Yeah, that’s right — Tony Soprano, Paulie Walnuts, Silvio Dante — in a flight simulator, tryin’ to get their pilot’s license. Because ya know, being a mob boss ain’t stressful enough — let’s throw a Boeing 737 into the mix.
First day of class, Tony walks in like,
“Lemme get this straight. You want me to trust a computer? My Ma never trusted the microwave!”
Tony sits in the cockpit, looks around, and goes,
“Where’s the steering wheel? This thing’s got more buttons than my mother’s TV remote.”
Paulie Walnuts, he’s in the co-pilot seat, tapping all the buttons like he’s ordering at a deli counter:
“What’s this do? What’s that do? OHH! I turned off the engines!”
Meanwhile, Silvio’s in the back of the simulator with his pinky in the air, drinkin’ espresso from a thermos like it’s the first-class lounge.
“Eyy, these pretzels better be warm when we taxi, capisce?”
Then the instructor — some poor guy from Newark — tries to teach ’em the checklist. Tony just stares at him and goes,
“Checklist? Lemme tell you somethin’. We don’t do checklists. We do favors.”
Takeoff time. Tony hits the throttle like he’s drag racing on Bloomfield Ave.
“WOO! Look at this thing go! Feels like the time I stole a Cadillac from JFK back in ‘92.”
They’re airborne — barely. Paulie’s sweating like he’s testifying.
“Oh my gawd, Tony, we’re at 35,000 feet! I don’t even like escalators!”
Then the turbulence hits. Tony’s white-knuckling the yoke, screaming:
“SIL! CALL CARMELA! TELL HER I ALWAYS LOVED HER — AND TO DELETE MY BROWSER HISTORY!”
Meanwhile, Silvio’s cool as ever,
“Relax. I’ve had worse shakes after a bad calzone.”
Then Paulie WALNUTS — he opens the cockpit door and shouts back to the imaginary passengers:
“IF ANYONE BACK THERE IS A CATHOLIC PRIEST — START PRAYIN’. AND IF YOU’RE NOT, CONVERT NOW!”
Final approach. The instructor’s like, “Okay Tony, time to land.” Tony squints at the runway and mutters,
“You ever parallel park a 747? ‘Cause I haven’t.”
The landing is rough. Like, “witness protection” rough. Plane skids, sparks fly, simulator crashes. Silvio’s like,
“Well, that was smoother than United.”
And Paulie — oh Paulie — stands up, tosses off his headset and says,
“Fellas, I’m takin’ the train from now on.”
Thank you! Tip your flight attendants — or better yet, don’t make ’em mad. They’re probably from Jersey too.
It was a routine flight from Toronto to Vancouver, cruising at 35,000 feet above the Rockies. Flight AC952 was carrying 182 passengers, each absorbed in their books, movies, or quiet conversations. Among them was 16-year-old Ethan Parker, a shy but bright teenager with a passion for aviation. Ethan wasn’t just any aviation enthusiast—he had spent thousands of hours mastering every detail of Microsoft Flight Simulator, from cold starts to emergency landings.
Halfway through the flight, the calm was shattered when an announcement crackled through the intercom.
“Ladies and gentlemen, if there is a doctor or medical professional on board, please make your way to the cockpit immediately.”
Passengers murmured in confusion as a flight attendant hurried down the aisle. Ethan, seated near the front, noticed the alarmed expressions on the crew’s faces. He tightened his grip on his handheld gaming console, feeling a surge of unease.
Minutes later, another announcement came, this time with a trembling voice: “This is the first officer speaking. Unfortunately, both the captain and I have fallen seriously ill and are unable to continue operating the aircraft. We are working on a solution. Please remain calm.”
A Call for Help
Ethan’s heart raced. He knew the systems of a Boeing 787 like the back of his hand, thanks to countless hours navigating virtual skies. Summoning courage, he pressed the call button. When the flight attendant arrived, he spoke quickly but confidently.
“I know this might sound crazy, but I can help. I’ve been flying planes on Microsoft Flight Simulator for years. I know how these systems work.”
