I didn’t feel like getting an autograph from the Weasley brothers. I hadn’t really read their books. :( I’d heard of Henry Porter, though; not like I’m totally ignorant. I’d be ashamed to show my face down at the Science Centre again if I hadn’t done a little research.

But as I mentioned, I didn’t get around to reading the novels, so the movie(s?) is a bit of a hazy area for me. Fitting on a day like yesterday.

I suppose it would’ve been good to get acquainted with the Henry Porter series before setting out, but I managed just fine. There was plenty of time to stand around and gape (hence learn), while groups were taken through. The exhibit is timed so that people get ample gawk time when actually in it. In the circular waiting room clips from the movie(s?) are played in faux antique frames on the wall, possibly to suggest moving paintings. Not sure why. Then a big curtain at one side of the room opens with a billow of smoke and you’re ushered into the museum.

We were escorted through by Eddie Newquist and Robin Stapley, two gents from GES responsible for bringing the thing to Toronto. They were both gushing with enthusiasm over each and every item. Guess it took a lot for them to swipe the lot. Apparently even the walls are moulded duplicas of those used in the Dogwert’s castle. In the movie(s), I mean. That name’ll probably mean more to fans.

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…continued from previous part.

Industrial design has been a monkey on my back ever since I picked up the habit about eight years ago. My misbegotten aim was simply to learn about design – to get better at my Flash stuff. But, as was foreseeable, I got sidetracked. Into the industrial aspect; you know, design for mass production.

The movement started some time in in the early 1900s when factory production for most domestic items became widely available. They’d started to do weird stuff with wood and plastics were making a splash. But design still had much of an influence, despite the shared credo of “form follows function”. In fact, industrial designers concerned themselves more with the practicality of appearance than function most of the time; function was left to the engineers.

This extended to architecture too.

There are, of course, nasty leftovers from industrialization. Environment / people / health problems aside, many manufacturers took the opportunity to cut out the designer and head directly for cheaper products which has caused the epidemic of poorly-produced / copied domestic items we see today. If it wasn’t for stores like Ikea, we’d never know who was responsible for coming up with the objects sitting on our kitchen table. Or the kitchen table itself.

But I think the spirit of that earlier era still lives in architecture, and in places like Rosedale. Mostly because industrial design always came across as generally domestically oriented that I find it most obvious here. People in the area generally have the money to dabble with and buildings tend to last longer.

The fad in industrial design, at least initially, was to combine basic geometric shapes to produce interesting everyday objects (i.e. simple geometry=simple / mass construction). To me, the house above looks like an architectural draft, all linear and arcy. Note the simplicity of the form and the commonality of the building materials. Very industrial design. Here’s another Rosedale example:

Looks like a garage from a Lexus commercial, doesn’t it? Guess they have to shoot ’em somewhere. Not the kind of place I’d be keen to live in, but I’m glad someone does. :)

If I had to pick one of the more modern Rosedale houses to live in I’d veer more toward the homes that depend on a variety of materials rather than unusual structural shapes. Seems like they’d be more comfortable:

Rosedale  is quiet, and chock-a-block with flowers and people with too much time / money on their hands. And being just north of money-laden Yorkville, it’s essentially a part of downtown Toronto. If they weren’t all driving fancy talking cars, Rosedale residents could take the subway if they wanted to.

Continued in next part…

Welcome welcome welcome!

Welcome once again, dear reader, to yet another instalment of The Guide! I must say it’s been far too long, hasn’t it? Since before Christmas, if memory serves. Too long. Too long. :(

I do, however, trust you had a nice Christmas / New Year / Valentine’s Day / Easter / etc. I certainly did, experiencing a whole gaggle of insolent behaviour that requires redress; just the impetus a practical gentleman requires to adopt some practical solutions.

For this edition we will be revisiting one particularly insidious form of urban insolence that appears to have thwarted repeated attempts at eradication: feet on seats. We will also be exploring farther afield where we shall encounter the land of the text-walkers, and we will be delving into the jungles of our neighbours’ flats to see if we can’t get them to hush up. And, as always, we will try to answer the age-old question: what’s the practical gentleman to do?

A great deal of wisdom has been written in many a travel brochure as regards these matters, but please allow me to at least get the ball rolling.

