Andrew Pyper! What is going on with you? You publish to acclaim and sales, despite being sort of lacklustre as an actual, you know, writer...and then you make the crazy happen by being all bitchy! Also, your website is terrible: it looks like it was designed by a toddler with bad taste in fonts.
I just read The Killing Circle, which is a total beach book. I read it on an actual beach. It's your standard maybe-supernatural murder mystery; it's set in Toronto, guest-starring real life Toronto venues, which was neat for me, since I live there. I can't imagine that the average Haligonian gets a rush from reading it, but whatever. Me!
The Killing Circle, like Pyper's other books, has generally been well-reviewed. The New York Times gave him a shout-out re: his 2006 book, The Wildfire Season; The Walrus all but peed its pants over The Killing Circle, which they described as "transfixing," "compelling," and "thought provoking."
Which it is, provided that the thought you want to provoke is: snore. Okay, it's not that boring. In fact, it's totally readable and fun. But it's not some Can-lit masterpiece, because that simply isn't what Pyper does. He writes beach books that are allegedly being turned into movies (although a quick stab at the repository of all things film shows a big blank spot where A.Pyp should be). He writes thrillers about things that go bump in the night, starring protagonists whose descent into paranoid hell is evidenced by a drinking problem. They're not bad, per se. They're just sort of...obvious. Setting it in Toronto was a kicky departure, but neither Pyper's prose style or his plots elevate the reader into new heights.
There's a scene in The Killing Circle where Patrick Rush, our boozy, failed-writer hero, gets a chance to attend the Dickies (a barely-disguised Giller); he spends the evening drinking, mocking the attendees, and not eating his caribou tartare. I actually saw Pyper read this section at The Scream, and read aloud, it's charming. On the page, it loses some of its comedy, and the humour is transformed into bitterness. It's tough to parse out where Rush, the sour protagonist, ends and Pyper, the successful-if-not-prizewinning author, begins.
Which, to be honest, is really unattractive. Canada has a big, fat literary pantheon, and we tend to like the same folks over and over again. (As a sidenote, was anyone else impressed with Alice Munro's decision to pull herself out of the running for the Giller, so's some younger writers might have a stab at it? I think that's so cool, especially since it makes Margaret Atwood look like even more of a smirking ice queen for not doing the same. How many Gillers do you need, Maggie? You've already got, like, eleven!) In their defense, those writers are usually mega-talented: they can write circles around just about everyone, even if they have deeply irritating public personae (Atwood).
Pyper hasn't been rewarded by his mentors and peers because he's just not that good. His plots are lazy, his prose is self-concious, and his climaxes? Those big reveals? Major letdowns. He has interesting ideas - what if fiction became reality? what is authorship (I'm struggling not to make a very nerdy lit-crit inside joke; hold your applause)? what is murder? how do the sins of the father affect the son? - but the pacing is loose and the payoff is weak.
I happen to really like Pyper-the-man: he seemed charming in High Park, and he's gone to my high school a few times to give a talk on what the writer's life is like. He's handsome, he's engaging, he's well-spoken. He seems really nice. I bet he has cute kids.
But. I dislike someone snidely asking for accolades by pretending they don't matter. It's entirely possible that Pyper truly doesn't care, and that his characters are the only ones who do. But I don't buy it. Not because it seems unlikely, but because every sentence that mentions other writers fairly drips with stomach acid and sticky jealousy. Either Pyper is a much better writer than I've given him credit for, or he needs to hide his envy under a bigger hat.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Happy New Year
Happy New Year! Okay, yes, I know that technically, the New Year is several months away, give or take, depending on which New Year you like to ring in. But doesn't the back-to-school season feel so fresh? The colours on the trees emerge, Queen Sweater takes over from Princess Tank Top, people stock up on binder paper, and the time of learning, after a brain-addlingly hot summer, recommences.
