News in Brief

Cottage Survival Guide

A first trip to the sticks beckons this weekend for that most Torontonian of traditions: the long weekend at the cottage. What it boils down to, as far as I can gather, is leaving work on Friday afternoon and sitting in gridlock that stretches all the way to the forests as thousands of townies escape to the country for three days of binge drinking. For non-cottagers (who seem to be in the minority), a peaceful, ghost-like weekend awaits, as well as the firework spectaculars of the Canada Day celebrations most other folk will be too hungover/stuck in traffic/both to enjoy.

Being the practical-minded type, I have prepared for our trip by asking the important questions:

A) What do you do if you encounter a bear?

2) What do you do if you encounter a zombie?

D) How much beer should we take?

Regarding bears, Tony immediately supplied me with the definitive answer: “You play dead… No, you make noise and wave your arms... One of those, anyway.”

Regarding zombies, I already have a fair idea of the recommended course of action: befriend a fundamentalist veterinarian called Herschel, clart around on his ranch until the danger subsides, but don’t go near the barn. And if you do happen to be bitten by the undead, opt for shooting yourself rather than hanging…

Regarding beer, the answer is obvious: as many bottles and cans as you think you’ll need to fend off an angry bear and/or outlast a zombie siege. Plus some bourbon.

Magic Roundabouts

Stop signs irk me. In a land where the SUV reigns supreme and adverts for new cars boast about “31 mpg highway!”, we all have to come to frequent standstills even when the roads are deserted, wasting petrol, brake pads and time. How I miss roundabouts; those symmetrical paragons of vehicular common sense.

That said, there is a roundabout (or “turn circle”) in our neighbourhood, and seeing drivers grapple with the concept can be quite the sight. My personal favourite is the Tony special: indicate right because you’re bearing slightly right as you enter; signal left because you’re turning anticlockwise; signal right again when you turn off… and an extra signal in each direction for good luck. Considering Tony generally only drives when I’m sozzled, it’s tremendous fun; like a low-budget, low-octane fairground ride.

Cue traffic planners seeking the best/worst of both worlds, and their Frankenstein's monster of solutions: the roundabout that is also a four-way stop. Amazing.

The intersection with a split-personality

Textual Relations

For the past couple of months I’ve owned a smartphone. Total call time: 13 minutes. Total texts sent: 1. Time spent playing Blade Master: 59 hours.

Imagine my delight, then, to have two missed calls and a text message on Tuesday afternoon (I was in a high-level power-meeting, complete with shoulder pads, hairspray and terms like “touching base”, “moving forward” and “pre-preparing irregardless of EOD”). It was from my good friend Bryan, who I’ve never met.

Yo nico it’s Bryan don’t tell Julie what we talked about yesterday she on my ass so keep it on the dl

Needless to say, if Julie is on Bryan’s ass, he can rely on me, nico, to keep it well and truly on the DL. That’s what I hate about Julie: she’s always bending Bryan’s ear, and I, as his best friend, nico, have to keep it totally locked down for my dawg. Whatever me and Bry talk about, that’s bro business, bro. Julie needs to step off and, furthermore, check herself before she Ben Afflecks herself. I did what I could: I replied to my homie to reassure him… sort of.

Bryan, that shit is hard to keep a lid on… but I’ll do my best

The Worst Intersection in North America

When I began my current job in Toronto, I wrote about the nightmare commute I was about to adopt. As it turns out, the bus was simply too much to endure; involving, as it did, being dropped off in the morning, a LONG highway drive and then TWO subway rides. The other public transport option was no more appealing: 40 minutes on the GO Train, 30 minutes on the subway and I'd still be a subway ride from my office's closest stop.

To cut a dull story short, I have been driving to and from work for the last couple of months. Well, I say driving, but it's more carpooling: two others at home work on Sheppard Avenue, so I drop them off in the morning and pick them up at night. Job's a good 'un (traffic, bad drivers and abusive rednecks notwithstanding).

Imagine my surprise, then, to discover I was navigating the worst intersection in North America not once, not twice, not thrice, but four (4) times a day. The Toronto Star takes up the scene:

Bayview and Sheppard is crazy, say the weary navigators of the most congested intersection in Toronto.

