I took him to the nearby corner of Yonge-Dundas Square and I showed him a few things.

“You see, sucker”, I thought to myself. “There’s enough ambient light on the sidewalk”, now out-loud, “to illuminate subjects from the front. They’re kind of shadowy, but I think that’s kinda cool. All thanks to this iContrast thingie.”

“Ah!”, he marvelled. “What camera is this? I have an EOS Rebel XSi at home. Is that a Rebel too?”

“No”, I replied, “it’s a … umm …”. I’d forgotten the name. Flipped it over. “Oh, yeah, a Powershot … SX 10 … IS. Fixed lens (can’t stick another lens on there) … but what a lens!”

I went on to extole the virtues of the camera and its lens while flipping through the other photos.

“So, it has all the same software?”

What an odd question.

“I dunno. I guess so. I just know that I can manually control everything – seems pretty complete anyhow”, I explained. I can see the virtue of being able to focus by grabbing the lens and twisting, but the jog wheel isn’t a bad second option. That, I explained slowly as we stood in the brilliant golden sunshine, is the only regret. By the way, brilliant golden sunshine; you know what that means? I was outside before 8:30! Hoe lee crap.

Haha! All-you-can-eat yucky sushi. Who wants that? Man, they really should think of a new name.

At this point, the astute reader who may frequent the areas herein pictured would point out that the sun is actually shining from the west. My diversionary tactic with the funny sign will have failed. “Golden sunshine of the morning my ass!”, they may say. And right they would be to do so.

The images were actually taken later in the day. My second outing. So far in my listless bobbing on the ocean of unemployment, I’ve gotten into the habit of going out at least twice a day. Twice at the nice times. I don’t know if this is a habit I should be getting used to. You know, what if I end up back doing the same mind-numbing labour? Having now tasted the nectar of sweet freedom with its restful nights, that’d make that pill extra hard to swallow.

Should I be getting my hopes up?

Oh wow. That guy totally reminds me of me. Leering. (Good word suggested by a friend’s wife upon sighting my mug shot in the about section. — Thanks, J.) Maybe he’s just tired. Maybe angry. Look at those smug dipsticks in the back. I dunno who they are, but I’m sure I already do, and I don’t like ‘em one bit.

And, just like the narrative, the older man had disappeared at this point, presumably to go flip through his Rebel’s manual. I think his point-and-click days are over. Fight: won.

I let the adrenaline subside, jiggled my neck muscles loose, and breathed deep. Ah yeah, that was one fine beat-down. Old bugger didn’t even know what hit him. I wasn’t feigning ignorance, I really don’t know if the software is the same or whatever. I just know my own camera and happen to know it enjoys the sunshine. God, hadn’t I just gone through this with someone else recently?

Guess I’m gonna have to edumacate them all one at a time.

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I say technical because if you look at the archives, TCL only goes back to January. But it’s really been online since November of last year.

Luckily the WayBack Machine has, as yet, no record of it.

At that time TCL had a mostly-black theme with content that induced hemorrhaging from the eyeballs and projectile vomiting. Pretty awful stuff. Back then I didn’t have the experience or the sphincteric relaxation to do anything interesting, really. Had anyone suggested I run a shocking exposé on what really happens at the annual Santa Claus Parade, I would’ve balked!

But in mid-November I attended Illuminite, the annual Christmas lighting of Yonge-Dundas Square. It was a cold and rainy November night, but the show went on anyway. Try as I might, I wasn’t able to muscle my way up to the front of the crowd, and it was in that soggy moment of inspiration that I remembered it was Toronto City Life. Most of these people were alive, so they qualified. I was getting all bent out of shape for nothing!

That epiphany, and the attitudinal adjustment that came with it, carried me through all the way around to this year’s event. Good thing too because there were a lot more people this time around:

Most of the show, consisting of fire, sparks, trampolines, and dancing, took place at the far end of the square. There was a lot of loud music that, more often than not, descended into a raucous noise that in no way said season’s greetings to me. Eventually, the same spooky music I remember from last year came on as the fire dancers wound their way across the square toward the stage I’d plunked myself behind:

The dancers paraded around on stage in wintry white and silver, twirling fiery objects and having pyrotechnics go off behind them as if to say, “here’s the last blast of warmth you’re getting for the next six months”:

The audience were close enough that one slip and the girl in the red hood got a face full of fire. Now if that’s not a reason to go see something live, I don’t know what is. The fireworks were pretty scary too:

Behind the dancers was the reason for the whole display, the tree.

Nostalgia aside, I want to go on record as saying it’s great that the city doesn’t use a live tree. But what they chose instead is … not quite there yet.

I mean, obviously they were going for a theme because someone went to the bother of creating some Christmas light bears. But while nice, they and the tree seem more appropriate on someone’s 80s-themed holiday lawn than in the Square.

