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early morning fog

thank you, all my dear Flickr friends, for all your comments, favs and invites! you guys are the best!!

VIEW ON BLACK!! :-) “L”

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from fog…

thank you, all my dear Flickr friends, for all your comments, favs and invites! you guys are the best!!

thanks to Skeletal Mess for Bruised Ego www.flickr.com/photos/skeletalmess/3171652976/ and Dog Ma for Kacki Texture www.flickr.com/photos/jodysphotography/3579649080/

VIEW ON BLACK!! :-) "L"

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Kajama, thanks, Iain!! :-)

Thank you, all my dear Flickr friends, for all your comments, favs and invites! you guys are the best!!

VIEW ON BLACK!! :-) “L”

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VIEW ON BLACK! :-) “L”

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I am humbled and honoured by all your comments, feedback, favs and invites! I read every single one of them! It’s getting pretty busy for me, so please don’t take it personally, if I don’t repsond to you immediately. I will try to do my best! :-)

VIEW ON BLACK!! :-) “L”

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thank you all for your comments, favs and invites!! :-)

trying to replicate old fading film, not sure, if it’s there yet… :-)

VIEW ON BLACK :-)

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I’ve probably taken a million shots of this building… and it never looks the same…

thank you for all your comments, favs and invites!! :-)

VIEW ON BLACK! :-)

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VIEW ON BLACK!! :-)

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I dunno what this contraption is called but the sharp, spinning, metal blades just scream fun and hijinx, don’t you think?

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…it hardly feels like work.

Yup, I’m back at it again, this time with Corus Entertainment. These are the people responsible for Q107, AM640, 102.1 “The Edge”, HBO Canada, Nickelodeon Canada, Teletoon, YTV, and a bunch of other media outlets I don’t get with my basic (i.e. free), cable package.

The Corus building sits beside Sugar Beach so the views are pretty terrific in every which direction, but the wind at this time of year can get pretty dastardly in that area. It’s close to St. Lawrence Market so lunchtime promises to be promising, but it’s closed on Mondays, a fact that slapped me in the face like so many icy gusts today. Basically, and despite sounding like the conclusion to a grade 8 essay, it’s a neighbourhood of contrasts.

I’ll be flexing my somewhat atrophied Adobe Flash muscle to produce games that I’ll be bragging about incessantly as soon as they’re online, but in the meantime I’m keen on surreptitiously capturing the square footage of the Corus Building. I mean, I thought I’d worked in some pretty frickin’ cool offices before but this building just blew me away. I spent ten minutes staring at the ceiling in the lobby as I was leaving today — and I wasn’t even high! It’s that far out.

As added benefits, the office is close to home, and I pass by lots of interesting places that necessarily make the twenty-minute commute much longer.

I’m a little disappointed that I had to put aside freelancing for this gig but I noticed that bills tend not to pay themselves. However, so far I’m not getting that vibe of pure, unadulterated evil that I’d experienced in the past. Also, there are plenty of other Toronto jobs available out there for the keen of heart and / or brown of nose, a mild bit of comfort on an otherwise eerie deja vu of a birthday.

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QUEENS QUAY/YONGE ST.

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Or you’re still reading. Sorry, it was kinda long. I’ll do my best to keep this one lighter.

Nothing much to say anyway. The Music Garden is supposed to communicate through other senses.

It’s not a huge garden, but it is a garden, space maximized via a curly network of paths.

They carry a fairly extensive plant list and now that stuff is up and flowering it’s a nicely aromatic chunk of town to saunter through. It’s right up against the waterfront and wedged-in by Queen’s Quay to the north, a boulevard that will lose half of its width to a new pedestrian concourse next year. I get excited about that kinda stuff.

A friend boasts a nauseatingly high vantage point for peering into the garden (I’d included it in a previous post). The garden is up against the boat docks, to the right of the most prominent building. Not visible, I should add, but you wouldn’t want to look down.

They do actually play music there, every Thursday at 7 p.m. and Sunday at 4 p.m. You park your ass on the grass and you can almost pretend like you’re out in nature somewhere. Until a streetcar goes by.

Cellist Yo-Yo Ma and landscape designer Julie Moir Messervy claim to have re-produced, in garden form, J. S. Bach’s First Suite for Unaccompanied Cello.

Apparently Bach had included some doodles with this musical score that inspired Ma, which inspired the garden and a movie.

The movie, I am given to understand, was shot in Boston where the garden was initially supposed to be. I don’t know who gave the finger to whom, but the deal fell through, and the project ended up in Toronto. That was ten years ago. The way the place is meticulously maintained, though, I wouldn’t have guessed it.

I’ll be back for some concerts, for sure. You can get ice cream nearby, it’s shady and windy and maritimey – swell place for freakin’ hot summer afternoons / evenings. We’re not quite there yet, but I can smell it in the air. For some reason, it always smells like deep-fried food.