It’s ridiculous, surreal and out-of-control.

In peak hours it can take four red lights to get through it to the 401 tantalizingly visible from her nearby condo building, says Brenda Mazlow.

The eight-year veteran of the intersection has given up making the “impossible” left turn from Sheppard Ave to Bayview and the 401 on-ramp.

And the neverending condo buildings popping up in the area are making it worse, she says.

The condominium boom is being blamed for the fact that five of the city’s 10 most congested intersections are on Sheppard Ave.

Councillor David Shiner, whose Willowdale ward has two of the busiest at Sheppard and Bayview and Sheppard and Leslie, says it’s only going to worsen as more developments get approved.

“You haven’t seen nothing yet,” Shiner said, during discussion Thursday about the clogged intersections at council’s public works and infrastructure committee.

Shiner noted that just this week, the North York community council gave its blessing to 4,000 new condo units, the latest phase in a massive 20-hectare development on Sheppard between Bayview Ave. and Leslie St.

What the article doesn't mention is that Toronto is Canada's worst city for congestion, and at the bottom of a 21-strong list of North America's longest commute times. All of which makes the intersection of Sheppard and Bayview - by my estimation, anyway - the worst in North America (which, effectively, is the entire world).

Picture the scene. People are mardy, and want nothing more than to get to/from work. They'll do pretty much anything: cruise 400 metres down the otherwise-deserted centre turning lane, the more conniving ones keeping an indicator flashing though they have no intention of turning. Closer to the intersection itself, the opposite is true: folk creep up the centre lanes in order to lurk past the backed-up turning lane, and then, once past the lights and into no-man's land, lurch around the corner like a sozzled cowboy - much to the honking annoyance of law-abiding good eggs (i.e. me).

In the words of Janine from Ghostbusters: "Picking up or dropping off?"

In all honesty, though, Toronto's worst intersection is nothing: without a hint of exaggeration, there are worse junctions in Wallsend, and I can only begin to imagine the utter horror that would result were you to transport South Gosforth's double roundabout to any given North American metropolis. They'd basically lose their shit, to use the vernacular.

Speaking of which, my favourite driving experience was nothing to do with intersections (though there was a good story about the man of the house accidentally blocking a junction downtown, at which point he - and a few dozen fellow drivers - completely lost their shit). Rather, my memorable event was in gridlock on the 401 highway. As is my habit in gridlock, I was rolling forwards to a stop rather than trying to stay within two feet of the bumper in front at all times. Having also allowed a couple of cars to join the highway from an on-ramp, the nice man and his wife/sister in the truck behind started beeping. I had no idea their ire was directed at me (I thought he was angry at the pushers-in, if anything) until he passed me when traffic sped up again, leaning out of the window and unleashing a torrent of barely comprehensible abuse.

Now, listen: I had the radio on, but I'm fairly sure he dropped an f-bomb or two before calling my driving abilities into question. Tony and I looked at each other, bemused. "Was that for me?" I wondered. I did what any real man would do: gave him a forceful toot of the horn, withdrawing a potential v-sign when I realized I actually didn't want to lose my life in a Tuesday morning road rage incident. Unfortunately, the retort I instructed our car to emit was so pathetically high-pitched that it made my Aygo's toot sound like a tanker's foghorn. Still, it remains the only time I've been able to use the horn without subsequently being admonished by my front-seat passenger.

"David, no, sto... You didn't have to beep that guy."
"But how else will he learn...?"

A telling silence results... and it tells me I'm right.

Cosmopolis: A Review

I have seen some rank movies in my time. As a subtitler, I worked on my fair share of made-for-TV specials; usually Steven Seagal vehicles written, directed and produced by... Steven Seagal. But I'm generally more selective about the titles I'll pay to see at the cinema. Nobody wants to spend $13 to be bored half to death.

As such, I've only seen one genuinely abysmal movie at the cinema: Britney Spears' Crossroads (in my defence, I worked at the pizza restaurant next door - yes, it was a restaurant - and got in for free). In the intervening years, I have never been tempted to leave a screening before the end... Until now.

