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.

… Continue Reading

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 in next part…

…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.

Continued in next part…

Oh, right, I’d stuck the gloves and hat under my desk at work in a clever fashion. Too clever.  Now I was walking home with a fortunately planned hoodie pulled over my head and a scarf that managed to protect my delicate features, but still not one of the brightest Tuesdays on record.

And I don’t know about you but when I pull stunts like that, I end up staring longingly into the warm interiors of passing cars. Crossing the road also provides me with an opportunity to hang a forlorn expression on my face for the benefit of the people behind the glass. Usually it’s just frozen that way so it’s not as if I’m doing it on purpose, but still indicative of my feelings.

On winter evenings like this, I remember my golden automotive era behind the wheel of a candy-apple-red Volkswagen Golf. It was a standard with copious electrical problems, balding tires, and an increasing number of bumps and dings as a result of those balding tires. But that moment when the heater kicked in (after I’d been struggling for half an hour to squeeze through a half-open trunk because the doors were frozen shut), that was something truly sweet.

In one bumpy incident, both my VW and the car in front glided into the middle of an intersection on some slick on the road. Not being able to stop either (so maybe the tires weren’t involved), the lady behind the wheel was very understanding after we’d made contact. We were already moving pretty slowly when we lost control; I don’t believe I even scratched her bumper. Afterward, we both admitted to being lucky not to have been t-boned by oncoming traffic, and we parted ways with smiles and a “have a great day”.

In another dingy incident, I slid very slowly through a sharp turn on a rural road in north Pickering. When I say very slowly, I mean that I had time to try the hand brake – to no avail, pump the foot brake — in futility, steer in a few different directions — to no effect, make sure my seatbelt was secured — for naught, turn off the spontaneous wipers (among the cornucopia of electrical problems) — with no success, and even utter a gentle “oh crap” (also pointless), before coming to rest on a ditch post. I managed to crush the bumper but, again, drove away with just another piece of character. Soon-to-rust character.

Guess there was that one time I wrecked the front axle on a curb; I remember sliding into that one too, on a wet road. The tires were turned left, the car kept going forward. *thump* *wobble wobble* I didn’t even end up on the curb, just bent the the whole rod thing down there all up. Not as chortley then as it sounds now.

Besides that, I’ve gotten one speeding ticket (fifteen over), and one for driving with an expired plate sticker. In both cases, the issuing officers suggested that I should fight the injustices in court ( “judge’ll probably throw it out” – translation: “I won’t show for court.” ) So I don’t feel like they saw my infractions as terribly terrible.

I’m not a perfect driver, but that’s my whole history over the years. Sure, traffic sucked all sorts of gonads, but at least I had warmth. No radio – that literally fell apart one day as I hit the ON button – but having an hour and a half with a good conversationalist was a good way to pass the time. Sometimes I’d also give people a ride.

The reason I bring all of this up (except for that last part, that’s just a rosy sentimentality), is because I need a moral mound from which to fire my judgmental salvos.

People, you need to get a grip. (Not you, dear reader, I know you’re a careful driver.)

I mean, that 83-year-old who ran down the mom with her baby surviving only by some miracle, that old woman shouldn’t have been on the road. Have you seen how old people cross the road?! WITHOUT A VEHICLE?! NOW IMAGINE THEM IN A VEHICLE!!

Never mind 83, I’ve been in a car with someone twenty years younger as she steered her wide vehicle aloft over an alarmingly tall concrete divider between the arrivals / departures lanes at the airport. Have you ever been in a fat luxury automobile as it takes flight? It’s quite an experience.

And about that thing with the doctor who was caught speeding en route to a bona fide emergency, I think the solution’s a simple one. Okay, I think there’s good cause for a doctor to be able to speed when necessary (burden of proof being on Doc Drift) – here is one such example. But if the doctor is to speed then he should adhere to current etiquette and stick a flashing doohickey on the top of his car. He should also take the same driver training as cops do. Basically, he should be operating an identifiable emergency vehicle and be trained to do so. I guess he could use his own Benz so long as the thing was loud and bright and obnoxious.

But for everyone else, slowing down’s the ticket. That and keeping the old folks off the road. For practicality, I’d suggest some sort of herding vehicle to convey their beastly frames from hither to dither. Then farther.

My driving days are are in a shoebox somewhere in the back of my closet. My current credit won’t get me anything enclosed to ride in and I’m not sure if I’d want to anyway. The walking scene is hip. And if I’m involved in any sort of mishap, I instantly become a litigious money hole. Everyone wins!