Paved was a project commissioned by the Toronto Star, a unique effort to experiment with a hyperlocal weblog presence in the Greater Toronto Area, during the brief era when terms like “citizen journalism” and “participatory media” were intriguing (and confounding) traditional print newsrooms across the continent. Plans for the blog were sketched out over the course of September 2005, and the site went live October 6 (first workday of the Jewish calendar year 5766), with at least one post appearing each weekday (a few Fridays were taken off) through June 29. The very first proper prolific blog focused exclusively on Toronto, and not presented in the first person, was Better Living Centre (”BLC”), a voluntary effort launched September 1, 2004, published almost daily through mid-February 2005. Several other weblog format titles dedicated to Toronto emerged between fall 2004 and summer 2005, including Torontoist, blogTO, Reading Toronto and Spacing Wire. (The very invisible Metroblogging Toronto preceded all those.) Paved links appeared on the Toronto Star website on a regular basis, which was most effective when attached to a front page story, although results of that promotion varied. For a number of reasons, or maybe no reason whatsoever, the approach to the site evolved from a daily publication with multiple shorter posts, to a weekly publication updated with longer entries each day. Popular online topics during the life of Paved included Toronto’s alleged cultural renaissance, semi-unironic affection for – and frustration with – the Toronto Transit Commission, and the divorce of local actors Mary Jo Eustace and Dean McDermott after he had an affair with his next wife, Tori Spelling.
NOTE: Most images are in the process of being reformatted for this site.
… and that’s a wrap on this season of Paved. Things got started here back on October 6, with the agenda of reflecting the online action in the GTA, and plenty of links to the hot topics du jour. The format transformed during that period, as shorter posts excerpting from individual sites, and the occasional tip about what was happening around the city, settled into a one-a-day ritual with longer headlines, bigger pictures, and lengthier chunks of text. Some of the posts managed to cover news several days ahead of the mainstream media curve, other posts tried to supplement pieces that originated in various publications, and a few posts might’ve turned out relatively unreadable – such is the risk of working without an editor, in a style determinedly distinct from the work of a traditional reporter or columnist. It didn’t hurt that this was a provocative past year in the history of Toronto politics, society, media, culture, narcissism and self-awareness – as covered in the wrap-up, Pavedover – along with Canada’s first federal election race where blogging was a legitimate factor, not to mention all the GTA-related zeitgeist still lurking in the archives. None of this would’ve been compiled without a hearty sense of adventure at the Toronto Star, whose online laboratory scientists commissioned this project, and frequently linked to specific items at thestar.com. And, in return, they received the internet journalism equivalent of the halcyon days of free-form progressive FM radio, genuinely inspired by the weblog culture nurtured over the last few years, with hopefully even greater explorations ahead. Now, what happens to the blaugerista – who’s gone this far without using a first-person pronoun – is a bit more uncertain. Naturally, relevant updates will appear here, especially if the site resumes in some form. Meanwhile, there’s time to ponder the next big situation, whether or not you know where to find it: pavedblog@gmail.com
Malcontents pecking out their every brainwave through that security blanket called a keyboard might’ve brought blogging into your vocabulary, but a website of nothing but idiosyncratic opinion has become a pretty primitive format heading into summer 2006, as the medium evolves beyond pages of solitary text. Lately, it’s been all about the “Me Media”, motivating Rupert Murdoch to herald this a golden age – and even if the complete evaporation of print media isn’t happening tomorrow, nobody has the right to be entirely sure. The year of Rathergate (and Adscam) begat partisan trust funds shoveled into schemes like The Huffington Post and Pajamas Media, founded on the expectation that a higher calibre of malcontent would be motivated by a broader platform. But having access to every morsel of information has necessitated hierarchies not unlike a pop chart – especially when cranks get tired of feeding, let alone reading, comment threads – even prompting AOL to slap the dubious Netscape brand on a social news site. Wasn’t hyperlocal participatory citizen journalism supposed to be all the rage? Maybe not, considering how fears of being besieged by an onslaught of websites from amateur talent more compelling than pros have been tempered with time; a power shift that accommodates the people formerly known as the audience is more realistic than media companies expecting that “users” will do the heavy creative lifting on their behalf, then simply package that volunteer input for advertisers. The inability of Canwest’s Dose to harness that energy into print aimed at a supposedly elusive demographic was one such flop – however, the online audience isn’t receptive to anyone who tries too hard to bait their attention. Niche conversations endured the dot-com crash because there is no way to monetize most topics for the passive masses, but keeping topics closer to home has inspired cityblog franchises, where the monkey typewriter principle favours vague observations over interactive rants, although visuals are proving a more effective method of relaying local flavour anyhow. Waiting to be explored is the true definition of cyberjournalism, now that Wi-Fi will supply reporters with more room to roam, if they can appreciate the idea of delivering the first word on a subject rather than the last.
