paved :: marc weisblott

A common denominator of the GTA Trendwatch is the awakening of appreciation for the city itself, a concept that once seemed all but improbable, especially if you’ve spent too many years trudging around these parts. It wasn’t long ago that anyone demonstrating unbridled enthusiasm for living here would have been considered naive, bereft of the self-esteem required to leap beyond these streets – which might’ve only have become defined as home by accident of birth, or someone else’s arbitrary immigration idea, or a default escape from being stuck in a smaller town. But the symbols of Toronto rut through previous decades must’ve reflected someone’s ideal, no? The transition of an area like Yorkville from 1960s counterculture haven to 1970s-style bland overindulgence was certainly the embodiment of baby boomer ambition – when a similar thing occurred on Queen Street West, it was chalked up to progress, supplying locals with a more sanitized environment where they could blather about how they’d rather move to NYC. And those satisfied with their acquired stability around these parts would learn to love the big box stores in any given suburb. There might’ve the occasional bout of rage against an overzealous developer, and plenty of lamenting of how it used to be, but no widespread proactive conversation about how things might be created better. Now, real estate trends of the last few years have fueled interest in procuring a downtown-esque address – and many parts of town once deemed detrimental to status climbing now find themselves being properly woven into the city fabric, awaiting exploration by residents with no plans of straying elsewhere. But these things can be cyclical, too. So, what’s it going to take for all of this pro-Toronto sentiment to stick?

Gang-related carnage in the Downtown Yonge district risks seeming like a blight on a decade of renewal effort, but downtown Toronto’s centre of gravity was already spreading well beyond a strip of record stores anyhow. The genuinely surreal scene at Dundas Square in mid-November – where a sombre anti-gun violence rally was interrupted by a pillowfight – demonstrated the contrast between the harsher Toronto being depicted in headlines and an ongoing quest to make such exuberant extemporaneousness possible in public areas. The shortcomings of this town can usually be chalked up to bad planning – but efforts to reconstruct the housing mishap that is Regent Park, making the waterfront feel like less of a fortress, and cultural buildings engaged with the outside theoretically add up to an urban renaissance. Condominiums pitching a high-rise, high-tech and high-maintenance solitude may not do much in terms of fostering community; a kind of spirit that’s more easily roused in opposition to proposals like that millionaire monstrosity adjacent to The ROM. The vacant Planetarium is just one of several endangered High Modernist structures, the embodiment of space age optimism, whose perilous fate has moved into the spotlight – passion for the Riverdale Hospital may yet save it from demolition. What’s clear is how conversation about places and spaces has reached far beyond the architecture and development set, resulting in a period where even a ridiculous rash of graffiti on a Starbucks can provoke a genuine dialogue about the process of gentrification. No matter how much scrutiny each construction scheme receives, the spontaneous possibilities within the open source city shouldn’t let anyone down.

When it comes to local political squawk throughout the coming year, maybe what looks disproportionate on paper is the way it oughta be – 20 days of federal roulette, followed by about 40 weeks of debating whether or not David Miller deserves to hang on to his job as mayor. The accelerated cycle of opinion and organization reflected in his 2003 election victory could just as handily help hound him out of the position – or at least make opponents feel empowered enough to try. Was our acceptance of the Miller’s High Park congeniality a one-way ticket to lawlessness and disorder? Continuing his mandate may be smoother if voters weren’t conditioned to reflexively ranting against taxes of any kind; and while no single initiative has inspired a wave of enthusiasm lately, impending passage of The City of Toronto Act will provide all sorts of new powers to grouse about. At least the effort to tidy up local machinations provided juicy fodder – both the computer leasing inquiry and cronyism crackdown in the licensing department offered tawdry tales of wacky broads smitten by sharp-dressed hucksters. But the ultimate judgment on Megacity Hall comes down to whether public transit can fulfill the needs of this smog-filled era. While the TTC is being subject to an unprecedented amount of aesthetic contemplation, and debates rage about modifying certain routes, nothing has the power to rile up a citizen more than a vehicle that’s too slow, overcrowded, or never there.