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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…

…then to Ireland Park, as far south as I could go without dropping into the waters of the lake. Still kinda chilly in the shade, you know…

…followed by a dash to beat the setting sun to Union Station…

…and, well, Union Station again…

…then home. Sun was too low and I was too hungry.

Six hours of pavement and I can’t even tell you why. And it’s not as if I haven’t been to these places before.

But I can tell you this: if you happen to be passing by any of these locations on some nice sunny day, keep your eyes open. These pictures were taken from these perspectives for a specific reason. And if everything goes according to plan (I really hope it goes according to plan!), it should all lead to some good old-fashioned blogging goodness.

Wow. That really is all I can mention.

Well, see you next time!

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Of course, this all has to do with my insistence on integrity. You see, I may resort to describing the glistening contours of the thing that emerged from my bowels this morning, but only if that thing actually took form, and I’m really hurting for a topic. So when I make a bowl of miso, I may freely incorporate it into the discussion, and title, and rest assured it’s better than just any old shit.

This particular bowl of miso also has a history.

I was walking near the lakeshore on Cherry Street pretending to be Rain Man and taking pictures of random stuff in the sky. Here’s one I call “Wapner’s on at three”:

The wind in that area is out to murder people; not hurt or maim, murder. I pulled my hands out for, maybe, three seconds to take that picture and I nearly lost them both to exposure. I need to get a glove fund started or pretty soon I’ll be the famous stumpy blogger who mashes out his photos like he mashes out his posts, poorly. I’m not good with stumps.

By keeping my hands in my pockets, I managed to defrost them long enough to take a few more pictures, but the closer I got to the lake the more it was looking like the wind would have its way with me before tossing my bedraggled corpse over the side of the bridge into the dark, choppy waters below.

And I gotta tell ya, that just didn’t sound like fun at all.

Huddled in my coat and hands stuffed as far away from danger as possible, I double-timed it out of there. The two surviving photos are entitled “I’m an excellent driver” and “Wapner’s on at three redux”, respectively:

Okay, so I’ve just escaped a savage death at the hands of the elements but I’m still not out of the woods; now the miso comes into play.

In that God-forsaken land where there is naught but wailing and gnashing of teeth, there stands a gaily lit T&T Supermarket. The T&T carries probably the most extensive assortment of Asian / Taiwanese goods outside of Asia / Taiwan, many of which I picked up a taste for during my expat years. The winters during that time were cold and damp and my rock-solid cure for them was hot miso and cold sushi. Well, mostly the miso. The sushi came around on one of those little conveyor belts — the fish was kinda secondary. Plus they had killer wasabi.

So I ducked into the T&T and, completely separated from the maelstrom outside, picked through green onions to the soothing sounds of Gordon Lightfoot. I wandered the aisles pretending to be shopping for chopsticks or … woks or … live squid or … tampons until I warmed up enough for the daunting journey back home.Well, since I’m writing this I clearly made it home without losing any extremities. This time. Next time, I may not be so lucky. (really gotta start that glove fund!)

So the miso, which I hadn’t planned on, turned out to have a death-defying story to it in the end. It made the ingredients somehow more … special:

The fish balls are actually a Taiwanese hot-pot thing (a zesty communal broth in which everyone at the table cooks their food), but go pretty well with the soup. Bit sweet – maybe cut them up next time. There was another, un-fried variety in the store but when I saw the ones I eventually picked I noticed that they a) were fried and b) contained fewer preservatives (presumably by virtue of being fried). Sold and sold!

Oliver vouches for the authenticity of the fish balls and the veracity of this post. And I didn’t even have to resort to any racy titles or descriptions of bowel movements!

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Take the Toronto City Centre Airport story, for example. I’m not sure many people would care about the tussle going on there. It’s a three-way shoving match between the city, the Port Authority which controls the airport and I believe has it’s own squad of shadowy assassins, and Porter Airlines which managed to pull in record profits pretty much every year since it started flying. Oh, and the island residents who basically bitch 24-7, 365 about everything (“The city’s too loud! The lights are too bright! The planes are too scary! Wah! Wah!”)

(big!)

Bill would gnaw at this, getting angrier and angrier right up until the commercial break. I don’t remember his stance on the issue, but I clearly recall the outraged timbre of his voice. The current topic of contention is the proposed tunnel to the airport which no level of government wants to pay for.  It’s intended to replace the current ferry service which, at a full 20-second trip (maybe 30) from shore to shore, seems kind of inefficient:

But whatever. I’m sure Porter contributes to this inefficiency from its growing wallet so who cares? Bill does. Passionately. Desperately. I bet the fact that Toronto got the 2015 Pan Am Games probably caused his head to just explode. They probably had to drag his headless, blood-soaked corpse out of the studio live on the air. That would’ve been some show. If only it was still on at a time when I could listen.