[Weekly Bloog cover courtesy of Paved's logo designer Brett Lamb]
Wither the made-in-Toronto celebrity? Y’know, those personalities who never aimed higher than recognition on this turf, due to their own ingrained inferiority, with federal regulations ensuring steady paycheques for mediocre effort. Mary Jo Eustace must’ve noticed the dearth of faces filling those roles – fortuitously, her husband left her for Tori Spelling just in time for the inheritance, and Mary Jo was the most searched name in this past nine months of this site, as she resumed cultivating the kind of fame afforded an ex-cooking show sidekick. During this period, where a program reporting on celebrities became a more coveted gig than getting chased for a quote, being the editrix of rag mags known for using as few words as possible to deconstruct the physiological condition of famous people was enough for a homecoming parade – as Bonnie Fuller earned more media fawning than copies sold of The Joys of Much Too Much. (The attention did the trick, since Fuller renewed her contract for at least $2 million a year.) Weekly Scoop, a CanCon variant on Fuller’s formulae, concocted by Torstar, lasted no longer than a baby bump, likely for lack of original reporting save access to the McDonald’s where a drunk Ashlee Simpson hurled epithets at the counter help. Yet, the lack of compelling homegrown grist in ground zero of the Global Village oughta be regarded as more opportunity than crisis, if only the remaining vestiges of protectionism can finish getting clobbered by technology. For the time being, Toronto remains a hicktown starry-eyed at the notion of Broken Social Scene getting profiled in The New York Times Magazine, even though the idea of investigating trends for a broad national audience was deemed unsustainable at Saturday Night. Last fall’s CBC lockout generated its share of online soul-searching, especially once it sunk in that public broadcasters could just as readily spout their words through a file uploaded directly from a picket line. A quest to overcome narrowcasting leads to Peter Mansbridge dislodged from his 10 p.m. porch once a week this summer, as part of the CBC’s gamble on another dodgy singing competition, although the age when all sound and vision is digitally delivered might make the process of generating new ideas return to a calling higher than the exec whose job it has been to discourage them. For now, take comfort in the small print clarifying that Ben Mulroney’s alleged salary is still just 40 per cent of a million bucks.
Nine months of this site have coincided with the flourishing of conversations about Toronto – although urban planning fantasies, enthusiasm for an upper-middlebrow cultural renaissance and self-laudatory tales of tolerance, diversity and pluralism don’t make the city seem any less mundane in the present tense. Mercifully, the current micro-realities of life in the GTA are increasingly being examined in various places, encouraged by the broadening reach of online media. Yet, the next municipal election may just turn out to be a dry run of how campaigns can be ignited by virtual debate in the future – David Miller seems unscathed by Jane Pitfield’s braying about decay, although Adam Vaughan and now John Sewell are bidding for council seats on the basis that misguided construction projects have cursed central Toronto with its own doomsday clock. Shouldn’t the number of cranes in the air reflect decades of prosperity ahead, though? The argument that corporate interests are destined to swallow the soul of every genuine neighbourhood may not wash when Yonge and Dundas and Queen and Dufferin are being transformed into less antagonistic intersections, if not more aesthetically rewarding ones. More recently, written off as unappealing to consumers have been the Starbucks-free environs of Chinatown, along with retail tumbleweeds at the three-year-old Distillery District. Now that Lord of the Rings doesn’t look to be saving the tourism industry, the mass marketing of Toronto could only benefit from turning inward. Photoblogs and thematic sets on Flickr can’t help but inspire greater attention to local architecture and design; 21st century publishing methods allow for a website obsessing over Leslieville, blogs about the Don River Valley and North Roncesvalles, and a zine about the 54 East bus route; topics like a smokestack demolition in Mississauga or expropriation of land for an airport in Pickering are closer to home for 416 snobs when the surrounding details are easily searched. Public transit and bike riding issues have been similarly elevated online. Walking seems to be the latest local media trend, though – surely influenced by the Toronto Psychogeography Society – with extreme pedestrianism celebrated in the broadsheets. So, where is the weblog about driving in this town?