The flight attendant blinked, unsure how to respond. But with no better options, she relayed the message to the cockpit.
Taking the Controls
Within minutes, Ethan was ushered into the cockpit. The sight of the motionless pilots and the alarm-filled displays would have overwhelmed anyone else, but Ethan focused on what needed to be done.
He slid into the captain’s seat, donning the headset. The ground control operator’s voice crackled in his ear. “This is Vancouver ATC. Who am I speaking to?”
“This is Ethan Parker. I’m a passenger, but I’ve trained extensively on Microsoft Flight Simulator. I can land this plane.”
There was a brief pause, then a calm reply: “Alright, Ethan. We’ll guide you every step of the way.”
Preparing for the Landing
Ethan quickly assessed the situation. The autopilot was engaged, but turbulence had destabilized the flight path. He adjusted the heading and altitude to stabilize the aircraft. With ATC’s guidance, he calculated the approach for Vancouver International Airport’s longest runway.
“Ethan,” the controller said, “you’ll need to lower the flaps, reduce your speed, and extend the landing gear. Are you familiar with those procedures?”
“Yes,” Ethan replied. “I’ve done this a hundred times… in a simulator.”
As the plane began its descent, Ethan maintained communication with the cabin, instructing the flight attendants to prepare passengers for landing.
The Final Approach
The cockpit alarms blared as the plane neared the runway. Ethan’s hands were steady on the controls. He adjusted the throttle, keeping the glide slope perfect.
“Ethan, you’re doing great,” ATC encouraged. “Just hold that heading. You’re almost there.”
At 500 feet, the runway lights gleamed like a beacon. Ethan focused intently, easing the yoke back slightly as the plane descended.
“50 feet… 40… 30…” the automated voice announced.
Ethan gently pulled back, executing a near-perfect flare. The wheels kissed the ground, and he activated the reverse thrust. The plane slowed safely to a halt, and cheers erupted from the cabin.
A Hero’s Welcome
When the plane finally taxied to the gate, the passengers greeted Ethan with a standing ovation. News of the teenager’s heroic feat spread like wildfire, and he was met by reporters, aviation experts, and grateful passengers upon disembarking.
“Where did you learn to fly like that?” one reporter asked.
The airline later awarded Ethan an honorary pilot’s license, and he was hailed as a hero in aviation circles. Though he had never piloted a real plane before, Ethan’s expertise, calm demeanor, and quick thinking had saved 182 lives.
From that day on, Ethan’s story became a testament to how passion, preparation, and video games can make the unthinkable possible.
Ladies and gentlemen, let’s talk about airline ticket agents. These unsung heroes, the gatekeepers of the skies, the real MVPs of our travel nightmares. I swear, dealing with airline ticket agents is like playing a game of “Whose Line Is It Anyway?”—everything’s made up and the points don’t matter!
First off, why do they always ask you if you packed your own bag? Who else is packing my bag? Do I look like I have a team of luggage elves working for me? “Oh no, Tiffany the Tooth Fairy packed it for me. Hope she didn’t forget to sprinkle in some magic dust!”
And what’s the deal with the weight limit on luggage? I understand there’s a limit, but it feels like I’m in a bad relationship. “Sorry, you’re one pound over. You’re gonna have to take something out.” Take something out? What, like my dignity? There I am, at the counter, pulling out underwear and socks like I’m at a garage sale.
Have you ever noticed how they never look happy? I get it, it’s a stressful job, but come on! I once asked an agent how their day was going, and they sighed so deeply I think I heard their soul leave their body. It’s like they went to the DMV School of Customer Service: “We’re not happy until you’re not happy.”
And then there’s the magical disappearing flight. “Oh, sorry sir, your flight’s been cancelled.” What do you mean cancelled? Is it like a Netflix show? Did it get low ratings? And then they offer you another flight that’s 12 hours later with three layovers. “But don’t worry, we’ve upgraded you to a window seat!” Oh great, now I can look out the window and see all the places I’m not getting to on time.