I also remember these things not quite making it to Christmas last year before a chunk of the lights had been broken, stolen, or had burned out. They’re a great photo-op and ideal swine flu vector, but unfortunately they don’t last:

Don’t get me wrong, Illuminite will always hold a special place in my heart because of the sopping awakening it gave me. In a way, it lived up to its name. But with the number of people packed into the square this year, I think they’ll need to come up with something a little less centralized; performances in small pockets all over the square, that kind of thing. And do something about that tree while they’re at it. Next to the longest street in the world, it doesn’t look very impressive.

I’ll do the official whoop-up for TCL in January, but I’m still happy I managed to last a year. And wouldn’t you know it, someone completed the loop on Saturday night by asking me if I was a journalist. I’ve now been asked that same question in every season. The circle of life is complete. Hakuna matata!

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Not every day has a festival or intriguing political scandal. Some days I just get up, leave the apartment, shake my software developer ass for a few bucks, then straight back home again:

That could get pretty bleak, pretty fast. So, on days like these I try to break up the momentum by taking a detour. Today I marauded through Trinity Square, getting into all the nooks and crannies I’d not previously explored:

I do believe that’s a real water well! Kinda picturesque, don’t you think? But what makes this spot that much neater is that it’s right outside the Eaton Centre. I want to emphasize right outside:

Most people walking through the mall turn out onto Yonge Street instead of taking the opposite doors to the Square. That’s a shame because the church kicks-ass and the little park attached to it is the kind of park where lonely old men come to feed the pigeons and sigh about their bygone days (also kick-ass):

Right at the back of the photo you can make out a gushing mini waterfall. It hits a shallow stream that runs along the side of the building and underneath a wide bridge, both of which form the path to the main church entrance. I guess this is intended to ritually cleanse the spirits of pedestrians as they pass over hallowed ground. Or to ward off vampires.

There’s also a circular labyrinth off to the left side of the Square. Every photo I took of it somehow managed to capture a woman with an unflattering backside trying to find her way to the end. I have a responsibility not to post images like that. It’s just better for everyone.

It doesn’t matter though, because the “maze” is ridiculous; it’s so easy to cheat! It’s a roughly nine meter (thirty foot) diameter circle made of compact, concentric paths. The whole thing is paved but the path part is made of different coloured stone. That’s it! No walls! Nothing! Yup, just walk right to the end, save yourself an awful lot of bother and solve that sucker in record time. My tip to you ;)

The only possible reason I can come up with for the construction of such a dumb “maze” is that it’s some sort of demonic ritual symbol that, if enough people trace its sinister shape toward the dark stars, summons Cthulhu. So then the water’s dumb because there’s no way that that’s going to help. Good luck, Trinity Church!

But as my friend Rob points out, a church will probably hold out until at least winter at which point all the zombies will either slow to a crawl, starve, or freeze to death. Yup, with Cthulhu come zombies; that’s just fact. And with zombies come shotguns. :D

Then for Christmas we could all watch A Christmas Story, as is the custom at Trinity. By this time next summer, we’ll have forgotten all about it. But the maze will still be there … waiting.

And so will I.

Unless there’s a festival or some intiguing political scandal afoot.

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The main show on stage was Disco Inferno who’s name left so little to the imagination that I couldn’t think of a word to write. I sat there certain that the scary security guard, who’s goatee alone would be considered a weapon, was peeking over my shoulder. It just wasn’t an environment conducive to concentration.

I gulped back the uninspiring lager and left the boozy oasis, seen here at back under the red umbrellas:

Note that Disco Inferno did actually have people doing the pushin’-up-the-sky dance (hold palms up and pump skyward – ooi! ooi!). If you can make out the detail above, there’s even an old lady getting out of her wheelchair in the middle of the crowd. Cured!

Here are the Inferno; numerous Bar Mitzvahs, weddings, birthday parties, and corporate events having tuned their act to this singular moment of perfection:

Far too many people were hurting themselves trying to re-live their youth and I didn’t want to join them. I wandered off to the pedestrian part of the square where there hung a bunch of photographs on triangular mounts. I guess these were intended to allow for quick juxtaposition of adjoining images, allowing us to more broadly grasp the photographer’s vision, to understand the underlying narrative that they’re trying to convey, but they were still mostly boring. Here they are being ignored:

To be honest, there were a couple of cool crowd photos. But not many.

A friend notified me that a giant red ball is being moved about Toronto to various spots and I discovered that it will be in my neck of the woods soon.  Giant red ball wedged into city crevices. That just kinda writes itself.

So far Luminato at Dundas Square hasn’t been the outlandishly artsy event it’s been billed to be. Unless you count the L’Oreal makeup tent as art. But maybe I’m not giving it a fair shake. Maybe the ball will silence me with it’s glory.