The Footsy Redux

As previously mentioned, this form of insolence appears to have gained a solid foothold throughout our fair metropolis. One can expect to encounter feet on just about any sitting surface these days. Sometimes even dining surfaces. :(

In a previous guide we explored the use of chemical deterrents to prevent the untimely soiling of our backsides. Unfortunately this technique is proving either too cumbersome or people are simply opting not to employ it. Either way the flow of malevolent feet has not been stayed.

So please allow me to suggest an alternative.

In this scenario we simply approach the subject and stare directly at their feet, motioning with our eyebrows (and sparkly eyes), that something’s amiss roundabout the region of their feet. If the culprit still doesn’t get it, we follow up with a helpful, “I’m sorry. Just wanted to let you know I think you stepped in something.” (pointing to offending feet)

When the subject pulls in their feet to examine the soles of their soul, the practical gentleman could simply swoop into the newly vacated seat. However, this would necessitate getting one’s coattails dirty and should be dealt with a bit more sternly. After all, we are now put out.

Prior to sitting, one could draw out the conversation, insisting that the subject had indeed stepped in something and should look closer. Closer. Get as close to some introspection as you can. Nothing? Do you want to know what you stepped in? My seat.

Yeah.

An indignant lady porting a bright newly-purchased ensemble may also devolve the conversation from there. Ladies will have an advantage over the gentlemen here, I’m afraid. Sorry fellas, we can’t win ‘em all.

The Noisy Neighbours

Some of us have ‘em.

The Guide’s own neighbours throw the occasional spontaneous rackets. It makes production of The Guide tritely taxing, to be frank. But we march on, don’t we? Even as the door slamming, banging of pots, etc., continues. (And they were bringing in what looked like baby furniture yesterday!)

One could, of course, resort to police. Possibly even asking to see if everything’s alright first; talking to them, in other words. But, if one or both of these options fail, or if you won’t wanna, consider billing your unruly neighbours for the time lost due to their negligence. Nothing exorbitant, of course; we are gentlemen here. But our time is valuable as are the works that we produce with that time.

The Guide would also like to suggest a nice letterhead for the bill and including an itemized explanation of each charge; the neighbours’ questions should be addressed up front. The document should be prominently posted on their front door to ensure successful discovery. Don’t want that thing getting lost.

Payment may be made to anonymous location in / around building if discretion is sought.

The *bump*TXT

Epidemic. That is the official word that The Guide has adopted to describe texting on the slick April streets of the city. Even with umbrellas and suitcases in hand they *clickity clickity clack*. Send –>

Of course, dear reader, The Guide must text from in the field in order to provide regular updates to the head office. However, we are quite careful to put the device down whilst in intersections, and frequent gazes up ensure that never has a collision occurred. Yet, reciprocation from others cannot, it seems, be expected. So how can we deal with this?

Allow me to suggest a simple sign worn at the back, attached around the neck. A customized t-shirt is an advanced option, but only for those living in problem areas. The text around this sign should be simple and direct (keep in mind the attention span), something akin to, “Mby U try look up frm fon, dildo!”

To employ the message, simply walk a short distance in front of the offending party and come to a sudden stop. Again, we are gentlemen, so ensure that had they been aware of their surroundings they would have had ample time to stop or go around. But presumably they won’t be and they’ll get a face-full of in-your-face.

The message may be changed, of course. The key is to include “dildo”, at least once. That is the crux of the message to be communicated. And don’t be afraid to cut out vowels left right and center; the window of attention will be brief so we must try to get through as quickly as possible.

If the offending party is cute, you could try wearing a nicer sign on your front and physically connecting in that way. Have fun with it; practical gentlemen need not be stuffy gentlemen!

And thus, dear reader, I leave you in the clutches of blooms and April swoons. This is the time to practice our skills as soon the promenades will be full of insolence of all manner. Take it to the streets, as they say. :) And I shall try to be less absent in the future. Unless my neighbours discover the source of those bills. :(

The TCL headquarters has been under siege all day, dear reader. By heat.

I’ve had the windows open since dawn, fans running, even took a prolonged and luxuriant shower. No good. The hot-water rads having been blazing all day. The superintendent is either cleaning the heating system for the season or the he’s trying to cook us out. By us I mean the whole building; the rads in the landing are all on full-blast so I’m thinking the other flats are probably getting it too. Maybe they’re testing how hot they can get the old iron grills before they explode. My recently relocated blogging chair is now just a nervous foot away from the big cast-iron one. Might be my last post.