Then there’s the standby list. This thing is a mess. It’s like a raffle for desperate travelers. “You’re number 27 on the standby list.” Oh, fantastic! I’ll just wait here with my hopes and dreams. It’s like waiting for a table at a popular restaurant, but with more crying and less breadsticks.
And why do ticket agents always act like they’re giving you a treasure map when they hand you your boarding pass? “Okay, you’re in Terminal C, Gate 47, but you need to take the shuttle to Terminal Z, which is only accessible through a hidden portal behind Starbucks.” By the time you get to your gate, you feel like Indiana Jones, minus the cool hat.
I have to give credit where credit’s due though. These folks are professionals at keeping a straight face. I once told an agent I had a fear of flying, and she handed me a window seat next to the engine. Talk about facing your fears head-on! She looked at me with dead eyes and said, “Have a nice flight.” Yeah, thanks a lot, Linda. I’ll remember you when we hit turbulence.
In conclusion, next time you encounter an airline ticket agent, just remember, they’re doing their best in the crazy world of air travel. Maybe give them a smile, or better yet, pack your own bag and keep it under the weight limit. Safe travels, everyone!
It was just another day on the Toronto Pearson Airport tarmac — bags being tossed like Olympic shot put, radio chatter louder than a Bingo hall on half-price pierogi night, and two ramp legends doing what they do best: standing around pretending to “supervise.”
Enter: Al BruceHorney and the late great John Brodeur. Two die-hard Montreal Canadiens fans whose bloodstream ran pure Molson, maple syrup, and old Forum hot dog water. These weren’t just Habs fans. These were les ramp gods. Al once canceled a Calgary-bound cargo flight because it coincided with a Canadiens playoff game. John wore his lucky Guy Lafleur jersey under his safety vest — year-round. Even in July. Even in cargo hold #3.
But on this particular day at Gate 124, fate (and Air Canada flight 423 from YUL) was about to give them more than a full load of golf bags and one angry emotional support iguana.
The doors open… and out steps the Ghost of Forum Past: GUY. FLIPPING. LAFLUER. Hair as golden as a Zamboni driver’s dream. Flowing like it was still 1977. Even the wind machines used for Beyoncé videos would’ve bowed in shame.
Al dropped his headset. John choked on a half-chewed piece of Timmie’s Boston Cream. One bag agent actually fainted into a pile of lost luggage labeled “YEG.”
“Mon dieu…” whispered Al. “It’s The Flower.” “Tell me I’m not hallucinating again like that time we towed the lav truck into the pilot lounge,” said John.
But no — it was real. Guy was there. Cool as ever. Dressed in a vintage Habs warmup jacket that hadn’t aged a day.
“Bonjour, les gars,” Lafleur nodded, like a god descending upon mortal tarmac. “Any chance I can get a cart ride to Terminal 1?”
Al, channeling years of professional ground handling decorum, replied with the poise of a true ramp legend: “Hop in, mon capitaine. We’ll get you there faster than a Leafs first-round exit.”
So off they went. Three legends. One golf cart. No brakes.
They cut across taxiways. Dodged a 777 like it was a Boston Bruins defenseman. Security tried to radio in a “rogue cart,” but someone yelled, “It’s Guy Lafleur!” and the entire control tower just stood up and saluted.
By the time they got to Terminal 1, people were cheering. Rampies were waving marshalling wands in tribute. Even the squirrels in the de-icing units paused in reverence.
Lafleur stepped off, patted both of them on the back and said, “Merci, mes amis. You guys are the real legends.”
John looked at Al. Al looked at John. And together they whispered the most sacred words a Canadiens fan could ever say:
“We can retire now.”
And they did — one to a cabin in the Laurentians, the other to the big tarmac in the sky. But both forever remembered as the ramp rats who met God… and He wore number 10.