I can just imagine his reaction at the $2.4 billion cost. He either would have been rejoicing that his beloved Etobicoke was getting a pool make-over, or cheesed that the athletes’ village will be in what is currently a large mud pit bisecting the east edge of town (ON TAXPAYERS’ MONEY, AND DOWNTOWN GETS ALL THE BENEFITS!!), or both.

He doesn’t care that he sometimes contradicts himself. Bill shoots from the hip and asks questions later. If there’s time. I don’t think John Moore even owns a gun.

Now I have at least three more days of waking up to do. Quite possibly a few decades on top of that. With Bill gone, I’m left sleeping in almost every day, but I don’t know where else to turn. The radio dial to. And with it staying dark outside later and later now, the problem is becoming more urgent. “Nature Sounds I” just won’t cut it, but what’s the alternative … the buzzer?!

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The sun’s hanging lower in the sky, the CNE is shuttering up for another year, and the kids are going back to school tomorrow. That’s the end of the summer, no matter what the calendar says.

As part of that last effort to get kids to forget their miseries, the Ex has the annual closing-weekend air show.

The announcers always go into excruciating technical detail like maybe we’re looking to pick up a couple of the aircraft after the show. Fires a hundred rounds a second, you say? I may be interested, keep talking.

Then, while waiting for the planes to fly into the show, the announcers go into all the crazy certifications and programs you’d have to go through before you’re even allowed to approach one of these things. For who’s benefit is that? The three-year-old standing next to me who should realistically start thinking about university now if he wants to be a pilot?

Then, the Top Gun music kicks in:

The show’s not entirely ironic. There were plenty of jet fighters on hand going down the real danger zone highway:

This happened to be the air show’s 60th anniversary, so the Blue Angels flew up from the US and with a salute:

This is the second time I’ve attended the show and I’ve really enjoyed it both times. The planes fly close enough to knock toupees off and the little prop ones do some really crazy stuff. Like climbing up into the sky, then cutting the engine, starting a crazy wobbly spin around every possible axis of rotation while plummeting back toward the water, and mere moments before impact, straightening out, re-starting the engine, and pulling up. Just insane.

I didn’t get to chill with the horses in the horse pavilion this year. That’s a regret. But the holiday weekend tradition I like to call “the flu” probably needed a bit of sunshine, so it was good to get out. And, all in all, it’s been a pretty happening summer. Maybe too happening; next year I’d like to see some of those things I missed this time around. I figure it’ll probably take four to five years to properly see most of the concurrent festivals, parades, and events that happen around the city every year. And with all the random news, changes, and just interesting stuff around … good frickin’ luck with that timeline!

I’m going to have to learn to pace myself.

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I highly recommend grabbing a coffee or a Red Stripe before you continue. The photos go on as long as the parade did.

Great parade, but maybe next year a helicopter might be a better way to get around; I don’t think it’s getting any less popular.

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This time we have a website and a comfortable patch of grass. I would applaud this effort, I really would. But I actually started to read the web page:

“We want to re-examine public space and to create work which explores our relationship with the space we inhabit. We wish to de-center and disrupt the accepted n…”

*snore*

*snore*

Wuzzuh?!

*wipe drool*

I don’t know what that site meant but I’ve reprimanded my netbook for showing it to me. I’m sorely tempted to put my programming skills to use in creating a tedious content filter of some sort. When it would detect a web page that fell below the customizable tedium level, the browser would warn you with a gentle weeping sound lest you waste a moment of your valuable life. Also, a shudder if your hardware is equipped for it.

Meh. I’d rather be outside anyway. It’s hard to be bored, especially with Caribana just around the corner. And the rampant crime that goes with it:

That’ll go up to twenty bucks on the weekend. Bumbaclot!

Lamport Stadium is where the Caribana judging takes place, and if memory serves, they have about one-hundred million-billion floats and get-ups to evaluate. It’s a lot, whatever the precise number is.

When it comes to parade costumes, people go certifiably insane. They seal themselves up in darkened workshops for months on end, devoid of any human contact. There, they toil away, metamorphosing wire, fabric, and sequins into wings, antennae, and gaudy headdresses.

Finally, after many months and a third refinancing of the house, they emerge.

As a beautiful, gargantuan butterfly!

I’m sure it’s much more impressive than it looks. From what I remember of past parades, the costumes are enormous. That thing he’s pulling out of the truck is probably meant to be worn on the eyebrow. The rest of the costume usually arrives by helicopter.

I suppose I can understand why they’d want these creations protected behind fences this weekend, but I’m not sure if they’re legally allowed to call it Caribana unless everyone, including spectators, are jumping around. Seems like a fence would dampen that enthusiasm.

When I walked along Lakeshore Boulevard (the parade route) today, it felt a bit like I was in a penitentiary exercise yard. With the natural barrier of Lake Ontario on one side, and the gun-turret-like projections of the Direct Energy Centre on the other, winin’ and/or grinin’ just seems out of place.

Guess we’ll just have to see.

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