Corey Haim performed the most tragic disappearing act in the history of Toronto-bred celebrities by being in no condition to parade himself as a Hollywood casualty. A jaunty 2004 song called “Whatever Happened to Corey Haim?” by Irish band The Thrills earned him some ink after The Sun U.K. tabloid ventured to find an answer: “I’m clean, sober, humble and happy.” Yet, there wasn’t much hometown love after Haim did promotional rounds for a special edition DVD release of License to Drive. The widely-circulated CP24 story described him as “almost an unrecognizable shadow of his former self”, adding “he’s twice the size and twice the age” – a staggering expression of cruelty from the sycophantic local celebrity media. This lack of compassion for Haim dates back five years, when a True Hollywood Story episode showed the still-slackjawed teen heartthrob unintelligibly blathering about his first break as a child actor; following a drug-induced stroke, he was unsuccessful at auctioning off his extracted molar on eBay, although clumps of his hair remained readily available. Corey Feldman, who co-starred with Haim in seven increasingly obscure flicks, claimed in 2002 that the duo were all set to co-host a game show called Corey vs. Corey, until the Canadian half of the duo suffered his drug relapse. Now, a report in Variety floats The Coreys, “a hybrid improv comedy that would center on fictional versions of themselves” where 35-year-old Feldman’s comfortable suburban bliss with his 23-year-old wife – they were married by M.C. Hammer on an episode of The Surreal Life – is disrupted by a certain bloated couch-surfer who shares his first name, who is (a) dismayed that he can’t find a publisher for his tell-all book about a fling with Victoria Beckham (b) on the run from too many late fees at video stores around Yonge and Eglinton (c) killing time until his starring role in a Canadian movie about the rave scene can be delayed for long enough to pass for retro. Sadly, the Coreys are suffering from the delusion that they’re qualified to emulate Curb Your Enthusiasm instead of battling over who is most scarred from being financially exploited by their parents, finding out who would more money for selling bodily discharge at conventions, and determining who has transmitted the most infection to aspiring actresses – contests that would never be tried on Kenny vs. Spenny.
How about that contest to lead the Liberal Party of Canada? A process lasting longer than a hockey season has officially stultified the pundits paid to keep track of the debate between candidates, reflecting the disillusion of party members who are supposed to be generating enthusiasm for Paul Martin’s replacement, before the July 1 deadline to sign up party members. Warren Kinsella isn’t so quick to write off “the most successful political machine in Western democracy”, even if this eleven-candidate battle has failed to generate sufficient friction. The movement to keep Michael Ignatieff from coasting into contention has merited its own website, Stop Iggy, and reinforced support of military action in Afghanistan becomes one less reason to believe Ignatieff would be a convincing replacement for Stephen Harper. Liblogger Jason Cherniak points out Bob Rae’s effort to develop a different message than his old university roommate “risks turning our Afghanistan policy into meaningless mush”, even though Rae has also vowed to not directly attack his leadership opponents. Greg Morrow is left asking on his democraticSPACE blog whether the Liberals want to present themselves as a top-down or bottom-up party – and if they choose a leader based on elitist appeal alone “both Stephen Harper and Jack Layton will surely see better days ahead”. But the grassroots image cultivated by Gerard Kennedy – who is making the most concerted effort to interact with bloggers – will invariably be accompanied by criticism that he lacks the statesman experience to make it on the world stage, and whether the endorsement of just two dozen of his Queen’s Park colleagues is indicative of a charismatic defect, even if he can make the case that becoming Prime Minister would be a natural progression from his established reputation in Toronto. The longer-shot sitting MPs Maurizio Bevilacqua and Scott Brison are doing their part to argue that, whomever the next Liberal leader turns out to be, they oughta be in the demographic range of the current PM. Meanwhile, Martha Hall Findlay has nothing to lose by articulating the bitterness felt by party faithful, who’d be rallying to amplify her voice – if they weren’t unaccustomed to outsider status.
Summer must be in the air, because widespread coverage of the Lactation Station Breast Milk Bar hasn’t generated the sort of froth that such performance art traditionally depends on. A story on the CP wire explained how the pasteurized and culture tested by-product of six women would be available for tasting at the OCAD Professional Gallery on July 13 – while noting that bartender Jess Dobkin scored a $9,000 Canada Council grant for her efforts. But when Conservative MPs were grilled for comment, even Jason Kenney kept his foot away from his mouth: “Personally I think we should be funding cultural endeavours that actually draw an audience, that people are actually interested in.” The conclusion is that the era of outrage directed at federally funded projects like the dress made out of meat, the unwatchable porn parody flick Bubbles Galore and the masturbating Mexican may be over; indignation over community standards have been superseded by online access to every fetish, which means the the most offensive thing a performance artist can do is seem boring to their potential critics. While the taxpayer funding provides grist for grumpy commenters at Small Dead Animals and Free Republic, if a place called Lactation Station was selling pumps to nursing moms in Salt Lake City dating back to 1989, the provocation level for this stunt seems limited, even with the invitation for strangers to get a taste. Nonetheless, the attention has surpassed the effect of Dobkin’s previous projects, most of which concern perverted puppets, items being planted in assorted orifices and desperate yelps for attention – also, due to her preoccupation with getting hitched to fire hydrants, lamp posts and street signs, part of a commentary on same-sex marriage remaining unlawful in her previous home of New York City, it seems Dobkin had no choice but to approach her own motherhood as a solitary task. Lactation Station is just the opening salvo of Five Holes: Matters of Taste, an annual series that will also feature a woman having her body treated in a style meant to evoke the preparation of Kobe beef, apartment building models made from mouth freshening strips placed on the tongues of Regent Park residents, and a live remake of the movie Liquid Sky, set in late-’80s Toronto, a/k/a “a period of pacifying and distressing self-absorption”.