In the mid-1980s, around ’84 or ’85, a peculiar incident unfolded in Zone 4 of the bustling airport. This tale begins with a routine load sheet for a Boeing 727 flight that was about to embark on its journey. The flight’s crew was ready, the aircraft was prepped, and the cargo bay was awaiting its designated cargo. Little did anyone know, this particular day would become etched in the memories of those involved as an episode that drove them all to the brink of madness. The load sheet was, at first glance, pretty standard fare for a Boeing 727. Three carts of mail were to be stowed in compartments 31, 32, and 33, while a staggering 40 bags of various contents were designated for compartments 41 and 42. As the crew worked diligently to load the aircraft, a figure by the name of Roy, a former loading agent who was apparently convinced he was still part of the crew, loomed on the sidelines. With an air of authority that seemed misplaced, Roy would periodically intervene, his deep monotone voice cutting through the hum of activity. “Ahh, I’ve changed the load configuration,” he would intone, his words sending shivers down the spines of those who had been working meticulously to ensure everything was in its right place. Panic would ripple through the crew as they dreaded what would come next. “Remove the mail and put it up front,” Roy would decree with a sense of conviction that defied his supposed retired status. The crew’s collective groans and exasperated sighs were drowned out by the shuffling of feet and the clatter of cargo as they rushed to obey the whims of the self-appointed authority figure. It was as if Roy had become a phantom orchestrator of chaos, rewriting the rules as he saw fit. Days turned into weeks, and the story of this bizarre encounter spread like wildfire among the airport staff. “Remember that time in ’84 or ’85?” they would begin, the shared glances and knowing smiles encapsulating the collective frustration that had been the result of Roy’s “load configuration” capers. The crew members referred to those moments as the “worse bid ever,” a label that would forever be associated with that time in Zone 4.
On the first day of Christmas, my ramp lead gave to me A broken baggage cart on bay three.
On the second day of Christmas, my ramp lead gave to me Two oversized bags, And a broken baggage cart on bay three.
On the third day of Christmas, my ramp lead gave to me Three angry agents, Two oversized bags, And a broken baggage cart on bay three.
On the fourth day of Christmas, my ramp lead gave to me Four missing luggage, Three angry agents, Two oversized bags, And a broken baggage cart on bay three.
On the fifth day of Christmas, my ramp lead gave to me FIVE BENT BELT LOADERS! Four missing luggage, Three angry agents, Two oversized bags, And a broken baggage cart on bay three.
On the sixth day of Christmas, my ramp lead gave to me Six rampies sweating, FIVE BENT BELT LOADERS! Four missing luggage, Three angry agents, Two oversized bags, And a broken baggage cart on bay three.
On the seventh day of Christmas, my ramp lead gave to me Seven flights delayed, Six rampies sweating, FIVE BENT BELT LOADERS! Four missing luggage, Three angry agents, Two oversized bags, And a broken baggage cart on bay three.
On the eighth day of Christmas, my ramp lead gave to me Eight tags misprinted, Seven flights delayed, Six rampies sweating, FIVE BENT BELT LOADERS! Four missing luggage, Three angry agents, Two oversized bags, And a broken baggage cart on bay three.
On the ninth day of Christmas, my ramp lead gave to me Nine cones a-falling, Eight tags misprinted, Seven flights delayed, Six rampies sweating, FIVE BENT BELT LOADERS! Four missing luggage, Three angry agents, Two oversized bags, And a broken baggage cart on bay three.
On the tenth day of Christmas, my ramp lead gave to me Ten bags left behind, Nine cones a-falling, Eight tags misprinted, Seven flights delayed, Six rampies sweating, FIVE BENT BELT LOADERS! Four missing luggage, Three angry agents, Two oversized bags, And a broken baggage cart on bay three.
On the eleventh day of Christmas, my ramp lead gave to me Eleven belts a-jamming, Ten bags left behind, Nine cones a-falling, Eight tags misprinted, Seven flights delayed, Six rampies sweating, FIVE BENT BELT LOADERS! Four missing luggage, Three angry agents, Two oversized bags, And a broken baggage cart on bay three.
On the twelfth day of Christmas, my ramp lead gave to me Twelve suits complaining, Eleven belts a-jamming, Ten bags left behind, Nine cones a-falling, Eight tags misprinted, Seven flights delayed, Six rampies sweating, FIVE BENT BELT LOADERS! Four missing luggage, Three angry agents, Two oversized bags, And a broken baggage cart on bay three!