Sure, most people in their mid-twenties have graduated by now. Some even have that double-plus signifier of education, the Master's degree. I, on the other hand, am taking the scenic route through my degree: half-forgotten minors in Biological Anthropology, detours into Book and Media Studies, and dreamy stretches of endless English courses. Now, in the final stretch (okay, in the victory lap: I earned my degree last year and still didn't graduate), I've found some interesting side roads.
There was a moment of truth last Christmas when I sat down at the computer, cracked my knuckles, and started looking for work. English Majors are not an endangered species, and the kind of work I want to do - progressive, urban, literate, communal - demands more than just being able to read Spencer. Most of the postings I came across wanted people with Real Skills: post-grad work, loads of experience, specific skill sets, and a driver's licence (sigh). As a noodly perpetual student, I am sorely lacking in many - all - of those categories.
Once I set my cap on working in city planning, I started to figure it out a little. A graduate program coquettishly winked at me. I landed at intership at an awesome magazine. I got a job at a housing co-op and stumbled into a writing gig. I feel like having a goal, finally, is giving shape to my decisions and thoughts. I like to write, I like to talk, I care about people and the places they live. And I finally have an answer to give when people elbow me and say, "English, eh? You want to be a high school teacher?"
Anyway, this extended remix of an undergrad has been useful. For one thing, budgeting is clutch. And not get all moral-of-the-story here, but education and learning is a process, and going back to school - or staying in school until your fingers get pruney - is totally necessary. Parents of high schoolers are forever saying that university teaches people how to learn, which is true, sort of. It certainly didn't teach me how to study. On the other hand, it did expose me to a monster variety of weird books and facts about primate dentition, some more useful than others. But if you spend long enough in school (for some folks, that's two weeks; others need years) you will learn useful and alarming stuff about yourself.
So, since I'll be so busy majoring in myself over the next few months, I'm going to cut the entries from three to two a week. I'm not slacking, and I'll try to post links to my other writing endeavors - there will be legion, apparently. And, of course, regardless of whether you're cycling into a new school year or just grumping around the office as usual, happy new year. Now go buy yourself a new binder to celebrate.
Sure, most people in their mid-twenties have graduated by now. Some even have that double-plus signifier of education, the Master's degree. I, on the other hand, am taking the scenic route through my degree: half-forgotten minors in Biological Anthropology, detours into Book and Media Studies, and dreamy stretches of endless English courses. Now, in the final stretch (okay, in the victory lap: I earned my degree last year and still didn't graduate), I've found some interesting side roads.
There was a moment of truth last Christmas when I sat down at the computer, cracked my knuckles, and started looking for work. English Majors are not an endangered species, and the kind of work I want to do - progressive, urban, literate, communal - demands more than just being able to read Spencer. Most of the postings I came across wanted people with Real Skills: post-grad work, loads of experience, specific skill sets, and a driver's licence (sigh). As a noodly perpetual student, I am sorely lacking in many - all - of those categories.
Once I set my cap on working in city planning, I started to figure it out a little. A graduate program coquettishly winked at me. I landed at intership at an awesome magazine. I got a job at a housing co-op and stumbled into a writing gig. I feel like having a goal, finally, is giving shape to my decisions and thoughts. I like to write, I like to talk, I care about people and the places they live. And I finally have an answer to give when people elbow me and say, "English, eh? You want to be a high school teacher?"
Anyway, this extended remix of an undergrad has been useful. For one thing, budgeting is clutch. And not get all moral-of-the-story here, but education and learning is a process, and going back to school - or staying in school until your fingers get pruney - is totally necessary. Parents of high schoolers are forever saying that university teaches people how to learn, which is true, sort of. It certainly didn't teach me how to study. On the other hand, it did expose me to a monster variety of weird books and facts about primate dentition, some more useful than others. But if you spend long enough in school (for some folks, that's two weeks; others need years) you will learn useful and alarming stuff about yourself.
