…continued from previous part.
I believe in certain English dialects the word “grit” denotes a certain kind of integrity, an ability to stand up in the face of opposition and challenge. In ancient Greek it also means “plastered with all manner of crap”. That’s the literal translation, but I think the gist comes across okay.
Lately I’ve managed to walk home from work roughly every other day. I should stress roughly. You know, it’s cold outside, and once the sun drops and the wind-friendly intersections get going, plunking down three bucks to get there in warmth actually seems worth it to avoid all that. So not every day is walking day.
But, just as I start to think how hard we have it, an unconscious decision is made (if it was conscious I’d tell you who made it), to once again flip through the Toronto Archives, to remind me that I’m just being a whiny little bitch.
Maybe it’s because life was simple then that the frosty elements didn’t bother people so much. Maybe the people were simple.
Okay, so I just made up a word for the title. I think, dear reader, you will find it quite apt toward the end of this series as we get down and gritty with Kensington Market, the motherless whore of Babylon. Alright, maybe not that bad, but still pretty gritty, at least for Toronto.
Before I start, and in case you’re wondering, I keep making these in series simply because I end up with a molehilly mountain of photos that I can’t deliver all in one go (a further bunch sits unused in my “keepers” folder). I would not subject you to a twenty megabyte download, dear reader. That’s rude. If you’re not sure what I’m talking about, let me just say I’m concerned about not abusing your hard-earned time. Especially not with lengthy and, ultimately, completely unnecessary spiels about how I wouldn’t abuse your time. I mean, wouldn’t I be wasting your time by alerting you, in a wastefully lengthy manner, to the fact that I’m trying not to waste your time? Aren’t I doing that right now through the use of excessively wordy questions? And any apology I could offer would now be adding insult to injury because I’m just stretching it out even more? And why am I still going on knowing all of this?
Recursive introspection, it’s not just for breakfast anymore. :D
But the trip to the market did have a bit of a serious note to it though. At least for a little while.
Of course, if you see something like this on the street, it is incumbent on you to stop and gape. So I did.
Dead? Mugged? No, just plain old alkeehol. One reclining woman and one reposed man doing his thing on the warm vent grate. The thing being him being passed out.
Momentarily, a somewhat dishevelled gentleman propped himself up against the wall I was against. He pulled his open coat behind his back with his right hand, his left making a boozily odd angle with the wall, and he leaned in slowly saying, “that’s my woman over there.” “Oh, yeah?”, I replied, partially expecting him to commence the pummeling he was holding at the ready back there for the offense I had just committed (I don’t think the details matter that much when you’re drunk).
Instead, he continued, “yeah, I can’t go over there cuz I’m drunk.” Well now there’s a pickle, isn’t it? What does one do with a statement like that? “Oh yeah?”, I replied.
“Yeah, I’m drunk, and that’s my woman. I can’t go over there right now. Oh shit, they’re not taking her?”
I guess he’d been expecting the emergency crew to gurney her up along with the snoozing dude and get her to a warm place, but she made that one classic mistake that all amateur streetfolk do: sitting up making slurringly idle chatter with the paramedics. Not really an emergency at that point, so no hospital bed.
“Well, at least she’s alright”, I tried to console him. “That’s my woman over there”, he insisted. “Right, I got that”, I nodded back.
The conversation didn’t pick up much after that. But, thankfully, the ambulance packed up and left, so the man was free to lumber back across the street to his woman where, I’m sure, he reminded her that she was his woman. Probably also informed her that he was drunk.
That was my cue and I double-timed it toward Chinatown (and Kensington Market).
Chinatown is also gritty. And I don’t mean the trash, that’s kinda normal. You have the trash, the grimy streets, the graffiti; even the most illustrious establishments are tagged up like it’s going outta style.
Oh but please don’t let me mislead you, dear reader, I think gritty’s great. I may not be able to read MC Snuhrb’s tag on yonder wall, but it certainly adds to the ambiance. The ramshackle nature of the whole area makes me think that it could all be torn down in a matter of hours and replaced with something of equally wonky construction. So much stuff … so precariously perched. Exciting!
But that’s Chinatown. Let’s see how all those European immigrants do it, shall we? On to the market!
…continued from previous part.
Did you know, dear reader, that in some Asian countries the international snap-a-photo gesture is considered a dire signal?
If you don’t think you know the gesture, make a fist, extend your index finger, and curl it in like you’re clicking the shutter on a camera. Right there you just insinuated to said Asian persons that you would like nothing more than to see them dead. Or that you’re referring to death. But with the language barrier, why chance it?