Merry Christmas to the ramp crew – may your shifts be short, and your carts all roll straight!
sing to the tune of Andy Williams It’s the most wonderful time of the year
It’s the most chaotic time of the year, With last-minute check-ins, And oversized bag bins, We’re shifting into high gear! It’s the most chaotic time of the year.
It’s the ramp-side holiday season, my friend, With conveyors a-jamming, And passengers cramming, Hoping delays will end! It’s the ramp-side holiday season, my friend.
(Chorus) Oh, the bags are all tagged, And the carts are all dragged, Through snow and through sleet on the ground! We load every plane, While we shoulder the strain, Making sure they’re L.A.-bound!
It’s the most chaotic time of the year, With frozen containers, And rookie retainers, Hoping their flights will clear! It’s the most chaotic time of the year.
It’s the season of midnight delays, With belts loudly screeching, And ground crews all reaching, For coffee to stay awake. It’s the season of midnight delays!
(Chorus) Oh, the passengers cheer, When the flights finally clear, But we’re still out here on the ramp. With a smile or a frown, We’ll send baggage downtown, Though our gloves are frozen and damp!
It’s the most chaotic time of the year, But through all the madness, We find holiday gladness, To bring every traveler cheer! It’s the most chaotic time of the year.
It was the 1970s in Toronto, and if you were growing up in an Italian household, Friday night had a very specific rhythm.
By 10 o’clock, Nonna had finished complaining about everybody eating too much. Dad had watched the news, Mom had watched whatever Italian program she could find, and eventually the command came from upstairs:
“Okay! Everybody to bed!”
Except the kids weren’t really going to bed.
They were going downstairs.
Because almost every Italian family seemed to have a secret weapon that other families didn’t.
A finished basement.
And not just any basement.
Wood-grain paneling covered every wall. There was a shag carpet that could hide an entire generation of dust. A bar in the corner that nobody was allowed to touch. And, most importantly, there was a second television.
In the 1970s, having two televisions was practically a sign of wealth.
But somehow, Italian families had figured out the loophole.
Nobody knew how.
Maybe it was because Uncle Tony knew a guy.
Maybe Dad got it from a friend whose cousin worked at a TV store.
Maybe it was purchased with money that nobody was supposed to ask about.
Whatever the explanation, there it was:
The Basement TV.
And it was about to become the most important television in the house.
The couch was covered in that wonderful plastic upholstery that every Italian household seemed to own.
It had one purpose:
To make sure you couldn’t move without making noise.
Sit down?
CRRRRRKKK.
Move over?
CRRRRRKKK.
Try to get comfortable?
CRRRRRRRRRKKKK!
You could hear that couch from Scarborough.
But on one particular Friday night, the kids weren’t interested in watching Hockey Night in Canada.
They had heard a rumour.
A rumour that had been traveling through the neighbourhood faster than an Italian mother could spread gossip.
There was something on CityTV.
Something different.
Something adults watched.
Something that supposedly showed things that regular television wasn’t supposed to show.
The kids had a name for it:
The Baby Blue Movie.
Nobody actually knew what that meant.
One kid claimed his cousin had seen it.
Another said his friend’s older brother had seen it.
Another swore he knew exactly what happened during the movie, despite having absolutely no idea.
But that was enough.
The basement mission was born.
At exactly 10:00 p.m., the kids heard Dad upstairs.
“Okay! Time for bed!”
The kids waited.
Silence.
Then the sound of Dad’s bedroom door closing.
Click.
They looked at one another.
One whispered:
“Is he asleep?”
Another replied:
“Give him five minutes.”
Five minutes later, they crept downstairs like a SWAT team.
The television came on.
The volume was turned down so low that the actors appeared to be communicating through mime.
One kid stood beside the staircase.
Another watched the basement door.
Another had been assigned the most dangerous job of all:
Changing the channel if someone came downstairs.
They sat on the plastic couch.
