. Why’s it always urine?

But no matter. The proper urban rat knows all the warmest holes in the ground. In Toronto it happens to be a long-ish path known as, umm, PATH. I’m not sure if it’s supposed to be an acronym or what; not that it would jazz it up any.

Today, instead of writing a long post describing what’s there and blah blah blah, I thought I’d just invite you along for the walk. I am so thoughtful!

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Do you have to use one of these things regularly?

Oh man, I don’t envy you. Now that I’ve had ample opportunity to compare the wheel to the foot, walking is just slightly slower than the car. If you include the driving around the block a few times to find a spot, then shimmying into an unparallel park, and finally gasping in disgust as the ticket machine spits out 2:30 (that’s two minutes and thirty seconds) for your two bucks, walking is actually considerably faster. And the machine makes way more than me per hour.

If you drive stick on an uncooperative clutch like I used to, you start to deform disproportionally as your right arm and left leg gain muscle, while your opposing limbs just get pastier and pudgier — except for the sunburnt left forearm. If the window’s down, that arm’s going on there.

Besides that, the amount of signage on every pole is simply irresponsible. Are we actually supposed to pay attention to all of that while driving?

If you’re not familiar with the snow route sign, you may simply think it means no parking there because the lane will be made into a ski trail. Or something equally enjoyable that employs snow. And right next to it is a sign telling you when it’s okay to park there. And that’s a busy sign. First it lists the two times that you can park there from Monday to Friday. Then the times during Saturday and Sunday. Finally, on the bottom are the arrows that indicate the directions in which this rule applies. And the times and directions thing is also happening on the no stopping sign. Then there’s the small idling limit sign which, once again may be unfamiliar  since it’s a municipal bylaw.

Squinty eyes, at the wheel with bikers squeezing by on the right, pedestrians running out in front, and the streetcar just getting by on the left. And the car behind you honking. That’s always my favourite :) And there are signs you have to pay attention to there? Yup. And they usually come in clusters like this on every pole and the little arrows and, depending on the block, the times change.

Sometimes it’s just not fair:

Did you see the hidden sign? Beneath the no parking one. That’s probably the one with the five-thousand dollar fine. And what about the arrows on that no stopping one? Does that mean that you must drive through the intersection on any light during rush-hour? Just to disambiguate, there’s a no standing one too.

That’s why I always look in all directions, twice, before crossing the street. If you get some driver trying to obey all the signage, they’re liable to kill someone. And what the hell are vendors doing hocking their stuff out in the middle of the street?

It might seem like nitpicking, but since they went to the bother of producing I don’t know how many such arrow-laden signs and sticking them to everything, you’d think they’d try to imply less idiocy on the part of the populace. Doesn’t matter which way you turn that thing, it always tells you that you shouldn’t try to sell hot dogs from the middle of the street. City Hall probably doesn’t want to clean up the mess from the collision with the law-abiding car.

Do we need all that signage? I believe it’s perfectly reasonable for a reflective, observant individual to bend the laws a little. I’m sure we’ve all crossed on a red when there was no traffic. Or mowed down a few pedestrian during a pub crawl. Hey, it’s Friday!

It’s not that I intend to become some Johnny Scofflaw, I just think that someone should re-think all of the stuff affixed to utility poles. Common street laws apply almost everywhere; you don’t need to tell people not to park in the middle of an intersection. That kinda stuff.

Simplify.

Attention: Councillor Kyle Rae,

Sir,

With all due respect, you’re a jerk. I’ve enclosed a reduced photo of you to demonstrate this fact. To you.

I wake up to Bill Carroll on CFRB every morning. I could wake up to The Edge or CHIN but I don’t. Do you know why? Because I don’t necessarily enjoy the music. Or understand the words.  But not because I think that the audience are skanks! Or whatever it is that you were implying:

“And the cruel vengeance of fate is he has to talk to the listeners of CFRB.”

I understand that you and Mr. Tory, to whom you were referring, may have had some political encounters in the past. However, your trysts had nothing to do with me or CFRB’s audience. Spiteful public jealousy does not behoove a politician, sir. And if you have a problem with John talking to us, take it up with him!

Disregards,
Patrick

Dear Bill Carroll,

Sir,

With all due respect, oh no! I can’t believe they’re moving you to 9 a.m. I mean, great that you get to wake up later and have a longer time slot, but I’m not sure about this John Moore fellow that’s replacing you. (I’ve enclosed a photo of him looking rather menacing — he says he doesn’t like cats!)

I hope he can muster the same incensed outbursts at, well, anything like you can. I doubt he’ll be able to evoke the same enraged, torch-bearing, city-razing rabble that your rants do during my struggle with consciousness.

Will he be able to adopt the same seething indignation at even the most inane topics like you, Mr. Carroll?  And I hope you take this as the compliment it is, but your hair-trigger City Hall temper is awe-inspiring. Sir, you are a champion. I would name my cat after you but Oliver Carroll sounds too Dickensian.

Perhaps one day, when this nutty day job of mine is behind me, I can set set my alarm to nine o’clock and wake up refreshed and angry like I used to. Until then, I’ll wearily hold your memory in a petulant little piece of my heart.

Blubberingly,
Patrick

Dear Tess Kalinowski,

Madam,

With all due respect, what the hell?! I was ready with that Toronto subway post a couple of days ago; where were you?! I thought we were supposed to put them both up at the same time. You know, cross-promotion; I link to your story and you link to mine. That was the plan.

But no, I guess your story on the new Sheppard West subway station design was more important.

It could have been so poignant, your spanky new airport terminal of a station against my musty old Bloor-Danforth ones. Mix in a couple of the Transit Commission’s screw-ups like the new transit maps with all the errors, and the under-priced monthly pass that’s losing them money, and we could’ve caused a tidal wave in the media! Think of the brouhaha that this would’ve started. We could’ve singlehandedly taken down the entire Commission!

Now we’ve lost our window of opportunity. It’s best if you disavow any knowledge of me. Pity you chose the route you took; you’ll always be just a transportation reporter.

Regretfully,
Patrick