***SPOILER ALERT*** This movie is an utter waste of your life

Cue Cosmopolis: a David Cronenberg drama/thriller in which Robert Pattinson plays a super-wealthy executive whose life unravels in the course of a limo ride across New York. The premise seems a good one, and entertains well into the first few seconds of the first scene, at which point you glance at your watch, roll your eyes, and wonder if you wouldn't have been better off just throwing your $13 in the bin.

The problems begin to mount: the dialogue is preposterous, eventually cueing unintended laughs among the handful of assembled viewers; the plot is farcical, with bizarre scenes (pop star K'naan carried past the car window in a coffin) barely explained or even alluded to again; supporting characters appear once and only once, as if including them again would simply take too much effort; the acting in general comes across as a piss-take, with Pattinson his usual wooden self and Paul Giamatti delivering the coup de grace scene with such bombastic melodrama as to almost defy belief ("SMELL ME! I STINK!").

I wondered, in fact, if this wasn't Cronenberg pulling a prank on his followers with an absurdist tribute to The Room; the "Citizen Kane of bad movies", and a cult classic among its fans. Sadly, though, I came to the conclusion that Cronenberg is deadly serious - as did moviegoers who made their way to the exits as Cosmopolis began to crumble under the weight of its own pretentious inanity.

Highlights:

• Pattinson, for no reason whatsoever, shoots his bodyguard dead. The watching public quietly hope for a similar release, but there are at least another 30 minutes to go
• Repeated references to Pattinson's "asymmetrical prostate", as if it's some kind of profound insight into the human condition
• Giamatti's aforementioned, movie-closing rant and Pattinson's ridiculous interjections. Giamatti holds a gun to Pattinson's head throughout, but we have to sit through seven or eight minutes of the barely logical back-and-forth before the closing credits eventually roll. Did he shoot him? Nobody gives a shit
• Some guy behind me loudly remarked, "It had some good points" as the rest of us grabbed our coats and left. Don't put too much credence in his opinion: he's the same lad who struggled with his fly for a good five minutes in the gents beforehand

In conclusion: Cosmopolis is 90 minutes of your life you're never, ever going to get back. I can't put it in plainer terms than that.

Must Try Harder

Two months and one day of radio silence. Not good enough, eh? But plans are afoot to get the brain in gear again and report on the day-to-day adventure that is life in Toronto. For example: this weekend was Doors Open, so we took the opportunity to visit Fort York for free. The interpretive panels explained how the War of 1812 was a glorious victory for outnumbered American forces, whose unique spirit emerged as a guiding light for nations seeking democratic bliss. On closer inspection, said panels appeared to have been donated by the US Navy... It would appear that history is written by the victors, but redrafted by the losers.

Afterwards we took in Doors Open events at the excellent Steam Whistle Brewery, which included free samples (as usual) and a hall full of model railway sets. Like a lazy-yet-intrepid photojournalist, I instagrammed a few shots of the day (exciting, dynamic feed shortly to appear on this page, allowing further lazy updates):

The weekend also saw the hapless Toronto FC pick up their first points of the season after nine consecutive defeats in MLS and become Canadian champions (doesn't take much, seemingly). The Guardian's account follows, as will - hopefully - more frequent updates from me over the course of the summer, starting with Friday night's trip to the Royal Ontario Museum's club night (booze + live music + dinosaur exhibits = ???).

The "worst team in the world" wins a game

The comments on last week's five things were kicked off by a link from one limeyfletch who posted a heartbreaking clip of Danny Koevermans being interviewed in the wake of Toronto FC's 9th consecutive defeat - looking near tears as he described the phenomenon of playing for the "worst team in the world."

This week, the "worst team in the world" not only avoided a record-equalling 10th consecutive defeat, but actually won, courtesy of a goal by one Danny Koevermans, as the game entered its final minutes and Toronto fans were daring to dream heady dreams of their first point. Instead, as Canadian nerves frayed in the 88th minute, Koevermans bundled home an awkward, point-blank goal that was treated with the ticker-tape enthusiasm of a 40 yard cup-winning golazo, by the success-starved Toronto fans, who suddenly found themselves wishing away a few minutes of injury time to take all 3 points.