So, since I'll be so busy majoring in myself over the next few months, I'm going to cut the entries from three to two a week. I'm not slacking, and I'll try to post links to my other writing endeavors - there will be legion, apparently. And, of course, regardless of whether you're cycling into a new school year or just grumping around the office as usual, happy new year. Now go buy yourself a new binder to celebrate.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
War On Road Rage
Frankly, I'm a little too bummed out to really dive into the whole cyclist v car debate that's been raging in the wake of the former future premier killing a bike messenger. The forums have been vitriolic: allegations of drunk driving, drunk cycling, road rage, who deserved what, and so on into nasty infinity. It's sad.
Drivers all over the internet were pointing to cyclists - all cyclists - as erratic morons who dart in and out of traffic for the sole purpose of irritating and frightening them (the drivers). I would challenge any of those posters to spend a week biking to and from work in downtown Toronto, and see how they feel about big-ass cars and stop signs. Scared? I thought so.
I have a twelve-kilometer daily commute, one that takes me along Davenport, Bloor, the Prince Edward Bridge, and Danforth. Bike lanes, if they're there, tend to run over some of the roughest roads I've ever biked. Cars go at higher speeds and are slowed by fewer intersections. There are some especially tense moments right before Yonge Street, when vehicles are merging both left and right in an effort to get onto/avoid Bay Street.
Drivers are afraid of cyclists, and for good reason: manslaughter is a lousy thing to have on your conscience. Cyclists are afraid of drivers, too: being killed is stupidly easy. It's attractive to blame cyclists for getting hit. We are erratic a lot of time, and not so good with the signalling. And, unlike drivers, we don't have to pass a test in order to drive our vehicles, a fact that's been pointed out roughly 80 million times in the past couple days.
On the other hand, people can start riding bikes as soon as they can walk; learning to drive takes a little longer. And financing the kind of infrastructure changes that would license cyclists would be hella expensive, and hard to pay for: who trains cyclists? at what age? at what cost? who enforces these licenses? and don't the stakes seem a little lower? After all, how many licensed drivers kill or seriously injure people every year? Plenty. Licensing cyclists doesn't make reactions time any fast or street smarts any sharper; only hours and hours on a bike can do that. And hours and hours on a bike, in busy traffic, is a tough assignment.
Most of my friends have been hit, doored, slipped in the streetcar tracks, or screamed at by someone who desperately needed to be going 15% faster. We get such little protection - a foot or so of dedicated road on either side of the street (if we're lucky), and a helmet. And...that's it. No airbag. No power windows. No A/C. No turn lanes. That's all the car's domain, and that's fine. It's just hard to understand how drivers can feel so angry at cyclists. What's that all about?
As one person on the internet said yesterday, "If there's really a War On Cars, why are all the casualties on the other side?"
Drivers all over the internet were pointing to cyclists - all cyclists - as erratic morons who dart in and out of traffic for the sole purpose of irritating and frightening them (the drivers). I would challenge any of those posters to spend a week biking to and from work in downtown Toronto, and see how they feel about big-ass cars and stop signs. Scared? I thought so.
I have a twelve-kilometer daily commute, one that takes me along Davenport, Bloor, the Prince Edward Bridge, and Danforth. Bike lanes, if they're there, tend to run over some of the roughest roads I've ever biked. Cars go at higher speeds and are slowed by fewer intersections. There are some especially tense moments right before Yonge Street, when vehicles are merging both left and right in an effort to get onto/avoid Bay Street.
Drivers are afraid of cyclists, and for good reason: manslaughter is a lousy thing to have on your conscience. Cyclists are afraid of drivers, too: being killed is stupidly easy. It's attractive to blame cyclists for getting hit. We are erratic a lot of time, and not so good with the signalling. And, unlike drivers, we don't have to pass a test in order to drive our vehicles, a fact that's been pointed out roughly 80 million times in the past couple days.
On the other hand, people can start riding bikes as soon as they can walk; learning to drive takes a little longer. And financing the kind of infrastructure changes that would license cyclists would be hella expensive, and hard to pay for: who trains cyclists? at what age? at what cost? who enforces these licenses? and don't the stakes seem a little lower? After all, how many licensed drivers kill or seriously injure people every year? Plenty. Licensing cyclists doesn't make reactions time any fast or street smarts any sharper; only hours and hours on a bike can do that. And hours and hours on a bike, in busy traffic, is a tough assignment.