CRRRRKKKK.
Everybody froze.
“Shhh!”
“I didn’t do it!”
“You moved!”
“I breathed!”
“Don’t breathe!”
The television flickered.
And there it was.
The legendary Baby Blue Movie.
The kids stared at the screen.
Nobody spoke.
Nobody moved.
Nobody even blinked.
They had discovered something their parents apparently knew absolutely nothing about.
At least, that’s what they believed.
For weeks, Friday night became a ritual.
10:00 p.m.
Parents upstairs.
Kids downstairs.
Basement lights off.
Television volume at approximately 1.5.
Plastic couch squeaking every time somebody moved.
And CityTV became the most exciting channel in Toronto.
Then the Parents Found Out
The problem with Italian families was that nothing stayed secret.
Nothing.
You could tell your mother something in confidence at 8:00 in the morning and by lunchtime your aunt in Woodbridge knew.
By dinner, Nonna knew.
By Sunday, somebody’s cousin in Montreal knew.
So eventually, word about the Baby Blue Movie spread through the neighbourhood.
And suddenly every parent knew.
The kids noticed something strange one Friday night.
They were downstairs waiting for 10 o’clock.
But this time, nobody called from upstairs:
“Go to bed!”
Instead, Dad came down the stairs.
“Okay, boys. That’s it. Bedtime.”
The kids stared at him.
“Bedtime?”
“Yeah.”
“But tomorrow’s Saturday.”
“I know.”
Silence.
One kid looked at another.
The message was obvious.
They knew.
Dad had discovered the Baby Blue Movie.
Mom appeared behind him.
“And don’t watch that television tonight.”
The kids looked shocked.
“Why?”
Mom stared at them.
“Because I said so.”
Dad added:
“And don’t touch the TV.”
The kids nodded innocently.
“Okay.”
Dad went upstairs.
The kids waited.
Five minutes.
Ten minutes.
Then one whispered:
“They know.”
Another replied:
“Who told them?”
A third kid said:
“Probably Aunt Maria.”
Everybody nodded.
Of course it was Aunt Maria.
CityTV Had Opened the Door
What made the whole thing so remarkable was that CityTV was broadcasting over the air.
This wasn’t some mysterious cable channel hidden behind a decoder.
This was regular television.
Anybody with an antenna could potentially pick it up.
CityTV had developed a reputation for doing things differently from the polished American networks and conventional Canadian broadcasters. Its late-night programming pushed boundaries, and the so-called Baby Blue Movie became part of Toronto’s legendary television folklore.
For teenagers growing up in the city, it felt revolutionary.
Television had suddenly become something that wasn’t completely controlled by parents, teachers and television executives.
And that was the real shock.
The adults couldn’t control the television anymore.
At least, they thought they could.
And Toronto wasn’t alone in talking about it. The phenomenon became part of the broader conversation around late-night television, sexual content and changing social attitudes, attracting attention beyond Canada.
Meanwhile, Europe was already playing a different game.
European television had generally been more willing to show provocative material than North American broadcasters. What seemed shocking to a Toronto teenager could sometimes seem relatively tame compared with what was appearing on European screens.
But that didn’t matter to the kids in the basement.
They weren’t sitting there thinking about European broadcasting standards.
They were thinking:
“Holy crap. This is on television!”
The Italian Basement Television Revolution
The funniest part was that the parents had accidentally created the perfect environment.
They gave the kids everything they needed.
A finished basement.
A second television.
A comfortable couch.
Privacy.
And a television schedule that conveniently started after bedtime.
It was practically a government-funded operation.
The only obstacle was the plastic couch.
That thing was the ultimate security alarm.
You could sneak past the staircase.
You could whisper.
You could turn the television down.
But you could not defeat the plastic couch.
Every movement produced:
CRRRRRKKKK!
And every squeak produced:
“SHHHHH!”
Years later, those kids would remember the 1970s and laugh.
There were no smartphones.
No internet.
No streaming.
No Netflix.
No private screens.
There wasn’t even a second TV in most homes.
But in the Italian neighbourhoods of Toronto?