Statistics are showing that New York City’s creative sector is slipping away, the result of skyrocketing prices of everything from real estate to health care to the materials required to put on a show. By contrast, the City of Toronto responded to a Canadian Heritage designation – ambiguously anointing this town as one of five Cultural Capitals with an accompanying $500K handout – by launching TO Live With Culture 05/06, which applied circa 1988 clip art to a campaign supposedly asserting kinetic creativity. Yet, the web portal for Live With Culture simply repurposed existing Toronto Arts Council listings –  more blandness calculated to not dismay municipal mandarins. How old does "new media" need to be before it can be grasped by bureaucrats? Perhaps the official version of the internet’s impact on life and times needs to catch up to its cultural reality. Moreover, despite four or five locally-produced television programs each night theoretically covering entertainment, there remains a dearth of genuine GTA-based celebrities. It could be argued that the town itself is becoming more about show business – with its every choice of role, torrid relationship saga and cosmetic surgery procedure subject to intense scrutiny from the chattering classes – but that’s shortchanging the kind of guerilla notoriety an individual no longer requires a phalanx of publicists, or a recording contract, or an arrest warrant to achieve. A stamp of government approval isn’t going to help in the process either way, considering Toronto remains a place where a shirtless guy in a Santa hat doing push-ups on the sidewalk can actually ascend to something that resembles stardom.

When every instance of heinous behaviour can be so easily relayed, chronicled, and even packaged and sold, doesn’t it follow that we’re going to be subject to more reports about it? Yet, the progression of gun violence in 2005 Toronto, from a playground at twilight, to the steps of a church during a gang member funeral, to the corner of Yonge and Gould on Boxing Day, is a catastrophe that’s arguably taken 15 or 20 years to boil over. Maybe it’ll take at least that long to undo the damage, leaving libertarians to chortle at any suggestion that random weapon searches, or reviving the War Measures Act, or keeping 50 Cent out of the country, will help to remedy the dismal circumstances. Whether tales about school bullying, hockey squad hazing rituals, or hypersexualized displays of university residence exhibitionism, anyone who’s finished stumbling into adulthood can only feel relieved for having escaped the wrath associated with such antics. Will being subject to this daily media spectacle of Generation Y inanity result in even more curmudgeonly grumbling than how those who endured The Great Depression reacted to the post-WWII adolescent menace? The reactions definitely help distinguish between those currently in their 30s – often equal parts boastful and ashamed at not having advanced beyond their own teenage habits and tastes – and the current experience of kids with no first-hand awareness of the world before 1990. As for trying to preempt future social erosion caused by the tykes of today, there’s always the option of spiking the water with Ritalin – at least in all the fountains at elementary school.

Going into the 21st century, the media had become its own favourite topic. But who would’ve imagined, five years later, that even the mightiest of old-fashioned broadsheets – which cleverly underwrites this website – would be chronicling its own endangerment? While all this flux should prove pretty thrilling for those who land on the right side of a rethink, the GTA somehow continues to generate a weekly slew of words on newsprint, too. Nonetheless, the increased amount of invasive advertising via trash bins, public restrooms and spam voicemail must indicate a diminishing appetite for marketing messages planted alongside stories about what happened yesterday. The launch of Dose was accompanied by all sorts of CanWest buzzblather concerning "multiple platforms" and "user-generated content", but it quickly proved an inconsequential hybrid of alt-weekly and lad mag. (A more entertaining source of bi-monthly smudge, the no-budget Toronto Special, puts the "hyper" in hyperlocal journalism in the form of alarmist retro-tabloid.) The fantasy of a critical mass of citizens hovering over their keyboards, waiting to produce a new and improved version of the daily news, has turned out fairly hollow around here. Mercifully, what’s emerging are fresher methods of professionalism, where audiences have a greater capacity to influence the finished product, or tune out altogether. And those of us addicted to the incessant information flow should remember that if you switch things off for a bit, the news cycle will be there when you get back. Problem is, it’ll never remain exactly the way you left it.

"Toronto is one of those rare instances where its true unique nature makes it difficult to describe without being cliché" may be a mouthful, but the phrase featured in the Toronto Unlimited print campaign contained a kernel of accuracy. The unveiling of a new local brand in June resulted in a sponsorship mini-scandal, with the atrocious copywriting, derivative name and logo, and a reported $4 million thrown at focus groups, public consultation and advertising agency expense accounts. Reaction to the effort was inversely proportional to the exuberance the brand project was striving to convey. But would any of the pamphlets piled on travel agent desks stand up to this kind of scrutiny?  Prior to the industry woes magnified by 2003’s visit from SARS, the tourist version of Toronto wasn’t a topic locals gave any thought – they remain more concerned about the state of the Secret Swing than the fate of Casa Loma. Certainly, a sense of place conveyed through your words and pictures online is more evocative than a T.O. teardrop morphing into spoons and balloons, even if the latter approach helps keep layers of bureaucracy preoccupied. We’ll see if tourists can be baited in mid-winter by a stage musical; the theory of The Lord of the Rings as a saviour has already been pounced upon left and right. But there’s also a prevailing sense the city is still two or three years away from its vibrant ideal – perhaps it will always be not quite prepared for its close-up. Toronto: Nothing to see here quite yet … please look away for the next little while …