Most of my friends have been hit, doored, slipped in the streetcar tracks, or screamed at by someone who desperately needed to be going 15% faster. We get such little protection - a foot or so of dedicated road on either side of the street (if we're lucky), and a helmet. And...that's it. No airbag. No power windows. No A/C. No turn lanes. That's all the car's domain, and that's fine. It's just hard to understand how drivers can feel so angry at cyclists. What's that all about?
As one person on the internet said yesterday, "If there's really a War On Cars, why are all the casualties on the other side?"
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Big Story
This is just a brief and wondrous shout-out to the entire cast, crew and hangers-on of Big Box Story, the absurdly good musical that was produced by a bunch of teenagers and went on to receive national attention. According to the CP24 newsbrief, the last student production to be mounted on the Stratford stage - which Big Box Story was, last night - was King Whistle!, which is proving nearly impossible to track down.
High school drama? That's actually not unheard of: student drama has been done in both Stratford and elsewhere, and it's always a nice acknowledgment of the high drama that high school tends to produce. Naturally, it tends to take a back seat to "real" theatrics. Big Box Story, on the other hand, is something else entirely.
First of all, it's amazingly polished. Some of the lead roles went to kids in the ninth grade - kids who subsequently had to sing, dance, and kiss each other onstage (insert death by mortification for your average fourteen-year-old). There were a dozen or so songs, plus choreography, and there was rarely fewer than a half-dozen people onstage. Just the kind of mental calisthenics required for everyone to perform is pretty amazing. Oh yeah - how many people is "everyone"? About forty. That's...a lot.
During last night's opening remarks, the Festival's Artistic Director Des McAnuff joked that with a cast that size, "this was the largest opening of 2009." It wasn't just the size of the cast or the age of the playwright that got people buzzing: this was a real-deal Community Event. The Avon Theater seats 1100 people. It was sold out. There were custom-made mugs in local coffee shops and Big Box Story-themed window displays in local boutiques.
It's a touch frustrating, because the media was all over the fact that the playwright is an 18-year-old child of Stratford Festival musicians: they sort of left out the rest of the players. This cast has been rehearsing and performing since January, which is a long time to be putting in 10-hour days of unpaid rehearsal. Not to mention many of these students were also involved in Absolute Alice, the show that went all the way to the provincials. Not to mention that they're all full-time students. Not to mention all that previously-mentioned singing, dancing, kissing, etc.
So! Congratulations to every single person in the cast and crew: you are all stars. You were all, by turn, touching, hilarious, goofy, kind, mean, and frazzled. You were all total professionals. You were all so watchable and entertaining, without hitting any of the false notes that sometimes comes from teenagers pretending to be adults. It wasn't even sweet in that aw-look-at-our-kids way: it transcended that, and launched you into the stratosphere. Brava! Bravo!
High school drama? That's actually not unheard of: student drama has been done in both Stratford and elsewhere, and it's always a nice acknowledgment of the high drama that high school tends to produce. Naturally, it tends to take a back seat to "real" theatrics. Big Box Story, on the other hand, is something else entirely.
First of all, it's amazingly polished. Some of the lead roles went to kids in the ninth grade - kids who subsequently had to sing, dance, and kiss each other onstage (insert death by mortification for your average fourteen-year-old). There were a dozen or so songs, plus choreography, and there was rarely fewer than a half-dozen people onstage. Just the kind of mental calisthenics required for everyone to perform is pretty amazing. Oh yeah - how many people is "everyone"? About forty. That's...a lot.
During last night's opening remarks, the Festival's Artistic Director Des McAnuff joked that with a cast that size, "this was the largest opening of 2009." It wasn't just the size of the cast or the age of the playwright that got people buzzing: this was a real-deal Community Event. The Avon Theater seats 1100 people. It was sold out. There were custom-made mugs in local coffee shops and Big Box Story-themed window displays in local boutiques.