Somehow, there was always that mysterious finished basement.
Wood-panelled walls.
Plastic-covered furniture.
A television humming in the darkness.
And on Friday night, at precisely 10 o’clock, a bunch of teenagers sitting silently in front of it like they had just discovered the secrets of the universe.
They hadn’t.
They had discovered late-night television.
But to a 15-year-old kid in 1970s Toronto, that was pretty much the same thing.
And somewhere upstairs, Dad was lying in bed pretending to be asleep.
Because, by then, he probably knew exactly what was happening downstairs.
There was a time in Toronto when television was a respectable member of the family.
You had CBC, CTV, and maybe a couple of American stations if your rabbit ears were positioned correctly and you had the patience of a saint.
Then came CityTV.
And suddenly, Toronto television decided that maybe being respectable was overrated.
For adolescent boys growing up in the 1970s, CityTV wasn’t just another television station. It was a technological gateway to forbidden territory.
The station had already developed a reputation for doing things differently—street-level reporting, unusual programming, and a willingness to put things on television that the other networks wouldn’t touch.
But then came the late-night movies.
And eventually, the legendary “Baby Blue” movies.
Now, nobody actually announced this to their parents.
You didn’t walk into the living room at 11:30 at night and say:
“Mom, Dad, I’m just going to watch some mature programming on CityTV. I’ll be upstairs shortly.”
No.
This required a covert operation.
The parents had gone to bed.
The little brother had been threatened with bodily harm if he told.
The volume was turned down to approximately one click above mute.
And there you were, sitting approximately six inches from the television, staring at the screen with the concentration of a NASA scientist launching Apollo 11.
The problem was the television set.
It was usually located in the living room.
Which meant you had to watch while remaining completely silent.
Every creak in the hallway sounded like an approaching police squad.
Every flush of a toilet upstairs triggered an emergency evacuation plan.
And if you heard your father’s bedroom door open?
ABORT MISSION!
The TV went off so fast you’d think somebody had discovered a nuclear launch button.
The beauty of the whole thing was that CityTV wasn’t technically hiding anything.
They were putting it right there on over-the-air television.
No internet.
No streaming.
No passwords.
No parental controls.
No “Are you over 18?”
Just turn the dial.
There it was.
And that was the revolutionary part.
For years, television had operated under the philosophy that there were certain things the public simply shouldn’t see.
CityTV seemed to respond:
“Oh yeah? Watch this.”
It was television’s version of kicking down the front door.
The other networks were wearing a three-piece suit.
CityTV showed up in jeans.
And for teenage boys across Toronto, the station became something of a cultural legend.
The next morning at school, nobody admitted they had watched it.
Instead, conversations went something like:
“Hey, did you see that movie last night?”
“What movie?”
“You know… on City.”
“No.”
“Yeah, you did.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Your bedroom light was on until two.”
“I was studying.”
“Studying WHAT?”
And everybody laughed.
The funny thing is that the mystery was almost more exciting than the movie itself.
Because in the 1970s, you had to work for your entertainment.
There was no Google.
There was no YouTube.
There was no smartphone sitting beside you.
If you wanted to know what was on television, you looked in the TV Guide.
If you wanted to watch something forbidden, you had to stay awake.
If you wanted to see something you weren’t supposed to see, you had to sneak downstairs.
And if the picture suddenly became fuzzy?
You weren’t buffering.
Your antenna was having an existential crisis.
CityTV helped break the old rules of Toronto television. It understood something the big networks were still learning: television could be irreverent, provocative, local, and a little bit dangerous.
For the teenagers watching those late-night movies, though, it meant something much simpler.
It meant that after midnight, when the rest of the house was asleep, the television suddenly became the most interesting appliance in the house.
And the next morning?
Everybody had the same innocent expression.
Nobody had watched anything.
Nobody knew anything.
Nobody had stayed up late.
And certainly nobody had been sitting six inches from a 25-inch RCA television with the volume turned down to “2.”
It’s the most chaotic time of the year,
It’s the most chaotic time of the year,
