Just polished off my post-superbowl adventure on Storehouse . What a crazy night. Used to seek this kind of thing with my pals in university, fuelled by youth and a case of beer. Astoundingly, I chose to head out into last Sunday’s storm sober as judge, minus the wisdom.
If you played the video game Myst back in the day, the RC Harris Water Treatment Facility at the east end of The Beach may seem strangely familiar. Standing on its grounds, you can feel like you’re the last person on earth, having stumbled upon an elaborate operation of vague purpose and wondering what happened to its occupants, and if they’ll be back.
Built throughout the 1930s by little-known architect Thomas Canfield Pomphrey and named for the public works commissioner at the time, the facility still supplies Toronto with about a third of its drinking water, pumped all the way up from the middle of the Lake Ontario, treated, then pumped all the way north to Markham and west to Rosedale. It’s an eerie place, and one of coolest examples of art deco this side of the Don (and granted National Engineering Historic Site status in 1992).
I live near the treatment plant and spend a fair amount here, walking the dog or going for a run. The facility’s main buildings and intersecting road sprawl over a 2-3 block stretch at the end of Queen street, a.k.a., the end of Toronto. Imposing as a fortress, the largest building stands guard atop a hill over Lake Ontario, as if scanning for enemy yankee ships bound from Rochester. There’s a real dash of style to the place too, exemplified by the elaborate and repeating artwork and statues etched within the stone walls of the complex’s three buildings’ and the expansive, rising windows that look out on to the lake.
Peering through the windows at the rows of antiquated valves, tanks and gauges, with nary an employee insight, compels you to find a way in and explore some more. Apparently that’s not all that difficult, or mysterious: you can go on a tour of the facilities, when the doors open to the public once a year (count me in). Check out out, at the end of the world. Or for the lazy and still underwhelmed, here it is in 90-seconds.
I’ve come across a couple of interesting / alarming reads in the last while on the rising dominance of Facebook over all media, not just the social kind. If you want to peer into a crystal at the potential future of digital magazine and news publishing, you may want to give them a read. Hint: say goodbye to bookmarks.
One article is from Salon , and another by the NY Times’ David Carr. Both essentially report on how F-Book’s tremendous reach, equally tremendous algorithms and successful transition to a revenue-generating, mobile-first destination is supplanting Google as the equivalent of Sauron or St. Nick, in the media world, depending on who you talk to too, and who’s willing to talk openly.
Maybe it’s my newshound roots and I’m sure I’m not alone, but if I relied heavily on reading content my friends shared on Facebook as the main mechanism toward shaping my world view, it wouldn’t contain many angles. The secret lives of cats, or babies, or babies and cats in listicle format, or communal outrage over the next crazy conservative that got elected provides a kind of self-fullfilling echo chamber. On the whole, your Facebook friends are your friends because they are like you (except for the odd ‘truther’ outlier, we all have one or 2 of those), which makes it the perfect place to socialize online, but not as a destination for all the news that’s fit to print.
I like to think I read the news online not to confirm my beliefs on how the world should work, but to gain exposure to new ideas and nuances that challenge how I thought things and people operated.
A future with One Book to Rule Them All seems dull and dangerous.
Terry stood still, poised on one foot, the other frozen in forward motion as he watched for signs of life from Sharon. When the door bell rang again, Sharon sighed and rolled over toward the opposite wall. 3 tentative steps later, Terry slipped out the bedroom door. Getting rid of the front door pest -priority number 1; reconciling how he ended up in the sack with, technically speaking, a member of his family – priority #2.
The bright light that streamed through the front door window of his cousin’s flat felt like daggers. As Jerry opened the door, he vaguely realized he too was nude. Perfect. He hoped the arse on the other side of door had a coronary.
As Jerry prepared to confront the ringer in full frontal, he almost felt disappointed when nobody stood on the other side to witness his full splendour. ‘Christ’, Jerry muttered and went to close the door.
That’s when he noticed the small, brown paper package lying on the doormat, addressed to him.
I got a new lens for Christmas and I think my family feels like they’re being stalked. It’s a 35mm lens that allows for decent shots, portraits especially, in low light without needing to use your crappy built-in flash which tends to wash the main subject with stark, artificial light.
Here are some of the results from tailing Kristin, Sunny and the kids throughout the house over the holidays looking more and more like a hobo in my pyjamas and scraggly holiday beard. The rest from the holidays are here on Flickr.
When the buzzing finally woke Terry from his vodka-fueled slumber, he was not amused. Each successive ring acted like a drill, probing his heavily-cocooned consciousness, until it hit pay dirt, his eyes shot open. Confused, nauseous and grappling with what felt like a rodent, furiously scratching at the middle of his forehead from the inside out, Terry struggled to comprehend the source of his sonic torment, emanating throughout his cousin’s apartment. His ‘aha’ moment unfolded upon the 8th shrilling ring; it came from downstairs he thought… the front hallway?… the doorbell!
Terry rolled out of bed and shuffled toward the bedroom door, eyes half shut, intending to politely shoo away the Jehovah’s Witness, or UPS dude, or whomever had forced this far-to-early-in-the-morning reckoning with his hangover. As he caught his reflection in the mirror on the wall opposite the bed, though, Terry surmised two factors that would temporarily impede his forward mobility: 1) He was completely nude 2) His cousin’s wife lay sleeping in the bed.
I like to walk through this section of downtown Toronto, usually after lunch, between Bathurst and Spadina just north of Front. There’s some great architecture, where ad agencies and cafes have taken up residence in old garment factory buildings, while the business core’s skyscrapers looming over to the east.
But there’s this small park, Victoria Memorial Square, that I like the most, partly as an oasis in a busy stretch of town, but also for the really old headstones (in north american terms), running parallel to Portland st.
You don’t see headstones this old in Toronto; in fact, they are the oldest in downtown Toronto, restored by the neighbourhood’s association and city council to commemorate what was once the burial site of Toronto’s first European settlers.
Dating back to 1793, I like how the headstones symmetrically line up in one, discreet section of the park, both perfectly restored yet with inscriptions slowly fading from historical record. The deceased include Governor James Simcoe’s infant daughter and a sailor who drowned on Lake Ontario.