So it was good to get outdoors for a bit. That and what the casual observer might mistake as summer outside. No, my living room is presently like summer, but nice try. (Sadly, this is not a hyperbole.) Outside, though, I tripped into a neat old neighbourhood that made me forget about my oven-like flat. Even the garden sheds are probably air conditioned there.

Rosedale is the place. North and a little east of the core. Took me a while to just get there, and once there the terrain is friendly to neither foot nor vehicle. Hilly, twisty, narrow roads, roundabouts going who-knows-where. Never a good time to stand in the middle of the road taking photos.

Took me two successive tries to get through there to my intended destination (with Google Maps on my mobile!). And I was started to feel smugly Torontonian.

Apparently the roads are based on pre-Toronto horse-riding trails, but if you ask me this is how they get away with gating the place without erecting actual gates.

To me Rosedale seems not unlike a miniaturized Bridle Path (farther north and east). On the Path, houses are on massive lots, usually far enough back from the road that getting to the front door would mean having to interact with armed guards and probably dogs. Mansions. The density of rich people in Rosedale necessitates that they settle onto smaller plots. The houses can’t get smaller, of course, so it’s usually the stuff around the houses that gets shrunk. Still neat, just really small.

I wouldn’t like to guess how much condos run for in Rosedale. This wouldn’t have even crossed my mind but smattered occasionally between the gargantuan houses are low-rise buildings that really couldn’t be called flats. Probably not rentals either.

Dang. Now I’m thinking too much about my own place again.

Still hot here.

So hot.

I bet the Rosedalians don’t have to put up with this.

Continued in next part…

Happy death and resurrection of our lord and saviour weekend, dear reader! If you’re into that sorta thing. Me, I’m pretty ambivalent about bunnies and coloured eggs don’t really do much for me, so Easter’s on the bottom of my holiday list. Also, I don’t get Good Friday; isn’t that when Jesus died? I didn’t know the guy but expiring on a cross doesn’t seem good at all. Should be called Ironic Friday, maybe.

But please don’t let me keep you from enjoying it. I am. I’ve managed to run some errands at the east part of town. The Beach.

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Okay, so remember that top-secret mission I mentioned last Wednesday? Well, the plan’s in action (eeee!), which means I’m allowed to go public with it.

But since I have to occupy a whole blog post, dear reader, why don’t you see how many steps into the production process before you figure out what I’m up to? I’ll describe the steps. :)

Step 1

Print a few test photos. Create some aberrations. Never speak of them again.

Step 2

Make exactly the same mistakes as in step 1, but on the other side.

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There isn’t much that would encourage me to stay indoors on a day such as today.

Yet, I found it incredibly difficult to rip myself away from my flat. Even today. Obviously, I did, and will again, but I didn’t / won’t venture far. I was / will be thinking about how Jeeves was / will be making out.

Jeeves, is the new Roomba. I named him Jeeves because I’ve always wanted a robotic butler (I will learn how to attach a drink holder to him!). Also because he’s black and white, looks like he’s wearing a smart futuristic tux.

I should mention it wasn’t a snap decision; my upright vacuum is on its last legs. Plus, it smells funny. I was looking around for a replacement and came across this limited shipment at Canadian Tire. I’d bought the upright for about the same as the robot, and even the basic Roomba cleans by its frickin’ self!

Well I was sold.

I went to the one store that still claimed to have ample supplies, spent a few minutes sweating it out as another guy pawed the last box, and grabbed it as casually as I could when he returned it back to the empty shelf. I was hoping for black and white.

Christmas :)

Of course I tried the Roomba out as soon as the the “Clean” button turned green.

It’s incredibly difficult not to become mesmerized as the cleaner works the room the first six or seven times out. It’s hypnotic. I’ve lost hours!

Jeeves doesn’t seem to faze Ollie much, which is good for all of us. The cleaner makes about as much noise as a child’s large, radio-controlled, toy truck. Quieter than the upright, for sure. And he’s not really what I’d call intelligent – I suspect Ollie’s got him figured out. He alternates between turning in circles, travelling in straight lines across the room, hugging the walls, and bumping into stuff along the way. Occasionally Jeeves gets stuck in a tight spot, usually because he’s a chickenshit and scared to drop two centimetres (about three-quarters of an inch), from the fireplace tiles. But he gets up there alright!