The index finger refers to the person’s body as it doubles over in its final moments; death, most likely at your hands. Poison? Sword? Gun shot? All perfectly valid.
The number four, in Chinese, is also unpopular because of its resemblance to the Mandarin word for death. “Suh” – you’re either asking for four bananas or telling the shopkeeper to die. All in the tone.
So there we were, the four of us, three Japanese women making the deathy-deathy gesture while holding their cameras under my nose, and me, nose askew in a failed attempt at avoidance. I’m sure I explained the repercussions of taking bad photos with other people’s cameras so that was already hanging heavy on my conscience. Then this happened – and they were relentless. God.
All I can say to my fellow Torontonians is that I’m sorry. I took their photos.
I don’t speak Japanese. Glad I don’t. Thankfully I didn’t understand what they were chattering about afterward, but their stifled chuckling seemed not so complimentary. As I loitered around a nearby fire boat I could sense their disappointment while they continue to take more pictures (in the same spot!)
Well, I guess that’s it. In a few short weeks Toronto will be bereft of the Japanese. After that … well, I don’t want to think about it. Probably nothing more than a frozen wasteland at that point.
I’m going to suggest all us downtowners hunker down until the winter of our (and their) discontent passes over. It won’t be easy, I know, but what’s done is done. I want to remind everyone that we have a fairly extensive underground network that should server us until this crisis is over.
So there you go, dear reader. That was the point where Toronto took a turn for the worse. I mean, who knows, maybe this will all blow over. Just … no extensive optimism, you know what I mean?
Then again, considering the circumstances of the trip, it’s quite likely that the women I met were nothing more than subconscious projections. Only time will tell. Next time, however, I won’t be so cavalier about things. Next time, no photos. For all our sakes.
Friday night. You know what that means, don’t you? TAIWANESE YAM FRIES!! Technically sweet potato fries, but potato pototo.
I know, trust me, I will get out more, but I think it’s important to sometimes just stop and smell the tubers. Besides, I think I’m gonna have a busy weekend so I can’t waste much time with elaborate meals.
The recipe is easy – took me a bit to figure out what all those roadside stalls used on their fries to make them so beguilingly tasty. Turns out the missing ingredient was plain old chilly powder. Slapped myself on the forehead a few times (it even smells right – if I’d bothered to smell it), but at least I finally got it all together.
I like the fries chunky, about the girth and length of a chubby finger or thumb. The kind of chubby that too many yam fries produces. Should be called yum fries.
Another ancient Chinese secret is a delicate coating of corn starch. Fries, bit of oil, toss — starch, black pepper, toss — boo-yah! And one other thing I discovered the hard way was that the oil should be fairly hot; err in that direction. Nothing worse than a flaccid fry, let me tell you.
They’re done when they’re golden brown and floating on top (assuming you’re using that much oil). I let ‘em drip in a sieve for a while, admiring their delicate surfaces all crispy and crunchy and inviting, and toss with some salt and the chilly powder. I then usually finish by burning my tongue in the premature tasting.
Mmmm. Savoury. And I think if you get a sensible oil (which can be strained and re-used at least a few times), and are sparing with the salt, it’s also not too bad for you. Plenty of grease-laden beta-Carotene and vitamin A, from what I understand. Also, a complete lack or arsenic and radioactive isotopes. How’s that for health benefits?!
Okay, well, that bowl has finally cooled enough to let me near so I’m going to go and clog some arteries. After that, the weekend pretty much starts itself.
…continued from previous part.
Where was I again? Oh yeah, I’d been spending a Sunday afternoon staring intelligently into the sun.
At the rink I was asked to take a photo of someone with their camera, but I was sure before I took it that it would come out awful. Look, just because I’m carrying a unit don’t mean I know how to work yours. Or even necessarily want to touch it for that matter. Those awful Sonys with their awfully massive focus reticles – what the heck is in focus out of the three quarters of the screen they cover?! Don’t even get me started on the automatic exposure. *pfft*
Anyhow, I managed to extricate myself from the situation before plis-you-take-picture-me-there man (bloody immigrants!), managed to hunt me down for another pose. Upon his eagerly gesticulating insistence, it took me, like, two minutes to kinda get his Sony to shoot directly into the sun, with him in front of it as a darkened blob on the LCD. I wasn’t about to go through that again. RTFM, sucker!
