Is Toronto the Good in danger of becoming Toronto the Too Good and Squeaky Clean?
Consider: The area of downtown formerly known as “the club district” seems to be turning into some kind of giant, family-friendly rec-room.
So now, instead of dropping ecstasy, waving a glow stick around, and dancing until dawn, you can go bowling with your family at The Ballroom while noshing on quinoa salad and hot dogs made of “artisanal beef” or see a foreign film at the TIFF Lightbox, or (come summer) play a wholesome game of table-tennis at Spin, a spanking new ping-pong boutique.
Meanwhile, Mayor Rob Ford has declared a vendetta on graffiti, vowing the downtown will be “spotless” by the time he’s through. First salvo: A summons to the Brickworks, demanding they clean the murals and tags off their historically significant walls.
City Councillor Adam Vaughan is spearheading a campaign to curtail the Animal House antics of several downtown fraternities, saying “We don’t want to stop their parties, we just don’t want them waking up the neighbours.”
The coup de grâce: legendary booze can The Matador is being turned into a “wellness centre,” a mixed-use space devoted to “fitness, food, lifestyle, and education,” including a spa where, new owner Paul McCaughey says, people will be encouraged to come experience “the waters.”
Water? Never touch the stuff. At The Matador, the only drink they served, I hazily recall, was rye and cola, served in plastic cups.
And “wellness” was the opposite of what you felt the next day.
But damn, those were some fun nights.
Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not some club kid (any more). I’m a family guy, now, with three kids – more likely to bowl than dance. My wife is excited about Spin, and to be honest, I’d kind of like to try one of those artisanal weenies.
I’m just wondering if it’s possible to take things too far. If we aren’t, by golly-gee-whilliker-whiskers, embarking on the Ned Flandersification of my beloved city, turning it into a vast grit-, graffiti- and grime-free “wellness village.”
What a transformation! Inside, where there were once greasy frames and wheels stacked to the ceiling, now there are gleaming pipes, spotless counters and a see-through fridge stocked with “artisanal” sodas at $2.50 a pop.
(Everything’s “artisanal” now: I’m thinking of calling myself an “artisanal” writer and charging triple my normal rates.)
Outside, where there was once Igor, shirtless and threatening, music blaring out of a ghetto blaster, parts and tools strewn everywhere, now there’s just … sidewalk.
“So,” I suppose most people would say. “A clear improvement.”
And yet … I miss Igor. I, better than anyone, knew he was a (low-level) villain. He was my bike mechanic, and, I suppose, my bike thief. I retrieved no less than four of my stolen bikes from him over the years (always slipping him a few bucks: “Igor tax”).
The thing is: low-level villains add colour, energy to a place. They say you can measure a man by the calibre of his enemies. Perhaps it is also possible to measure the cosmopolitanism of a city by the vigour of its (low-level) villains, and the naughtiness of its night life.
To me, dirt, dinginess, and dereliction, graffiti-tagged walls, booze cans, and parties that wake up the neighbours are all part of the definition of the word “urban.” If I wanted to avoid these things, I’d go live in, uh, Belleville.
Now, I understand mine might be a minority position – the opposite of “the broken-window theory” of municipal stewardship.