Actually success-starved is not strictly accurate - Toronto won the Canadian Cup this week, against a stunned Vancouver side who must have looked at the teams' relative fortunes beforehand and thought they were a shoe-in for the cup and the Champions League spot that comes with it.

Toronto's decent cup form has been something of a mystery this season (they made an unlikely run to the CCL semi-finals as well), though those last ten minutes against Philadelphia gave something of a clue. It had been a dire game that most sides would have been happy to consign to the archives - but as it drifted towards its conclusion the feeling was that Toronto were feeling the pressure of the 9 games that preceded this one in league play and half-expecting disaster to strike. Paradoxically, even with more nominally at stake, the one-off nature of cup games has been liberating for them, without the weight of cumulative negative expectation dogging them. Making Koevermans' goal all the sweeter for their fans.

Their opponents yesterday earned the unwanted record of giving Toronto their first league points this season, to put the pressure back on Peter Nowak - this year's All Star Game coach, who now manages a side where he has shipped most of his stars out. On that note, I caught up with his former captain Danny Califf on Wednesday night, playing for his new team Chivas USA. Speaking to a couple of journalists he at first laughed and said he was going nowhere near the question of what had gone wrong with the Union this season, before pointing out that the turnover of players from season to season wasn't helping team chemistry or camaraderie. Asked if in his case this had anything to do with his relationship with the abrasive Nowak, Califf laughed again, before saying wryly "C'mon...We were regular homies..." (before discreetly opting to "leave it right there"). Behind the smiles Califf was clearly hurt by the sudden end of his tenure with a club he felt a deep affinity for. Without him (and LeToux; and Mondragon...) the side Peter Nowak has retained are looking worryingly anonymous. Though for one day at least they are unwilling stars in the game no-one in the league wanted to be part of - the game where Toronto got their first points...GP

It Happened

It happened: David got a job. Cue face-melting scenes a la the doddering Nazis at the end of Indiana Jones & The Raiders Of The Lost Ark.

Not just got a job, indeed, but started it too! So while last week was all lie-ins (8am), leisurely coffee breaks and half-a-dozen hours of streamed Premier League, this week is all early starts (6am), hastened green tea breaks and half-a-dozen projects on the boil (read: one project, currently).

It is a role, of course, in which trade secrets are par for the course, and I couldn't possibly begin to divulge any of the sensitive information with which I have so far been entrusted. What I can tell you is my job title (Digital Copywriter), place of employment (DAC Group) and current dress code (smart quasi-casual).

So what? Is that it? Is that all I can reveal? At this stage, yes: it's almost 9pm - my new bedtime - and time is of the essence.

But let me tell you something about Canadian commuting: it's no joke. According to the ever-reliable Google Maps, I live a 20-minute highway drive from my office. While I can drive and do have access to a car (a Chevy... Malibu? Does that sound right?), public transport is my only real option; not much of an option, but my only option nonetheless.

• Option A) Walk 20 minutes to the GO Train station; take the 35-minute GO Train journey to Toronto Union Station; take the subway 27 minutes north and then 10 minutes east; walk the remaining five minutes. TOTAL: something like 90 minutes, best case.
• Option 2] Walk 15 minutes to the nearest TTC bus stop; ride the bus a mere 47 minutes and umpteen dozen stops; switch buses and take another bus for something like 20 minutes. TOTAL: probably more than 90 minutes.

Neither arrangement is satisfactory, but I had resigned myself to either one or the other with a projected purchase of a Kindle e-reader, leaving sufficient time for me to read every book ever written within a month or two of beginning my tortuous travails. I was even learning towards the TTC bus, despite assurances from literally everybody I've met that a journey on one is punishment worse than death:

What Torontonians describe when talking TTC buses

Luckily for me, Tony happens to work on the same street, and so had long ago figured out the best way to get to our almost-shared destination: bat your lashes nicely at the man or woman of the house, get a lift to the nearest GO Bus stop (there's a GO Bus?!), ride said bus for half-an-hour and then you're a mere two trains and four stops from your office. Easy as pie, and the GO Bus sounded a dream...