That might’ve been another reason why I ended up by the docks. To get away from that kind of responsibility. Imagine when they get home, “Oh yeah, here’s the photo that nimrod took. Look at this shit, that my asshole or something? Fucking useless Torontonians, I’m going to interweb this until I’m blue in the face.” Presto, Patrick singlehandedly quashes tourism in the city. Toronto City Life becomes Toronto City Killer, I’m forcibly ejected from my flat, and Ollie leaves turds of disgust on my garbage pillow in the alley. Damn.
In the solitude of the docks, this is not a concern.
I think it was at this point that I got that far-out feeling. Not only were the ice heads still gliding gently across the ice, but the boat also added a river Styx vibe to the place. And tucked in farther along the shore, a frozen beach:
Cold, yes. Serene, also yes. Can’t have one without the other, I suppose. Or so I supposed. For no sooner had I emerged from the canopy of neglected metal protuberances than I hit upon a roving pack of vacationing photographers. !!
This time there was no salvation. They were three Japanese women proudly brandishing Sonys, thrusting them at me menacingly with smiles and slight bows. I knew this would be the final encounter.
You know, I pick up my best material on the weekends. I decided that this is the lifestyle I must adopt in order to be at my optimal performance; Saturday time. Sunday’s good too, but Saturday has more going on. On Sundays, it’s about heading out with a head full of exceptional sleep and mood enhancers and flâneuring the shit out of the streets. Groovy.
I do realize that the camera tells no lies. “Always be white balancing”, is my motto of late (humbly borrowed from Glengarry Glen Ross). But I decided to balance her indoors instead. Yup, it’s a she.
So, the resulting images came out looking like things would through my sunglasses. That actually helped because I spent almost the entire journey staring directly into the sun. I saw vague blurs rise up out of the icy mists occasionally, sometimes they were people, sometimes children. Once in a while, I caught sight of buildings through the crystalline haze.
Haha! Woaw! Getting ahead of myself. No, the afternoon part was actually pretty nice. The temperature was back up to a balmy –4C (25F). Oh no, no sarcasm, dear reader. On Saturday it was a might chillier but without the wind, it’s not a problem. Something about being able to maintain a micro-climate around your skin or something. So while buildings are blocking the wind, you’re golden.
The wind chill factor, and the Humidex value for that matter, are both bullshit. Are they telling me what it feels like? No no no … I tell them how I feel. Jeez. And these guys predict our weather? Oh don’t get me wrong, I know there’s a whole formula behind it, but that tells me nothing about how it really feels, you know? Because the kind of cold down by the docks, even on such a day, tends to be reasonably painful, and no egghead in a lab coat is telling me how reasonable I’m being.
I think I just ended up at the docks because I wanted to take some sulky mid-winter pictures, to take a breath and get to know the city again. The breath was short and guarded lest the miniature high-velocity shards of ice rend my throat asunder, but the getting to know of the city ended up going considerably better than this sentence. The frozen sunset at the docks was something I hadn’t yet experienced — I can objectively report that it’s a trippy place to be.
It’s one thing to look out over a frozen lake from the ferry docks and witness head-shaped chunks of ice with facial features sliding along. It’s when you go a little farther west that things start to get a little more far-out.
It happened again! When I read the story, I knew something about it sounded really familiar.
And it was.
Basically, some old guy in Barrie decided to clean the busy street in front of his house using his snow blower. In the middle of the afternoon commute. Inebriated. Police had to arrest him for his own protection. Oh the podunkery.
Similar to the earlier incident in Keswick where a fellow was caught riding his mower all over the road, also pickled. Also hilarious.
Keswick is north-east of Toronto, Barrie north-west. Both are picturesque and both have that sex-with-the-cousin-behind-the-barn kinda feel to them.
I’ll grant that Barrie is a large city so that’s a broad generalization, and it’s increasingly common for people to commute to Toronto from there. Citytv’s Kevin Frankish makes the drive every day although with his crazy TV hours he probably doesn’t get to experience the nightmare that is the 400 commute. I mean, if the 401 is hell on four wheels then I figure the 400 has to be at least at the nightmarish level, no? The Toronto Star clocked the average speed on Toronto highways at 42 kilometres (26 miles) per hour. The speed limit is 100 kilometres (62 miles) per hour.