It's a touch frustrating, because the media was all over the fact that the playwright is an 18-year-old child of Stratford Festival musicians: they sort of left out the rest of the players. This cast has been rehearsing and performing since January, which is a long time to be putting in 10-hour days of unpaid rehearsal. Not to mention many of these students were also involved in Absolute Alice, the show that went all the way to the provincials. Not to mention that they're all full-time students. Not to mention all that previously-mentioned singing, dancing, kissing, etc.
So! Congratulations to every single person in the cast and crew: you are all stars. You were all, by turn, touching, hilarious, goofy, kind, mean, and frazzled. You were all total professionals. You were all so watchable and entertaining, without hitting any of the false notes that sometimes comes from teenagers pretending to be adults. It wasn't even sweet in that aw-look-at-our-kids way: it transcended that, and launched you into the stratosphere. Brava! Bravo!
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Drunk and Disorderly
Last night, I had the misplaced pleasure of spending time with a person who actively doesn't like me. As the night progressed, I grew to dislike him right back.
It's unclear as to whether or not this person (let's call him Ted) is specific in his dislike - i.e., me alone - or if he's an misanthrope, or if he was just drunk and being a shit-disturbing ass. It's possible that he was and is all three. Anyway, Ted informed me that I was "outclassed," conversationally. He did this about ten minutes before he drunkenly face-planted trying to hop a fence.
Obviously, this kind of behaviour bothers me a little. It's not impossible that I was outclassed - I'm smart, but I'm not a rhetorician - but the primary concern I have with people like Ted, people who pick fights because they're smart, drunk, bored, want to seem impressive, or whatever other reason, is that often, they're not very good at it.
We all know that blowhard who insists that American football < soccer < "football" (and occasionally, for extra cheese, he throws in rugby to confuse and annoy everyone), but it takes some seriously misguided cojones to sit in a crowded bar and rail about the Jews controlling everything. Even though it was in jest (or so he claims), there are social settings in which one should refrain from shouting about ZOG and its minions. Those settings include: everywhere, all the time.
In addition to the offensive and personal attacks Ted made on his friends and tablemates, there was the problem with his conversation style. He slurred and mumbled, which led to my asking "What?" (as in pardon me, please repeat that; not as in I don't understand what you're talking about), which led Ted to make fun of me for not grasping his concepts. The "concepts" (such as they were) fell from that highly respected school of drunk pseudo-smart conversation. Make a broad and offensive claim, wait for the indignant response, and then mock for either "falling for it" or up the ante to even more offensive schtick.
I did, in fact, fall for it: my liberal education has sort of trained me to raised up them hackles when someone says shit like "The Holocaust didn't happen," even if it's supposed to be a hilarious joke.
The problem was two-fold: Ted was drunk, whereas I was sober; furthermore, Ted hasn't gone to university, whereas I have. Needing to prove that you can push past the drunken barrier and the educational fence must be tiring, and unfortunately seemed to have used all the energy reserves that otherwise would have gone into things like empathy and politeness. This is not uncommon among the drunk and surly set. Needing to be right becomes the top priority. If being right becomes impossible, sardonically dismissing the entire conversation (and the people engaging in it) as a joke saves a bit of face.
I used to engage with this type more. I enjoy a good argument - my parents can totally attest - and I also like being right. In recent years, I made the shift from "being right" to "being heard," which, alas, usually ends up being the same thing. Then I started paying more attention to how I actually felt during these so-called fun debates, and the truth is, they're not really all that fun.
Look, sitting down with friends and getting onto a potentially contentious topic is often a blast: gets the blood flowing, lets you get to know them better, and gives a safe space for healthy disagreement. But sitting down with a stranger who is hell-bent on hurting your feelings is, um, different. It's too close to an actual fight to make it interesting: I spend too much time being mad and not enough time being thoughtful. Plus, it totally makes my stomach hurt.