With the increased number of lives being lived exclusively in the 905 area code, what are the possibilities for creative expression? Themes of feeling confined by the prefab suburbs have already been played out, malls and multiplexes are past their peak as desirable diversions, and primal outlets from swingers clubs to punk bands seem like relics from a faded century. Certain social scientists love to assert how residents of American bedroom communities can now be more eclectic, ecstatic and enlightened than their cynical downtown counterparts – as delightfully illustrated in the opening chapter of On Paradise Drive by David Brooks – but the regions surrounding Toronto haven’t truly asserted themselves beyond a blueprint of identical houses and accompanying creature comforts. But there’s an emerging faction of people rallying against that, too: The photo gallery in Mississauga, whose window displayed a gaudy painting of Mayor Hazel McCallion much to the consternation of the neighbours, drew attention to the city’s indifference toward the arts. Similar frustrations are being aired in the City of Vaughan, whose council somewhat facetiously approved a scheme to get its landscape featured in low-budget movies. And then there’s a scenario like the landscape in Pickering, under renewed consideration for an airport, used for an art installation – highlighting the serenity that risks being sacrificed. Maybe all this means an increased number of outlets for eccentricity 905-style, along the lines of The Brampton Indie Arts Festival. But should the outskirts of Toronto officially encourage such iconoclasm when it also means having to be occasionally impolite?

The weakening stranglehold of the CRTC on what you can see and hear each day shouldn’t come as a revelation to anyone reading this. But the more influential development of the past year concerns the sensational transformation of the American entertainment business that Canadian content regulations were specifically instituted to offset. When a sense of impending doom prevails over the broadcast industry, scrambling to discover methods to engineer the new delivery systems to their advantage at the risk of not succeeding, the pop cultural omnipotence of the U.S.A. becomes increasingly vulnerable – or at least spreading far beyond the New York to L.A. axis that CanCon chanteuse Patsy Gallant expressed such reverence for 30 years ago. Yet, even while a video podcast could be downloaded while riding in a plane between continents, our federal cabinet was fending off a pile of appeals demanding they override the CRTC’s belated approval of satellite radio, which was nonetheless packed with strained stipulations intended to nurture homegrown talent. Could it be, over the next few years, our socialist utopia will end up providing greater financial support to imaginative ideas than the battered corporate behemoths to the south are willing to invest in the post-blockbuster age? At least until the regulator catches up to reality, anyhow. When the "level playing field" the Canadian media monoliths are so fond of lobbying for finally gets leveled in its own right, the only losers will be the uncreative intermediaries who’ve built entire careers on helping perpetuate protectionist mediocrity.

Malcolm Gladwell attended the University of Toronto about 20 years ago, moving from Elmira to pursue a history B.A. at Trinity College, and his pursuit of a journalism career stateside was entirely the result of his being unable to get a job around these parts. Considering how the $40K+ he commands per keynote could be more than a relatively successful magazine writer of his stripe yields in a year locally, that rejection has long since tilted in his favour. Gladwell remains conveniently claimed as one of our own, due to his transforming the strident neocon-style debunking of conventional wisdom into something cuddlier, thus more Canadian. Blink: The Power of Thinking Without Thinking didn’t garner the most enthusiastic critical reception when published last January – rounding up varied examples of "thin-sliced" judgments led reviewers to wonder if the author was the one spreading his penchant for marketable catch phrases too thin. But when other slender quasi-academic volumes with no ambition beyond stating that reality is the opposite of whatever it’s presumed to be – books like Freakonomics and Everything Bad Is Good For You – had their turn in the online media limelight, those stroking their anti-theories to the point of repetitive strain injury remain overshadowed by Gladwell’s storytelling talent. (Besides, why would he bother seeking out the approval of bloggers when he’s being paid to write for The New Yorker?) The never-ending misuse and abuse of the title of Gladwell’s first book, The Tipping Point, is but one symptom of his incomparable celebrity status: Next year will see Blink made into a major motion picture starring Leonardo DiCaprio, grist for a parody book called Blank, and children starting to dress up like him next Halloween.