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I’d hoped to gawk at the tourists at the Hard Rock across the street and provide a second-by-second reportage of greasy food consumption. I was also looking forward to spotting inattentive parents and in their periphery, infant children as they put their tiny, inquisitive hands in pigeon poo. Then to experience the flavour for the first time in their lives. Magical.

Instead, the entire square was being hogged up by this:

That illegible blue banner says “Luminato 2009“.

I wasn’t yet living in Toronto at this time last year and spent most of the festival in rush-hour traffic. But I have to say, now that the sun is shining more brightly, I’m extremely glad I don’t follow the Toronto social scene too much because if I tried to, I’d be DEAD. JUST DEAD.

Luminato itself has quite a few moving parts, and the city is already packed to the rafters with stuff to do. If I’m sitting on a patio somewhere sipping a beer and snapping candid photos, that’s quite enough excitement for me, thank you!

It’s fairly certain that pedestrians will be tripping over Luminato-related events on almost every corner and, if they miss those, something else will be happening two feet further. There may not be that frenzied, singular density that Nuit Blanche has, but I’m expecting to not be able to find any tin seats or tin tables for me to sit at any time soon.

The pavement hurts my bum so.

—

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My journey around old city hall has consisted of about five meters, four of which have thus far been spent in regrettable company.

Not more than a step further, I find myself with a raised eyebrow, arched in the direction of an encircled, chanting muddle of the local Krishna chapter . They’ve positioned themselves in an awkwardly dark and inaccessible point just a bit further along the embankment.

I’ve only basked in the live Krishna experience in what seemed to be ad hoc processions around Dundas Square or Bloor and Yonge. Today, donning coats that resemble puffed-up pigeons, they’ve festively interjected “Happy New Year” with every other “Hare Krishna”. They seem like a nice, warm little community. Don’t you think?

Wrong, commie!

I mean, is that copy of the Bhagavad Gita really free or what? What do they mean by “join” them in “conversation”? Money? What does Lord Krishna need my money for? Twenty bucks?! That’s the suggested donation?!

Shifty with a capital “S”.

This is especially true tonight as the entire group of twenty or so people huddle close, doing a slow shuffle around the bald guy in the center. That must be the head honcho.

When I try to get closer to see what’s happening one of the group, a woman over numero uno’s shoulder, flashes me an undeniably dirty look. Something to the effect of, “fuck you and the horse you rode in on.” Maybe I’m misreading her expression, or maybe it’s because I’m sporting a camera, but you’d think I’d just fried her young into an omelette. So, for a 50/50 chance at a display of mutual spite, I take a hasty and poorly lit picture, and promptly leave.

So far the photographic record of the evening is piss-poor. I revert back to my original plan and stare across the intersection at the south side of Queen street, trying to find a spot from which to watch the light show.

I spend the next five minutes (it’s ten to midnight now) wandering around the south side of the street looking for somewhere to stop. Unfortunately, the emptiness I saw from the chanting circle isn’t really empty at all. The space is filled with photographers and they, along with their equipment, are donned in ninja-black, camouflaging them in the cavernous darkness of the buildings behind them. Only from behind can you see how many there are, and there are many. The space is packed with rows of neatly aligned, manned telephoto lenses. Only a narrow fjord-like foot path strings along between them and the building. Someone has managed to create, using nearby-discarded Timmy’s cups, a miniature river of hot chocolate on the ground to complete the effect. Fresh and sticky.

Fuckers.

If I hadn’t smoked that joint before coming out, I would probably be disheartened by now. Instead I start feeling the coldness of the night working its way through my coat’s layers,. As I wander off slowly into Nathan Phillips Square, I hope that the huddle of people will provide some warmth.

Alas, this proves equally ineffective as the crowd is impassable. Staring at the teeming wall of flesh I remind myself that there are two sides to even this coin: Heads – when the riot begins, at least I’ll be clear of the whole mangled mess; Tails – no way am I getting near the stage and definitely not by midnight.

I put my last-resort plan into action, skirting the undulating crowd as I make my way toward the west end of the stage.

The location isn’t stellar. Even if I stand on my toes and hold the tripod above my head, the best I can hope for is a completely blurry picture of the lights. With a resolute sigh I set up my trusty Powershot and start snapping some long exposures of the crowd just as the countdown begins.

Dot dot dot.

As the crowd screams “one”, the square explodes into colour. An air cannon at the foot of the stage peppers the crowd with confetti. The whole scene is ablaze in action, and my camera is picking up exactly none of it.

In between expletives, I poke my head up and realize that every lens around me is pointing up at city hall instead of the stage.

I swivel my tripod in the same direction just in time to see the first fireworks bursting in the air perilously close to the building. I quickly re-adjust and start taking pictures.