If the road was running at 100% capacity — as envisioned back in the early fifties when everyone had one and a half grotesque kids (the half would have to be, wouldn’t they?), a sparkly new highway stretched out to the future just behind your back yard, and dad smoked a pipe — everyone should still be able to drive at the limit, albeit surrounded by their neighbours. However, because of the marvellous correlation to percentages, we can easily see that the highways of today are running at 158% capacity (every kilometre in speed lost is a percent in capacity gained). At 200%, the commute will cease to be.
That’s kind of the funny thing about all those people who complain about how unfair life is for them as drivers; they have a lot of compelling points, I won’t take that away from them, but who cares? It’s obviously untenable and not getting any better. Doesn’t matter what I say about it. Doesn’t matter what they say about it. You either start preparing for some Mad Max action or you take alternative measures. Now I, personally, prefer to walk. But if there’s going to be some awesome rolling carnage along the Don Valley Parkway, I’d be down with that too. As a spectator.
Oh, and speaking of really familiar (skilfully referring back to the top), do you remember the five-cent plastic bag fee that started back in June? Seems like a lot of people missed the news – I still hear it being called a tax. Nothing could be further from the truth, dear reader! It is a fee, put into place by the city, but collected – and used – by the retailers. Not a penny goes to the city; the shop owners are supposed to decide what to do with all those pretty shiny nickels.
This wasn’t as a result of an outcry from shopkeepers who were losing money on bags, it was put in by City Hall to try to cut down their overall use (and disposal). And that part has worked pretty well. But lots of people questioned why the city wasn’t collecting that money (or at least a part of it). They’re doing it in Washington DC, and it seems to be working well for them. Telling a businessman that he can put up a bunch of new swings around the corner with the money he’s collected is kind of like telling a monkey he could write Shakespeare with a banana. We all know exactly what that businessman is going to do with that banana. No, government must step in and snatch the banana from that spiteful monkey’s hands.
And to back up my assertions, I offer up the cases of Weizhen Tang and Stan Grmovsek. Tang is accused of running a ponzi scheme – take from a new “customer” and give part of that to existing ones, repeat – and Stan got mixed up with a bunch of no-good Bay Street types in an insider trading affair. They corrupted an innocent lawyer!
Who knows what the city could do with that money; new mass transit, better roads, alcohol treatment centres. They could even sponsor the Don Valley Parkway Drive-Till-You-Die competition – how many birds would that stone kill, huh?
Regent Park is an original City of Toronto housing project. The projects of Toronto. I’d say there are similar areas in all the cities that make up the GTA. Scarborough has Malvern (did my teens around there). North York has Jane and Finch (played marbles around the corner). And downtown Toronto has Regent Park (a pleasant stroll of a block for me). Out of all of them, I’d have to say that Regent Park seems the most genteel.
The buildings are smaller, and these days the area’s more run-down than anything else. But at night, especially around some of the inner courtyards between the buildings, it can still be a pretty menacing place.
And that’s where King’s hero would find himself. I’m sure Stevie wouldn’t be able to resist throwing something schmaltzy into the plot … a basketball, rolling slowly out of the pitch shadows, slowly but with no sign of decelerating, as if being propelled by something other. And just before hitting the man’s foot, coming to a sickeningly sudden stop. He would back away as he gazed upwards, the slowly illuminating multitudes of windows in the buildings encircling him filled with horrible shapes, nausea and fear rising into a knot at the back of his throat, terror pulling his pupils into dense points straining to shield him from seeing what he was seeing … up there.
And now Kingie would wreck a perfectly good horror and have the hero’s dead son stand in one of the windows or some other such bullshit. Why?! Why can’t it just be a purely evil force facing well-adjusted individuals? The baggage gets in the way of the train, if you get my meaning.
I prefer my horror noir. Just a bunch of people get brutally massacred; don’t read too much into it. Sometimes, a shadowy villain is all there needs to be.
So after escaping that horror, King would take the poor sap back up through southern Cabbagetown only to be accosted by some huddled baddie in a toque.
At this point I’d turn off the movie and go to bed.
Great neighbourhood, is what I’m getting at. Full of contradictions, as I used to end my grade eight essays with. As with a lot of other neighbourhoods, the dividing boundary is literally the line down the street. On one side you buy your crack, on the other a hand-blown artisan glass pipe in which to smoke it. Cabbagetown, ironically, is named after cabbages, the only vegetable the dirt-poor Irish immigrants could manage to grow. Luckily they stopped leeching off society and we now have a vibrant and mostly Irish-free slice of old Toronto.