Not pictured: complimentary massage and pep-talk

And so I've started to clock the miles on the glorious GO Bus (it's more of a coach, actually) and have shelved plans to acquire an e-reader (temporarily, I suspect, as our morning chatter is already grinding to a half - especially when, as happened this morning, we have to sit at opposite ends of the bus). It's a commute that's poor on paper but not so soul-destroying in practice: we can pick over the finer points of the Metro newspaper, eavesdrop on combative passengers (you're expected to use a pre-purchased pass, not pay cash) and silently judge passing motorists who are texting, dozing, applying makeup or otherwise being criminally inattentive. The swanky show-offs.

Tracks Of 2012 So Far

As cribbed from the ever-readable (if I don't say so myself) musicOMH Tracks column, a selection of my personal highlights of 2012 to date; a year in which I've scribbled a load of nonsense about music singles but little, as yet, in terms of full albums. To echo the vast majority of my school reports, "Must try harder!"

Of the seven embedded here, Friends and Beach House are particular favourites; their respective LPs for 2012 should be something special when they finally arrive.

WWE: Poetry In Motion

I've a long and chequered past with professional wrestling; a history marked with irregular bouts of obsession, an embarrassing one-off attempt at backyard wrestling (clue: I was the ref) and all too few live events.

I can date my interest back to those heady days in the early 90s when ITV screened both British wrestling and WCW; the former on weekend afternoons, the latter late at night. While Big Daddy passed an agreeable hour or so between A-Team and Air Wolf, I most looked forward to catching up with WCW's meatheads during occasional visit's to my Uncle Les, who would very kindly tape their late-night antics "for the kids" (though I suspect it was as much a treat for him as it was for us). As such, my very earliest pro wrestling memory is of Sting (not the Wallsend warbler) cutting a promo about something or other, and I duly adopted his hairstyle shortly thereafter. Check this guy out!

But such delights were fleeting. I made do through primary school with the odd WWF (as it was then) annual, a pile of trading cards ("The Model" Rick Martel's quote: "Honesty is the best policy!") and tag-team piggy-back fights on lunch breaks. Slim pickings, you might say, but it was enough to stay up to speed; I was the same boy, after all, who had wept for E.T. after reading his story on the back of a Weetabix box. Another year or two would pass before I'd see the actual movie.

So when WWF progressed from redneck mulletry to storylines with genuine edge, I was back in. Want to hear about an octogenarian by the name of Mae West giving birth to a prosthetic hand? You got it. Interested in Stone Cold Steve Austin being sacrificed on a cross, a la Jesus Christ? Right here. Get a kick out of the boss's son being thrown through glass plates by an Olympian? Sorted.

A good friend of mine taped RAW each week (thanks again, James!), conversations in GCSE Maths were littered with spoiler alerts and I even went to a live event when the show rolled into Newcastle's Telewest Arena. Better was to follow: Rebellion 2000 in Sheffield, where we sat a few rows from the front on the TV side for a rare British PPV. In the 11 years that passed between the event and the DVD, we were convinced that we had prominent screen time for the extravaganza's three-hour running time. As it turned out, only one of us got his mug on TV for a blink-and-you-missed-it gurn.

While professional wrestling's appeal has diminished since our last hurrah of a Wrestlemania party a few years back (shortly before Vince McMahon retreated from plotlines), I remain partial to a touch of WWE now and then - I could pick out The Miz in a line-up, describe Zack Ryder's gimmick and name the current US Champion (Italian comic relief Santino Marella) - and last Friday we took in the RAW Tour at Toronto's Ricoh Coliseum. Highlighting superstars included the aforementioned Santino and Miz, R Truth, Chris Jericho, John Cena and Kane. Sadly absent were the likes of Triple H, Undertaker, Shawn Michaels, Sheamus, Hornswoggle and Christian, as well as Big Boss Man, Eddy Guerrero, Chris Benoit, Earthquake, Yokozuna, Crash Holly, Brian Pillman, British Bulldog, Test, Macho Man Randy Savage and Andre The Giant.

Click pics for full size!

Jack Swagger vs. Santino in the opening bout

The Miz squatting; R Truth reeling

Jericho's LED jacket

Wow!

Cena slides into the ring

Kane, now with mask restored

Kane gently shoves Cena into a table

CM Punk extols his love for Toronto! Cheap pop.