I could blame the camera, which is, after all, just a simple point-and-shoot. I could blame the fact that I have no real experience with photography. I could blame the crowd for being so fidgety. Hell, I could even blame the itch in the crack of my ass for making me impatient. But all of these things completely fail to explain why now, when the clock has struck midnight and this fairly arbitrary segmentation of time has elapsed, the pictures are coming out good.

The last moments of 2008 seemed like one doomed attempt after another. Now it’s 2009 and it’s looking like a one-hundred and eighty degree reversal.

As the fireworks subside and the mildly toxic mists descend on the crowd, I pick up the tripod and decide to test my newfound luck. At the southern end of the square I set up again and start shooting.

I’m no more than two pictures in when random people start to walk in front of the camera, posing. Some even hang around for multiple pictures. And by people, I mean young people. And by young people, I mean teenage girls.

As I’m quickly discovering, they will jump in front of a camera at the drop of a hat with nary a worry. Sadly, they all seem to lack understanding of long exposures and, frankly, they’re all quite tipsy anyway.

I didn’t realize the tripod carried such…power.

With effort (and mental note to *always* carry equipment), I turn my attention to the receding crowd. It’s barely twelve-fifteen and already half of them is leaving. With everyone moving so fast, only a few suckers would be standing still long enough for an interesting picture.

And it’s at this point that I have to stop dead and switch your focus onto the web page. This is not a photoblog. It just includes photos.

After coming to the realization that someone probably took a good, long crisp snap of my ass much as I did to these folks, I also realized that this series of pictures have no story behind them. They’re just photos of people standing. Period.

What sucks most about this is that I really wanted to have something to say at the end of all of it. I wanted the story to go out with something, produce a narrative with deep, meaningful ambiance. Instead, I have to really reach here.

There are a few classical considerations for the ending. One is that I’ve learned my lesson and grown one year older. Another is that the story of our lives is the ultimate enigma, unknowable, perhaps, even beyond this mere breath. Yet another is the lesson of stopping to smell the roses, or in my case, the alcohol fumes emanating from the numerous friends I made along the way.

But really. Doesn’t that sound like the loudest dick smack you ever heard? It does to me too. I’m going to propose that some shit happened and I took a few pictures. I hope I’ve presented it accurately.

Happy New Year

Instead, he invites me up onto the embankment where he directs his wife and son to pose. Somewhere from within three out of four uncomfortable grins, I align my shot and take it. The flash is weak and the picture doesn’t come out.

Fucking asshole of an idiot me.

I say “shit”, just a titge too loud, while grinning into the dim glow of the image. Before I even have a chance to confirm that, yes, I do want to permanently delete this already sullied scene, he jumps into action.

I, clearly, didn’t get my money’s worth.

This time I’m thinking, fuck it, if he’s going to the bother of gathering up his family – again – I’ll oblige. So I take my time. I readjust my camera and hold that trigger down, blasting my AF beam silently into their retinas.

All the time I’m looking into the image window, previewing the glorious photo I’ll have when this thing’s over. I can see pretty good detail too, and it’s not good.

He’s tall, maybe six feet plus. Probably around fifty-five, sixty. He’s definitely eastern European. Trust me on this, he is.

Big guy.

He’s dressed in a Honest Ed’s discount parka that is fully unzipped, and probably too small to be done up anyway. This despite the fact that – as I had predicted – it is inner-nose-freezing cold out here.

Now my eyes pan left and down. The child.

I can’t decide if it’s boy or girl because it’s just a big bungle of parka not dissimilar to the father’s. Same size, but done up, with a scarf. The eyes say east Asian. Chinese?

On to the woman.

Oh yeah, she’s definitely east Asian, all seventy-five years of her. I’m sticking with Chinese.

Good god, if she’s not in her twilight years then she must’ve had one hell of a drug problem. She definitely appears advanced in years to him, by a few, and he’s just not a man to whom the word “young” can be applied any longer.

…waiting for that goddam flash to charge up…

This must mean that, if this is the child’s mother, she must’ve given birth sometime in her late sixties or, perhaps, early seventies.

But that’s ludicrous! The imagination can’t wander thus.

No, she must be the child’s grandmother.

Here.

With his father selling loonie trinkets, in the cold, on an evening of celebration.

Where’s the mother? In fact, is this their regular income? It seems like a family enterprise, only the family dynamic is *really* dynamic. It just feels…wrong. What kind of dog and pony show is this?!

FINALLY, the flash goes off, and I KNOW, I JUST KNOW I’m not going to say anything other than, “thanks”, then turn around and march the hell off in the opposite direction.

Without a further mumble, I spin around, and leap off the embankment, back into the surging flow of people.

Blissfully the crowd, the same crowd that could smother me to death in some sort of riot, is pulling me tenderly in its current towards Nathan Phillips Square for the new year thing.

Ahhh.

I swear to god I can hear chanting.

It sounds exactly like a group of Krishna devotees.