So I’ve changed the layout of my place; I now get to blog in front of the big window overlooking the street :) Plus, after about six hours of charging, I set up the Virtual Wall so that Jeeves doesn’t enter the kitchen (Ollie gets to make a mess in there undisturbed), and set up the flat to barricade the off-limit areas. Then, get the hell outta there!

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That romp I took through the Toronto Archives the other day didn’t end there, dear reader. It went on for hours as I pored maps and stories of the city dating back to 1834, when Toronto first became Toronto. Okay, possibly the second time, but this time the King himself signed off on it. York it weren’t no more anyhow.

It all started with innocently enough. I usually just close the window after flipping through the photos but this time, just for fun, I decided to click on the Archives logo in the corner. Sometimes their web exhibits are suuuuuuper boring. But this time, for Toronto’s 175th, they did a series on the city in 1834.

And now I can say that I know where the original city extended to — it’s been something of a bug on my itchy brain for a while now.

I checked the maps against current street names and locations and the boundary points I came up with seem to agree with the maps going back to 1834. Unfortunately these points disagree with the Archives’ analysis, but I don’t care.

According to me, the north-eastern edge of 1834 Toronto is the intersection of Queen Street and River Street:

At that time Queen Street was called Lot Street because it led to a bunch of allotted land — lots. Also, there was no queen. Clever.

The photos, by the way, are looking into the old city from the four corners. Some of those corners haven’t seen much action since the old city, as you can see above. Others, like the south-eastern Gooderham’s mill and later Worted boozery, have been since been gussied up:

But if full-on historical effacement is your thing (it’s okay to admit you like modern),  the south-western edge on Front Street doesn’t get any more devastating. Not only is the intersecting Peter Street discarded for Blue Jays Way (organized ball leagues weren’t really a priority in 1834), but there is literally nothing left of the original city except Front Street:

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No doubt about it, I’m going to copyright hell. Yes, I’ve once again raided the Toronto Archives (I highly recommend a search or two; lotsa fun stuff), and emerged with some gleaming gems. Should the Archives ever decide to sue my blatancy, I’ll no doubt be forced to hand over much of TCL’s total monetary earnings to date: $3.67. If I made them cry, emotional damages too. But I just can’t help it; they have way too much great stuff to hide behind a stuffy web interface.

This time around I went back to the mid-sixties in search of the very beginnings of computing in Toronto. Okay, yeah, I’ve been spending a lot of time online making sweet sweet love to the blogosphere. And programming. But the digital miracles I’m pulling out of my ass (and many of us are), these days would’ve been unimaginable forty-five years ago. In fact, even though I’m more closely familiar with most of the gizmos in these photos than the average person, even I’m at a loss to put name or function to everything there. But I’ll try.

Okay, so from my understanding, this is what computing looked like at the University of Toronto circa 1965ish:

Can you imagine what it would’ve taken to slap together a basic web page at that time? Like, look at the fellow in the photo above; picking out a frozen pizza because he knows he’s going to be a while.  It’s nice that they provided slushie machines for the programmers:

I guess he’s picking his flavour.

Oh, yeah, of course I’d be hideously remiss if I didn’t mention the sideburns. That was the requisite look in those days, from my understanding. For when you’d fall asleep on your desk on account of the speed of the computers. Sop up your drool ‘n all. (I know, gross, but hey, practical.)

So here’s Mr. Burns actually earning a living:

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I probably looked like someone preparing for an assassination. But I had a purpose, dear reader. Yes, a master plan. A secret master plan.

That’s right, I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss why I looked like I would be involved in a Bourne-like plot, but I could see how my behaviour could be construed as such.

I stood at the each location, gazing across the street to check the sightlines. Then I’d go to that location and gaze back from there. Suspicious. And, being the proud papa of a short new cut, along with my daunting shades, I probably looked the part of someone who might use those sightlines for nefarious purposes.

And I was on a mission.

Determined to hit as many of my ten destinations as I could. I managed six. Well, seven if you count the bendy CN Tower. I’m not sure if I’m counting it just yet; we’ll see which way I’m leaning later on. But I trekked the hell out of those streets. Up to the steps of Casa Loma…

…down to the most prominent building on Queen Street…

…onward to the CBC where I had a shouting match with Glenn Gould…

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