Anyway, it was educational, in a way. For instance, I learned that I don't want to see that dude again! I also learned that when I get faced with these chuckleheads who perceive my presence as some sort of personal threat or attack, I should just walk away. It's not worth it to me to be right or heard when I'm dealing with these guys (and they are usually guys, for some reason): it's worth it for me to be content.
It's unclear as to whether or not this person (let's call him Ted) is specific in his dislike - i.e., me alone - or if he's an misanthrope, or if he was just drunk and being a shit-disturbing ass. It's possible that he was and is all three. Anyway, Ted informed me that I was "outclassed," conversationally. He did this about ten minutes before he drunkenly face-planted trying to hop a fence.
Obviously, this kind of behaviour bothers me a little. It's not impossible that I was outclassed - I'm smart, but I'm not a rhetorician - but the primary concern I have with people like Ted, people who pick fights because they're smart, drunk, bored, want to seem impressive, or whatever other reason, is that often, they're not very good at it.
We all know that blowhard who insists that American football < soccer < "football" (and occasionally, for extra cheese, he throws in rugby to confuse and annoy everyone), but it takes some seriously misguided cojones to sit in a crowded bar and rail about the Jews controlling everything. Even though it was in jest (or so he claims), there are social settings in which one should refrain from shouting about ZOG and its minions. Those settings include: everywhere, all the time.
In addition to the offensive and personal attacks Ted made on his friends and tablemates, there was the problem with his conversation style. He slurred and mumbled, which led to my asking "What?" (as in pardon me, please repeat that; not as in I don't understand what you're talking about), which led Ted to make fun of me for not grasping his concepts. The "concepts" (such as they were) fell from that highly respected school of drunk pseudo-smart conversation. Make a broad and offensive claim, wait for the indignant response, and then mock for either "falling for it" or up the ante to even more offensive schtick.
I did, in fact, fall for it: my liberal education has sort of trained me to raised up them hackles when someone says shit like "The Holocaust didn't happen," even if it's supposed to be a hilarious joke.
The problem was two-fold: Ted was drunk, whereas I was sober; furthermore, Ted hasn't gone to university, whereas I have. Needing to prove that you can push past the drunken barrier and the educational fence must be tiring, and unfortunately seemed to have used all the energy reserves that otherwise would have gone into things like empathy and politeness. This is not uncommon among the drunk and surly set. Needing to be right becomes the top priority. If being right becomes impossible, sardonically dismissing the entire conversation (and the people engaging in it) as a joke saves a bit of face.
I used to engage with this type more. I enjoy a good argument - my parents can totally attest - and I also like being right. In recent years, I made the shift from "being right" to "being heard," which, alas, usually ends up being the same thing. Then I started paying more attention to how I actually felt during these so-called fun debates, and the truth is, they're not really all that fun.
Look, sitting down with friends and getting onto a potentially contentious topic is often a blast: gets the blood flowing, lets you get to know them better, and gives a safe space for healthy disagreement. But sitting down with a stranger who is hell-bent on hurting your feelings is, um, different. It's too close to an actual fight to make it interesting: I spend too much time being mad and not enough time being thoughtful. Plus, it totally makes my stomach hurt.
Anyway, it was educational, in a way. For instance, I learned that I don't want to see that dude again! I also learned that when I get faced with these chuckleheads who perceive my presence as some sort of personal threat or attack, I should just walk away. It's not worth it to me to be right or heard when I'm dealing with these guys (and they are usually guys, for some reason): it's worth it for me to be content.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Park Your Butt
Most of the time, I love living in the city. I have access to the things, people and places that I feel I need to survive: friends, gluten-free cookies, used CD shops, concerts, coffee shops, pay phones, pharmacies that stay open until midnight, and the library. Even though I owe a ton of money to the libraries (yeah, with an s: I am notorious for owing cash to each of the four libraries I belong to), it still gives me a warm glow to know I can access damn near everything.
