If you happened to be an insomniac somewhere in the neighbourhood of 26 years ago or, like me, just happened to be awake for whatever nefarious purposes, you may have flipped over to local channel Global TV and been treated to their late night (early morning?) test pattern fill-in, a gentle program named “Night Walk”.
As the name implies, the show is nothing more than one long, continuous, first-person steadicam shot of downtown Toronto streets set to dreamy jazz. I’m not sure if the purpose of the show was ever made clear — Was it simply filler for that lonely 4 a.m. time slot? Was it a form of video sleep aid? Was it interwoven with subliminal suggestions intended to keep you enthralled? (I could never peel my eyes away!)
Apparently only one episode of “Night Walk” was ever shot, but follow-up programs such as “Night Ride” continued the tradition in the same vain.
Unfortunately, Global stopped broadcasting these programs some time ago, but I’m of the opinion that it’s about time they were brought back. Perhaps on this very blog. ;)
(How many now-absent Toronto landmarks can you spot?)
In roughly ten to twenty years from now, crossing over the Bloor viaduct, you’ll probably be able to wander into any establishment and order a classic Torontonian Greasy Danfurd — or something of that nature.
Oh, we already have the Greasy Danfurd now, in case you didn’t know, and it’s already something of a classic. It has hairy bare chests, gold medallions, girls names Roula / Toula / Voula / Koula / etc.-oula, and small, innocuous-looking elderly men that you just know are mob leaders of some sort.
This is going to be a rant, dear reader. A long and arduous one about morality, law, taxes, and such. So if you’re not into that kinda thing, you may want to avert your gaze now. Well, maybe you may wanna stick around for the few pictures but the rest of the post will be a tough slog otherwise.
Okay?
Good.
So let’s talk about this concept of the straight and narrow, shall we?
Had big plans for this weekend: go down to see Caribanna, soak up the sunshine, restock my new photo collection. But fate’s a bitch, ain’t she?
At around 9 p.m. on Saturday night I started to get a migraine. No biggie, I thought, usually lasts a few hours, I’ll be right as rain tomorrow. By 2 a.m. I’d emptied the contents of my stomach from the pain, couldn’t quite see out of my left eye, and just wasn’t having a good time. Not good at all.
Yes, I have to admit that believing me to be dead would be a natural conclusion at this point. The gears have all but ground to a halt here at TCL, the Toronto City Life Twitter feed has barely seen the light of day over the past couple of weeks, and for all intents and purposes I may as well be pushing up the digital daisies.
“This is just glorious!”, exclaimed the unidentified cyclist as we stood in the middle of Jarvis Street, referring to the empty center lane he was casually occupying.
Okay, it’s now been well over two weeks and I’m just about ready to put this puppy to bed.
But before I do, let me round out the G20 weekend for you, dear reader. Let’s start with the Black Bloc, the attention whores of the summit. While I was trying to figure out who they are and where they came from, a few glaringly obvious pieces of evidence jumped out at me with a, “zut alors!”
Of course there was nudity again this year. Just more seemingly painful nudity. But I’ll let you be the judge. First try to find it. Then try not to cringe.
... with pictures
... with sounds
... with videos
... with opinions
... that's shorter
... that's longer
