The Douchebags Migrate West

Jun 15, 2013 by

          Though my friends and I practically lived on Peter St when we were 18, I’ve never liked the vibe of Toronto’s entertainment district. It has a stuck up, see and be seen culture that makes it repulsive. Girls compete with other girls for guys that aren’t worth knowing, and guys compete with their own friends for girls they can add to their fuck lists. In spite of this demeaning crowd, five years ago, I was a regular. I needed to feel the release that I experienced only through the sounds of my club. I didn’t go with the intent to drink (I was usually DD), to attract guys (although that was inevitable with desperate Jersey Shore types walking the streets), or to join the illusion of community that club goers think they feel. I went to dance. I went to a club that was free to enter, wasn’t heavily promoted, and had an older crowd of people (relative to my age at the time, so early to mid twenties) who were there for the same reason that I was. Moving to the music was my escape from the beginning of my four-year rendezvous with an employer that I already knew I detested.

          When my interest in dancing to the beat of the club scene died, so did my love of Toronto. I grew out of it the night I turned 19, which marks the last time that I willingly stepped foot in a club. (I can count the times that I’ve legally clubbed on one hand. Such rare occurrences have been for birthdays.) Since then, I’ve hardly gone downtown at all, especially not to club. However, in recent months, I’ve begun to frequently venture that way again.

          In the middle of a travel rut and an experiment in happiness, I’ve decided to become a tourist in my own city. Toronto and I are still on rocky terms, but I’ve begun to uncover parts of it that I do like. For example, I enjoy the atmosphere and street food inspired restaurants of the Ossington strip and Queen W. Patio dwellers in these pockets are chill and the food is phenomenal and reasonably priced. By contrast, I’ve also discovered some areas better left unfound, one being King W.

          I thought I knew King W. I’ve attended corporate functions there, I’ve been to some of its patios on weeknights, and I worked there for a mere two and a half weeks at one point. I used to like it. Then I met King W on the weekend, seeing the street for what it is: the entertainment district for twenty-somethings. Trashy guys and drunken hoes take over on weekend nights, turning King W into a sluttier version of its younger counterpart just east of Spadina. Club goers didn’t move on from clubbing; they moved across the street, bringing their unfriendly, competitive, self-esteem-sucking energy with them. Needless to say, King W and I won’t be seeing anymore of each other.

Happiness Tip: Avoid places that make you feel like crap.

 
Previous: Maintaining a Sense of Self . . . Next: Soothing Italian Sounds
 

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