On the other hand, sometimes I get to wishing I had access to a more natural space. I love the urban amenities, but Toronto isn't renowned forbeing overly nature-ish. Even though allegedly it's the "city within a park," it's surprisingly difficult to get at the green spaces. Sure, the Humber Valley is sort of there, as is the Don Valley trail, but they're both kind of ho-hum in really creating a natural setting for urbanites to explore. I mean, for Pete's sake, the DVP runs right through the Don Valley. It might be a haven for cyclists, but the only river that flows through the Don Valley is one made up of Mazdas and Mack trucks.
I admire cities that have really exerted themselves in creating or maintaining natural spaces. New York City's Central Park is the most obvious example, even though it's more park than forest or nature reserve. Savannah (go Sandgnats!) has this remarkable archipelago-style park system that greens up the city real nice, even as they're all hemmed in by buildings.
Toronto, when viewed from above, is desperate for the green. High Park might be considered "downtown" if you live in, like, Rexdale (go Streethawks!), but it's pretty far West for a lot of folks. Besides, even if there was a 100-acre wood right across the street from me, it might not be enough. I'm getting a hankering for the big vista. I am not really a nature girl, but I love the idea of the natural world. I love watching the water, and having to fight through an escarpment of condos to get to the lake ain't my idea of a great time.
Giving up the great views for bonuses like all-night shawarma joints is just one of the trade-offs you get for choosing to live in a big city. Urban living, while not rife natural spaces, allows me to live a uniquely eco-friendly lifestyle: I don't drive, I bike, I can shop at Ontario farmer's markets, I can buy second-hand clothes, I can curb-score my cookware, and I can live with lots of other people. Living in the country, with all those great views, wouldn't let me do any of those things.
I'll eventually spend time away from Toronto (go, grad school!), and when I do, I'd like to have sought out some different landscapes. Canada is just chock-a-block with different geographies, and a summer on the Praries or a winter in Southern BC might be a great cure for the skyscraper blues.
On the other hand, sometimes I get to wishing I had access to a more natural space. I love the urban amenities, but Toronto isn't renowned forbeing overly nature-ish. Even though allegedly it's the "city within a park," it's surprisingly difficult to get at the green spaces. Sure, the Humber Valley is sort of there, as is the Don Valley trail, but they're both kind of ho-hum in really creating a natural setting for urbanites to explore. I mean, for Pete's sake, the DVP runs right through the Don Valley. It might be a haven for cyclists, but the only river that flows through the Don Valley is one made up of Mazdas and Mack trucks.
I admire cities that have really exerted themselves in creating or maintaining natural spaces. New York City's Central Park is the most obvious example, even though it's more park than forest or nature reserve. Savannah (go Sandgnats!) has this remarkable archipelago-style park system that greens up the city real nice, even as they're all hemmed in by buildings.
Toronto, when viewed from above, is desperate for the green. High Park might be considered "downtown" if you live in, like, Rexdale (go Streethawks!), but it's pretty far West for a lot of folks. Besides, even if there was a 100-acre wood right across the street from me, it might not be enough. I'm getting a hankering for the big vista. I am not really a nature girl, but I love the idea of the natural world. I love watching the water, and having to fight through an escarpment of condos to get to the lake ain't my idea of a great time.
Giving up the great views for bonuses like all-night shawarma joints is just one of the trade-offs you get for choosing to live in a big city. Urban living, while not rife natural spaces, allows me to live a uniquely eco-friendly lifestyle: I don't drive, I bike, I can shop at Ontario farmer's markets, I can buy second-hand clothes, I can curb-score my cookware, and I can live with lots of other people. Living in the country, with all those great views, wouldn't let me do any of those things.
I'll eventually spend time away from Toronto (go, grad school!), and when I do, I'd like to have sought out some different landscapes. Canada is just chock-a-block with different geographies, and a summer on the Praries or a winter in Southern BC might be a great cure for the skyscraper blues.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Turn! Turn! Turn!