When the referrer logs start whirring with the name “Mary Jo Eustace”, it must mean her romantic rival Tori Spelling did something public with her new husband Dean McDermott – and, in this case, it was ensure the spurned ex-wife wasn’t allowed through the door of the MuchMusic Video Awards, an unlikely event for a woman on the far side of 40 to feel determined to crash. Just six-and-a-half months after Eustace’s future employer CTV breathlessly reported that Dean knocked up Tori, while both were still married to other people, the new Mrs. McDermott was flaunting a frock loose enough to accommodate the whole hockey team they aspire to breed: “When you have a young wife, they can actually have more children because they start younger”, Spelling said of her 33-year-old self, while ejected Mary Jo was forced to lurch off into the sunset, ending her three-week drought of media attention since moving back home. The annual MMVAs fulfilled the task of supplying the print media with a list of winners – rap ‘n’ roll videos produced during a year when broadcast television essentially ran its quarter-century course as a relevant platform for music clips – while supplying the celebrity press with the most heavily concentrated annual quota of Toronto-based glitz. And don’t forget the online snipers who find this spectacle offensive, because it seemed more moronic compared to when they were in the target audience, as if marketing schlock aimed squarely at pre-teens ever benefitted from accommodating the perspective of viewers old enough to copulate. Well, yesterday’s photocopied fanzine dedicated to Erica Ehm is today’s online petition to get Leah Miller off the air – yet the advent of a ringtone that adults can’t hear is emblematic of youth culture returning to its adolescent cocoon, instead of being dangled as a source of vigorous subversion worthy of adult attention, lest you end up accused of being as old as Mary Jo Eustace. The shambling MMVAs don’t lend themselves to liveblogging either, although retired pop critic Aaron Wherry kept a scorecard, blogger John Cairns sketched some impressions of the crowd, and self-flagellating freak show Mario “Perez Hilton” Lavandeira will presumably take great care to disclose the contents of his own $20,000 gift bag at airport customs.
Most local online commentary about the first week of the FIFA World Cup consists of conflicted remarks about how this city feels like quite the multicultural wonderland – but do those people whooping it up in certain neighbourhoods after each game have to make so much damn noise? Prior to the legendary celebration on St. Clair Ave. W. after the Italian victory in 1982, such exuberance might’ve been confined to the occasional riot at a rock show, leading to antiseptic concert venues with a gauntlet of security personnel, as if mass-produced music could inspire such tribal devotion anymore. Now, each victory lap by a clown car packed with painted faces, traversing the avenues for seven hours after a winning goal, should be considered an organic triumph for public space. A posting at ecozine Treehugger takes note of the crowds huddling to watch midday games in front of the William Ashley China shop on Bloor, “a scene reminiscent of when people gathered in front of TV store windows to see Neil Armstrong step onto the moon”. Mercifully, the campaign to make Toronto qua Toronto seem more interesting for its own sake can also take a month off in favour of these siestas of football fixation. A couple of blogspots are keeping track the action from a local perspective, too: T.O. World Cup is a daily chronicle from blogger “Harding” – a diversion from his other sites T.O. Crime and T.O. Homicide – which has included a trek to Roncesvalles after the elimination of Poland, where the slated-for-closure Revue Cinema looked particularly forlorn, especially in contrast to the halftime clanging captured at College and Ossington leading up to Brazil’s victory, complete with cameo appearance from provincial NDP leader Howard Hampton. World Cup of Toronto is a similar guerilla caravan, although blogger “Cupcake Man” seems eager to seek out the fans of countries more likely to respond to a match result by getting even more inebriated, rather than marauding through downtown streets – like his ambitious trek to the Golden Lion in Etobicoke to share in the humiliation of Ukrainian fans, suddenly discovering that Hemingway’s in Yorkville is an Australian bar, and getting barred from a German bash at the Goethe Institute. Blackberry blogger Andrew Spicer, meanwhile, is letting the party come to him by trying to keep score of every flag that he sees.