Haha! Just kidding. Those ruddy-haired bastards are swarming over Toronto like Black Death itself.
(It’s okay, I have Irish friends. :D Well, associates. Associate. And I enjoy Guinness. Plus Irish Cream flavoured anything. :D )
Anyhow, there you have it; Cabbagetown, up to the armpits in history and conveniently close. Good on cold days, über-quaint, and bordered by something evil. Actually, now that I think about it, that’s probably closer to a M. Night Shyamalamadingdong plot.
Sorry, but I’m just going to stop right there before it leads me down some road I’d rather not take. Can’t stand that guy. He’s not even scary!
Before I go, I just wanted to give a shout-out to CardSwap.ca who sent me a nice new year greeting and informed me they were also fellow Torontonians. Easy sell. The site is basically a way to buy and sell used (or new, I guess, whatever turns your crank), gift and discount cards. CardSwap guarantees delivery. This is clearly their time to shine so I’d like to wish them all the best. I’m certainly not above gift cards myself.
Oh boy! I finally got my Christmas present from the city of Toronto! Thanks, municipality!
And it’s just what I always wanted too — a brand-spanking new election year! (even the exact colour)
Now, truth be told, I’m a total n00b (a word requiring not one but two zeroes to denote the level of experience), when it comes to municipal politics. I learn a little bit every now and then when a scandal breaks out, but other than that I only know that good old Davie Miller is our mayor until the last week of October. And that candidates are now free to register after which they can start fundraising.
But despite my overall lack of knowledge, this is a great opportunity to dive in headfirst and learn. And pray for muck flinging, name calling, and other assorted hijinx. I sincerely hope that municipal politicking is as kooky as I imagine it is. And in the meantime, I get ten months of increasingly busy campaigning to revert to when my brain goes all mushy for topics. It’s the gift that keeps on giving — even though that’s technically incorrect since people give gifts (could you imagine the horror of gifts giving people?). But it’s the thought that counts. :)
Also, dear reader, you now know as much as I do. Oh, wait, maybe a few more things:
Giorgio Mammoliti (confirmed)
— http://www.facebook.com/people/Giorgio-Mammoliti/532699017
— http://twitter.com/giorgio_4_mayorAdam “Jammy Jams” Giambrone (potential)
— http://www.adamgiambrone.ca/
— http://twitter.com/Adam_GiambroneGeorge Smitherman (expected)
— http://www.georgesmitherman.com/
— http://twitter.com/Smitherman2010John Tory (potential)
— http://www.johntory.ca/
— http://twitter.com/John_ToryJoe Pantalone (expected)
— http://www.joepantalone.org/
— twitlessRocco Rossi (confirmed)
— http://www.facebook.com/roccorossi
— http://twitter.com/liberalroccoShelley Carroll (potential)
— http://shelleycarroll.ca/
— http://twitter.com/shelleycarroll
That’s the current roster. The “expected” candidates have either quit their day job or stated publicly that they’ll be registering – both pretty strong indicators of intent.
I don’t know much about any of these people. I do know that George Smitherman is gay and looks like a bulldog. Both, I believe, in his favour. I also know that, judging by the state of his website, John Tory is either not planning to run or is keeping his candidacy a big and unnecessary secret (and making some affiliate income to boot):
I also know that Adam Giambrone (pronounced like “jam bony”), is a couple of years my junior and is barely holding the Toronto Transit Commission together as its boss. I shudder to think of him at the city’s helm (no way is he getting the Clearasil budget past council, mark my words).
Giorgio Mammoliti looks like an Italian gangster, so he’s pretty cool. Joe Pantalone has a website that reminds me of Toronto City Life during its first few months, so yuck. Also, he’s really wee. Two strikes; he’d better be a good orator. Rocco Rossi, nice wine, but how are the mayor skills? Shelley Carroll has a pretty slick website with some nice Adobe Flash work – it always makes me a bit suspicious when someone can afford to pay the ridiculous sums that Flash developers extort out of their customers. Come to think of it, “Baby Face” Giambrone has some Flash on his site too. Hmmm.
Okay, so now you know exactly what I know; we’ll both be learning as we go along. The contestants (it’s more fun to think of them this way), are allowed to raise $1.5 million to grease constituents’ palms. Then it’ll be a brutal, bare-knuckle free-for-all; winner gets City Hall and medical attention.
And I get material that writes itself. :D
... with pictures
... with sounds
... with videos
... with opinions
... that's shorter
... that's longer