Man, I am not really a summer girl, but I sort of hate the thought of losing it. I usually love the change of seasons, but Summer Oh-Nine hasn't really felt like a mojito party on the beach. It's seemed more like a vague segue between late spring and late fall, with a handful of blisteringly hot days thrown in to confuse and dehydrate us.
I know, I know - Toronto gets an easy-breezy winter compared to places like Regina and Winnipeg. I shouldn't be bitching. I should just be thanking my lucky stars that I've never had to be one of the 6,184 souls toughing it out in Iqaluit. Blah blah blah. Toronto still gets slammed with some unpleasant precipitation. Look, we all know that Vancouver has the weeniest Canadian winter. Boo hoo, it rains a lot. But when your winters look like this instead of this, it's a mite difficult to muster up the sympathy. Even if it does rain, it's not like you're out there - y'all seem busy with other hobbies. (Stereotypical? Yes. Sue me.)
This summer was kind of lame. Sure, it had some hot days, and the nights were pleasant and cool. It's always a drag when your (read: my) apartment heats up to roughly cookie-baking temperature; it tends to make sleeping really shitty. But overall, it seemed so blah. There was the garbage strike - and thank god it wasn't hotter, or else the city would have stunk -and that meant no Canada Day fireworks or sneaking into public pools.
Officially, the rainiest summer on record was just last year. But didn't this year feel like it was sort of off-kilter? And it's almost over! It's like that joke in Annie Hall: The food here is terrible! And such small small portions!
All right, I'll stop bitching. To everything there is a season (Turn! Turn! Turn!) and summer 2010 is a scant ten months away. That'll bring the South Africa-hosted World Cup, the release of Toy Story 3 (what? I was twelve years old when the first one came out. It was awesome then, and it's awesome now), and my long-delayed graduation party (only eight years . It will also mean the end of those terrible CTV Olympics ads, which seriously can't come fast enough.
So: gods of summer. Small request. Give me a glorious Indian summer in mid-to-late October - just a few more days to sit out on the deck and watch the snow not fly - and I'll do my best to keep the moaning about the upcoming winter and this bust of a summer to my own bitter self.
I know, I know - Toronto gets an easy-breezy winter compared to places like Regina and Winnipeg. I shouldn't be bitching. I should just be thanking my lucky stars that I've never had to be one of the 6,184 souls toughing it out in Iqaluit. Blah blah blah. Toronto still gets slammed with some unpleasant precipitation. Look, we all know that Vancouver has the weeniest Canadian winter. Boo hoo, it rains a lot. But when your winters look like this instead of this, it's a mite difficult to muster up the sympathy. Even if it does rain, it's not like you're out there - y'all seem busy with other hobbies. (Stereotypical? Yes. Sue me.)
This summer was kind of lame. Sure, it had some hot days, and the nights were pleasant and cool. It's always a drag when your (read: my) apartment heats up to roughly cookie-baking temperature; it tends to make sleeping really shitty. But overall, it seemed so blah. There was the garbage strike - and thank god it wasn't hotter, or else the city would have stunk -and that meant no Canada Day fireworks or sneaking into public pools.
Officially, the rainiest summer on record was just last year. But didn't this year feel like it was sort of off-kilter? And it's almost over! It's like that joke in Annie Hall: The food here is terrible! And such small small portions!
All right, I'll stop bitching. To everything there is a season (Turn! Turn! Turn!) and summer 2010 is a scant ten months away. That'll bring the South Africa-hosted World Cup, the release of Toy Story 3 (what? I was twelve years old when the first one came out. It was awesome then, and it's awesome now), and my long-delayed graduation party (only eight years . It will also mean the end of those terrible CTV Olympics ads, which seriously can't come fast enough.
So: gods of summer. Small request. Give me a glorious Indian summer in mid-to-late October - just a few more days to sit out on the deck and watch the snow not fly - and I'll do my best to keep the moaning about the upcoming winter and this bust of a summer to my own bitter self.
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